Sunday, June 30, 2013

I am a Writer

Hello everyone,

My name is Tracey and I am a writer, although I adamantly refuse to be. I just don’t have the attention span or perseverance for this writing shit. I do, however, like most successful writers have a way overactive imagination that makes living life in the non-fiction world extremely difficult and just generally a pain in the ass. Why? Let me break it down for you:

1.   I am bored all the time. I am bored as I type this list and it JUST started. When you happen to naturally picture green furry monsters serving you coffee every morning instead of the flamboyant and fabulous baristas at Starbucks, it makes reality just that much more difficult. If the simple pleasures of life can’t even be enjoyed for what they are, then imagine how I feel reconciling the checking account at work or better yet- pretending that I care that this month’s accounts payables is out of balance by five dollars and 34 cents. Just writing that hurt my soul. I’m going to pretend I didn't go there. It’s not even getting spell checked.

2.  Sometimes my imagination bleeds into reality unbeknownst to me. Sometimes I forget that my dreams didn't really happen and sometimes I believe that my dreams will happen. I don’t mean dreaming of becoming a famous fashion stylist. I mean dreaming that someone will kill me through some sort of Jedi-mind trick and then bring me back to life and then tell everyone that I’m lying and it didn’t really happen thereby making me look like a crazy person. Not cool. My dreams are vivid though and they can be quite traumatizing so while it may seem totally unlikely that cats will one day destroy me, I still think they will. The Catpocalypse. It will happen on a Caturday.

3.   I am horribly impractical. My city recently flooded. The morning of the flood I decided I didn't feel like carrying an umbrella and I also didn't feel like wearing rain boots despite the forecast of doom. Instead I felt like carrying my vintage clutch and my Roberto Capucci leather loafers. This sort of decision making has repercussions which I don’t care about. Why? I’d rather feel fabulous than comfortable and quite frankly I enjoy staring in my own melodramas so trenching through 3 feet of water in designer footwear, already soaked head-to-toe, suited me just fine. I enjoy the awkward situations I find myself in and furthermore I enjoy a good bitch.

4.   Anything is possible. When you can imagine yourself doing something I really do believe the odds are in your favor so long as you believe in yourself and take serious action towards making those possibilities a reality. I imagine I can do just about anything and everything that interests me, and I’m probably right that I could, but I just can’t seem to pick one thing and focus on it. I wish I were only good at one thing and had no other options. My imagination just leads to analysis paralysis. My thoughts are like a video loop or circular reasoning. They just go round and round with no destination point other than frustration followed by confusion followed by further frustration. Humph.

So based on the above points you should now see why I must write in some capacity, somehow. I am far too inefficient and ineffective to be useful to the world in any real sense. The fact that I pretend to accomplish normal people things and go about doing day-to-day doing normal people stuff is completely ridiculous and a lie. Do not believe me when you see me taking out the trash or depositing a check. I am actually in a reality trance and my body is being controlled through automatism and self-help talk, “Tracey you can do this. Just pass the bag to the green monster managing the garbage chute.” I’m not even lying people. That literally happened.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

For Halloween I Will be Fictional

Next Halloween I am going to be Someone Who Has it All Figured Out. My costume will not be very apparent by my attire, but will be readily identifiable by my beaming confidence and winning attitude. People will approach me at [insert name of overhyped bar] and ask “Who are you?” to which I will reply “I am someone who knows exactly what they want in life and is heading towards those goals in a steady manner, which produces a lot of emotional comfort and joy. Thank you for asking.” *cue peaceful smile and release of dopamine*

I imagine some will find me smug, but I will interpret it as jealousy and awe of my decisiveness and apparent fulfillment. I also imagine that I too will be in awe of myself for I have never once experienced such a thing, but I've often read about it on LinkedIn profiles so I’m pretty sure it’s real.

There is probably one addition to my guise that could add a nice touch to my uniquely omniscient and fulfilled position and that is one of those “HI MY NAME IS:” name tag stickers. I am not sure what *exactly* I could put. I’m sure any of the following would do: “Your worst nightmare” “Everything you ever wanted and will never have” “Narcissist” “Put on planet earth to destroy your self-confidence and question EVERYTHING YOU KNOW’ etc… I think any of those would probably do the trick. And maybe one of those fancy blue ribbons dog owners win for Best in Show. There's something eerily accomplished about those so it fits. 

Monday, March 19, 2012


Defeat creeps into my kitchen. She wants to know what I’m having for late night snacks.

“None of your business” I say quietly and firmly under my breath.

I hate it when Defeat comes at this time.

