I'm probably going to have 200 grams of chocolate for dinner because there is no one here to stop me. There is no one in the house for this entire weekend so this behaviour is quite likely to be repeated until Eric and Joe get home from Heidleberg and find me passed out in an insulin-overloaded haze covered in pralines and nougat. Sometimes I'm glad I'm me so I don't have to put up with the shit I do.

Steph and Caleb came to visit me yesterday and are gone to Cologne today. They mark my first non-blood visitors, and I'm pretty sure I did well. We ate the best sandwiches in town, enjoyed belgian chocolates, frites, and Steph and I drank a bottle of white wine each, which Steph would later throw up last night and this morning. She promised me that wouldn't detract from her visit, seeing that it was self-induced, so I feel appeased. This afternoon we had MORE best sandwiches in town and then stretched out on our backs staring at the sky for about an hour talking about the continents in which we'd spent the past semester (Steph was in Cuba, Caleb in Dakar).

The thing with Steph is that ever since we first met people assume we're relatives. Sisters or cousins. Always. Why? Because people aren't creative enough to think that maybe two brunettes with brown eyes might be friends I suppose, but even my own relations have made the mistake. Back in grade eight (Eighth grade for you yanks) she came with me to Nova Scotia to visit some relatives, and if she walked into a room first, she'd get mauled by acadian aunts and uncles hugging her and 'my how you've grown'ing her. And then I'd walk in, announce that I was in fact Desiree, and get a less enthusiastic version of the same treatment.

So many years later, and still the same thing. I returned from putting them on a train to Cologne and was stopped by three different guys from the building on their way out, asking me how my visit with my sister went.



The other thing about Steph is that two years ago I broke her elbow. True story.

To the seven people who've found this site searching for Ben Popik:

Uh, he's not here man. You're just going to have to wait til the beginning of May like the rest of us.
Until then, here's more stuff I ripped off of Jon who not only is done (or soon to be done) university for ever, but also makes the best mix cds in the world. I'm serious. He'll challenge you.

All digressions aside, watch the video.

Eric just turned twenty-two today. The last thing I heard him say last night:

"There's no fucking way I'm gonna lend you my crayons. You gave yours to Mike. Asshole."

I think I said this exact same thing when I was 12. Maybe minus the expletives.

Oh yeah, and if I say something clever, please do us both a favour and don't explain to me why what I said was clever. I'm clever. I get it. Assbag.

"So where would you rate me then?"
"Well, using the colour spectrum I'd say you're a solid Indigo"
"Ha, that's funny. Using a system that's neither qualitative or quantitative, that tells me nothing"
"*sigh* Yup. I'm a funny gal."

I have been blessed with a beautiful east-facing window (east is the side the sun rises on right? I've been wrong about this before) which is big enough for me to sit in and bask in the sunlight while reading. I do this often because its free. And wonderful. And I won't stop doing it. I WON'T.

The conflict lies in the fact that Belgium has bugs. If Belgium were a bug-free country I'd be perfectly fine. But nooooo, Belgium has to have bugs. And not just bugs. FLIES. And since I leave my window open for the majority of the day in order to keep the room cool I come home to at least two of the little airborn maggots a day. I kill them. It's simple really. I walk around the room with two articles of clothing, one in each hand, conducting wildly to whatever music I deem 'massacre' music (ranges from Lynard Skynard to Lisa Loeb to Miles Davis) stirring the bastards about until they land on a surface I can whip-crack-kill them on. Sometimes the tiny SOBs test me. Landing on pictures of family, on bottles of liquid that might stir. But I, gifted with a life longer than one measly day, patiently wait them out. And then KILL THEM. I don't mind it. I get most of my exercise jumping on and off my bed whilst stalking, and my fly-killing bicep is getting bigger.

Today, an especially lovely day in Leuven, I kept my window open with laundry on the ledge drying in the sunlight. Since I'm too lazy to destroy the flies until I've closed the window, I just let them buzz uselessly around me as I read, every now and then lashing out at them with a red silk tanktop I used to wear to clubs when I was too young to know that that much cleavage is a dead give away to underaged drinking, which my mother sent to me on my request of 'summer clothes'. The funny thing about the shirt is that I spent the better part of a season convincing her it wasn't too revealing, and only now, over the phone when she asked if she sent the right clothing and I confessed the inappropriateness of the garment, did she say 'I KNEW it, I KNEW that was a slutty shirt.' Anyhow, The flashy, Chesty-LaRue top has now been turned into my number one slaying device.

As I sat, reading peacefully I noticed a fly, smaller than the other flies, drunkenly weaving by my bookshelf. A small fly, with poor flight skills means only one thing. It's a BABY FLY. My knowledge of baby things is a follows: They suck at adult things. This means that this amateur fly couldn't possibly have gotten up the two floors to my window. This means it was aided. This means it was BORN IN MY ROOM. FUCKERS.

So, with my newfound knowledge and corresponding rage, I go a'hunting. It doesn't take long for me to spot the breeding ground. The top of my window is speckled with little black dots, which after close examination, are moving.

