An Open Letter to a Sick Fuck… Happiness is a Warm Gun – the beatles

Dear Daniel Ledonne,

Thank you Sir, for your decision to make “Super Columbine Massacre RPG” for the PC. Your act of defiance against such concepts as ‘respecting the dead’ has certainly illuminated the degree to which Western culture has caused a severe amount of decay within our souls, which has intern added to the hourly decay of our culture. It’s a vicious cycle.

Yes, it seems I was left out of the loop for some time (this was released in 2005 I believe), but after hearing about your piece of “art” on CBC radio today (I love you CBC!), I was rather disgusted and my faith in humanity fell just a little.

You were a loner in highschool; boo-hoo. So was I. As were many others. You listened to Marilyn Manson and NIN. So did I. I still rock out to NIN when I’m running or at the gym. It’s just good “GRRARRR!” music. But why must you use it for evil? Additionally, you make those of us who went through years of goth music and enui look like nutjobs. We’re all a little weird and eccentric, but nutjobs? Naw.

First off, I don’t believe video games are “art”. But of course, lots of things are not “art”. Like I’d say to Robert Bateman if we ever bumped into one another at a cheese tasting: Just because you use the same materials does not automatically classify it as “art”.

I understand what you were trying to do, really. You compiled photos of bodies, news articles and clips, slipped in clever excuses for the killers actions (Manson cd, a copy of DOOM, Nirvan bkgd music, blah blah blah) in an attempt to satirize the fact that the media is pointing fingers at said types of media as the reason why kids keep doing this type of shit. I have read the literature and there seems to be pretty good evidence stating that violent media spurs aggression. The problem is that no one is going to take your opinion seriously when you directly contribute to the problem. This is probably because you’re misguided and immature.

No, violent movies and violent video games don’t rear kids who go postal at school. I’m proof of that, and despite the fact that I looove really violent horror movies, have read everything written by Stephen King (shut it! It’s the only pop-lit I indulge in!), and tend to create rather “morbid” or “grisly” art, I am rarely aggressive and do not agree in real violence of any kind.

I’m not aggressive or violent CAUSE I’M NOT CRAZY. Okay, I’m a little crazy, but it’s that cute, endearing kind of crazy. If you’re a sociopath, which is the result of an unfortunate and precise combination of genes and environment, then you’ll probably snap and do something stupid like kill 12 (or 30) people after hours of stewing in your own anger while playing Grand Theft Auto. And since this doesn’t happen ever hour, video games aren’t the cause. But they certainly don’t help the situation, and neither do you by creating something as sick as SCMRPG. That’s like creating a Holocaust RPG that allows you to play the role of a nazi in which you do the horrendous things nazis did to Jews, Blacks, Gays, the handicapped, etc…

I don’t understand why we can’t all just play happy stoner video games like Super Mario Bros. Stomping on mushrooms with teeth and turning into a racoon never added to some sociopath’s blood lust.

Anywho, I have to study and you’re a sick fuck.

Cheers,
.megan.

Maybe when the bruises heal I’ll be able to forget you – Set the mood: not about love – fiona apple

Not that I want to. Not forever. Just for now.  You can tell I’m not so great, I’m listening to Fiona Apple again.

It’s hard when you’re with someone for a while to just not be with them anymore. Not that we were together for a long time chronologically, but considering we spent a majority of our time together often made it seem like I couldn’t remember life without him. Now, I’m starting to forget what life was like with him, so I guess that’s a sign of healing. So is the fact that I’m writing this. I wouldn’t have been able to do it until now.

Now I avoid things that make me think of us. Like Tom Waits for instance. I love Tom Waits, he loves Tom Waits (maybe more than I do. Tom Waits, my number one favorite artist of all time, reminds me of him. So I don’t listen to Tom Waits. I listen to Kevin Quain, who although is quite wonderful in many respects (he didn’t think so, which might be why I’m switching teams for the time being) is still no Tom Waits. I think everyone is a little saddened by that. Except Tom Waits of course.

What else do I avoid? Chinatown. He lives on the cusp of Chinatown AND Little Italy, which means that both asian cuisine and italian are out. I don’t much care for italian since I can’t eat wheat, but pho is the greatest food known to man! And the best pho place in town is up the street! I’ll just have to only go for pho with my hot friend Dave from now on.

Movies. He bought me 81/2 for Christmas. Not going to watch that now, not yet. We were going to see a handful of films soon to be released. I guess I’ll have to drag Hot Dave to those too (no, I won’t. He hates movies, which is why we aren’t meant to be. That and he doesn’t know who Tom Waits is. Oh, and he has a lovely girlfriend).

