Screen Writing 101 (2009)

Portfolio

2010-01-18T15:49:00.000-08:00

So here are some pieces that i'm considering tossing into my portfolio. I need 3 images on top of my 90 second film showing a change or transition. Here we go, pick your top three favourite and contact me through comments section, twitter, fb, phone, text, pigeon messenger, rock through window etc.

Number one: Abstract number 19. medium, acrylic on canvas, fingers in lieu of brush.

Number Two: Off With Their Heads and Torso's. Acrylic, glue, photo images on canvas.

Number Three: Tiny Bubbles. Paint, bubble wrap, tinfoil, pasty fish on canvas.

Number Four: Abstract number 37. Lots and Lots of old acrylic paint on canvas.

Number Five: WallFlower. Paper, stencil, watercolour, pencil on canvas.

Number Six: Two out of Five. acrylic, sharpie, stencil on wood.

Number Seven: Splat. Acrylic, sharpie, stencil on wood.

Number Eight: Na-Na Na Na-Na. Acrylic on canvas.

Number Nine: Abstract number 9. Acrylic on canvas.

Number Ten: Deafening. acrylic on a sheet of canvas.

Number Eleven: The Colourful Four. Water colour on canvas(s).

Number Twelve: Slosh. Acrylic, water colour, sharpie on canvas.

Number Thirteen: Uniformly Unequal. One brush, acrylic on canvas.

Number Fourteen: Abstract number 25. Acrylic on canvas.

Number Fifteen: Mice Eat Cheese. Acrylic and pen on canvas.

Close up of oct-i-pus

Close up of Animal

Close up of boy

Alright That's it. Please opinion-ate and tear my work apart! No Holds Bared!

2009-06-27T18:18:00.000-07:00

So this was my final project for a short story that during my exam I had to make a screen play of. Future reference, first person writing makes for a terribly tough screen play.

A Good Man.

A short story by: Gillian Frederick

There it was. A thick manila envelope waiting in my mailbox. I slowly opened it and counted out the crisp twenty-dollar bills. It was all there, just as planned. There was also the note with the name of the hit, the place where I could find him, and a passport picture. I cursed out into my empty apartment even though no one was in earshot. I’m not she why because I am a pro and a pro is never supposed to do that, but it just slipped out. I did not have to read the name, I knew the man in the picture. Cardon. John Cardon. Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. A good guy. A great man in fact. The only truly good person I had ever known. When it came to good people, there was most likely no one in the world who could compare.

I had only met John Cardon once. It was during my time in the orphanage in Chandler Arizona. The people there treated everyone like animals. All year long we wallowed in filth. They hardly ever fed us, and when they did it was old bread and a soup that smelt of fungus. When anyone had the courage to stand up to one of the caretakers, they would let us have it with a belt. It would hurt and sting for days. The welts were almost intolerable. The caretakers would hit on both the middle of your back and the sides of your back so that there was no way to be comfortable when you tried to sleep on the thin molded mattresses. Lots of times they would give you the beltings without bothering to open up he buckle.

When Cardon came, he made sure that we got cleaned up- us and that dump they called an orphanage. Before he arrived, the director of the orphanage gave us a briefing: anyone who said anything about the state of place would be in for it later. We had all had our share of his medicine, enough to know that he meant business. When Cardon entered our rooms, we were as quiet as mice. He attempted to talk to us but no one really answered. Each boy got his present one at a time, and we said thank you one at a time and then hurried into bed. I got a dart board, which now seems like a more fitting gift than the football I wanted. When I said my thank you, he reached for my face. I cringed. I thought he was going to hit me. Cardon ran his hand over my thick dark hair, gently, and without a word he lifted my shirt. Back in those days I used to shoot off my mouth a lot. Cardon saw that by the look of my back, he did not even need to ask. At first he said nothing. Then he said Jesus’ name a few times. I’m not sure if he was swearing or praying, but he said the lords name for almost a minute straight.

Finally after what seemed like ages, he let go of my shirt and hugged me. It had been so long since I had been hugged I had forgotten what a warm, loving, caring embrace felt like. While he was hugging me, he swore to me that nobody would ever hit me again. Needless to say, I didn’t believe him. Why should I have? All my life I had just been told lies. I mean, people don’t just act nice to you for no good reason. I thought that had to be some kind of a trick; the second I turned my back he would be slipping off his belt and just letting me have it. The entire time he was hugging me, I just wanted him to go. He went, and that same evening we got a whole new staff as well as a new director. From that time on, nobody ever hit me again, nobody except for that one guy in Jacksonville. I did that job pro bono. Since then though, no one has done so much as lifted a finger.

I never saw John Cardon again. Although I did see his picture a lot in the papers. His glowing, smiling, aging face would be accompanied by an article about the people he helped, all the good things he had done. He was an honest to goodness good human being. I would say there was no finer of a person anywhere. He was pretty much the only man I owed a favour to on the whole face of the ugly planet. And in two hours I am supposed to be meeting him. In two hours I am supposed to be putting a bullet though his head.

I am thirty-one. I have had twenty- nine contracts since I started this business when I was twenty-three. Twenty- six of the twenty- nine I have completed in one go. I never, ever try to understand the people I kill. Never try to understand why. Business is business, and like I said, I’m a pro. I have a good reputation, and when you are in my field of business, reputation is everything. You don’t exactly place an ad in the paper or on Craig’s List or offer special rates to people with the right credit card. The only thing that keeps you in business is that people know that they can count on you to get the job done and to not screw up. That is why I have made it a policy never to back out on a contract. Anyone who checks my records will find nothing but satisfied customers. Satisfied customers and stiffs of course.

