Artistic Healing

So, um... What the actual fuck is happening, everyone? Apparently, society was harbouring a giant underground zit of racism and hate that has now come to a head and exploded all over the mirror...? Didn't your mother ever yell, "DON'T SQUEEZE IT!" at you as a teenager??? Nope, we had to just go ahead and poke at the damn thing instead of letting it die under the surface and fade away on its own.

Seriously, though, we have HOW many centuries of documented human history that clearly shows what kind of hell goes down when a race war breaks out? DO PEOPLE HONESTLY THINK THIS IS GOING TO GO WELL FOR ANYONE?????? Do you know what you're not enjoying when you're spending the entirety of your time fighting a superficial war? Life. That's what you're not enjoying. It's really hard to savour patio drinks and rock out at live music shows when you're too busy yelling at someone over their melanin levels. 

At the risk of sounding too much like a Buzzfeed article, here are 20 things that are more important than hating people who are different from you:

1. Puppies, dogs, cats, kittens, and baby mammals in general
2. Live music
3. Bakeries 
4. Climbing into a bed with freshly cleaned sheets
5. Dancing (especially, as if nobody is watching) 
6. Genuine compliments 
7. Coffee
8. Holding hands - Platonically, romantically, or otherwise
9. Patio drinks
10. Rainbows
11. The perfect parallel park
12. Comfy socks
13. The horn section of a fabulous band
14. Someone giving you their pre-paid parking slip when they're done with it
15. Farmer's markets
16. Songs that give you chills
17. Getting back in touch with an old friend
18. Fake mustaches
19. Star gazing
20. Artistic collaboration

I could go on and on, but I guess I now have to more wisely dedicate my time to denouncing racism and figuring out how to advocate for the people whose skin colour can't shield them from illogical hate. More than anything, I'm frustrated by how clueless large groups of people still are. We have buttloads of examples from history of racism fucking things up for everyone. All it takes is a simple Google search to know that we're headed down a dangerous path. But no, here we go again. Human history is just like a college student drinking to excess, swearing they're done with alcohol forever while in the midst of the hangover, and then proceeding to go out again the next weekend because tequila shots are on for $3 at the campus bar. Except, unlike the college student who eventually gets old and trades late-night partying for an early bedtime, human societies don't ever seem to grow up. We're 200 000 years old and still getting into bar fights over which physical features are superior. You know what they say, high school never ends. 

If you're feeling bummed out and hopeless about the state of society, fear not, for there is a glimmer of hope. Once again, it's time to rely on artists to save the world. Yep, you read that correctly. Step aside, Superman. The artists are here to save the day! 

I alluded to this at the end of my Buzzfeed-esque list, but let me break it down further for y'all. Artistic expression and collaboration are what will lead the way out of this shitty hate tornado. I came to this specific realization after experiencing the most incredible C.R. Avery show this month. I strolled into my usual haunt, The Needle Vinyl Tavern, with the expectation of an always amazing set from Joe Nolan & the Dogs with the added bonus of some harmonica beat-boxing spoken word realness from C.R. Avery. I GOT SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT. 

Joe Nolan was fabulous, as always. He rocked us. He rolled us. I got a couple of dances in. No complaints! Then, the lights dimmed as a recorded political monologue filled the air to set the tone. What was it about? I wish I had been taking notes or recording a video so that I could tell you. Alas, I was too struck by the weight of the room and the powerful figure standing in the dark onstage to do either of those things. A chugging harmonica began to punctuate the words that would become memorable history in that back room at the Needle. C.R. began to intersperse beat-boxing and sharp melodies between each note diffusing out of his harp. Suddenly, the lights brightened and the horns erupted. That first blast of the trumpet and trombone carried a power that could have simultaneously killed and revived me. My soul was screaming to be taken to the next level and this music was going to achieve that. Melodies, harmonies, rhythms, and poetry surrounded my body like I had just climbed into a memory foam bed, lined with freshly washed jersey knit sheets.

Each song was filled with content that was hard hitting, political, life-affirming, inspirational, and real. As Avery sang "the NRA finally met its match with the LGBTQ2", referring to the Pulse Nightclub shooting, I started tearing up. Then, he got the crowd to sing one line together, "49 angels dancing in the night". Did I cry? YES, OBVIOUSLY. 