Other things I need to stay away from in order to not think of him? Nipple rings, Benson & Hedges, Black hair dye, my bustier that fell behind my bed when it was thrown there in a fit of passion last fall, looking left as the bus goes by Lebreton Flats, the list goes on. Okay, it really doesn’t. I can’t think of anything else.

But you know what I can’t avoid? THE TEETH MARKS YOU LEFT ON MY ARM. Every time I take my shirt off, there they are. It’s been how long? Too long for those stupid bruises to still be there! I’m fair skinned, I know that, I’m use to getting bumped up and having the marks stick around for a while. A frequent example I use would be the crazy scar on my knee from falling off the treadmill. And my EMAIL. I have 9.5 screens (yes, screes, with like 40 emails per screen) of emails from you. You were the only person who emailed me, this I now know. Well, except for that stupid fake financial group who keeps spam-ing me. Bastards.

Oh, that and the chunk of hair that’s fallen out of my head because I’m so psychologically not well that my hair follicles took a vote and decided to go on strike. Funny, I thought I was handling the situation well. I only cried for a week. I’m NOT depressed in any form, that’s progress from the last fucked up relationship I had.

Okay, this wasn’t fucked. There was nothing fucked about this. The way I see it, thanks to Kate, is that a breakup situation didn’t actually occur. It was more like you died. Metaphorically of course, you’re still alive and all. But the guy I met and fell for, something happened to him, cause he’s gone. I actually saw him leave, I could feel it (okay, that’s fucked). I hated myself for not trying to help, but I don’t think I could have. And that saddens me. Mostly because I always considered him my friend before my boyfriend. Best friend, actually. Now I have to rely on the back-up best friends (just kidding back-up friends ).

Men

Okay, so I’m walking back from the store and it’s a typical Capital winter night (-18ish).  I’ve just gone to the gym, I’ve got a Loblaws bag full of protein (tuna and cottage cheese), wearing a snowboarding jacket, hood up, listening to my iPod.  Along comes this Young’un in a black Jeep Cherokee from like 1987.  He’s stopped at the light as I walk by, and I see his eye on me and he reaches out and rolls down the passenger window so I can get a really good listen to his ’sick tunes’ (note: I don’t even really know what a sick tune is. I just assume this is an appropriate way to describe it other than ‘total shit’).

I laughed to myself and noted loudly that Tom Waits would impress me, not rap or hip hop or whatever that was.  Then commented: “Oh, no wait.  If you were my boyfriend, I’d be impressed.” (by this of course I mean my guy impresses me more than Tom Waits, possibly because he keeps his Waits cds in chronological order on a seperate rack away from the rest of his collection, not that I’d be impressed if this random guy with the bebop were my boyfriend – that would just be ludicrous).

So then I wondered why the hell guys do shit like this.  Is it attention? Do they want me to take notice of them cause they know how to turn their car radio up?  Or is it more fantastical than that; do they think that if they turn up their bad mainstream music in front of enough girls one of them will tear off their stripper pants and top and start grinding against the hood?  Or is it like Jerry Seinfeld said: have men have not only run out of ideas, but that their ideas just weren’t very good to begin with?  And then that leads me to wonder if their ideas were never good in the first place, why did so many women fall for them?

Le Sigh.

An Open Letter to Concert Goers… set the mood: gold soundz – pavement

Re: Metric Concert, Friday July 2006

Greetings,

Please keep the following in mind during future attendances:

1. Leave children at home.
Children are truly the future. They are lovely little beings, full of joy and hope in tiny, and generally adorable, packages. The whole child situation is fascinating. However, I do not think that any kind of concert scene is an appropriate place for children, least of which would be on the shoulders of the man standing in front of me, creating a fully obstructed view. I’m sorry, but I recall my ticket saying “general admission”, not “obstructed by a small child who will never remember this experience.” Christ, it was hot, the crowd was packed in like olives, and I couldn’t seen a damn thing — it was literally like when I ride a crowded bus to school listening to Metric on my iPod.

2. Note your environment.
Has anyone ever noticed that the further from the stage one is situated, the calmer, more chill the audience is? It doesn’t mean the guys as the back don’t dig the show, but that their enthusiasm is more leveled and controlled. Ever notice how no matter how chill the little area you are in, there is always this one fanatic who is totally crazy wild with the arms and the legs going everywhere? Too crazy about the band to show some restraint, yet not crazy enough to elbow their way to the stage where all the other crazies are. This I don’t understand. Please take note that your arm flailing could potentially collide with someone’s face. Then that person would scream “your elbow hit me in the eye, you son of a b! I’d like to cut your f-ing head off and wear it as a hat!”