I woke up and left the apartment. I went to nearby the location and rented a room facing the street, right opposite the restaurant. I told the owner of the building that all of my belongings would be arriving the next day and paid two months rent in cash up front. I had a half an hour to kill until the time I figured Cardon would get to the restaurant. I assembled the gun and zeroed in the infrared sight. Only twenty-six minutes left. I paced for a while. That was not working for me. I lit a cigarette. I finished it. I lit another. I was trying not to think about anything. I was trying to wipe my mind of all emotions and thoughts. I finished that cigarette and flicked the butt into the corner of the musty, smoky room. Who on earth would want to kill a person like John Cardon? Only an animal or a complete nutter. I know Cardon. He hugged me when I was just a kid, when I knew nothing of this business. But business is business. Once you let your feelings get a hold of you, you are done for. The carpet in the corner began to smolder, it seems as though I hadn’t put out my cigarette well enough. I got up off of the bed and stamped out the butt for good. Only seventeen more minutes. Seventeen minutes and it would be over. I tried thinking about football, about my old friend Dan, about a hooker I passed on the way over here. Right there on forty-second street, in the middle of the day. I tried not to think about anything.

He was right on time. You could set a clock to Cardon’s punctuality. I realized him from behind with his special upbeat walk and his shoulder length graying hair. He took a seat at one of the outside tables, in the best-lit spot, so that he was facing me head on. If he had looked upwards he probably would have seen me in fact. The angle was perfect, medium range; I could take this shot blindfolded. The small red dot showed on the side of his head, just a little to far to the left. I corrected that with a nudge to the right until it was dead center, and just held my breath.

I had it all set, but this old man wandered by, carrying what seemed like all of his earthly possessions in just a couple of bags- a typical homeless. This city was full of them nowadays. Right outside the restaurant, one of the handles snapped. The old mans bag lunged towards the ground and all of his junk started spilling out. I saw Cardon’s body stiffen for a moment, with a tick in the corner of his face., and almost right away he got up to help. He kneeled down on the sidewalk, helping the old man gather up old newspapers and cans and putting them back into the bag. The gun stayed fixed on him the entire time. His face was mine now. The red spot was floating in the center of his forehead like an Indian bindi. That face was mine and when he smiled at the old man, it glowed. Just like the paintings of the saints on church walls.

I stopped looking through the view finder and took a look at my finger. It was frozen, just hovering over the trigger. Straight out as if it was pointing. It was not going to move. No point in pretending now. It just was not going to. I thumbed the safety and listened as the bullet slid backwards into the chamber.

I headed down the stairs of the dilapidated building and started to walk over to the restaurant with my gun safely disassembled in its case. It was not as much as a gun as much as it was just five harmless pieces of cold, black metal. I sat down at Cardon’s table, facing him, and ordered a coffee. He instantly recognized me. The last time he saw me I was an eleven-year-old-kid, a half a year away, but he had no trouble remembering. He even remembered my name. I reached into my pocket and put down the large manila envelope with the money on the table and told him simply that someone had hired me to kill him. I attempted to play it cool, to pretend like I had never even considered going through with it. Cardon smiled and said that he knew, he was the one who had sent the money in the envelope, he wanted to die.

I must admit, this caught me off guard. I stammered, asked why, did he have some sort of fatal disease? “A disease?” he laughed. “Guess you could say that.” There was that little tick in the corner of his mouth, the same one as when the old man dropped his bag, and he started to talk: “Ever since I was a child I have had this disease. The symptoms were crystal clear, but nobody ever tried to treat it. I would give my toys to the other kids, I never lied, I never stole. I was never even the slightest bit tempted to hit people back in school yard fights. I made sure that I turned the other cheek. My compulsive good nature just got worse over the years, but nobody ever did anything about it. If say, I had been compulsively bad, someone would have taken me to a shrink or something right away. They would have attempted to stop it, curb it, I don’t know. But when you are good? It fits people in our society to getting what they need in return for a compliment or some sign of delight. And it just keeps getting worse, I mean I have reached the point in my life where I can’t eat without stopping after ever single bite to find someone, anyone, who is hungrier than I am to finish my meal. And nights? Nights are the worse, I can’t fall asleep. How can anyone even consider falling asleep when your living in Atlanta in a furnished house and you are just a hundred feet away from people sleeping on benches?”

The tick was back in his mouth again and his whole body started to shake. “ I can’t keep living like this. No food, no sleep, no real love. Who on earth would have time for love when there is so much misery around? I am living in a personal hell. Try to see it from my point of view, I mean I never asked for it to be this way. Its like in the film The Exorcist. Except that instead of being possessed with the devil, an angel possesses my body. If I were a devil, someone would have finished me off a long time ago, but this?” Cardon let out a sad sigh and closed his eyes. “Listen,” he continued. “All this money, take it. Leave here and find some sort of position on a balcony or rooftop and finish me off. I can’t do it on my own you know, angels can’t commit mortal sin. This gets harder every day, even sending the money to you and having this conversation,” he padded his forehead with a napkin, “it is hard. Truly hard on me. I don’t think that I could bring my self to go through this process again, just go find a place and do it. I am begging you.”

I just looked at him, his face seemed tormented. It reminded me of Jesus on the cross, exactly like Jesus. I didn’t say a word. I had no idea what to say, I am usually quick on my feet and had an answer for anyone, for the federal agent who questioned me last year, for the hooker on the street earlier, for my ex. But with John Cardon? He knew me as a child. He knew when I was scared at the orphanage, flinching at any sudden movement in fear of getting hit. And he was a good man, the good man, I would have never been able to kill him. Not point in trying, I knew my finger would never bend that way.

“Sorry, Mr. Cardon,” I whispered after sitting in silence for what seemed like a year. “ I just….”

“You just can’t kill me,” he smiled. “That’s alright. You are not the first you know. Three other guys have returned this same envelope previous to yourself. I guess it is just part of the curse. It’s just with you in the orphanage and everything…” He shrugged his shoulders. “And me getting weaker everyday. Somehow I would have hoped that you could be the one to return the favour.”

“I am really sorry Mr. Cardon,” I whispered, wiping the tears slowly trickling from my eyes. “I wish I could, I really do.”