She lingers around the kitchen and sits herself comfortably on a counter top. I feel her glossy eyes stare at me while I fix myself a sandwich. I look up from time to time and we catch each other’s eyes. I glare intently. Defeat gazes back at me empty. She isn’t one for emoting. If anything Defeat is the personification of utter indifference. If she were a decorating scheme she’d be modern, minimalist, with glass walls and doors. Eerily transparent and lacking any sort of distractible quality. In that way Defeat is at least not very frightening. Her presence is honest and consistent. When she arrives I don’t bother to make a fuss.

“How’s the sandwich?” she asks even though we both know she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about my sandwich. We both know why she is here and it’s certainly not for small talk.

“Sad.” I reply somberly.

“The sandwich or you?” she asks interested.

“Both.” I say as tears swell in my eyes. I feel a lump form in my throat. I feel my chest cave. And I feel Defeat wrap her arms around me tightly. She holds me until I’m done crying and lay down to rest.
“I’ll be back the same time tomorrow.” Defeat says as she turns to leave my room.

I watch her walk away. 

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

An Ordinary Love Story

Once upon a time there was a cow named Milly who spent her days dreaming of finding her perfect cow mate. She would sigh from time to time feeling as though her chance of finding cow love was passing her by. She didn’t have forever after all. In another 2 years she would be 4 and would be slaughtered for beef and her hooves used to make glue. Oh, how she wanted a cow lover.

Across the pasture was another cow, Timber, who too often dreamed of love and wished for a loyal cow companion to graze in the fields with him. He had briefly courted a very pretty cow once, but she had a change of heart after her owner began injecting her with rBGH to increase her daily milk production. Unnaturally high hormonal levels didn’t seem to agree with her. He wondered if he could bear being hurt again. He was delicate like a flower inside all that strong hide that would one day be used for shoes and jackets to ensure less animal waste post-slaughter.

It seemed like love would never find its way into the hearts of these two starry-eyed cows. But then one day from all the way across the grassy fields Milly’s eye caught Timber’s eye. Their eyes latched on to one another and deep inside they each let out a small “moo”. From then on Milly and Timber were as inseparable as conjoined twins joined at the spine sharing a heart, liver, one kidney and a couple colons. They grazed together; they strolled together; they rested in the shade together. If there was anything a cow could do, they did it, and together.

Timber thought Milly was the bee’s knees. She was beautiful, charming, and had this delightfully quirky gait that she had acquired after developing Mastitis from electronic milking machines that don’t allow proper resting phases from milking. Milly thought Timber was the cat’s meow. He did silly things to make her laugh and held the pasture gates open for her at the end of the day when they returned to the barn. “He is such a gentlecow” She thought. “I am so lucky.”

Surely enough though, within a few months, after they had settled into each other’s hearts and lives, problems arose. Timber had become increasingly impatient with Milly’s need for constant attention. Sometimes he wanted to be left alone to graze by himself and he didn’t appreciate her flirting with other cows when he did. He often felt as though all he did was redecorate their grassy residence and talk to Milly about her feelings. As well, her once quirky gait was not-so-quirky.

Milly too was getting fed-up with Timber’s ways. At times he was insensitive to her feelings and he was so stubborn she would have to dig her hooves into the ground and argue for hours with him to get him to admit he was wrong. Indeed she found their relationship exhausting. She didn’t understand Timber’s need for alone time either. Was she not good company? Was it her festering Mastitis infection?

Then one morning a man from the city arrived with a large vehicle to take some of the cows to the slaughterhouse. It was early in the season, but meat was in high demand and the local grocer had reported a shortage and did not want to lose business. Milly had heard about how cattle are dehorned and castrated without anesthesia and was scared of her inevitable doom. Timber had heard how men skinning cows often discover they are still alive and was scared too. Then they put aside everything that had been bothering them for the past few weeks and held on to each other tight. Milly nuzzled Timber and Timber nuzzled back. The man walked towards them, but then swerved towards some baby cows. Veal calves were what the city man had come for. “Phew!” sighed both the cows.

Afterwards Milly and Timber headed to another field. “Life is short” thought Timber. What he had found with Milly was special and rare. Maybe he could forgive her for her flirtatious nature and overlook her emotional sensibilities. As he thought this he watched Milly head to a grassy corner and decided that maybe her gait was still delightfully quirky. Milly too thought about her own mortality and decided that Timber wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps he was stubborn and emotionally withdrawn from time to time, but she wasn’t perfect either. She looked at him and smiled to herself thinking of how tightly he held her moments before when their lives were endangered.

So Milly and Timber put aside their differences and learned to be grateful for what they had found in one another.

