the world has turned and left me here

In an attempt to bring her second knee up to her chest and hug it (because she seriously needed a hug but nobody was around) she slammed the top of her knee on the bottom of her desk.

That sudden surge of pain shot through her body.

Moments ago, upon picking up and folding a shirt, she had smacked her elbow against a piece of her door frame that jutted out more than the rest of it.

A distant memory-voice in the back of her head began, the voice of a babysitter she had when she was young. Or young-er it said:
"My mom used to say if you hurt yourself a few times in a row it's because somebody, somewhere is saying bad things about you."

A Rolodex of everybody she knew flashed through her brain as she told them all to fuck themselves. Then one of those horrible self pitying "what a painful inconvenience" noises rose from deep inside of her, where the stronger and potentially longer-lasting pain went to sleep. She turned away from her desk and her eyes fell to the floor.

Then, slowly, so did her body.

Sometimes when she would be taking the subway home, or walking around her neighborhood she'd see people who look like they were just about to collapse on the ground. Like there was one thread responsible for their entire body and if you just pulled it a little bit they would completely unravel into a pool on the floor.

She lay on the floor for a minute, motionless, tracing the thread as it lead from the top of her knee cap, down her shin and disappeared somewhere near her radiator.

Inside of her, another thread snapped, potentially with a silent, minuscule crack of the piece of coal that had been house sitting for her heart for the past few months. Somewhere in the black, cold substance maybe a tiny spark had exploded. The pressures that had been oozing her breath out of her lungs in painful steady strides turned the spark into diamonds. Shards of mineral ripped at the bottom of her eyelids and over flowed, scraping themselves down her face.

she was now crying while Weezer blared out of her speakers, folded over on her floor.

Pathetic.

belly full of lead

Contents of stomach as documented on November 15th, 2010:

Barbed wire, Molten lava (as previously mentioned), A living "Frankenstein's monster" of song lyrics ranging from "good music" to the shittiest soft-rock-radio love songs one could possibly imagine, Snakes, Snails, Puppy dog tails, Cigarette butts, Misadventures, An arrangement of musky natural smells, Some assortment of heavy rocks and boulders, An anthology of vivid dreams I am still trying to digest, maybe a cherry of of vivid memories I am trying, dying to digest, Bits of my nails I have been biting off and an electric heating pad.

If that's not cause for constipation I just don't know what is anymore.

swallowed a volcano

I understand that by 'heart broken' people place an emotion to a metaphysical symbol, that is really technically an organ.

I understand if I was really heart broken I might consider being hospitalized.

Lately it's felt like you live your life to meet people and fall in love with them. I have had many loves.

Brief to not-so-brief. Spicy to mild, cream and sugar to black and bitter. Once I was in love with a movie star, once I was in love with my seventeen year old camp counselor, Caitlin.
You meet someone and they find almost instantly exactly where they fit in you. If they can't find a space, sometimes they make one or sometimes you move space for them and they crawl their way into you. Sometimes you can feel them, the way they fill you or even hollow you out.

These days, I feel like I've swallowed a volcano; you pried open my mouth and I swallowed an active volcano. The lava molts over and turns into hard rock, every few days the pressure from my rib cage when I sleep or the sight of a boy on a bike or a place where we have been or the thought of us fucking makes my internal temperature rise. The lava reactivates and fills my stomach and chest with burnt orange rivers.

I try to speak, but my heart beats so hard it fans the volcano and all that comes up is smoke and ash.

Huh

Secret to making a blog you can actually write something personal on:

Be a bad blogger and then NOBODY WILL EVER READ IT.

It's two thirty in the am. The last time I checked my only friends were the chocolate fudge cream explosion in the freezer and the electric heating pad tucked in my blanket.

I'm wearing your shirt. But I think somebodies special mom did their laundry before they left because your shirt doesn't smell bad. I mean musky. You don't smell bad. You smell like the way my face fits into the neck-shaped space between your jaw and your collar bone. You smell like the way your hands feel on almost every part of my body.

I'm worried. About a lot. I'm worried I'm not strong enough to be alone. I'm worried your ability to leave me for so long and start up a mini-new life is because I don't mean half as much to you as you pretend to. I'm worried in the time you spend away I will build up walls around the parts of me you manage to find the little keys to. They're laughable, really. But I'm sort of determined.

I'm worried about what comes later, and that I won't be able to enjoy the present thinking about the later. Every so often a small part of the way you smell wafts from the shirt and makes me really happy. I'm worried parts of me that you bring out can't work the same magic without you around.

Ultimatley I don't know what to do, what you mean to me or how this is going to work out. You make me sad and frustrated.