3. Please, don’t sing.
I understand that people like singing to their favorite music. I personally love singing, but I do so in the comfort of my own home, for the safety of other ears. When one attends a concert, they go so that they can hear the performers, not the obnoxious girl behind them who is singing along to every word. Didn’t really feel like I was seeing a Metric concert, since I couldn’t see the stage and I could only hear some strange chick singing — might as well have been at a kareoke bar.

4. Don’t bring large, heavy bags.
This is my fault. I should have left my bag at work, or in someones car. It really weighed me down, like trying to dance with a boulder chained to my foot. Or was that just my lack of enthusiasm?

5. Drink heavily.
Again, my fault. Should have started drinking at work, then my drunken stupor would have enabled me to ignore the above retraints. Unfortunately, these were not conditions underwhich I could actually enjoy myself.

6. Don’t talke loudly about how this concert is good, but the last one was so wicked good.
I think this one speaks for itself. It’s just unfair to the people who couldn’t attend the last show for reasons we shant mention.

Yours,
.Megan.

An Open Letter to Canada Post Corporation/Société canadienne des postes… set the mood: bigmouth strikes again – the smiths

Dear Sirs or Madams,

It appears that you have fucked up once again.

Although I am writing this on behalf of another, and have not personally experienced this terrible postage misconduct directly, it does not mean that I have no grievances with you at all. I am writing with all the passion and disdain of one who has gone through far too much at the hands of the Canadian Postal system.

Do you use your own system, Sir? Do you understand the trust that is involved when one licks that stamp and sends it down into the dark abiss that is those ugly mailboxes? (On a side note: I don’t understand what it is you people were trying to achieve with those new boxes. Going for urban chic, were you? They look like they’ve been vandalized. What is it about black and blue spray paint reminds you people of Canada?)

So the problem this time is that this friend Olive*, sent a package to her partner, Guy*, in Manitoba. This package was highly valuable for Guy, since it was a sheath for all of his belongings so that he may ship them home from grape picking*.

Canada Post Corporation/Societe Canadienne des Postes PROMISED to ship the package in 3 days, if given a little something-something for encouragement. This PROMISE should have been adhered to, considering the additional payment was transacted, however, 9 days later, the package has not arrived. The package may in fact be lost.

A PROMISE or AGREEMENT is an assurance that someone will or will not do something, a VOW as such. And yet, it seems, yet again Canada Post Corporation has fallen down on its word.

SHENANIGANS are deceitful words intended to deceive.

TOMFOOLERY is defined as foolish behaviour.

So, Olive was given a SHENANIGAN in the guise of a PROMISE and rather than this PROMISE being fulfilled, she paid good money for simple TOMFOOLERY, which I could have supplied myself, for no fee whatsoever.

Really, Sirs, how is it that Guy is expected to return home from Grape Picking to his lovely Olive if he cannot pack his personal belongings into the lovely new duffles Olive has sent to him? Now he shall miss his bus, which means he will miss his plane, and his transportation costs have doubled, AND he’ll have to hang out in Butt-fuck Nowhere, Manitoba for god knows how long, only to return home late for the wedding he is expected to attend this weekend. Sirs, have you no shame?

You know what a MONOPOLY is? It is BULLSHIT.
Perhaps in the future, you should focus more on the CANADA POST part of your Crown Corporation Name, rather than putting the emphasis on the C word.

Sincerely,
Megan O’Connor

* Names have been changed for protection.

An Open P.P.S. to The Man Who Broke My Heart… set the mood: the love in – bettie serveert

You moved in with your ex-girlfriend!? Come on, you said so yourself, I’m intelligent (and highly intuitive), you didn’t think I’d catch on?
WTF, John, WTF?
Good to know that the so-called “good” guys are actually MFs. And not BAMFs, cause I’m a BAMF, but just plain MFs. If only lesbianism where a choice. F!
I don’t know if I’m more disappointed in you, or in me for falling in love with you.

*by the way, if this seems strange, I’m trying to use only the first letter of a profanity rather than the entire word, so that I am less offensive and angry sounding. To quote Dane Cook, I’m sorry to use such harsh letters.

An Open Letter to The Man Who Broke My Heart… set the mood: martha – tom waits

Dear Sir,

Look what you’ve done. You came along, stole my heart, then trampled all over it like the slow and weak at a world cup riot. Thanks alot.