It felt the way church worship used to feel to me before I discovered the ugly side of organized religion. People combined their independent voices into a singular focus with an expanding wall of sound and emotion. That feeling of coming together in a congregation of music is what church really should be all about. The message of love coming from the stage and from the lips of every person in the room temporarily drowned out our inequalities to celebrate us coming together in a beautiful mosaic of our differences. 


Avery slid fluidly from topic to poetic topic with ease and style, touching on race relations, inequality, privilege, and personal reflection, among other things. He brought male heel dancers onto the stage who are known locally for regularly challenging the concept and perception of masculinity in our society. He gave the dancers a platform on which they could strut their fabulous selves before joining in for the grand finale which consisted of them each ripping off their tearaway pants to reveal their asses in all of their thonged glory. 


A rousing and bluesy version of "When The Saints Go Marching In" concluded the set before a greater level of crowd participation was demanded for the encore. Avery encouraged everyone to join in to sing "O Canada" before launching into some more spoken word and hitting us with the grave reminder that we're "standing on stolen Native land". His point was made and was met with thunderous cheering from the audience. He then asked us to form a circle in the middle of the floor before introducing a Hoop Dancer to its center. The dancer floated and twirled with strength and grace inside the human-made circle to the sound of the band members playing as if none of them would never play again. The dancer took a knee with his recently constructed sphere of hoops outstretched in his hand, while Avery and a local musician with Middle Eastern roots turned towards each other to face off in a musical duel. When they were done, the dancer stood back up to mesmerize everyone the room again with his intricate hoop shapes and rhythmic movement. 

There was nothing I could do to stop the steady stream of tears now flowing down my cheeks. I was so struck by the emotion rolling off of these performers just giving us their all. It became apparent that the process I was witnessing is exactly what will allow us to move forward as a more peaceful society. Artistic collaboration is how we will make change and heal as a people. These artists came together with their demographic and artistic differences to create something more powerful than what any one of them could have produced individually. You could debate all day long about whose artistic talents are the best, but what's the point when the final product was hundreds of times more amazing than any single artist's work? Moments like this make it clear that politicians are not going to be the ones to dissolve the hate embedded in the current discourse. It will not even be the expected activists who will save us from ourselves. The people who are going to fix things are the artistic souls that so many of us readily dismiss as dreamers. I'm putting my money on these people who show up and pour themselves into creating emotion inducing art to be the ones who will turn the world into the more peaceful place that they envision. More than ever, we need to support those who can see the different colours we all bring to the tapestry and know how to piece them together to create it. C.R. Avery is one of those people. Seriously, if you ever get a chance to see one of his shows, freaking do it. The amount of effort and creativity that went into that production must have been immense. He's putting his money where his harmonica usually is to make the world a better place the way only artists can. 

So, fight however you've gotta fight. Whatever you do, make sure you're fighting on the right side of history. Our lives are more documented now than they've ever been before. Decades from now, the world will still remember what kind of person you proved yourself to be. We don't have time to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves and others. If we can get enough people turning their little pocket of the world into a masterpiece, maybe that will be enough to dispel the tsunami of hate trying to overwhelm our global community. More than ever, we need comedy, spoken word, music, writing, poetry, design, costuming, makeup, film, photography, visual art, animation, drawing, burlesque, painting, sculpture, street performing, theatre, dance, performance art, clowning, balloon animals, WHATEVER. If you can do it, then do it. If you're learning how to do it, learn fast. If you don't consider yourself an artist, consider supporting one (or many). Get out there and be involved however you can be involved.

We're not just lifting spirits; we're saving the world. 

Love and Let Love

Happy Pride Month, everyone! And happy one year coming-outiversary to meee. 