I clear the ledge of laundry in one swift swipe, close the window (as I had a flash of me falling out of the window in my attempt to eradicate my room of flies, and then the family of winged demons laughing at me. 'Don't got no wings' they'd say, bad grammar and everything) and step onto the thin ledge. Armed with hoochie top and wet rag I whip, smoosh and drown the family, making sure to keep my mouth closed as the taste of fly is something I associate with open-mouthed biking, and not genocidal missions. I wipe down the area, almost losing my balance thrice and spewing curses all the while.

I have triumphed. I open my window lay out my laundry again when I notice that my hasty clearing of the ledge resulted in one of my bras in the street. This was not the first time today I have had to walk downstairs, out the door and into Tiensestraat to claim an undergarment that has fallen out of my window.

Just now, as I record my decent into psychopathic murderer the only remaining fly in my room dive-bombed my laptop. I flew into action like an supervillain, jumping to my feet armed with skanky shirt and started taunting him.
'I killed your FAMILY-are you going to run and hide?'
*fly sound*
'Yeah? That's what I thought. I'm going to killlllllllllll you'
Bam-thwack-Bam sploosh (knocking over my waterbottle)

There are so many carcasses in my room right now.
Fucking Flies.

2 Things I Did Today:

1- Watched this video (stolen from Jon) over and over and over. Then did the dance over and over and over

2- Did extreme Tai-Chi in the park. How does one make tai-chi extreme you inquire? Do it while SCREAMING. People stayed so far away from us you'd think we were actually throwing energy at them. Not unlike in Street Fighter.

Morna's mom is in town. There's a mom 10 metres away from me RIGHT NOW. I don't think I could be more excited if Johnny Depp was 10 metres away.

I haven't hugged anyone mom-aged since...November? And let me tell you, it's killing me. Yesterday afternoon when I came in she was sitting down, obviously exhausted from the 6 hour flight, so I just politely shook her hand, and then looked over at Morna with a kind of desparation in my eyes. A few hours later, after dinner Morna casually mentioned to her mother 'You know, Desiree was really hoping for a hug out of you.' This felt a lot like 'Desiree really thinks your hot' and my posture reflected it. I shrank a few inches and smiled sheepishly at her.
But the hug that followed was perfection.

The rest of the night was also fantastic. The three of us plus Sandra sat crosslegged in Morna's room, and sang. Morna on the guitar, the rest of us carving out harmonies from traditional irish songs, folk songs and classics from the Beatles and Joni Mitchell. We drank wine. We watched each other's breathing to time things. We laughed at messed up lyrics and commended each other. It was relax and camp-like and cheesy and wonderful. And there was a MOM there.

I've got two and a half months left til I get my own Mom back.

And in giggling little girl news, they made Blade 3. Which in itself is awesome. BUT, Ryan Reynolds, of Van Wilder fame is playing Hannibal King, and he's bulked up for it and is probably the most beautiful creation in the world.

Someone has since told me he's dating Alanis Morisette. After oscillating for a good while I've decided that I'm alright with it.
If anything it makes me like Alanis a lot more.

Been a while since I've indulged in crappy sentimental nonsense. Let 'er rip.

I think I’ll always have one foot in love with you. That foot will be wearing a running shoe, just in case.
I think I’ll always wonder what you’re up to. Where you are. More realistically, when the last time you thought of me was.
I think I’ll always assume that things would have been a kind of perfect that I would have gotten restless with. This allows me to tell myself ‘its just as well…’
I think I’ll always be waiting for you.
When I let myself picture you in my head its mostly forehead and hair. As though if I let myself get to your eyes I’d be lost, and I could never go anywhere near your smile.
I think I’ll never feel completely lonely as long as I’ve got your forehead and hair in my mind.

I think I’ll always hold back.

When I get back to Canada I'm going to eat only open faced peanut butter sandwiches, much in the same way that the nouveau rich only drive new cars. Because I fucking CAN, and I'm never going back to this weak ass peanut butter on only half of the bread then folding that shit over deal. I'll still use a fork to spread it though. My loyalties run deep.

filthy cute and baby you know it...

So it's been brought to my attention that maybe some of you might want to see me sporting the new specs, since I bitched and moaned about them...so here you go.


Aren't I funny? If you really care to see my semi-tanned mug behind glass here's where.

While sitting crosslegged on the paisley carpet of Minoan Lines Europa Princess ferry from Patras to Ancona I wondered if claustrophobics on boats get the irony. Then I realized that pretty much every inclosed space is in a bigger, not inclosed space. Then I watched all of Ed TV and I think Ellen DeGeneres' performance is what carries that film, but I mainly dig the way she flips everyone off at the end cause she and I give people the finger the same way.

I also ate a lamb's testicle and drank five Red Bull and vodka in an hour only to wake up with shooting chest pains.
I lost one Birkenstock but gained three pairs of socks.