“Don’t feel bad,” he replied. “I understand. No harm done, leave it,” he chuckled when he saw me reach for the tab. “ It is on me. It has to be on me you do know, it’s my disease.”

I thanked him and walked away. When I was close to the door he taped me on my shoulder, I had forgotten my gun.

I went back to get it, feeling like a rookie the entire walk home.

A week later I was in Georgia. I shot some senator. It was a real tricky one too, from a block away, only half a view, tons of people moving around. He was dead before he hit the floor.

So that's that. I'll post some very poorly written articles soon.

Here goes a whole lot of wasted time..

2009-05-16T17:29:00.000-07:00

So I've decided to write some missed connections on craigs list (toronto) because I needed more writing practice. The first is to someone that I know, the second is to a true missed connection.

1.Alright I have never posted on this but I know that you check this section on occasion, so here goes nothing.

(Really nothing because after re-reading this it sounds extremely lame so my apologies in advance.)

I had you in a picture on my wall with a funny fat man six months before I even met you. Then I met you in February seeing the same funny fat man. That line was long but we were all at the front. I talked way too much but you made me laugh. It went like that for the next two nights. You visited my place, came to “commercial” shoots, came out for drinks, movie marathons and burritos. We talked, albeit online, every night, even when I was in a completely opposite time zone.

I thought things were going great save the time when I majorly fucked up. But you know all about that.

I’m sorry and I thought that maybe we could be something, or at the least friends.

Anyways I hope things are going well and who knows, maybe the other missed connection that was for you worked out.

(P.S, I didn’t write the other missed connection.)

2You were sitting across from me in a darker plaid shirt, you had spacers and a nose ring, brown hair.

I got on at Rosedale around 11:30 May 13 , I was wearing black leggings, orange vans and had a sex pistols bag.
When I got off I turned to see if you would make eye contact with me and you did.

Heres hoping that I get to make eye contact with you again :)

Yea alright they are lame. But I did get some responses. Three in fact, although none of them were the guys in question. They were just looking to get laid by some desperate seeming girl who has the hopes of coming back into contact with someone they care about or someone they could care about.

Now i'm just reeking of desperate. Bath time.

Well its been over a month.

2009-05-13T23:16:00.000-07:00

So For the next month i'm planning on writing a ton of missed connections. I will try to post the weeks worth on here for the next couple weeks.

Until then, here is a short story/adapted from Goran Dukic's screenplay for 'Wristcutters: A Love Story' (which is an amazing film) which was adapted from Etgar Keret's 'Knellers Happy Campers'. Which can be found in his book entitled 'The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God.'

This is my take on things.

Bobby woke up in his apartment, old take out boxes teaming up with dirty clothes and unpaid bills that seems to be winning the war for space in his bachelor apartment. Standing only 5 foot eight and 24 years old, he never needed much room. This would be the time to clean if there were any he thought, and started not forgetting to water his plans. He then got dressed in his second best suit leaving his best suit on a hanger outside his closet door for people would be needing it soon. Then without a note, without any hint of outward feelings, he walked to his bathroom and filled his sink with blood from his ulnar artery with two neat straight cuts on each wrist. He was dead. While he was lying there, dead, he imagined Shannon. She had broken up with him even though she was the only girl he had ever loved, the only girl he would ever love. He thought about how she would probably cry at his funeral and maybe if she ever got close to another guy pull out a picture of them during the better times and cry to the new guy about it. That was all he remembered, until he woke up.

He was in a smaller, dirtier apartment than the one he woke up to the previous day. He looked to his wrists as if everything was a dream, but it wasn’t. Two keloid scars left the permanent mark. He started freaking out so got off the floor where he would later learn he had landed, and walked outside. The first thing he saw was a grungy pizza parlor, so he walked in. As the old bell carelessly dung some dust drifted down to Bobby’s head. He started yelling in confusion at the owner, Frank. Frank calmed him down and explained why he was there and where there was.

“See here, Danny,” started Frank before he was interrupted.

“Its Bobby, B-O-B-B-Y.” said the confused and agitated Bobby.

“Well whatever your name is. When we, as humans, use our free will to end our lives before our natural deaths, instead of just dying and rotting in the ground or having our bodies burnt or whatever they are doing to the natural dead now, we get transported here.” Said Frank calmly.

“So,” thought Bobby, “we are in hell? It doesn’t seem like hell though. Does this mean God exists?!”

“Calm down boy. No, you are not in hell. And no, no one here has found out if God exists. Although I would assume this is vaguely what hell was based on. See we call get transported here, it’s a little like earth, but worse. Things are smaller, smellier, not as pleasant, and no one wants to be here because there are other people here and most of us off’ed ourselves to not deal with other people. The worst part is that you can’t re-kill your self. Old Paul down the way has tried to re-kill him self 3 times. Poor thing really mangled up his legs last time. And he has been here over 50 years. That’s the other downside, your life from here on in moves slower than a snail without any lubricant on its slug-like body.”

“Well…well… well what do we do? Where do I live? Are there taxes here? What about my family? Can I go back?” said a now flustered Bobby.

“Well you usually live where you land unless your landlord kicks you out. And as I said before, its pretty much the same as earth here. You’ll need to work, and I could use a new cashier. But you can’t go back. There are rumors that there is a head decision maker of where we are, most call it the Alternative, and he has the power to send people back. Although I’m fairly positive that it is just a myth. So the job?”

“ Yea I guess I’ll take it, do I start working now or how does this go?” and that was the last thing Bobby said before started his new live in the “Alternative”.

A couple months into living in the “Alternative” a man in his mid thirties, and terribly overweight, named Stavros landed in the apartment, so he started paying rent and living on the pull out. Starvos only had two pet peeves. The first was men standing while they peed. He had read in an article back on earth about how when men standing up, little droplets ricochet and stick to things like the toothbrushes and the face towels and other things that pee should never be on. The second was people eating his food from the fridge and not replacing it. This truly urged him when it was his cottage because it was one of the only things that he seemed to eat.