Since coming out as "not straight" this time last year, I've had a lot of people ask me about my label. You may or may not remember that I semi-officially announced myself as bisexual. Lately, I've been gravitating towards the label of pansexual ("hearts, not parts!", as some would say) to more clearly validate the existence of all non-binary gender identities. However, I use these two terms interchangeably because they are *basically* the same thing. (This is a bit of a controversial issue in the LGBTQ2S+ community, so do your reading to determine your own opinion on this matter). Personally, I'll use the term "bi" when I want people to know what the heck I'm talking about because it does seem to be slightly more visible (haha) than pansexuality, in general. Not everyone knows what the term pansexual means, so I find myself explaining far too often that I am not literally sexually attracted to pans. However, I may be PUNsexual, AKA, attracted to puns. ...Sorry, couldn't help myself. (I should be PUNished for that one). Jeez, sorry. I truly am stopping now...

Honestly, though, what other explanation is there for the overwhelming number of pun-obsessed weirdos with whom I hang out? Ooh, look at that segue! Speaking of "weird", you may also hear me use the term "queer" to describe myself from time to time. Not only does this term adequately describe my sexuality, but it also wonderfully encapsulates my dorky personality. It does, however, leave the label a little more open ended. Remember, folks, queer does not necessarily equate to gay. (Although, it can).

I know labels and fluid sexuality can be confusing so I've decided to clear up a few of the questions I've been receiving from some members of the general public below:

How do you commit to one person if you have the capability to be attracted to all people? 

Let me ask you this: how do you commit to one person if you can be attracted to all people of one gender? Polyamory is a totally separate thing from sexual orientation (and a whole other thing to dive into on another day). Non-heterosexual people are not the only ones with commitment issues, if ya know what I mean! ;) 

How did you become/know you were pansexual?

It was actually a direct result of all those years of softball I played in my youth. Also, I kissed a girl and I liked it. Throwing this back your way, how are you positive about your own sexual identity? Could you, too, be sexually fluid? Seems to me like it's statistically unlikely for SO MANY people to cluster around the extremes of either end of a spectrum... But, alas, I am no statistician. 

As a woman, what advice do you have for transitioning from dating men to dating women?

Cut your hair, wear more plaid, and change your tinder settings. But for reals, you should probably start asking women out if you want to date women. You should also probably seek advice from someone who is not me because I have absolutely no chill and my dating track record is not something to which you should aspire.

Are you sure you're not just doing this for attention? 

Have you even met me? All I do with excess attention is turn a neutral situation into an awkward one. No, thank you. 


With all that said, here's to a proud month of celebrating love in whichever form we each choose to express it. I'm blessed to have so many fabulous and accepting people in my life who perfectly embody the sentiment, "live and let live". Keep on being awesome and never stop spreading the love!

Until next year's Pride post, love (of all kinds) and swing-outs!

The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Earlier this month, I stumbled across some of my old writing from high school. Even in my teen years, I gravitated towards personal essays as a storytelling format. Although, I doubt anyone who has spent any time talking to me and who has experienced my disastrous "mouth words" firsthand is surprised by my preference for written communication. As my final project for my Creative Writing 15 course, I completed a series of personal essays on various topics that were important to me at the time. These are exactly what I have decided to share with all of you through this blog over the coming weeks. Looking back at these pieces has given me the opportunity to observe the ways in which both my personality and my writing abilities have progressed over the years. I can look back and realize just how fearless my writing used to be, back before my pre-frontal cortex began to interfere with my lack of caring about social consequences. I tackled all sorts of topics that I would be reluctant to touch now. There is a sense of naivety that emerges through these old pieces, as they were all written before I had experienced some of the formative events that have shaped the person I've become since then. I am glad that I can see a marked improvement in my technical writing skills from what they used to be five years ago. Thank goodness I stopped writing entirely in passive voice... 

I have updated certain technical aspects of these pieces, but have attempted to keep the content authentic to my original drafts because 18-year-old me was way funnier before I had to throw out most of my humour to make room for learning APA style and thesis writing techniques. This first essay is a true story. Without further ado, here is high school personal essay #1! 

The People on the Bus Go 'Round and Get Stranger

Public transit. You meet the most interesting people on the bus. Some might make the argument that the people watching you are able to do during your morning commute to school or work is reason alone for opting out of owning a vehicle. There are those who find pensive tranquility and inner peace in their favourite seat next to the window, while others bump into their soul mates during their awkward shuffles out the door. Personally, I’ve had my fair share of memorable bus adventures over the years. Amidst the random conversations I’ve been forced into, the noxious smells my nose has witnessed, and the numerous personal bubbles I’ve had the misfortune of invading after a sudden brake, one particular incident stands out from among the rest.

