all good things

1) I saw him at the 150th Southampton Town Hall Dance. Seems like a really nice guy. But, beyond that, his music is BANANAS.

2) Here are all of the things that our generation has always had. I weep for the generation that never had Goosebumps HAUNTING THEIR DREAMS.

3) Tips to warding off a posse of rabid kids

4) An oldie, but this sticks with me. I decree that everything should be shown in slow motion. EVERYTHING.

them baggy sweat pants

The about me section on my facebook profile always throws me for a loop. Currently I don't actually have anything, except a brilliant run down of the things that Flo Rida and my man T-Pain like and, apparently, as do I. We are all one in the same.

As summer wraps up, I am plagued with nostalgia -- just as I always am when any passage of time that held any sort of significance ends. I come home to Port kicking and screaming; wishing my time away and longing for Guelph. But, as things boil down, when I realize that things may never be THIS EXACT WAY ever again, I pine for home. I romanticize the way the beach looks at night, or just how much we laughed in Scott's basement, or how much of a raging inferno the illegal fires we lit in Beiner's were (pretty fucking raging, I'd say).

I think I'm a bit like an addict. I'm addicted to beating myself up for not completely appreciating and salvaging every last scrap of memory.

To tie this together: how do you write that about yourself on your profile without sounding like a pretentious bag of douche? Answer: You don't. Instead, you wait until 1:58 in the morning after another night to add to the "Dream for Home" pile and use it over and over again.

Life Skills I Have Barley Acquired: Part One of an Unlimited Series

i am the worst driver on the planet. bar none. i'd entrust a crusty eyed monkey with half an arm, while under the influence over me. hide your children.

UPDATE!:

So, the lovely little tidbit above came from the sheer frustration of being South-Western Ontario's worst driver. As a little background information, I was practicing for my G test which I did this morning. And, SHOCKINGLY the practice did not go well. Mom had been attempting to re-teach me to parallel park and back into a parking space since I had neglected to even attempt to do this before my last G2 test 4 years ago. The second time (also, the time I passed) I did my G2, the man was incredibly apathetic about what I did. We drove around for about 5 minutes, he asked me what way I would turn my wheels if I was parking uphill with a curb, had me go back to the drive test centre, signed his name, wiped his nose and said "good enough" and left. Encouraging. I assume that the man was probably hung over, or, let's be realistic since it was Owen Sound, drunk. At the time, I wished him to be showered with blessings and fluffy kittens from heaven, but now I just realized that he set up of a lifetime of allowing an incompetent asses, such as myself, legally out on the roads.

Long story short, in usual Kayla fashion, I put off practicing for my G and decided to dick around and put in the least amount of energy humanly possible. On Tuesday, Mom suggested we go out and start practicing since the date was coming up quickly. Instead, I decided that going to cheap night in Owen Sound to watch Pineapple Express was a FAR better idea, and that I'd practice highway driving on the way there. Did I do any of this? Well, besides gaining the knowledge that Pineapple Express is the GREATEST CINEMATIC ACHIEVEMENT OF ALL TIME, no. I will never change.

So, being frustrated with the fact that on Wednesday when I finally gave in and tried to learn, I sucked. Sucked so hard the universe caved in on itself. Mom being frustrated with the fact that she raised a drooling, knuckle dragging ape, asked my Dad, King of the Highway, to teach me. After all, he pretty much drives around for a living (along with this title comes "Badass") so we set off. Long story short, I ended up crying about how my brother and sister (both who are younger than I am) can drive perfectly and I am "retarded" and can't do anything. I yelled about not having any life skills, how I was moving to a place with a subway, and how I was not having any kids because it's cumbersome to fit all six of them on a subway with me (bananas).

I treated myself to a good old fashioned pity party, complete with laying in bed and watching Sex and the City. Oh Carrie Bradshaw, how your fictional terrible life choices ease my troubled mind.

This morning I grabbed life by the balls, woke up early, practiced a bit and set out to Walkerton. Every time I came to an intersection, slow folks with no where to go would cruise across intersections; I mildly tapped the curb while parallel parking; I turned a three point turn into a four point adventure. And yet

I MO-FUCKIN' PASSED.

