Chew Gum During Takeoff, It Makes Your Ears Pop.

It's a foggy day. I'm waiting in the airport for my flight. Hopefully it won't be delayed because of the fog. I don't think it will, but who knows, it might be for some odd chance. I don't want to wait here any longer than I have to. I don't really like airports. The people. The interactions. I don't know, I find it all kind of bile in some weird way. 

Maybe it all the mothers and fathers and little children crying. It's just so, weak. They're travelling for the holidays, uniting in family bonds, creating friendships and kin ships, yet their flying to their destination. It's so impersonal. Flights don't allow for bondage. They don't allow for those embarrassing family sing-a-longs, quirky travel games, or secret conversations about how Mary Jo isn't really who you think she is. 

Flights put that distance between people. Allow to families to revert to headphones, portable DVD players, laptops, and word puzzles. There's no communication. It's just distance. I suppose I'm bitter, and I suppose one might call me a hypocrite because I'm flying myself. Well, firstly, I'm not travelling as a family. I am a single person, so a good bout of flight and introspection is okay for me. Secondly, I am bitter. 

When I was a child, my family (my mother) and I would travel everywhere via automobile. No matter the distance. The drive, it was the adventure. Across country or just down the road, those moments in the front seat of that old Volvo wagon are the ones I still remember. The ones I will always remember. 

So what can I assume about children of the modern era, the ones born of flight and fancy? Well, naturally, I suppose they won't remember much of their childhoods. 

Too bad. 

Travel to the North, Speak French, Greet Friends.

It's sunny outside, with partial clouds. I made some hot cocoa, because despite the sun it was still chilly. Nine degrees. I don't normally drink hot cocoa. I'm more of a tea person, generally speaking, maybe coffee if I need the buzz. I have a friend, Avaline, who doesn't drink hot cocoa either. Her mother was allergic, not mention, she was friends with my mother. It's how we met when we were five, in Montreal, through our mothers on a play date. These play dates were always completely overrated. Once a year, they'd occur and our mothers would naively think we'd still retain that fragile relationship that had been worked up at our last play date the prior year. Naturally it never really worked out. I was barely bilingual and she spoke about three words of French. 

We were separate people. Ten years after our last play date when I was ten I ran into her on the streets. Spilled tea all down the front of her shirt. Got Asian noodles slopped down the front of mine. One might call this serendipitous, us accidentally covering each other with the food and whatever else we held in our hands, feeling so guilty that we chatted ourselves all the way over to the nearest retail store to invest in something stain-free, and discovering that we were each the child of two mothers that forced us to be playmates for five days each year when they met together in Montreal. 

I suppose you might not believe me. It's a story too perfect. It fits too nicely into the mold of fairy-tale connections. I probably wouldn't believe it, if it I wasn't the one thrown into the series of situations. Anyways, why do I bring up these moments of connection? Hot cocoa. Montreal.

Hot cocoa reminds me of her mother. Montreal reminds me of those five days for each of those five years. We're meeting up in Montreal for five days. We've done so for the past five years, ever since meeting five years ago. Just like our mothers. 

I suppose this story is too perfect. 

I Wish I Could Speak French Again.

It's snowing again today. I kind of like it. Growing up in the northern reaches of the world gives me an appreciation for the snow that most people around here lack. They just don't get the cold. They crave the obscene warmth of the summer, when I'm usually dying for the windy chills of winter. This season is just so much fresher. The air is crisper. It has that taste in it, the taste of cold and cigarettes and western winds and falling leaves. Summer doesn't taste, it just feels, like salt and heat and energy and evaporating water. This culture, it's all about feeling. Nothing else, just the immediate gratification of fun and joy and life. There's no experience, no taste, no smell. Something about that kind of kills me on the inside. Maybe it's because I wish I was living up in the northern reaches of the world again. Maybe it's because I wish people would be more, real. 

Of course, there's the other thing about winter in this region. It's the whole driving thing. There's a definite lack of control when in comes to people and their automobiles. I don't know how to explain it, because I rarely drive an automobile. But it seems that the entire idea of traction to people has been completely phased out of their minds. If you want to see one of the saddest sights in the world, come south in the winter to a temperate that has recently received about 5 inches of snow. There will about thirty cars driven into culverts and ditches within a one-mile distance.

It's sad people can't drive safely. Or maybe it's sad because we've lost so much control. 

If You Think You're Witty, You're Really Not.

I figure that since "profiles" are just bile excuses to flaunt how uninteresting a person really is, I should then actually introduce myself. My name is Gin, and yes that really is my name and it actually is spelled like that, rather than being some clever way for me make a really bad joke about how I like to "party." In reality, I like like girls like that are without substance, shallow, and should be eradicated off the Earth's surface. Of course, all this soreness could be due to the fact that my mother was an alcoholic that named me after her favorite drinking beverage. 

Right now, I'm twenty-five, grew up in Canada, and I like to ride my bicycle everywhere. I suppose you could call me "eco-conscious" but I really dislike being labeled and lumped with most people who would consder themselves "earth-friendly." Why? Because they are usually fakes they have no actual understanding of the Earth's processes, they just like the idea of hopping on the bandwagon. 

Most people would consider me bitter. I have this sardonic sort of tone most of the time, so they don't ever actually know when to take me seriously. The truth is, however, I actually am serious when I talk, write, communicate, I just have that tone. It's probably the result of a "hard" life, growing up with a single mother being an alcoholic and all. But I'd say that that's the response of someone who just doesn't want to the deal with the truth, because let's face it, nobody really wants to know truth. 

On a lighter note, it's snowing outside, so I think I'll go and take a hike. Explore nature a little. 

My First Post: A Year Later.

This is going to be my first post. My first real post. I know I posted some dribble about a year ago when this blog was first started, but it didn't work out. So this, is going to be my first "real" post. I don't exactly know what this blog is going to be about, what the focus will be, but I suppose I'll get soem direction when I start writing. I think my next post will act as an introduction, rather than wasting time now to do it. I've got to extend this blog's life as long as possible. As this is how I will do it.