For the three years I spent in Junior High, each morning began with me meeting up with my best friend before boarding the bus to school together. On the morning of this aforementioned life-altering event, our walk to our bus stop had been exceptionally normal. My friend had successfully completed her daily ritual, which consisted of her frantically scavenging for her misplaced school materials, before we proceeded to spend our walk filling each other in on our previous uneventful evenings. Our bus driver had acknowledged each of us with a slight nod of obligation and gratitude that neither of us had forgotten either of our bus passes that morning. Out of habit, we meandered towards the back of the clunky metal beast to our usual seats at the top of the stairs, just off to the left. That morning, however, our zombie-like promenade was halted abruptly by a middle-aged man wearing a brown jacket.

                “Look out. Look out.”

He spoke without emotion as he half-heartedly gestured toward the bus floor at the back exit where a disgusting puddle of sludge was occupying the pathway. My friend, who appeared to not have heard the monotone man’s warning, continued to advance precariously close to the unidentifiable pile of nasty.

                “Look out. Look out.”

Once again, the sludge guard repeated his unfeeling phrase to stop my friend from treading through that awful-smelling bus slime on the floor. She heard him in time and stopped just short of a ruined pair of sneakers.

                “Ooh! Peach smoothie!”

Perhaps, my friend would have been correct if we had boarded the bus a few stops earlier; the miscellaneous slime may very well have been a fellow bus passenger’s delicious peach smoothie at one point in time. However, it was apparent that it had become nothing more than a stomach-rejected breakfast fail. Needless to say, my friend and I quickly transferred to another bus that was carrying 100% less vomit than was our first vehicular attempt at commuting to school that day. 

I wish I could have seen the expressions on our faces for the entirety of that fateful bus ride. At the time, I wasn’t thinking anything more than about how disgusting that whole experience had been. Later, I found myself wondering more and more about that brown-jacketed man’s role in this weird story. Was he the protagonist of this tale? Was it HIS once-delicious smoothie that had evaded his small intestine for a chance at freedom within the public transit system? Perhaps, he felt guilty about how he had defiled an otherwise peaceful commute for his fellow passengers and decided he was now obligated to protect us oblivious teenage girls from an embarrassing first period of the school day. I wondered if, maybe, he was simply nothing more than the Good Samaritan who had watched this unfortunate exposition take place and was now playing the hero’s role in the story. Whatever the situation, both my friend and I were both grateful that he had raised his emotionless voice to steer us clear of a potentially disgusting fate.

I suppose it doesn’t really matter whose gastronomical fluid was residing on the bus floor. It was not important whether it belonged to the man in the brown jacket or to another transit taker who had since opted to take the scenic route to work. Even though nobody directly accepted the blame for the peach smoothie mistake, there was someone there who was willing to make sure that it did not unnecessarily ruin another person’s day. That monotone man stepped up and avoided a bystander losing their innocence to another stranger’s queasy stomach. I often think about what a wonderful world it could be if there were more of us who acted like Mr. Sludge Guard.

If people were more willing to help their fellow humans avoid potentially mortifying situations instead of silently ill-wishing them to a face-plant in the name of morbid entertainment, I am sure that there would be less war. Of course, America’s Funniest Home Videos would probably have to be taken off the air to achieve this radically pro-social goal, but I am positive that we could all find something better to do with our time than spending it watching crotch shot montages. It is probably true that the world would be a better place if everyone volunteered in their community and donated blood every two months.  Not to repeat another cliché, but it really is the little things that count. The least one could do is to hold the door open for the frantic looking stranger carrying a million bags of groceries in their arms. Failing that, one could at least assist said stranger in picking up their groceries after they explode all over the sidewalk. Pain is funny until it’s your own. It is unnecessary to intentionally inflict it upon another person. Standing by while someone walks into a disaster that you could have prevented leaves you just as guilty as if you were the one to push them into it. We are all in this together, friends. Pay it back. Pay it forward. Contribute in whatever way works best for you. If I ever happen to cross paths with that brown-jacketed man again, you better believe that I will be paying my debt by treating him to a peach smoothie.

Everything Hurts

Hey there, humans!

