8 Signs That You’re Perma-Single



I’m not here to make you sad.

I’m here to depress the shit out of you.

If you’re single, that is.

Sorry, that came out wrong.

I’m alerting you to the signs. Eight signs, to be exact. Eight signs that you might be perma-single. I’m not doing this to stab a knife in your chest and twist it until you cry. I’m here to give you some tough lovin’.

And if you feel like this:


But seriously, these signs are all based on my personal experience, so you have nothing to be ashamed of. If any of these 8 characteristics resonates with you, then just work on maybe stopping that behaviour in favour of a more sexually attractive one.

Unless you’re confident in it, in which case:

So, let’s begin this descent into misery, shall we?

1) You dance like you’re having an epileptic fit.

This. This is only attractive to fetishists.

While I totally support your feeling the music and doin’ yo thang, this does not generally attract the opposite sex.

I know this.

I have lived it.

2) You watched Pride & Prejudice as a pre-puscent kid, and now nothing will compare to Mr. Darcy.


Not the fuckin’ Keira Knightly version. The BBC miniseries featuring GOD OF THE CINEMA, Colin Firth.





Or, you know, if you’re a guy…

I don’t know, but I assume something to do with Scarlett Johansson.

And her jigglin’ boobays.

3) You’re a Twi-hard.



This is the one thing I have no experience in. I read the books. I saw the movies.

I don’t see the appeal.

C’mon girls, we all know that Brad Pitt from Interview with the Vampire is a much more attractive vampire.

I’m here for you, Brad.

And this is why I’m single.


4) You run around kissing people like you’re a biological terrorist intent on spreading mono around the world.

Specifically, when you’re drunk.


This does not promote healthy relationships. This leads to spinsterhood, ladies.

And boys, don’t do this either.

Especially if you look like this:

This screams “STD”

5) You find a lot of uncanny resemblances between yourself and Bridget Jones.

Like this:

And this:

And unfortunately this:

Or, if you’re a guy, you relate oddly well to Seth and Evan from Superbad.

It’s like looking into a mirror, isn’t it?

Don’t fret, little ones. Change is always possible.

I, too, have felt like a Bridget. And sometimes like a Seth.

But these behaviours can be changed. If you just belieeeeeeeeeve.

And also try really hard.

6) You have Foodgasms. A lot.

Ohmygod. Get inside me. Now.

Inside my stomach, that is.

If you believe that food > relationships, it follows that you=single.

7) You don’t like being touched.

Every time someone comes in for a hug, you’re like:

And God forbid they try and cuddle.

Otherwise, you go all 300 on their asses.


8) You’re drunk while you’re reading this.

…Or, in my case, while I’m writing this.

Left: You. Right: Me.

Because you are sexy, you beautiful m****f*****s, and just because you’re perma-single doesn’t mean that you’re de-valued.

It just means that you’re lonely.

And that’s okay.

And according to this random guy who posted this random picture on the interwebs, you shouldn’t fall in love till you’re good and ready:

Thanks, random Post-it Note Guy!

So chill out, whatcha yellin’ for.

Lay back, it’s what being single’s for.

(not in a sexual way, but in a relaxation way)

Don’t worry about being single- because no one’s single forever.

Unless you’re this guy:

YOU know what he’s doing…



Apocalypse Now: A Story of High School and Low Hopes

I’m here to tell you a story about a young girl who got off a bus in the Big City (re: Toronto) with a dollar in her bank account (re: not really) ready to take on high school at the most magical place in the world:


And in case you’re wondering, that little naive piece of hot, acne-infested pubescence was me.

Sadly, this is a real photo.

Sensuality is my specialty. 

Yes, that is a picture from when I was in an opera. Yes, I did youth opera as a voluntary extracurricular activity.

And I ain’t ashamed.

However, what I didn’t anticipate was how unprepared I was for the ruthless 4 years ahead of me.
Not only did I choose to go to an arts high school, but I chose to major in musical theatre at said arts school.

You know what kind of people are musical theatre people??



Now, don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are musical theatre fanatics.

But then again… most of them are not.

I was simply not prepared for the fuckin’ Vietnam War-like conditions that awaited me in that graffitied building where people would try to snort ecstasy between classes (because LOGIC) and where, on my first day, a kid threw up in my French class because he’d drank a mickey of Jack Daniels.

It was 10am. 

In that school, it was either kill, or be killed. DANCE OR DIE.

I would say “eat or be eaten,” but no one in that school ever fuckin’ ate.

Except for the visual arts majors. Because of the cannabis and such.

At lunch, it would be salads and chickpeas as far as the eye could see. And there I was, with my pudding cups, feeling like I’d landed in the middle of a Jenny Craig ad.

It didn’t take long before people noticed I was eating well over the 500-calorie limit for the day and started dropping hints whenever I got up in the middle of Geography to grab a quick Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos.