Mad props to:
Dad, Mom, Mom's friend Monica for showing her a better way to back into a parking space, Seth Rogan, buckets of Coke you get from the movie theatre, Celebratory McDonald's (shout out to my mom x2), and, most of all, Curly haired lady from the Drive Test Centre. May your life be full of joy for bestowing upon me the gift of never having to prove I'm competent again until I am the ripe old age of 80.

just when you think your life has finally come into fruition; that everything you wanted is aligned, you realize how selfish and unpredictable the world you've come to cherish has become. a little girl i used to baby sit died this morning. a brain tumour: i think she was 16 years old.

reality checks set in hard when you've become so far removed from the real world.

Between getting the overwhelming sensation to never leave my house again, and gaining insight into Bosnian war crimes trials, the CBC brought to my attention something wonderful: Stuff White People Like.

This is probably the funniest find I have made as of late. I am dismayed and somewhat delighted to announce that a good 90% of what is on that list factor into my personal enjoyment with ease -- Especially: Having Gay Friends; Grammar; Arts Degrees; Farmers Markets; and Arrested Development.

So while I will never be able to go on a bus again without the sincere fear that I will be hacked to bits by a copy cat passer by, I can at least bask in my computer's glow and truly chuckle about how it is so white of me to be shitting my pants and hoping my mom knows that I love her anytime I want to travel.

Generica!

So, yesterday was the first time in about five years that I have gone to the beach and been seen in public in a bathing suit. Before I launch into the rest, I'm really avoiding the urge to get all women's magazine on this shit. This is not a feel good editorial about how you should love your body, and it will not be followed with a recipe for tasty -- but low fat -- lemon-cran muffins. While that does sound mouth watering, I cannot tolerate it: there is nothing that irritates me more an a woman's generic story about how one day she had an epiphany about body image, self esteem and learned to adore what she has. While, hey, maybe this does happen to some people, the baby making you abandon your body hatred, a man reassuring you that you are splendid looking, I resist the belief that any sort of self appreciation, the kind that makes you re-evaluate your life at least, should be based upon a happiness that you draw from someone else.

All while at the beach, I got to thinking about how it is probably odd that I don't have low self esteem, or hate myself in any real way. Sure, I had a long, drawn out stretch during my first year of university where I did not enjoy who I was in any stretch of the imagination. But, growing from that period, and re-evaluating what it was that I was experiencing has really lead me to believe that I am genuinely good enough. That probably makes me sound like an asshole, but I've come to terms with the fact that for some ridiculous reason, outwardly thinking that you are enough; that who you are is what you actually need, makes you seem as if you lack any credit and are a straight up liar. I can't really find a happy medium with this thought that lands between "Generic Women's Personal Power Piece," and "Arrogant Douche Bag" safely.

But, despite that, while I was wading the in water, by myself, I couldn't help but recognize that what I was doing was a pretty big thing -- for a lot of people. I, in fact, manage to really love my body, (despite the lack of approval from others, which is why I never attend the sandy shores of P.E. to begin with, but that is an entirely different posting.) and how it came from the ongoing disapproval from other people that made me appreciate what I look like. Sure, all day everyday isn't a "SUPER-HAPPY-LOVE-ME-FEST," but most of the time, I think i'm a'ight.

This may be some of the rambling, circular things I was talking about in my previous post. But maybe it's not. Maybe it's a little important. Or, it mimics masturbation and I'm really just pleasing my ever growing ego. Whichever, at least I feel good about myself,and have some sort of satisfaction at the end.

I have decided to change the direction of my blog into something more personal [probable outcome: boring musings of my life]. I will probably write things as I did before, but it's not like Port is a budding centre of inspiration or enlightenment, so I've found attempts for discussion on media/culture difficult. These will probably be best served when I'm back at school and a) more motivated and b) stimulated intellectually. So, all and all, I'm changing gears. It's not like anyone reads this religiously anyway, [edit: holla to greg and Julien, you my boys] so I'll do whatever I want. Just wait for the boring musings and circular questions I've got up my sleeve. I can feel the anticipation growing already.