This is my 33rd post to this blog, and though I don't really give a fuck about it here is an adequate present:

Of Bella Donna and the nothing else that mattered.

Bella Donna

I made her today on Marvel's website. I need to start drawing her sexy details soon... Unfortunately Marvel's options didn't include all the kick ass accessories she's going to have. But I think this would be a good little character of who she was before she decided to be a LEGIT super hero. Bet it blows your socks off. It's ok it blows mine off too.

I also made a fort yesterday for a flyer fooor a shooow that is going to be pretty fucking awesome. I am not totally happy with said flyer so in posting it i am ashamed but that's what happens when your computer fucks off and the show is in a week.


That fort scared the shit out of me when I got home last night...

Gabie's heart: la dee da beating beating everythings cool
Gabie's brain: Oh man can't wait to eat this sushi tomorrow
Gabie's heart: yeah btw that shit is horrible for me ... so much salt dude. so much salt.
Gabie's brain: yeah fu w/e
Gabie's heart: LOL jks jks i Love sushi
Gabie's brain: yeah i bet you do---OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT IN MY LIVING ROOM! AHH!
Gabie's heart: WHAT?! WHAT IS IT! I CAN'T SEE SHIT HOLY FUCK *flatlines for a split second*
Gabie's brain: Oh. Nevermind it's that fort I made before I left my house.
Heart: ......fuck you dude.

undercover slut

These are some of the best covers I've heard lately. I love covers. Duvets and shit, oh baby. What? Not those covers.

Right.

I'm going to post the originals too assuming you've all been living under rocks but your bones appear to be generally in tact so.... except for you, Mr. beetle but your hard shell and miniscule size allows you to go under rocks I'd never dare to venture.
This is some heavy shit. No pun intended.

enjoy.

T.I Whatever you Like

Dead Kennedys Too Drunk to Fuck

Kady Perry Hot n cold

Mariah Carey Fantasy

and of course....

"But Gabie this isn't a cover"

"Fuck you it's my blog."

of late late late lates and late.

Early. Whatever.

It's technically early and this fucking hurts.

I'mWideAwakeItsMorning.

Dear World,

You are utmost frustrating. If I were writing this on paper I wouldn't know who to send it to.

The sky is getting light purple as it is now 7am and the sounds of cars passing North & South on Bathurst is on a steady rise and has been for two hours.

Majority of these people are going to work. Going to keep Canada from becoming third-world. Going to spend the very little of the time we have here to afford the commodities we are conditioned to believe to need.

I'm sending this letter out to the internet because I don't know who else I would send it to.

As a species we are caught in a ferocious struggle between wild animal and conditioner. We put products in our fur. Most of our bodies are bald and I'm sure we're very ugly to other animals. There are species of plant designed to be more attractive than we are to each other. Most of all I feel we lack the balance we once held in the animal kingdom. Snow Geese give birth to a bunch of goslings, a fox comes by and puts 4 or 5 adorable fluffy puff balls into her mouth, takes them back to 3 equally adorable fox pups and we watch as the baby foxes eat the baby geese.

Our children would be food for larger prey.

Witnesses have also experienced great acts of inter-special kindness. Wildlife footage depicts a mother hippo actually saving a gazelle from the mouth of a crocodile. There are sick and dying people in the world and all I feel like I can do is put change into those plastic bottles all over town.

It's impossible to be half as happy as I should be knowing my reality is someone's paradise and yet I don't feel as I will do anything to help them in my lifetime. And the officials I will elect, will not take the right steps to help them because suffering is necessary for happiness.

I will give you fifty dollars to take away my guilt.

Please tell the starving children in Africa who don't have Playstation 3 yet that I'm at a point in my life where I'm feeling a little too angsty to assist them or their country.

But hey! I'm young maybe I'll go through an activist phase in college and go visit Haiti for a week and take a bunch of photos with orphans and then come back here and tell everyone how eye-opening it was.

Speaking of open eyes. Mine can't stay open any longer.

Explain yourself to me world, where do I fit in you and how can I fit there without living knowing my happiness comes at the price of great sadness and pain.

From,

Gabie.

Of Soul Mates and PROOF!

Exhibit A:


Exhibit B:


....just saying!

Girls act too Much/Boys act too Tough...

Enough is Enough.
I thought I had something to write.
I guess I did not.

Show was fun last night. Great bands, great people. Except some guy who is no longer my friend fucked up again and threw a can at my fucking head. I feel like I can safely, without causing any form of disrespect to the disabled community classify this man as Retarded.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mental_retardation

Yep. Yes I can.