They were not very subtle hints.

It was a sad day when they finally broke me down, leaving me starving (literally) in the gutter (metaphorically), desperately clutching at my carbohydrate-filld past.

This attitude wasn’t only perpetuated by the students. In fact, the students were the smallest part of it.

The teachers were way worse.

It was common knowledge that one of the dance teachers had told her class, after showing them a particularly skimpy costume: “Next time you want to reach for that slice of cake, you better think twice!”

I KNOW, RIGHT?? Thanks, Tina.

So you see, it was not a very healthy environment for a bunch of emotionally and physically insecure teenagers who still didn’t know what to do with their boobs (I’m speaking from a feminine perspective, here).

It could also have had something to do with the fact that they made us dance like common whores. For one show, I had to warn my family ahead of time that they would probably be shocked by what I’d be doing.

Which was basically this:

Luckily, I managed to turn it into something more like this:

FACT: They did ask us to wear bras. And only bras.

The thing is, that I had trouble being “sexy.” What were supposed to be smooth body rolls and flirty lil’ booty shakes became something not unlike an epileptic seizure. And apparently musical theatre is a “sexy” thing to do, now.

Goddammit, Glee. 

I went into the school with little-to-no knowledge of the art of dahnce. And I had no freakin’ clue how to be sexy.

I gave it my best effort…

…but was not very successful.

Not only was this school a fuckin’ feeding ground for anorexia and slut culture, but people were CONSTANTLY trying to outshine one another. This was the place where your friends were also your competition. Backstabbing and shit-talking was everywhere. People sucked up to teachers and even drunk-texted them (because this was a m****f***in’ classy establishment) in order to get call-backs and roles and solos and whatever the fuck else was important to them at the time.


Except everyone secretly wanted to kill each other.

It was all about getting noticed. And I completely understand that this is what it’s like in the professional world, but we were just kids! For fuck’s sake, I’m still a child! (See previous blog post.)

The teachers basically put a bunch of attention-depraved chihuahuas into an arena and yelled: “TO THE DEATH!”

I tried to get noticed, I really did. In 9th and 10th grades, I sang my lil’ heart out with mediocre renditions of “I Have Confidence” and “On My Own.” By Grade 11, I had gained a “who the f*** cares” attitude, and just kind of went through the musical motions.

The breaking point might have been when they made me wear this:


Even though I consistently wore mis-matched camo-patterned ensembles and miniskirts from Hot Topic (but that’s another story entirely), this was a bit much.

I would also like to point out that I did not cover my friend’s face in this photograph, because she specifically asked me not to. Because she wants to become famous.

But it was people like that who got me through my high school years. Granted, a lot of them sucked, but I met some people at that place that I’ll never forget and will always remember (THANKS, CAPTAIN REDUNDANT!)

High school sucks. If it didn’t suck for you, then you were doing something wrong. They’re four extremely awkward years full of heartbreak and broken dreams and weird body odours.

High school.

Not high school:

But the friends you make and keep during those years are so important. I’ll never forget how much shit we cried over, and how many times we snuck alcohol from our parents’ liquor cabinets and got drunk in each other’s basements.

To all you people who are still in high school:
Hang in there, because university is SO GREAT.

To all you people at an arts high school:

Unless you’re enjoying it. In which case: more power to ya! (But also, how???)

And finally, to everyone who made me feel like less of a person because I couldn’t shake my ass properly, to you I say:

And that ain’t ever gonna change.


Is my childhood showing?

It might be all the psychology classes I’m taking, or it could just be that there’s a tiny little elf-creature taking over my soul, but I feel like I’m regressing back into a state of child-like dependency.


I’ve been doing some things lately that only a five year-old who had just guzzled about a dozen sugar straws would do.


Also, I’ve started dancing like this:


Wait, that’s not necessarily child-like, you say?
Lots of people dance like chubby, post-ice-cream-binge kids?


Anyways, I’ve also started collecting stuffed animals. And this is really weird for me. Did those italics get through to you? REALLY WEIRD.

Because I was one of those kids who stuck up their nose at the idea of cuddling with a plush friend when sad, or having a tea party with Mr. Tinkles the Small-Bladdered Bunny. I just didn’t get the point. Why play with a stuffed animal that is clearly fake, when you could create things using your imagination that were 10x more fun!

So then I’d go outside and pretend to be a forensics specialist and make my friends give me blood samples so I could look at them under my microscope.

I was eight.

Did I mention that I wouldn’t let my friends touch their own blood samples (which I kept between two slides, all professional and shit), because I didn’t want to contaminate them?

I was all like:

It seriously took me about 10 years to realize that science is really hard and stupid. Thanks childhood fantasies. (Of the non-sexual nature. Not that I had the other kind, but you know, kids will be kids and stuff and I think I’ve gone too far.)