The End. 

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Why I am no Longer a Gold Digger

Once upon a time, not too long ago, in a land not very far away, I used to base my dating selections on how well endowed a man’s bank balance was. I wasn’t interested in someone real. Instead, I wanted someone who would ask me questions like “How about this square cut diamond ring?” and “Would you like me to have this newly discovered star named after you?”

I basically wanted a fictitious creature that lived to pamper my foolish self. I figured the chances of me finding a genuinely kind and wonderful man was slim to nil based on my own dating experiences and from what I observed around me. No one appeared to be sexually active with someone they loved, or even liked very much. Seeing something real and loving was kind of like spotting a high-end designer bag in a small town; most people carry fakes, and when you finally see the real thing you doubt its authenticity. So why would I waste my time chasing after a fairy tale?

I remember the first time I considered what it would be like to date an older, rich man. I had been placed in a global merchant bank to work with its chairman over New Years, while his full-time executive assistant was on leave. I found myself attracted to this balding, egotistical, and bizarre little man. I thought perhaps it was the Skittles that kept falling out of his pockets, but later on linked it to the dopamine that surged through and fogged my brain when he asked me to book his Jaguar and Porsche for their yearly check-ups.

At first it surprised me how easily I fit in with his friends who loved it when I joined them for drinks at fancy hotel lounges. I became accustomed to it all so quickly. I never once felt out of place amongst my new older, wealthier crowd. And then it occurred to me that the reason I had had no previous luck was because I had been working the wrong dating pool. It was all too clear to me now; older men with money were what I had needed all along.

I rushed home and signed up on various millionaire matchmaking websites where men had to have their bank accounts certified to subscribe. I never questioned the absurdity of luring someone with great finances. Was this not what nature had intended? Man provides for woman. Woman nurtures man. Subconscious biological drives are assuaged. It seemed perfectly logical to me; just a mutually agreed upon arrangement where primal instincts run wild. I won't hold it against you for desiring me for my youthful waist-to-hip ratio and in return you can overlook it when I bat my eyes at that car in your garage.

At first it was intoxicating. The thrill of spending time with someone from another walk of life was incomparable. There’s just so much adrenaline and pheromones and hormones and whatevermones in dating rich older men. I sometimes wondered how I was supposed to ever go back to normal dating. In order to maintain this high level of excitement I would need to resign myself to a life of crime. But soon enough I found out that this was only a sure fire way to augment any previous damage done by silly boys my own age. The thing with sugar daddies is, they don’t exactly approach their relationships with tender loving care and the ones that do are trying to fill a void that you cannot even begin to tackle. They may pay for your champagne and lobster, but they will leave you emotionally short-changed every time.

Most wealthy people run around spending much of their time and money on plastic surgeries, gym memberships, grooming and many other fixer uppers that keep them brand spanking new beyond their expiry dates. But hardly any of them puts that kind of thought or enthusiasm into keeping things neat and tidy on the inside. As a result, most of my wealthy companions had this nervous, restless energy that mimicked the symptoms of a heroin addict in withdrawal. Their souls were suffering and I was their attendant medic at the escapist ER. All I wanted in the end was to return them with the receipt.

I have now come to the realization that what I am truly after is not an impressive savings account, but rather an impressive soul -a person’s unique imprint of their own thoughts, experiences, values, dreams, and beliefs, all contained within the body they've been provided with. If I can spot an enticing configuration of these traits they become irresistible to me. Like a moth to a flame, this is what attracts me. This is what I fall for. This is what I need. Picking pockets simply cannot compare.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Describe Your First Date

We both meet in a public place and you conveniently leave your ax at home. I leave in one piece and call my mother to inform her I’ll live to see another gay. Two weeks later we meet at a secret predetermined place in disguise as Batman and Robin (I'm Batman, obviously). We have wild unprotected superhero sex and then never speak to one another again, until 15 years later when I show up at your work with an awkward teenager peppered with acne. I tell you he's your son to which you deny ever knowing me. I make a scene in front of your coworkers and demand a DNA test to which you succumb, because I threaten to return at random for the next 20 years without notice, accompanied by small animals and lawn gnomes.

You take the DNA test and find out that the strange greasy boy is in fact your spawn. You cry. I hand you tissue. You curse. I threaten to wash your mouth with soap and water. You pull at your hair and lament to the Gods like a Greek woman. I offer to sacrifice a lamb in your honor. You ask if instead I could do away with the boy. I slap you across the face and gasp at my violent and deadly reflexes. Finally you walk over and acknowledge your son.

