your beauty must be rubbing off.

Crawling Out of My Blogging Coma

Comas can last anywhere from days, to weeks, to months and sometimes even years. Lucky for you smitten kittens, mine only lasted three weeks. After an excessive amount of the un-bloggable happening in the 416 over the past little while, I figured it was time today to crawl out of my coma just in time for my holy return to the 204. Warn the Venetian Snares & Burton Cummings, my weekend is filling up quickly. It will be a refreshing change to get back to my friends in Winnipeg who are more Birkenstock than brunch. 

Recovery from a coma, if you ever come out of it, is gradual. Be it brain damage or heart damage, sometimes the surgery doesn't work the wonders we wish it would. Growing up, we learn that a happy ending isn't always inevitable and sometimes you just have to pull the plug. Whether you're grieving the death of a loved one, or the death of a certain love, there is no standard way to treat the pain. No miracle cure, no miracle pill, and there's often nothing you can say or do to make it better. The New Death Etiquette is actually, well, no etiquette at all. We're all grieving someone, something, somewhere and we all recover in our own way. In our own time. Just because things worked out better for Person A rather than Person B in the end doesn't necessarily mean all the hurt and pain caused is forgiven or forgotten.

After a rather hellish couple months on the home front, the seas are finally calm in the city leaving me free & happy to visit my boyfriend in Halifax next weekend. I love a good seat sale, and my Haligonian mother will be just as happy to see me. Between the Titanic Graveyard with the Simple Ontario Boy & my grandmother's gravesite with Mama Wilton, I've got alot to do in four days in Halifax & Hubbards and I simply can't wait. With mid-terms & break-ups in my hindsight, I've certainly been in no vegetative state recently. "Doctors" say I've made a miraculous recovery from the drama I've nonethless undergone the past few months and they say there's no better way to recover than get outside and breathe the fresh salt-soaked ocean air. 

And I didn't even need a lollipop at the end of it all.

somebody's watching you.

Not only is my good pal & hairdresser, Jeese Crowe, featured in Teen Flare's "Street Style" section this week, but so is yours truly..

Believe me. Pink is the last colour of tights I would've picked to wear, but they were the only ones left on my floor without an embarrassing number of visible holes. I have never regretted anything more now that I'm on the internet looking like, well, this. Granted, my hair looks fantastic but really? Did Teen Flare just call my fur a "vintage scarf"? Dress from H&M, tights from HBC, "vintage" boots, belt, and scarf I guess sounds more accessible to teeny-boppers than Dress from H&M, tights leftover from a houseguest, cowboy boots found outside/inside a dumpster in Winnipeg, belt from Value Village, and amazing fur I woke up with after spending a drunken evening at a party at a vintage store.

Turns out I was more interesting than the art at the gallery show that photo was taken at. 

Just a note, I was not wearing the fur as a necklace either. It is actually an extremely practical neckwarmer when the Toronto weather dips into Winnipeg Territory. I am, however, glad that I could help Teen Flare figure out that "Yes! Vintage + New=Fab". 

Glad that I, "one of Canada's chicest fashionistas", could be of service.

lazy confessions (what went wrong).

Yep, looking through photos on Facebook tonight made me realize that I did indeed have dreadlocks this time last year. Oh, for God's sakes, Alicia. Shut the door! I can hear you vomiting from all the way over at Queen & Bathurst. 

love song for (shitty rural) ontario.

I want to go here.

This is Welland, Ontario by the way.

a young man with an eye, and friends up a tree.

Please allow me to introduce to you my new could-be-to-be roommate starting, well, sometime in April until... Well. Who the hell knows. He's can be as unpredictable as they come and his Coca-Cola addiction rivals any coke addiction on Intervention. 

Ladies & Gentleman, Richard Bars!

bloor street breakdown.

A (Good) Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

The past 48 hours, I really have been thinking about investing a lot of time & energy into finding a new hobby. I briefly considered cross-stitching, but decided I should perfect knitting first (or at least learn how to knit something that isn't a potholder or a scarf). I thought about learning how to make my own wine, but we all know how that would end.  I've decided on photography. I bought a Canon AE-1 on e-Bay when I first moved to Toronto, and inherited my dad's A-1 in perfect condition for Christmas this past year & have sort of been fucking around with them for the past couple months. I am now vowing to take it more seriously; if not for my own interest, then at least to save money by doing my own food photography when I have my soon-to-be-famous food blog. 

I swear this interest is f'real, and not just because I think I look kinda cute with a film camera in my hand.

easy money (the good times are killing me).

Under the Boardwalk, We'll be Havin' Some Fun

If you can't find me at Ella's Uncle with a coffee, my living room with a bottle of whiskey, or, well, anywhere with a bottle of wine, you'll soon be able to find me on Beatrice Street exclusively playing board games with Laura-Louise. Monopoly will now be monopolizing most of my time. You can't take Pennsylvania, Baltic, or Virginia Avenue to get to our own little private Park Place, but you'll probably be able to find us by the pungent smell of cigarette smoke & cointreau breath from floating all the way down Dundas West. 

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea. On a blanket with my baby is where I will be.