He was starting to miss Shannon. He had come to terms with the fact that killing him self only made him love and miss her more because now he truly could not be with her. Unless she killed herself of course.

To pass the time on nights when he got exhaustingly lonely he went to the bar. A miserable grungy mold infected old place. The biggest and quite possibly most offensive question you could as someone on earth was “ how much do you earn per year?” in the Alternative, it seemed to be “How did you kill your self.”. It was obvious that everyone earns money some how on earth, even if they beg. It was just as obvious and sometimes twice as interesting as to how they landed in the Alternative, although most kept it quiet as much as they could. Mr. X, the owner of the bar couldn’t keep his a secret, he had shot him self in the temple, but low enough so that even though he wore a hat you could see the entry and exit wounds. It was a sad reminder of the self-harm that everyone in this world had put upon themselves. No one ever really talked to other people at the bar, people tended to keep to them selves in the Alternative. This night was different though.

A pretty-ish blonde girl walked up to him while he had started his drink and blatantly said, “ So me and my friend,” motioning to her brunette friend sitting at the table,” play this game where we try to guess how people have off’ed themselves. So how did you do it?”

“Well that’s sort of a rude and personal question to ask isn’t it?” said Bobby in a matter of fact tone.

“That’s the whole point.”

Bobby then proceeded to put down his drink and roll up his sleeves. The girl proclaimed that she had won. They started chatting and Bobby soon got around to asking the girl, Elisha, how she had come to live in the Alternative. She had put her head in her oven and turned on her gas. It turned out that her husband of 5 years had been dating a girl on the side since their honeymoon. Since Bobby was bored and these girls seemed like a change of pace, he decided to sit with them.

They proceeded to play that game for the rest of the night. “He keeps burping, it is for sure drowning.” “He is wearing a turtleneck, he has hung himself. I would bet my life on it.” “ Now this guy is tough. Look at the hair, maybe he electrocuted him self?” It went on for hours until one somewhat creepy guy was eavesdropping and asked the table to guess how he died.

“Excuse me? Were you listening to us? That is so rude!” said Elisha.

“And the game your playing is polite. So, again, guess how I killed my self.”

Elisha turned to Bobby, “ Do you know this guy?”

“I’ll bet you girls a beer you won’t guess.” Said the increasingly creepy stranger who had now pulled his chair up to the table.

Tanya, the brunette said to Elisha “ O, look who just walked in,” then to Bobby and the stranger, “ We have to go. Be Right Back!” That was the last Bobby ever heard of them. He had quickly forgot after he had started talking to the stranger anyways.

“So what was it then, since i’m never going to guess?” said Bobby curiosity now peaked.

“O that. I was part of a band back on earth. We were great. Fantastic even. But no one ever showed up to our gigs. So one night after playing to a crowd of 3 when the place held 150, I finished the set, said to the crowd ‘Fuck it all’, took a swig of my beer then poured the rest on my guitar strings. They weren’t wired properly so I electrocuted my self. I truly went out with a bang.” Adding hand movements to the word bang.

“So you off’ed your self with a guitar?”

“ Yea it was wild. Iggy Pop almost came to see that gig. Could you imagine the look on his face if he had?!” said the stranger sounding almost excited that he had lead him self off of earth while being watched. Bobby stayed for a while and talked to the stranger who’s name turned out to be Fedya, a Russian name that meant ‘God’s Gift.’ He was funny and interesting and that was the first time Bobby had made a friend in the Alternative.

After that night things went back to routine except Bobby had someone to drink with at the bar.

One night Bobby was telling Fedya how he was so sick of sitting while he pees just to not piss off his roommate.

“You think you have it bad? My roommates are my family.” Said Fedya.

“So your close with them then huh?” said Bobby.

“No, I live with my parents and my kid brother Kostya.”

“What? Your entire family killed themselves?!” said Bobby both deeply saddened and intrigued.

“Yes.” Said Fedya in his constant everyday tone. “My mother was in hospital and pulled off her oxygen mask because she was missing Russia so much. My Father didn’t feel like going on without her. That and my little brother turned out to be gay and he couldn’t live with the shame so he hung him self the day after her funeral.”

“And your little brother, the gay one, what about him?” Bobby said timidly, not sure if he could take it.

“ Well man, I guess he had it in the genes and o.d’d on pills. I must say though, having us all end up here has brought us so close. My father, a man who would never cry for any reason hugged Kostya and cried like a baby when he landed here. It was really quite touching.” Fedya said as he took a moment to remember that time and then went back to his drink.

Bobby eventually met the family and they were all happy it seemed. He found this odd how they could all be so happy in such a sad place. They took their misfortune of all killing themselves as the best thing to ever happen to them.

He still thought about Shannon though. Every time he brought her up Fedya would say the same thing, “Who? Ophelia? Whatever man. An ex-girlfriend from a ex-life.” He would then proceed to change the conversation.

Life, or whatever Bobby was living, went on like this for about a year. Going to work. Getting drunk. Passing out. Thinking about Shannon. Waking up. Starting the whole process over. That is until one day, Bobby had eaten Starvos’ cottage cheese, and forgotten to get more. They got into an argument and it ended with Bobby not wanting to be yelled at any more so he got out of bed and went to the store. While he was there, he had a bit of a surprise. One of his old friends from earth Brian was also in the store.

“Brian! What are you doing here?” exclaimed Bobby, considering hugging him because he was a familiar face. Then he remembered how he wasn’t too happy with Brian because he had talked Shannon into dumping him.

“Well same as everyone else I guess. But it has something to do with you.”

Grumpily but intrigued Bobby replied, “ What do you mean?”

“Well you know how they always say suicides always happen in threes? Well I guess we can prove that one now huh? Hey is that cottage cheese any good?” Pointing into Bobby’s hand.