In case you were wondering where I've been for the last week, I'm just chillin' like a villain in Victoria. You know how I be. Kirsten's cat, Thatcher, and I are having a great time now that we have been temporarily reunited.

I am super sore but oh-so fulfilled after spending the past weekend in Vancouver at LINDY BOUT! What's Lindy Bout, you ask? It's only the largest annual Lindy Hop competition event in Western Canada. NBD. This year was actually my first time attending this glorious event due to the fact that I no longer have to spend the end of April writing a billion finals and crying. Hallelujah. Lindy Bout was amazeballs. The music was fab, the people were super, and I was stoked to compete with not one, but two of my original choreographies for the Team and Short 'n' Sweet divisions. My tap shoes even made it onto the stage into for the first time in ~4 years which was pretty darn cool. I flung my hat somewhere backstage into Narnia, apparently, because it was nowhere to be found when I went to look for it after my number. In typical fashion, the stage felt 980767354095 times more slippery during my actual performance than it did during the floor trials. I almost died. OH WELL. I danced so hard this weekend, not that you would know it from what my broken fitbit recorded... However, I still won my weekend step count contest even though the darn thing only recorded half of my steps. I also didn't even get seriously stomped on until the end of the Sunday night dance, which is honestly the best time to obtain a majorly bruised ankle during a dance weekend.

That's not a shadow; that's a bruise. Ideally, I wouldn't get any body parts annihilated by a hard-heeled dance shoe, but if it has to happen... My feet also hate me now. The only thing that saved my muscles was my daily "stretch your freaking legs, Kate" alarm and the discovery of the hotel Jacuzzi with its miracle jets. Oh, sweet calf massage...

In other news, Kirsten and I ran our first Lindy Hop Switch class last night here in Victoria. It was a successful hour of making mistakes and figuring out fancy role switching moves. We both had a total blast sharing our knowledge with everyone who showed up and we are looking forward to our next workshop which will be taking place in Edmonton near the end of the summer! Check out our website here and the Facebook event here for more info! I promise I will only play "Switch" by Will Smith a reasonable amount of times...

Other than these exciting updates, I'm spending the next weekend back in Vancouver before flying back to the real world on Sunday. All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I've had a great vacation full of dancing, friends, and nearly getting crapped on by a bird. It's been a blast but I'll be glad to get into my regular routine again at home. Fewer birds in Edmonton, you know?

Until the next time!

Love and Swing-Outs!

A Second Cup Of Reflection

Sitting pretentiously by myself next to the window in a coffee shop and reading an old book of personal essays which speculate about the meaning of life, I'm suddenly struck by the sheer number of stories unfolding around me. Is anyone else noticing this too or am I the only one tuned into this channel in this moment? At some point, I've connected what the author of my book was writing about with the episode playing before my eyes right now. 20 something odd years later, I'm doing now exactly what this author must have been doing around the time I was only being born. How much has changed since the days he might have spent sitting in a coffee shop watching people live their lives while they unknowingly shared with him their stories?

Outside the window, an unofficial parade of pick-up truck floats decked out in Oilers paraphernalia is noisily roaring past. People lean out of their windows to cheer and encourage nearby pedestrians to share in their playoff excitement. The last time our city's team made the playoffs, I wasn't even old enough to enter most of the establishments located on Whyte avenue. In fact, I was nothing more than a dorky kid cutting "Go Oilers" into the lawn with scissors as I attempted to find a way to participate in the collective excitement over a sport I didn't, and still don't, care all that much about. Continuing to absorb the energy of the crowd through the large pane of glass, I begin to recall flashes of news images of the riots that engulfed this street following the playoff loss a decade ago. Some mobs revolt for worthwhile causes like political change; drunk and privileged Canadians riot over hockey. I'm realizing that tonight may not have been the best time to embark on a reflective journey in this coffee shop. However, I'm caffeine deprived and I've still got time to kill as the band I want to see doesn't get on stage for another hour and a half. I'm not entirely trusting in my ability to travel unscathed through the impending sea of rowdy fans, but I'm hoping I can go relatively unnoticed while their eyes are glued to an infinite selection of bar TVs. Outside, calmer spring-time couples amble by me hand in hand. A young man leans his bicycle trustingly unlocked against a pole and joins us inside to get himself a cup of coffee. Is anyone outside the window judging me the way that I judge strangers who sit reflectively inside coffee shop windows to write? I've never really understood the appeal of working in a public space until trying it now for the first time. I am beginning to understand how this hum of activity can be both inspiring and conducive to productivity. I am willing to admit my previous judgments about these coffee shop people have been misguided now that I have become one of them. 