I just thought that playing with stuffed animals and Barbies was a sign of weakness. I pretty much wrote people off if they liked those things. I remember meeting one chick when I was about 10 at some family friend’s party and she started telling me all about her Beanie Baby collection. I just remember thinking:

“I can’t be friends with this bitch.”

I had just learned the B word.


I was also (and still kind of am, I won’t lie to you, internet mole people) deathly afraid of dolls. Any kind of doll, but Porcelain China Dolls were the fucking creepiest m****f*****s ever to exist. EVER.

Aaaaaaand thanks to my parents, I had two of them sitting on my dresser across from my bed, watching me sleep every night. And every night, I made my dad keep an eye on them until I fell asleep, so, you know, they wouldn’t shank me well I slept.

If you are not scared of this, I DON’T BELIEVE YOU.

Why didn’t I just get rid of them?


I actually had some pretty good logic, for an eight year old.

I didn’t want to make them mad. 

Tell me this doesn’t want to make you cry and urinate simultaneously.

My parents got pretty tired of this by the time I was 10 (…or 11), and my dad bit one of them on the head and then dropped her on the floor so that I could see how fake she was and not at all under the murderous rage of a demon spirit.

It didn’t help.


I was literally sobbing. SOBBING.

I truly believed that my dad would be killed for his flagrant disregard for the porcelain evilness of my dolls.

Me. Every night. Until puberty.

So you understand that my new interest in stuffed animals is a big step forward.

I don’t think they’re stupid and pointless anymore, or a sign of weakness. But dolls are still f******* scary and should not be sold anywhere because children should not be exposed to such horror.



The eyes. It’s all in the eyes.

Yeah. That’s right. What you just felt was your heart expanding with more love than even Beyonce and Jay-Z have for each other.

And that’s saying a lot.

The other thing I’ve been doing a lot of is watching children’s movies.

Like, a lot.

Every time I’m hungover, I reach for (/torrent) my copy of (/download of) Shrek or Shrek 2, or Scooby-Doo, or Scooby-Doo 2, or The Little Mermaid, or The Little Mermaid 2, and, well, you get the picture.

One of my friends came into my room while I was watching Beauty and the Beast, and caught me laughing hysterically at Gaston’s douchey antics.

He looked pretty disgusted and confused and immediately left, but I didn’t care, I was in a state of cartoon ecstasy.

What I looked like:

What was going on on-screen:

I think I may have over-reacted.
Or maybe I was just hungover.

Or maybe Gaston is just the funniest b**** this side of California. (I don’t know what that means, but you can figure it out yourself, you lazy piece of rotting diaper.)

I also recently watched Shrek, which I still maintain is one of the funniest movies ever made this side of California.

Oh, donkey, you noble rascally steed, you!

After I watched it for probably the 60th time, I found my school journal from 2nd grade. One of my entries went like this (and this is verbatim):

“On the weekend, I went to see Shrek. It was so funny. Donkey said: “That is a nice boulder” and “In the morning I’m making waffles,” and then he married a dragon. It was so funny. And Shrek burped a lot and said “Better out than in” and Fiona made a bird explode with her voice which was so funny. It was the best weekend ever because I saw Shrek.”

Any weekend is the best weekend when Shrek is involved.

I had to face the conclusion that I have not changed at all since I was seven years-old. It was a hard fact to face, but… Shrek. 

I’m pretty sure that this is my way of coping with the adult world into which I’ve been so unceremoniously thrown, like a poor 18 year-old heroin addict into prostitution.

I’ve got Peter Pan syndrome, man!

And I think most of us do, and it just manifests itself in different ways.

Some people get drunk off their asses every night and refuse to do work.

Others have panic attacks that lead to chronic chocolate-eating regarding their futures.

Me? I just act like a child.

And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.

Until I have to get a job and figure my shit out and try to become a contributing member of society. But until then, I think holding onto my child-like excitement is a good thing. So go autoerotically asphyxiate yourself if you disagree.

Because children are so optimistic and imaginative- it’s a shame that most of us lose that as we get older.

As Pablo Picasso said:

Some of you might be like: “Kids are stupid and don’t know anything, why would I ever want to be like them?”

Because they get to live in any world they want to. Anything they create inside their heads is real to them. They aren’t confined by the physical limitations of our world. They can be a witch one day, a superhero the next. They can hide under the covers from the monster they know is lurking under their bed, or become convinced that their house is haunted. They can be popstars, explorers, and secret agents. They can be anything they want, and it’s all real to them.

It’s sad that adults lose this deep imagination, but I guess it’s a natural developmental progression. But I, for one, am going to make sure that I don’t lose hold of it completely.

Because what’s the point of growing up if you can’t dream?