“Well my roommate likes it. What do you mean threes? Who else is here?” Bobby blurted out.

“Well Shannon of course. I thought you knew? She off’ed her self about a month after you did. You really didn’t know? Huh how weird.”

Bobby never did hear the end of that sentence because he was already running out the door. How could Shannon be here?! Was she ok? Did this mean she loved him again? He had to find out. He ran all the way to Fedya’s place and told him how he needed his car and that they were going on a road trip to find Shannon.

“No way man. Not a good enough reason” said Fedya, who assumed that Bobby’s hormones were just out of whack and needed a cold shower, not a cross city trip.

“Well I have a better reason then. What else do you have to do?” retorted Bobby.

And with that they were off. Nothing too eventful happened until day three of their journey. They were driving next to an open field when Fedya, who was driving, saw a cute short haired girl hitchhiking on the side of the road. He drove the car off the road and asked the girl who she was. She said that she was new and had just landed her and demanded to see the man in charge of wherever they were.

“Where do you think you are? Some kind of country club where you can just walk up to the main office? Lady, there are only rumors about people with those powers.” Joked Fedya.

“Well can I hop in the car to wherever you guys are going then?” said the girl, Amy.

“Sure. Lets just keep driving though ok?” Said Bobby first to Amy, then to Fedya.

Once they had started driving aimlessly again down the long two-lane highway Fedya decided to be a flirt by teasing Amy a little more.

“So Amy. Tell me. While you were on earth, did you ever try to go looking for God?”

“No, but I never had any reason to back then.” Snapped Amy.

“Well then what is the reason that you have now?” snorted Fedya. He tended to snort when he thought people were dumber than he. “You off’ed your self. What? Did you change your mind? Cause if that’s the case then all you need to do is wait for your visa back hom--“

Bobby cut Fedya off because he could tell that he was being extremely rude to Amy.

“Sorry Amy. So why do you need to find the people in charge?” questioned Bobby.

“Well I got here by mistake. “

Over the next two weeks of driving they seemed to incorporate Amy into their friendship and got closer and closer. Bobby knew that he was traveling to find Shannon his true love but couldn’t help develop a bit of a crush on Amy. She was sweet and spoke her mind and didn’t put up with anyone’s crap. Things were great until they stopped at a diner on the 18^th day of their journey. Fedya was saying how Amy was a mooch and wasn’t paying for anyone or sleeping with either of them so she was dead weight. Since she was in the bathroom, Bobby wasn’t very vocal about his opinion that he wanted her to stay with them for longer so he responded with a grunt. Then as if in a movie, Amy stormed around the corner.

“I could hear you jerks the whole time. Well you don’t need to worry about me mooching any more!” Amy practically screamed as she ran out of the diner and into someone else’s car.

The next couple of days were terrible for Bobby. He missed Amy’s smell and her presence and singing in the car. Fedya was a nice friend, Bobby’s only true friend there, but sometimes he was just as asshole.

A full week went by until they found Amy again. There was of course, only one way to go and she had gotten dropped off at a gas station. Bobby ran up to her and started apologizing. He wasn’t sure if she would accept his apology, but she didn’t want to get back into the car with them. That was until they left and she realized that it would be days until another car pulled up. Then when they were all in the car tank filled spirits high and ready to go they pulled out. They took the gas pump with them by mistake. Luckily the owner of the gas station, John, said that it happened all the time and Bobby just had to the sign the record that on that day he had broken it, pay 10 $ and he was free to go. As Bobby was signing it he saw that Shannon had signed it not two weeks prior. The form had her address and her number and everything on it. This was it! He would finally see his love!

Unfortunately she had moved. They ended up staying with the family that had taken her in for a week or so because they lived on a huge farm and had the space. Amy and Bobby spent every day together like teenagers with crushes because Fedya had found himself a girl. His girl had drank too much and passed out in the snow back in her home on earth of Russia. She had frozen to death. One night they were all sitting around the campfire when one of the farm hands who’s dog had gone missing earlier in the week came back screaming that he had found it.

“I found him! I Found Bowzer!” exclaimed the farm hand.

“Well where is he then?” Bobby asked.

“ He’s about 50 miles down the road with this colony, they won’t give him back but there are hundreds of people there! The ‘Messiah’ is apparently there and is going to perform this huge miracle tomorrow! We have to go! “

“ Well right now?”

“Well it takes 5 of 6 hours to get there and I only know how to walk so we need to leave first thing in the morning!”

So the next day the owner of the farm, his worker, Yan, Bobby and Amy all set out to see this Messiah. The owner Leslie, wanted to go because it sounded like this messiahs farm was better. Yan wanted to get his dog back. Amy wanted to go home. Bobby didn’t want anything from the Messiah. He had now given up on finding Shannon. Bobby’s only reason for going was to be with Amy.

“It’s weird how I can have these feelings of being alive with you in a place like this. I mean we are all dead.” Said Bobby to Amy because they had taken a rest for the night as Yan had gotten them lost. It was at that moment that Bobby had decided that he loved Amy, and Amy him. Shannon had loved Bobby because she didn’t have to work when she was with him or worry or think really. Amy loved Bobby because of who he was. Then, without any hesitation, he leant over and kissed her. They slept in each others arms all through the night and Bobby thought that he would forever more be happy just how they were.

The next morning they woke up and Yan had remembered where the Messiah was and lead them straight there. The Messiah had taken in Yan’s dog as his own and refused to give it back. So he called Leslie and Bobby and Amy into the Messiah’s room to help him physically take the dog. They burst in expecting to steal a dog but right there, at the Messiahs side was Shannon. Bobby’s life was finally starting to work out. Things were nice. He had thought he was over Shannon this time. But he wasn’t. He immediately dropped Amy’s hand as if it were a wet fish and ran to give Shannon a hug. She had missed him and they left Yan, Leslie, the Messiah and Amy to go talk in private.