Inside, the man sitting just up and to the right of me has pulled out of his backpack, a set of headphones and an iPad, obviously well used but still being carried around in its original packaging. He appears to be watching a drummer's how-to video and following along with his own frantic tapping rhythms on the coffee shop table. Aspiring bongo drummer, perhaps? I am not about to ask now that he has begun to talk to himself. Besides, he probably wouldn't be able to hear me over the coughing noises coming from the man sitting immediately to my right. I'm concerned that this other stranger's lungs sound like they might break free from his chest and escape out from his throat at any moment. Will I be caught in the bodily fluid cross-fire?? Between coughs, he seems to be watching me as I glance over to check on his vital status again. I wonder what, exactly, he has observed other than my distressed facial expressions. Behind these two men, one of the baristas reacts like she has just received the most distressing news ever to land in her ears from the other barista behind the counter. She's crying like she has no awareness of the dozens of customers milling about around her. It's possible she simply doesn't care. Something in her world has been drastically altered, potentially permanently, and the rest of us are continuing on to drink our coffee like nothing has changed. She pauses briefly to bid farewell to the table drumming man, addressing him by his first name. "See you next time!", the baristas call as he waves goodbye. 

As I quietly observe these events occurring in this space, I feel the way I do when I watch a movie. I am an observer trying to piece all of the separate events into the larger puzzle picture. I am noticing things like the excessive number of coffee cups taken from various different coffee shops that a stranger is carrying in his walker basket. Has anyone else observed this or am I the only one wondering why the cups are there and what the man's plans for them are? Did he not have time to find a garbage can or does he collect these treasures like scavenger hunt prizes? Why do I take so much joy in these little moments? Life's truest Easter eggs never fail to make me smile whenever I stumble upon one of them. There is so much we fake about ourselves in front of others that it makes these refreshing seconds of mundane truth even more special glimpses into the reality of our shared human experience. Spending most of my time being disappointed by people, these quiet observances of unfiltered expressions give me hope. Witnessing the raw vulnerabilities of people around me seems to lessen the weight I so often feel in the presence of the evils which are so prevalent in the world. These strangers are as innocent to me as I wish to imagine, so long as I have no more knowledge about their histories and intentions. The realist in me knows there is a danger involved in ignoring these certain kinds of information, but the idealist in me is fulfilled for now. Every so often, it is necessary to indulge the latter to ensure the will to get out of bed still exists by the time the next morning rolls around. 

When I stop to take a break from reading and jotting down bits of my stream of consciousness, I discover a friend's first post of their new blog. As I read it, I think about the fact that everyone is out to tell their own stories. With movies, books, music, dance, writing, poetry, and creations of all kinds, we're all looking for the acknowledgement of our experiences. I am delighted when someone shares their tales with me, as I think most of us usually are. We spend much of our time seeking out storytellers, whether artistically or interpersonally, because it allows us to validate our own thoughts and experiences through those of another. Some people are natural storytellers whereas others prefer to listen. I would consider myself to be a story sharer. When I am quiet in a group, I am likely listening to the stories someone across the room doesn't realize they are telling me. When I nudge your shoulder to say, "look over there", I am extending an invitation to you to share in the story being told in that moment. As much as I love to say, "I hate people", I am often fascinated by others, especially when they are not thinking about being watched. To be the only one who witnesses a stranger stumble over a curb and then look around to determine whether anyone else noticed is to share a unique bond with this person you've never met. You know what they're thinking because you've been there too. Maybe they catch you looking at them, but maybe they don't. If they do, you share a smile that lets them know their secret is safe with you before you both proceed with the rest of your days. Life resides in these moments of understated connections. 