My uncle's best friend has two little girls. One's two, the other five, and they both speak Greek, Italian and Russian, and are in the process of learning english. The youngest crawled up into my lap and was running her fingers through my hair when her father told me that she'd learned a new english word this week and has been learning about it for the past few days.

"What's the word?" I query, half asking her, half asking him.
"Oh, you'll see" He smiled back.

A few minutes later, her adorable little two year old hand clamps down on a fistfull of my hair and twists it away from my head, wrenching a good fifth of my hair clear away from my skull. My whole body reacts and she releases it, looks up into my eyes with the unabashed innocence allowed to little girls and says "Pain?"

I smile back, eyes tearing up and agree with her.
"Pain"

Other than an intimate knowledge of all the quaint coffee shops in Florence, the only good thing that that much rain gave me was an appreciation for Prince. That man is a kind of cool that doesn't exist anymore.

Sitting around Adam's dinner table after eating a huge taco meal made with mystery meat "It's definately beef, or pork. Let's call it pobeef." we started talking about our trips.

We all compared emergency rooms. The one in Marakesh was the most modern, the one in Madrid had the most cracked out people, the one in Ibiza smelled like Bacardi and my contribution, the E.R. in Florence had the brightest lights and the most moaners.

We live hard.

Things I am not doing but direly need to do:

Pay my rent
check my bank balance to make sure i have enough money to actually pay my rent.
get an advance on my credit card once I see how hilariously short I am to paying my rent.
write a well worded and not too begging email to my parents about how I managed to spend rent in Greece and Italy and if they loved me they'd help.
clean this godforesaken room.
buy food so I don't die
cough deeply from the depths of my chest cavity to clear my lungs of the nastiness that now resides there.
go to the library and take out books on pacifism
kill all the motherfucking fruit flies that moved in while I was gone despite the fact I meticulously removed all organic products before I left
write a paper on pacifism
find all my friends who are back now and catch up on the past three weeks
write all the emails I owe people
shower
give Leigh the bill they sent me for his crutches back in November. They managed to screw up the name Leigh Jay Smith to Lee G. Smit but managed to get my name and address perfect. Thanks a lot.
arrange to pay the bill for my eye exam
make a list of all the things I need to get done in the next three days (check!)

Ahhhhhhhhhhh! No one visits this page anymore!!! I'm SORRRRRRY! I was in Greece and was updating the green page and now there's like three hits a day, two of which are me and soon I'll be back in Belgium not studying for exams or writing papers and desparately needing some kind of audience so I feel even remotely connected to the world but I blew it! CRAP.

So, uh...if you, you know...are reading this (thank you!) I promise in a few more days I'll come up with all sorts of stuff to rant about. Trust me. There's material. Like all the different ways I've concocted to dispose of my current uber-annoying travel companion. Mostly it just involves me silently repeating 'die die die die' to myself whenever he starts talking.

Popular by Proxy or How Ben Popik is Making Me Friends in Europe.

In Florence: The weather was consistantly miserable and horrible, so all the hostellers have been taking turns updating emails and lying about the wonderful time sunny Tuscany is providing them. I sat down and perused the webpages, one of which I'd been keeping up to date (not this one) and the other I'd been ignoring. From this one I checked the pages I'm linked to, curious to see what my favorite people to spy on are up to. I check Ben's page.

The guy beside me, from Perth, who'd be obviously viewing the contents of my screen since I sat down (though didn't flinch when I started joking about orgies in an email to Kathy) makes a noticeable face when Ben's page loads.
'Hey- I know this page'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah, he's one of the guys who does those funny sketches. Like the Apple commercials and the killing puppies thing'
'Yeah, that'd be him. His name is Ben.'
'So you know him? Like, he's a mate of yours?'
'Uh. Well...no and sort of yes.'
'How do you mean?'

So I mouse over to my name in the neat little column on the right hand side, all of a sudden pretty happy I fought to stay on the link list, and let my name change colour.

'That's me.'
'Dude! That's wicked! I've read some of your stuff once'
'Uh...yeah...well, um...'

I frantically start closing windows, assemble my shit and flee. As I take off up the stairs I hear three more Australian accents talking about how that quiet girl with the red glasses is buds with one of the 'funny fuckers from that New York school'. I proceed to avoid eye contact with them for the rest of the day, which is decidedly unlike me. Finally I realize the source of my shame. Caught off-guard, I told the TRUTH about how I don't really know Ben. Had I any time to pre-meditate I would have lied the hell out of that situation. Ben would have been my fiance, oooh or even better, my EX fiance. We would have met in Nice, talked our way onto the boat of a rich couple from Santorini and would have had plans to honeymoon in the Kuala Lampur. Too bad the bastard slept with my aunt. I hate Ben Popik. I'd have bristled at the name.

Damn it.

In Leuven:Much simpler, some guy added me to his MSN messenger list after being recommended some of Olde English's videos, found Ben's site, found my site, found out I'm currently located in Leuven, looked me up. Still weird though.

Ben Popik-worldwide name.
Desiree Connors- Make-believe jilted ex to the stars.