“Bobby, when you killed your self I just cried and cried for a month. I had to move because everything reminded me of you. If you never trust me again trust me on this Bobby, I never knew how much I had hurt you until you were gone. Thank God I can finally ask you to forgive me.” A now tearful Shannon explained.

“But how did you end up here? I don’t see any sort of markings.. “ said a shameful Bobby.

“ Well you remember the Messiah right? I was so lost and he lent me a shoulder to cry on back on earth. He truly is a Messiah Bobby! He has one miracle that he does when he brings his soul out of his body. We are all trapped in the world of the living. Something went terribly wrong though and his soul never made it back. So at the hospital, when they confirmed his death, I heard his soul calling me! I knew I had to be with him, so I went to the hospital roof, and just flew. And then I was here.” Shannon said with a crazy look in her eye.

“ You really have changed then. I’m going back downstairs to see my friends” But Bobby was cut off by a gong.

“O! He is going to try to separate his soul from his body! Bobby time flies with you, I have to go!” and with that Shannon, who was still the same, selfish, rude, flimsy, ditsy girl walked out of his life forever.

Back downstairs Bobby found Yan and Leslie. Amy was about a hundred feet away sitting on a low roof watching the Messiah along with everyone else. Bobby looked over at her and smiled and waved.

“Why don’t you just tell her?” Leslie said to Bobby.

“What? To Amy? Tell her what?” a confused Bobby asked.

“Tell her that you love her.”

After thinking about it for a second, Bobby knew it was what he had to do, “But she is too far, she’ll never hear me.”

Although that took a backseat because the Messiah was performing his trick. He had thrust a knife into his chest.

“This is Leslie, we need backup at the Messiahs. He’s gone nuts.” Leslie said into a small speaker on Yan’s dogs collar.

“Pardon?” Said Bobby, although before he could finish his thought, tens of people in white were pulling up in white vans with speakers saying over and over, we are the P.I.C please disperse immediately. The P.I.C. The People in Charge. Bobby ran over to the van where Amy was talking to one of the people in white.

“I’ll be back Bobby, wait for me!” She screamed out.

Bobby waited over 8 hours until it was well into the night.

Fedya had driven up around 3 in the morning with his new frozen girlfriend. He had come to give Bobby the news that Leslie was in fact an undercover P.I.C and that Amy had them check her file, and it was true. She was there by mistake. She had overdosed on a headache medication by accident. She was going to go back to earth.

This was far to much for Bobby to take. He had gotten over Shannon because he had seen her true colours that day, but he had realized that he loved Amy. Now he would never be able to see her again? So he punched the wall. The pain in his knuckles was almost as great as the pain in his heart at that moment. Almost.

It was now three weeks later and Bobby was back to where he had started almost three years ago. Alone and loney. Who could think of a better punishment really? Everything was just the same in the Alternative but just a little worse. Fedya went off with his girlfriend back to the city, but Bobby couldn’t go back there. He just kept driving. That is until he wasn’t driving anymore. He had been good to Leslie, and Leslie had felt that it would be good to repay Bobby. He was the one who knew how much he loved Amy after. Besides, with power you need to abuse it for a friend every so often right?

Bobby woke up in the hospital. His parents were in the next room talking to a doctor about his status. He looked over and in the bed next to him was Amy. They smiled to each other and at that moment they both knew that there would never be another careless mistake in their new life again.

Their life together.

Yea its kind of long. But I like it.

My purpose? Not to write theater reviews. Thats for sure.

2009-04-14T22:56:00.000-07:00

MY PURPOSE!--- A review on Avenue Q by Gillian Frederick.

Everyone grew up either watching the ‘Muppet Show’, ‘Sesame Street’, ‘Lamb Chop’, ‘H.R. Puff ‘n’ stuff’ or something along those lines. What these shows all have in common is that they are aimed towards teaching kids life

itlessons and, they all had puppets. Following in their childhood hero’s footsteps, Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx set out at the herculean task of taking puppets from children and teaching young and old adults alike life lessons for real life. We already know not to talk to strangers, always wash your hands and fruits and vegetables are good for you. Avenue Q teaches the grown up versions of that with songs like “Everyone's a Little Bit Racist”, "There's a Fine, Fine Line", and one of my favorites; "What Do You Do with a B.A. in English?".

Avenue Q is a heartwarming, knee slapping, musical which is far from family friendly. Originally written to be a TV show, it was seen as a better fit for a Broadway play. It first hit stages in the spring of 2003 and although you can still see it in 3 countries as a play, they are developing it as a film so that no matter what country you live in you can watch it.

t starts with Princeton, a recent collage graduate, is trying to find a place to live in New York with a small budget and his purpose. The only place he can find that is within his price range is an apartment on Avenue Q, one of the more ‘characterized’ blocks in New York. He then meets his neighbors including Kate Monster, Nicky and Rod, Brian, his fiancé Christmas Eve, and Gary Coleman, the most pathetic of the bunch. Later on Princeton meets the bad idea bears, Trekkie Monster, Lucy the Slut, and Ricky. It opens with the song “It Sucks to be Me”, in which everyone complains that they have the worse life. It moves on as Princeton seemly finds his way and starts to fall in love with Kate Monster. Then Princeton meets the bad idea bears, and they persuade him and Kate to drink absinth daiquiris until Kate is so intoxicated that they end up having ‘relations’ on their first night out. Things start to go on a downhill for Princeton when Kate starts to hint at marriage and he runs off to Lucy the Slut after my personal favorite song, “There is Life Outside Your Apartment”. Things pick up again near the end, but I won’t give anything away. You will have to go see it to find out if Princeton ever finds his “Purpose”.

The play was written by Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx, and they have since won multiple Tony awards for the play. They wrote it together after they had both graduated college with English Degrees and found out how tough it was to try and support themselves without the aid of their parents. In the first version I saw of Avenue Q back in 2005 in New York, there was a lot of George W. Bush bashing. When I most recently saw it in London, that entire banter was cut out because he was not in power any more.