Well, with the not-so-subtle actions of the baristas wiping tables and stacking chairs around me, I can take the hint that the credits are beginning to roll. For now, it is time to leave my front row seat to continue on with the rest of my evening. As much as I have enjoyed taking in the stories of the people around me tonight, I now have the opportunity to share a few of my own on the dance floor. 

Until the next time, 

- Your Friend With The Pen

Back In Blog

Hey there, party people.

It has been quite a while since my last blog post so I've decided to ease back into blogging with some good ol' "weird stuff keeps happening to Kate" (surprise!) story time. This is basically the only time I pretend I'm even remotely funny so, HUMOUR me, if you will. 

Sigh. Not exactly starting off on a high note...

ANYWAY. 

Buckle up. Put on your adult pants. Here we gooooooooooooo. 

So, I've recently discovered that I have stretch marks on my calves. Say what? YEEEUP. Honestly, I'm not upset about it, but also, WHAT THE HELL? I'm not entirely sure whether I've been doing too much tap dancing recently, or if my genes have just failed to allot me enough skin to accommodate my Hercules legs. Either way, I'm a little concerned that it is only a matter of time and a handful of dances before I hulk right through my own skin. My thighs have already burst themselves Alien-style through one pair of pants and are currently making quick work of their next victim. Fortunately for me, my lovely sister was willing to bring me an intact pair of jeans to campus the day I discovered there was a massive hole in the pair I was wearing on my way to work. Gotta love having the kind of sibling relationship where one of you can call up the other to request new pants, meet in a public area, and then do a sketchy-looking trouser transfer while making shifty eye movements and saying things like, "You got the stuff?". All of you people with siblings know what I'm talking about. Life isn't all ripped skin and clothing for me, though. Not to brag, but my massage therapist once told me that I have "well-developed feet". Whoo, sorry. I'll calm down the bragging going on over here. Apparently, it's a common dancer thing..? (Dancers, check your feet and get back to me on that. Let's gather some data). As my mother would explain, I've simply got "a good strong Ukrainian farm girl body built for pulling a plow through a swamp", an ability that is super useful for daily life in this dry city. This is something I hope I never have to attempt. I seriously doubt that being built to do that kind of activity makes it any more enjoyable. In any case, pass the pyrohy. 

For those of you who keep up with my Facebook statuses, you'll know that I nearly attacked a stranger's face with my snow brush the other night. PSA for you all, DON'T SNEAK UP ON PEOPLE ON WHYTE AVENUE. Realistically, you probably shouldn't sneak up on strangers ever, but especially do not walk up behind someone while they are alone, brushing the snow off their car, on Whyte ave, on a Saturday night. Just, no. From the perspective of the guy who nearly had to get new teeth, he was just trying to get into his car which, unfortunately, happened to be parked adjacent to mine. From my perspective, this random dude was approaching me head-on at an alarmingly quick pace to, most likely, hit on me in one way or another. He should be appreciative of the many years of softball I played in my youth because I managed to check my swing in time to avoid crushing his face once I determined that he was not a real threat. Holy smackapoopies, was that ever an unnecessary heart attack. To his credit, he did apologize to me after I lowered my weapon. In response to that, I said, "It's fine. I mean, I almost smashed your face in, but it's fine." At least he owned up when he said, "That's fair. I would have deserved that". Seriously, though, he had a nice face and I would have felt bad if I had shattered it with my ice scraper. This whole charade might have even made for a great "meet-cute" for a romantic comedy. Of course, the universe would have to allow me to have a single non-awkward interaction with a person for that to be a possibility. We all know that won't be happening any time soon. 

This isn't even the first incidence of near-violence against a stranger on Whyte avenue that I have almost initiated. A couple of months ago, I was walking down the street when I heard the sound of running footsteps quickly approaching me from behind. Naturally, I whipped around to face the would-be attacker with a raised fist, prepared to land the first blow before they had a chance to get to me first. To this, the running party yelled out, "It's just me, a woman! I'm just running to get out of the cold!", as she scuttled sheepishly away. GAH. THAT'S GREAT, BUT WOULD YOU MIND NOT RUNNING DIRECTLY TOWARD ME?? I would really love to not punch innocent strangers in the face but people are making it more and more difficult to achieve this goal every day. 