You look him up and down as you slowly accept your new reality. It's not pretty and it smells like Cheese-Its. I'm not pretty either. I've probably gained like 50 pounds since you last saw my once sexy figure in black leather assless chaps with bat symbols littered over the crotch region. Also, after a horrific mechanical bull riding accident I have developed an exaggerated limp. You're convinced I could play Quasimodo in a low budget musical production of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

You can't imagine anything more horrific than your new pimply son and the frightening return of me, the kinkiest most unforgettable one night stand you ever had. It's all too much for you. You start taking stock of your options. You can either man up and pay child support for the next 5 years or you can kill us both and discreetly dispose of both our bodies in your backyard shed, which happens to be housing an award winning collection of perennials and ferns.

I begin interrogating you on your current status and bank balance. Are you married? Widowed? Complicated on Facebook? Do you have enough bling to support my pubescent bastard? These are pressing questions and I’m not getting any younger with my hip replacement surgery coming up in July. You politely inform me you are single and financially secure. Phew!

“Don’t worry” you tell me, motioning for our son and I to sit in the back of your eerie white van.  “I’ll take good care of you. Everything will be okay.” I am relieved until I see you reveal a semi-automatic rifle from behind your back. I try to run, but it’s too late! I am now smeared across the amateur paint job inside your creepy child molester van, along with our son who screamed a full octave higher than me before taking 8 bullets in the chest.

You heave a great sigh of relief. Now your only concern is burying our bodies beside your prize winning Geraniums without disturbing them. Perhaps you could repot them and transport them inside the house for a few days. It’s definitely a good alternative to consider. After some brief brainstorming you realize what inconveniences double murders are and also how hungry they make you. After you identify your raging cravings as Mexican, you head over to Taco Bell for some bean burritos and cheesy fries. They’re delicious.

We could also just go see Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol. Your Call.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Weird Things that Turn me On

1.      Withholding Information
Nothing gets me going more than a good ol’ fashioned game of “What the hell are you thinking?”
Please don’t fill me in. I know you’ve been told communication is key to a successful relationship, but not with someone dysfunctional like me. I’d much rather allow my imagination to linger obsessively about your thoughts and feelings and even invent you an entire secret life you couldn’t possibly possess (or could you???).  The withholding of information is especially seductive when done over unreasonably long amounts of time. After I’ve relayed 10 different theories to my committee of insightful friends who enjoy guess work as much as I do, it’s very likely that my infatuation with you will have soared to new heights.  Just consider yourself a dealer and mystery to be the drug you supply me with very generously and cheaply. I’m not a millionaire here. 

2.       Disclosure
This is in direct contradiction with my previous turn on, which can be a little confusing, I know. Stay with me here. If after you’ve been a good boy and refused to let me into your chamber of secrets for a lengthy period of time, and then you suddenly become overwhelmed with the need to reveal deeply intimate things to me, I will in fact lose my mind a little. While I enjoy riddles and puzzles of all kinds, I also have a thing for exploring souls and then making myself comfortably at home in them. I will do anything to connect our hearts, including hooking myself up to an IV and mixing our blood, if that’s really what it takes. Preferably though, I’d just like for you to expose your insides to me over a magical evening of confessions and tea. But only after I’ve completed Volumes I and II on whom you really are.

3.    Compliance
Compliance is a very attractive quality in a man, especially when I need paintings hung on my walls. Sometimes I don’t want a struggle. Sometimes I just want my way and when you let me have my way it feels really good because it made more sense for you to make me happy than make my life more difficult. That’s cool. I like that. When I asked you to call at noon during my lunch break, you said “OK” and then you did, instead of calling me at 4:00 when I’m busy like an asshole. Also, when I asked you to leave the toilet seat down after peeing you took 2 seconds to do that for me instead of initiating a heated discussion on the contradiction inherent in the feminist movement. Thank you. I appreciate it. Now I would like to jump your bones.

4.       Patience and Focus
I don’t understand this whole patience thing. I’ve been told to work on my patience by asking the elderly to share a story with me and to listen without interruption till the very end. Every time I imagine myself taking on this challenge it always ends with a machete magically appearing in my hand and then subsequently my being charged with second degree murder (I became possessed, okay?). If I am able to watch you allow things to unfold without acting impulsively or if I can follow you in completing a drawn-out task from start to finish, I will become bewitched and bewildered. How did you do that? Are those superpowers contagious? Will you make me your muse? Actually, forget that question. Did you hear about what happened on the news? OMG look! A BIRD!!! Wait…is that pie I smell?? What was I saying again? Oh, yes. That’s right –pie.