What sets this play apart from most other musicals is the use of puppets and voice actors instead of just actors. It is blatantly obvious that the puppets are puppets and peoples arms are sticking out of them and their mouths are moving , saying the puppets lines. This helps relay the message that this play is not meant to be taken as seriously as some might think. Yes it has life lessons in it, but they certainly are not telling you that it is good to be homeless, or be happy that someone is dead, or even have sex with a slut! It is meant to be a light hearted comedy-musical. There is also a difference with the stage, it is for the most part naturally lit unless someone is in a spotlight or a dream/nightmare sequence is happening. The stage transforms without much effort into a hospital, 4 different apartments, the empire state building, a wedding, and a school for monsters without any struggle from the cast. Some musicals have long interludes so that sets can change to make the musical more believable, but Avenue Q’s interludes are never more than 45 seconds. Two large plasma screens come down and interact with the audience as well as the entire cast begging for money at one point making you feel as though you are contributing towards that show being a success.

This play is certainly one of a kind and although my words do not do it justice. From Andrew Gans review for ‘Playbill’ the magazine, “From the melodic, toe-tapping tunes and the witty, hilarious, and often moving lyrics to the wonderfully talented cast, Avenue Q could not be better.”

Outside Sources:

Avenue Q Review by Andrew Ganz-http://www.playbill.com/news/article/80974.html

Avenue Q London Playbill

It was so bad that I'm not going to bother attempting to be witty or charming or anything. In fact, I need to go clean my kitchen. If you go to Avenue Q's website, there are much, MUCH, better reviews.

http://www.avenueq.com/broadwayreviews.html

there.

I Might Have Been a Horse at Some Point in Life.

2009-03-26T22:30:00.000-07:00

This is the 'edited' version of the food speech which my TA suggested read better. Not tons has changed but you can check the last entry for that.

" Who Says Grease Isn't Love?"

Food. It’s something that is a part of our everyday life. Even those who suffer from diseases like anorexia and bulimia have food on their minds. Some people see food as something terrible, something that will make you fat and therefore undesirable. I see food as a whole different world to explore. I rarely put something in my mouth without judging it as thoroughly as the young children in beauty pageants are appraised. The only difference is that what I'm about to eat won't have traumatic nightmares for the rest of its life, it’s already dead.

Some healthy people judge their food in a chemical way: how many calories? How many grams of fat? How many of those grams are saturated? How much sodium? And most of all, how many hours on a treadmill will I need to work this salad off?

When I judge my food, it is very different. How will this taste? What's the texture? How much of this is pure meat, or melted cheese (two of my favourite food types)? How messy will this be to eat? Will I offend whoever has made it by dousing it in salt? And finally, how much of a pig will I look like for eating this food, massive portion or not.

So many have fallen out of love with food in our body-obsessed world. Sure, obesity is an epidemic, diabetes is on the rise, fat is death, etcetera. We should fall back in love with food. It’s what makes us live. Eventually, we will all die. But what is an extra three to five years of life if you never get to try a succulent steak and potatoes with rich, melted butter? A cheese plate the size of your head? Desserts that take years to perfect, hours to make, yet only minutes to savour?

Years ago, larger people were considered beautiful and desirable, both men and women. This was because it meant you could afford full fat on your meats, butter on your crusty breads, wine and beer in your belly. But things have changed. We have cut the fat and, in my opinion, the fun out of our eating habits. Sure, we can make healthy food look appealing, and even make some of that food taste delicious. There is nothing wrong with eating healthy, but if you’re not excited to eat, if you can't visualise what you’ll eating ahead of time, if your mouth hasn’t watered in weeks, you need to go out and eat something you love. Not shovel in food without thinking about how much time has gone into the preparation, the ingredients, and how it will taste, but savouring every bite as though it was your last. Pigging out once in a while. Trying to eat at least one thing you can remember every day.

You would think that for something as vital to live as water or air we would be giving food as much, if not more, respect, but we don’t. When you are eating your next meal, think about it. It may take you longer to eat, but you’ll be more satisfied afterwards. And please, eat something you love.

On a nice sub-point, I did eat things that I liked today. I also got a tattoo though. May have just been endorphins rushing through my veins fucking up my taste buds. Anyways I need to up-load a bulk of things onto here within the next couple of days.

In the words of my idol: "Have A Week"

(sorry about how the last paragraph is smaller, I am not good at these things.)

Schadenfreude is the Word of the Day.

2009-03-17T19:05:00.000-07:00

You should look it up, I think that it defines my life. So this has been a bit of a barren wasteland free from my mediocre writing, and it's time that changes. During my "fuck off weeks" I went back to the homeland and decided to not totally fuck off and do a bit more writing. We were supposed to write a speech that a probable character could give. So I wrote two.

Its something that, for those without certain diseases is a part of our every day life. Some people see food as something terrible, something that will make you fat and there for undesirable. I see food as a whole different world to explore. I rarely put something in my mouth without judging it as thoroughly as the young children on toddlers in tiaras are judged. The only difference is what I'm about to eat won't have traumatic nightmares for the rest of its life, it is already dead.

Some healthy people judge their food in a chemical way. How many calories? How many grams of fat? How many of those grams are saturated fats? How much sodium? How many hours on a treadmill will I need to work this off?

When I judge my food, it is very different. How will this taste? What's the texture? How much of this is pure meat, or melted cheese(two of my favourite food types) How messy will this be to eat? Will I offend who ever has made it by dousing it in salt? And finally, how much of a pig will I look like for eating this food, massive portion or not.

So many have fallen out of love with food in our body obsessed world. Sure, obesity is an epidemic, diabetes are on the rise, fat is death etc. We should fall back in love with food. Its what makes us live. Eventually we will all die. But what is an extra 3-5 years of life if you never get to try a massive steak and potatoes with real butter. A cheese plate the size of your head? Desserts that take years to perfect and hours to make and only minutes to eat?