Actually, in one respect, such a loathsome human act of willfull defiance against me is appreciated, but only to extent to which it helped me realize that, despite my previous assumptions, my heart not only exists, it is clearly not small or black, so I’ll give you that one.

But I really don’t recall having ever asked you to make me cry for several weeks, then give me hope that you really did like me, then make me cry again for another two weeks, then to have you feed me bullshit about how I’m awesome (not bullshit) but that you are moving soon and therefore cannot start anything (bullshit – haven’t left yet, have you?) therein making me cry for two more weeks.

Alright, I did need to make sure my tear ducts are in order, my eyes have been feeling dry this year, but making me cry for almost two months? That’s unnecessary. A couple of days would have been enough.

I’d like to advise that in the future, instead of picking up at work when the girl knows you and trusts you, maybe just go find some ass in a bar. If you don’t give them your number or even promise to call, the likelyhood that they will fall in love with your superbly charismatic self will be significantly reduced. A girl can’t think someone is her soulmate if your never really talk to her, and she can’t forget about everyone else she’s been with when she’s too drunk to remember who she brought you home.

And if you actually do like me (which I implied earlier seems to be a steaming pile of bullshit), it’s balls that you have allowed your poor judgement to have the better of you, since I would have actually done anything to make the distance thing work. Having always thought that girls who move places for guys are insane, I can say officially that I’m totally crazy. But now, you’re getting in the way of me doing something crazy and adventurous. Good job. How do you feel now? Bad that I’m not able to act out my crazy because of you?

So let’s recap – you’re responsible for the following things:
- drying out my tear ducts – will need a good three months to rejuvinate that reservoir
- making me crazy
- keeping me from acting crazy
- taking my angry little heart and giving me hope
- attaching an M-80 to said heart and blowing it up near the river along which you walked me from work to school that beautiful snowy day when we soaked our Onitsuka Tiger sneaks because I thought it would be a good idea to walk there even though it was March and everything was frozen and you filled my mind with all the great things we would do when the summer arrived – but I’m doing a lot of cool things with my friends, so I’ve practically forgotten all the promises you made (and then proceeded to break, along with my heart)

So thanks for all that. And thanks for being completely rude and ignoring me (I emailed you once in a two week period, it wasn’t like I was stalking you and sending you poetry every three hours), and taking forever to return my things, and for being a total pussey, and for being friends with the girl you dumped due to your feelings for me, but telling me being friends would be too “awkward”, because it has just made me angry in addition to my sorrow. It’s rather exciting to experience utter rage AND sadness at the same time – I usually go from the latter to the former, but this time I’m doing both at the same time – what a thrill! I love having my life feel like a Fiona Apple song.

Godspeed!
.Megan.

ps. Clearly my remarks are out of humiliation and fear, and I honestly don’t want you to feel bad as a result of this airing of grievances – this isn’t me sinking to a lower level, it’s me trying to use humour to distract me from how completely heart broken I actually am. So please feel free to call me if you change your mind. I am, after all, totally awesome, and unlike any other guy, you make me feel like I am beautiful, intelligent, and most of all, like Me. I regret not doing that for you, since you are an amazing person – assuming your email was honest and not steaming bullshit, in which case you are a liar and I’m not sorry this letter is mean and sarcastic.

I hate the summer and the Gods of Summer hate me back… set the mood: blue side – rooney

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike summer as an idea.

Sunny, warm days, cool nights, long daylight hours, sandals are appropriate footwear, and skirts are more comfortable than pants. All good.

But everything has its negative aspects. For example, my friends are generally home for the summer, and we mostly have day jobs,so we can go galavanting in the evenings to our hearts desires. Good. Spending money on blizzards and nachos and garlic bread? Bad. Bad in every possible way. Not only because summer is about saving money for expenses like edumecation, but also because a full time job does not allow one to bike, run, pilate, or lift enough weights to make eating that kind of shit okay.

So, to prove that the Gods of Summer are totally against me for my summer grudge, they have been trying to break the little spirit I have left; Sunday, the cycle home from work was the worst I have ever experienced. The wind was sent straight out of hell, and it was humid like you wouldn’t believe. I actually broke down and screamed at the top of my lungs for some time. Admittedly, that didn’t improve the situation.

Second case: Last night, Robin and I go for a walk (to work off our post-dinner ice cream consumption) but instead of going to Jessi’s house, we went to a pub. Then we ate garlic cheese bread and bruschetta… no, I didn’t eat dinner that night (does ice cream count as dinner?) but it was like 10.30 at night. Not the time for a gluten sensitive person to be eating large amounts of white bread. Bad bad bad.