Speaking of awkward encounters, here's a little piece of advice for any of you considering messaging a complete stranger over Facebook messenger: Don't do it. I don't care if you think you're doing them a favour by throwing a random "compliment" their way. 1) You're probably not. 2) They likely don't care what you think about them because they don't know you exist. And 3) You're definitely not as eloquent as you think you are. Rando from who-knows-where, Saskatchewan, sent me an unsolicited Facebook message a few days ago which read, "We don't know each other but I wanted to tell you that you are absolutely stunning." I mean, my profile photo features me in a reindeer onesie. "Cute" would have at least made sense. "Stunning" just made me think he had some weird kinks he was trying to project onto me. No thank you, sir. I replied with, "Please never do this to anyone ever again", because I figured I'd at least try to proactively curb this dude's creepy behaviour to save future women from having to deal with it. However, this is where he made his fatal mistake because he responded by saying, "What, compliment them?" HOO BOY. One more time for the people in the back, UNSOLICITED COMMENTS ABOUT ANOTHER PERSON'S APPEARANCE ARE NOT COMPLIMENTS. I had started off our exchange relatively politely for dealing with someone who evidently had zero respect for me right off the bat. That "compliment" claim will get me every time, though. To deal with his tomfoolery, I made the super mature decision to bombard him with custom-made memes of a child flipping him off to make it clear I don't have a single fuck to give about what a strange internet guy thinks about my face. Gotta say, it was pretty satisfying to outdo him at his own game until he felt forced to block me. Do you like apples, internet dude?  Well, how do you like THEM apples? 

Moving on, my caffeine tolerance is currently approaching an unmanageable level. I'm popping caffeine pills like they're candy and then wondering why I haven't slept in a week and my anxiety levels are through the roof. I put a little sticky note with the word "BREATHE" written on it on my computer monitor so I could have an external reminder to practice breathing properly. While running on pure stimulants, however, I've spent more time angrily glaring at this sticky note, frustrated that I am seemingly only capable of tense, shallow breaths, than I have actually heeding the message I wrote for my own damn self. 

It's funny that I mentioned running on caffeine because I've recently experienced my coffee running away from me. Gripping things with my weak post-sleep hands before the coffee has hit my bloodstream is the most difficult part of my average morning. Holding things while walking in this pre-caffeinated state is basically impossible. Imagine, if you will, zombie-Kate stumbling after her fallen travel mug while it rolls away down the LONGEST FRIGGIN' HALLWAY IN EXISTENCE while dropping other important items along the way. My phone made the decision to jump and got halfway to activating the "Facebook live" feature before I stopped it just in time. The last thing this world needs is documentation of my disastrous ways. Wait a second...

Alright so, before y'all take off on me, I've got a few more serious things to say. I have recently decided to get back into writing on a more serious/regular basis with the intent of actually doing something with it. I mean, do I even have a right to highlight the spelling mistakes of others if I'm not actively writing anything of my own? I think not. So, consider this the light-hearted re-entry blog post to shake off the rust and kick off what will, hopefully, be a coherent series of written work. It is entirely possible that I am simply going to start throwing words at various audiences with no pre-determined plan just to see what sticks. (Lucky you). In any case, expect more blog posts and shoot me a message if there's something you'd like to see me write about. I'm open to collaboration and requests. This also means that I am now accepting offers to create content for your projects! That's right, I occasionally write things that read like they were written by a competent adult. I also edit/revise/proofread things written by other people because it makes me feel good to make other people look good. Do me a favour and help me build a portfolio while doing favours for you! I would also appreciate you all spreading the word that I do things with words throughout your own social networks. Feel free to send me a message and/or tell your friends to send me a message at kdproofreading@gmail.com. Y'all rock!




If you've made it this far, here's a video of me doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance at the PLEX 2017 cabaret in Calgary last weekend. Now you know why I've been so unavailable for the last few months. It's not a great reason, but it's the truth. Honestly, if you've read this entire blog you're probably one of the cool people that has already bothered to watch it/saw it live at PLEX so here's a video of screaming goats for you to enjoy. Also, the rest of the entries in this blog are not a particularly hilarious but some of the entries on my old breakfast blog are chuckle-worthy, if I do say so myself. Check it out if that's what you're looking for. 

Party on, dudes.