Questioning decisions. At what point is your life actually supposed to start? Anyone? Bueller?

Of Insomnia...

You know what I hate about tattoos? ...I've thought of like 800 great ideas and I want them ALL.

You know what I love about shows? I've been to like 800 in the past two weeks. Frankie Foo and the YoYo Smugglers last night and everythan.. kicking so much ass.

Tonka and Puma, Azores, First Rate People and Face Party on Tuesday. I hope to see all the many many many people who read this blog. So basically, EVERYONE EVER BORN. Ever.

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah I made the flyer.

Of Late Afternoon reflective Poetry...

"This town ain't big enough for the both of us."
The look you shot me...
It was a Harpoon disguised as a gaze...
I watch the thoughts hidden behind your head race...
Am I taking something away?
As I try to determine...
Which of us is the lioness and which is
The gazelle with the broken leg...
You hiss
I laugh
"Here Kitty, kitty... this town ain't big enough for the both of us."

can't it all be like this mama?

Of Husbands and Scabbies...

They call me scabby gabie... yes indeed!

So I'm about to embark on an awesome three month mission to film as many cool things about Tdot as possible! That includes stores, organizations, events, bands, venues, parks, parking spots, bridges, holes, molemen, spinach, and mummies. No, not your mom, mummies. Local Toronto mummies. Please notify me if you know if anything wicked cool to be filmed. Matt has suggested a restaurant that has "Tv Dinner Thursdays" that I am fo sho checking out. Fo sho fo sho. More on this later. Ace of cakes is on.

Aside from that, I'm wondering why I am not married to this bad boy yet:


and wondering when this bad boy is going to heal:


[Photo by: Katrina Sung] and yeah, thus is my life at the moment. Got some wicked shows coming up... 22nd is Pop With Brains a-la the Vaudeville Whores and Broken Bricks.. 23rd I'm going to see a random band The Guest Bedroom because they sound pretty rad... on the 2nd Tonka & Puma and Azores are playing at our very own Rancho Relaxo ( I actually just finished a beautiful flyer) and on the 6th Lava and the Ash and our buddies in Big Crimes will also be playing at Rancho!! Ahh concerts. And, well the 13th of COURSE but that is a SURPRISE.

Somewhere inbetween all that dancing I have to get accepted to a school and get my tattoo finished. But I'm on my way to that right now and I'm really anxious/excited to see where I get in!! I hope they like my stuff.

Death by Rock and Roll...

"You know those bands.... those bands who make a record or a song or play a show so god damn good you figure they don't need pussy, drugs, or any form of human enthusiasam or triumph to feel any sort of joy? The kind that make you go 'If I were them, I could die happy knowing I was in a band this good. No regrets or fear, I've completed my destiny and now I should die.' You know?" He was chewing a piece of gum furiously. Half of me was so concentrated on the tiny bit of flavored rubber swishing back and forth between his nicotine stained teeth I barely realized he was speaking to me. One tooth looked like an arrow head. The embarrassingly outdated microphone in my hand shook slightly.
"Yes." I said.
"We can only hope." he smiled. The tiny lines between his teeth oozed solos in every vessel of my blood. "Was that good?" he asked.
"...that... was perfect." I responded. I thanked him and walked away, the mechanical box a treasure chest and the tape inside precious cargo, irreplaceable by time or man. The voice that sang a thousand songs, a thousand sixty four words deep in my pocket. Every one poetry. Suddenly neither the time wasted standing outside waiting for a ticket to a sold out show or the freezing cold, scraping at my lungs, made a difference. My heart beat in times faster than any drum beat and my toes were curled up inside my shoes. Every hair on the back of my neck stood, pins in a pincushion.

Oh yeah there, there goes your skull and bones, talking through your broke telephones. Will they play as you fall? The bathroom stall.

You gotta do what you gotta do...

Oh blogging. I was sure I'd keep this up both longer and more in depth than I have. I was going to do a post about my favorite albums of the decade or whatever... I still have that blog saved in a draft I think. Perhaps I will just do it simply, without all the cocknbull.

In no particular order:

Man Man- Rabbit Habits

Wolf Parade- Apologies to the Queen Mary

Blah blah blah. I like music. It's been a good 10 years for it. God Bless Eminem. God bless the white stripes. I have neglected to add many many albums in this list but I sort of got tired of putting it together, possibly because I've been listening to most of this music and not sitting on the internet, like I am now. Mainly because I just got a fucking tattoo and it hurts to walk/put on socks! Good start to the next 10 years. Lord jesus it is beautiful. The End.