But my justification was that I would cycle the 36km into work today.

This morning I wake up and it’s raining. Okay, I can handle some rain. I turn on THE WEATHER NETWORK and they say it will be a dreary day of rain and thunder storms. So I opt not to bike, not wanting to risk being a highly mobile lightning rod.

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL FUCKING DAY. NO RAIN. NO LIGHTNING. WTF WTF WTF. I HATE THE WEATHER NETWORK AND I HATE THE GODS OF SUMMER.

Yeah. That entry sucked. Sorry.

In love with Trent Reznor? And why not… set the mood: Wish – NIN

If this isn’t hot, I don’t know what is.

So, I had this weird dream last night.
Okay, weird dream? I don’t think any dream other than a day dream or a life dream is actually ‘normal’ or lacking in some kind of shock value. So, I had this dream…
I won’t go into the details, because they probably aren’t of any interest to anyone but me and maybe a couple million internet perverts out there, but some how I ended up meeting Trent Reznor.
I don’t really get it. When I was in highschool, I had a normal teenage crush on this brooding prince of darkness and hate, but I soon got over that. Okay, I’ll admit, I did download three of the ten NIN cds I own onto my iPod recently, but I’ve only listened to a couple of songs. This is because, now that I’m no longer a little ball of rage in black studded clothing (I’ve ditched the studs for rhinestones… and male studs, muahahaha), I don’t really get all the anger he’s trying to convey.
Anyhoo, he’s all angryfied and black hearted and whatever, and I meet him at some hotel, but I’m travelling with the ‘rents, so obviously nothing will happen, cause like, they are my parents and even though he’s a rock star, they don’t think it’s cool that I go out galavanting with a man in black leather with long hair (Yes, I know he’s shaved his head, I haven’t seen him in a while is all).
I was like, “Hey, it’s Trent Reznor”
“Hi there.”
“The Downward Spiral was a great album”
“I made that like 10 years ago.”
“…Right…” And with that, he was smitten. I can’t see why not. Some interesting moments occur right after, yadda yadda yadda…
So this is all weird and dreamlike, so I wake from this dream, frustrated in more ways that one, and I decide that this dream has confirmed the nagging feeling I’ve had for years: my parents are totally fucking up my love life. I love them, but the dream Trent has spoken. Bwah!

Dropping the hanky… set the mood: extraordinary machine – fiona apple

“How to get the Guy”

I’m watching this show, title mentioned above, about teaching women how to pick up, flirt, do all those things I don’t get. I mean, I get them, they just seems totally stupid.

1. Eye contact.
Four seconds. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at someone for longer than one second. They’ve sent this chick into a book store, because apparently that’s a prime location to pick up men. I’ve spent plenty of time in book stores, being a book fiend, and I can’t see this to be the case. Maybe I’m too concerned with books to be looking for men. In eastern cultures I believe that eye contact is almost frowned upon – I feel I would perform better in said societies.

2. Smiling.
I don’t get it. I see people who smile all the time, and I question that. I think “are you on prozac? Do you have a blood sugar problem?” What’s with the constant smiling? I was in a bar with a friend the other night, and this guy opened with “You should smile more.” See? NOT smiling attracts men, too. He tried hitting on me for ten minutes, and then I had to leave because I wasn’t really interested – although, knowing me, even if I were interested, I’d have probably walked away as well, since that seems to be my thing.

I wish that women could go back to the dropping the hanky manuever – sure it seems obvious and perhaps a little desperate, but it leaves everything up to the guy. All this flirting bullshit just bothers me, because I don’t want to look like a skank for hitting on someone who either has a partner (and I use that word because I’m often drawn to gay men) or just doesn’t dig my style.

Its so frustrating because I look at guys who are dating chicks, and all the girls are skanky, somewhat awkwardly shaped (which I am, but in a different way, and these girls, being skanky, never dress to accentuate, say, their eyes, but their weird tummy that’s hanging over their jeans), blonde (is that a fucking given?), and look totally vacant, like they are 14 years old. WTF? And why is it that my standards for everyone else are as high as the standards I set for myself?

Okay, I feel bad that I just refered to these blonde, large chested, short-skirted girls as vacant, becaues they may infact be more intelligent than I, but it just seems like maybe they’d try a little harder to be noticed for their grace and other positive, esteem enhancing qualities, rather than “Hey, I know, you don’t know whether to look at my exposed breasts or picture my ankles through my gigantic hoop earings. But don’t worry, I intend on standing here, looking cute, all day.”

Fuck that. I think I’d rather be single than be judged by cool people like myself.