Words Words Words

Remember Back In The Day when the cast of Dawson's Creek were under media fire for their extensive vocabulary and use of references that any normal teenaged viewer would have to break out their encyclopedia to understand?

Well, not all the cast. Not Jen, who was just there to be a slut, nor Pacey, who I always saw as Dawson's tagalong, but definitely Joey, and most certainly Dawson, who always appeared to be very wise beyond his years. Or maybe wise for his years. You're not fooling anyone with that pepaw, The WB.

I loved the way they spoke. I love words. I have had a long and stable relationship with words since I spoke my first one...at age three.

My mom thinks the tale of my imbecility is really hilarious and, to my sheer embarassment, tells anyone who will listen. I think she waited until I was 14 to tell me on purpose, so I could truly feel the effect on my social life.

My parents started getting a little concerned when after a year and a half, I made no sounds at all, other than crying non-stop, especially since my older sister, Olivia, had started speaking basically out of the womb. By two and a half, and after seeing numerous specialists that could figure out nothing, they booked me an appointment to see if I was just a little bit slow.

The appointment was set just past my third birthday. However, only days before having to endure the diagnosis, I miraculously started speaking... and didn't stop. I guess my mom had used my lack of speech as a vessel for her secrets, and told me everything, thinking her slow daughter would never be able to reveal these little nuggets of information.

Well, I got you, Mom! My very first phrases were along the lines of, "Auntie! Mom hates your haircut. She thinks you look like a boy!" and "Hey, why are you so poor? You're not?" And then I would start crying and crying because why did my mom tell me they were poor then? Until they would finally resign and admit that, yes, Cynthia, we are poor, okay? This was all in Cantonese, and therefore much funnier.



I learned English through the playground, fool. And in fact, I got so good at speaking English, I was put into Advanced courses all through grade school.

By grade four, around age 9, I was placed into a class with an elite group of students called Enrichment. It sounded like healthy bread, so my suspicious parents allowed it.

We got to leave regular class to play math races and read advanced-level books. Then they created a spelling team for us, and in a colour-based level scheme (white being the most basic and moving darker and darker from there), we were labelled The Black Team.

I walked around thinking I was The Matrix for a long time.

Oh Em Gee.

BREATHE. BREATHE. BE. COOL.

I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:



I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.

I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.

Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.

I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!

The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.

The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!

My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.

"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.

"I'm allergic to fish."

"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!

"No, like... I'm going to die."

"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.

I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.

Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.

Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?

So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.

So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!




I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.

First Post!!

So I've been staring at this blank screen for about 45 minutes. I'm trying to impress you with my creative mind flow but I don't really have anything specific to write about these days. My time of shoving microscopic but very absorbant towels and a Swiss Army knife (both of which I've never used in my life... Thanks for the tips, Internets.) into backpacks measured by litres are over. For *why* backpacks are measured in litres doesn't make any sense to me. Who's bringing freely poured juice on their travels?

So here's an intro to me as a person rather than events going on in my life.

These are my parents posing in a glamour shot with a live 8 lb. king crab minutes before eating it.
When I was younger, instead of having an imaginary friend, I had an imaginary camera crew. Every time my parents would put a plate of cold jellyfish, thousand year old eggs, or the part of cow's stomach that kind of sort of looks like seafood (but you know in your heart it's not) in front of me, I would open my eyes wide, raise my eyebrows and slowly turn my head to the left, also known as Camera One, for a direct face shot of my horror. This is long before the days of The Office, or even Home Alone.


I still catch myself doing this sometimes. Trust, you do NOT want your boss catching you making Macauley Culkin faces to your monitor. The rest of the day gets very embarassing.

The funniest part about it is that they would try to convince me to eat these things by telling me the prices of them. For what reason would an in-depth analysis of B.C. abalone stocks peak the interest of a 6 year old child?

This is my dog, Taiko.














Taiko is more like a roommate who doesn't pay rent or clean up after himself, and always eats all the cheese. However, you get invited to all the good parties because he's so cute and everyone wants him around, so you put up with him.

Taiko is a very mild-mannered roommate who spends 90% of his time sleeping or stretching. You'd think that you could let him off his leash and play a nice game of "Let's stop here and sleep/stretch together" but this is not the case. He is a terrible walker. The minute his leash is off, Taiko runs like The Dickens and you're stuck chasing him in your heels as fast as you can, with tears freezing on your face, and asking strangers to please throw themselves down on the street in front of your barreling wolflike dog to stop him for you. Like a crazy person.

On that note, what does "run like The Dickens" even mean? The only Dickens I've ever heard of is Charles Dickens (and since when does anyone call him The Dickens?) and no matter how I try to picture it, no sense can be made. That being said, I have no idea what Charles Dickens looks like, so for all I know, he looks extremely fast.




Okay I just Googled it (my thirst for knowledge is vast, you see) and I only think he looks medium fast. Judge for yourself. I could outrun you, The Dickens.








Anyways, the other day I was walking Taiko at the ungodly hour of 6:45 AM, when about 20 feet in front of me is a large grey furry thing. It kind of looks like a rat, but cat sized. Taiko looks pretty mellow, so once it scurries under a car and out of my sight, I proceed. Bad idea. Taiko lunges his face under the car, pulls out a grey furry thing and starts shaking it and slammimg its head into the concrete. I am screaming, like at the top of my lungs, and the sun hasn't even risen yet. When I finally yank him away, the furry thing is lying motionless on the sidewalk and I speedwalk away from the scene of the crime. I know it sounds bad, but what can you do??

On my way back, I'm walking on the other side of the sidewalk and I see a woman about my age crouched over looking at the furry thing.

Because I've caught my breath by now (and I won the Drama Guild Award back in high school for my acting finesse), I casually ask, "what's that?"

The woman looks like she is about to cry. "It's the possum I see every day on my way to the gym."

A POSSUM!?! What am I, living in the Green Forest??

"Oh my god!" I exclaim. "That's awful!" Meanwhile, I am holding Taiko behind me because, as he is the most expressive dog I've ever seen, she will see immediately that he is laughing hysterically at my antics. He did not win the Drama Guild Award back in high school.

At this point, I notice Crazy Woman standing by her door, with her arms folded, looking at me like "Cynthia, you are so fuckin' retarded." probably because it happened right outside her house and she saw the whole thing. She doesn't actually say anything though, to my relief, and just looks like she hates me (obviously I will take her hatred over her blowing my cover and effectively destroying any chance I have of making a new friend. Can you imagine? "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT 'THAT'S AWFUL'?? YOU KILLED IT NOT EVEN 10 MINUTES AGO!! I SAW YOU!" I would die.)

Then I realize she's not looking at me like that because she's in the know. She's looking at me like that because last week I screamed at her and her two small children to jump in front of my rabid looking, unleashed dog and catch him for me.