Years ago, larger people were considered beautiful and desirable on both men and women. This was because it meant you could afford full fat on your meats, butter on your crusty breads, wine and beer in your belly. Things have changed now. We have cut the fat and in my opinion the fun out of our eating habits. Sure we can make healthy food look appealing, and even make some of that food taste delicious. There is nothing wrong with healthy food, but if your not excited to eat, if you can't visualise what your eating ahead of time, if your mouth has not watered in weeks, you need to go out and eat something you love. Not shovelling in food without thinking about how much time has gone into the preparation, the ingredients and how it will taste, but savouring every bite as though it was your last. Pigging out once in a while. Trying to eat at least one thing you can savour every day.

If you couldn't gather, that was about food. I know that the grammar isn't spot on, but when you read it out loud it makes sense. I think. I've had a lot of Guiness today. It's St. Pattys day. Stop judging. Read another one.

What can I say? He had won me over immediately. Some say it was a meeting of chance, I say It was fate. Growing up I had always believed in true love. I have now had 4 true loves, or so I thought. First there was Paul. We were 6 and had a quick wedding during lunch one day in the early spring, he gave me a ring pop. Needless to say, the relationship lasted just about as long as my blue tongue from the ring pop lasted. You know kids though, hitching up, playing house, stealing hearts, slinging sand and mud at each other. All in a day of a kindergartner.

My second love was a little more sophisticated. I was 13. I thought I knew it all, and Randy, a whole year and a half older than I, really knew everything. He was tall had dark hair and boy, was he handsome. He was one of the first boys at my school to hit puberty, and myself being abnormally tall, we went hand in hand. Or face to face as it so turned out. Randy sure lived up to his name. People still tell me that it was just lust, but I was positive we were going to be forever. It all ended when he met that Darcy girl in detention. If only I had vandalized the school with him instead of going home to make dinner, we may still be together.

My third love was Robert. He was an absolute dream. I had just entered university in family studies and could you believe it, he was the only boy in my class! He was a fantastic dresser who came from a good family. He was smart, kind funny, knew all about different types of foods and wines and theater. I truly truly believed that we were going to be together forever. I could not have found a more perfect person to get married to, have kids with and grow old with, even if I had made him up. I had just over looked one teensy tiny fact. He loved me to death, and all of my friends could never understand it. I was a nice enough looking girl, but most guys would have rather gone out with my friends, I mean they were all perfect 10s. Then at least. When we broke up, he introduced me to the other woman. His name was Gerald.

Then finally there was Fox. He is the man for me. He is smart, funny, and an amazing writer. He has a stable job, and he has already bought a house! He has a plan for life. Were only in our mid twenties but he has an rrsp account, and is ready to marry me. We met in the most peculiar way as well I now make a living as a film reviewer, and I got sent to a film festival in Dubai. Since it was so far, the paper only offered me one ticket so I went alone. In the press room, everyone knew each other except my self and Fox. He was such a gentleman as well, he asked what I thought of the film, bought me drinks and walked me home. We made a date to have dinner the next night. We talked and talked and talk for hours, and even though he lived in LA and I in New York, he kept getting business in New York and eventually got offered a transfer. Although the job didn’t pay as much, he took it to become closer to me! Last week he popped the question in Central Park. And I said yes! I truly do believe that this will be the man I love for the rest of my life.

I am going to go back to waiting for my flight now.

The number 65 is both arbitrary and annoying.

2009-03-02T17:17:00.000-08:00

Sixty five was the word count for this short assignment. I like flash fiction, people who read my flash fiction seem to like it, I do not like my flash fiction. Maybe one day I will learn to like more of the things I create. (I like most of the food I make, the relationships I create, certain choices, etc. ) Until then..

"Edgar Wright"

He walks quickly down the sidewalk on this cold winter night.

Walking towards his future, clearing his head of his mindless job.

He hugs the girl he loves, although it is one thing she will never know.

26 and still working at the record store, barely scraping rent.

Most would think he is pathetically sad, but a movie and whom he loves makes him Happy.

I will write about new characters at some point.

No Names Were Included For a Reason.

2009-02-26T21:54:00.000-08:00

So my piece on my boss went over terribly. This is my replacement piece. I am exhausted so I don't feel like writing a whitty introduction or closing so without any filler bulshit:

I Do Not Own Cats.

It seems as though everyone has someone in life. Teachers have their classes, couples have their partners, and my mother (previous to finding Gerry) has our dog. My friends have very close best friends or boyfriends, which leaves me as the chronically single friend, daughter, and finally wing-woman.

It's not that I haven't had boyfriends before. I have had three serious boyfriends before in fact. The toughest part for me is that I like being alone. Unfortunately, that is just an outsider's opinion. If there was someone who I found and liked spending time with often, I would not have this stereotype tattooed on my forehead for the world to read.

This particular memoir is about one boy who, in just a short time of friendship, has already made me want to be a better person.

February 8-10, 2009 were 3 nights that I will never forget. It started how most things start in my life, my obsession with Kevin Smith. He is my idol and my inspiration so when I heard that he was coming to Toronto for a question and answer period I scrambled to get tickets. Unfortunately, both nights were sold out within the first hour of sales. Then something fantastic happened, the Bloor Street Cinema announced that they would be holding a "Kevin Smith Fest" with half hour Q+A's from the genius him self after ever one of his films screened. I jumped at the opportunity and bought a pass for all three nights, and tickets for "Clerks" for my mother, Gerry, and my best friend Samantha. I got to the theater ridiculously early on the eighth to ensure a perfect seat of unadulterated worship to my idol. Then phone calls started coming in. Samantha had too much work, Gerry and Mum were running late.

There I was, all alone and with two and a half more hours to wait in the brisk February weather. Instead of being my usual cold, happy to be alone self, I decided to turn around and make some light conversation with what I thought was a couple behind me. We started talking and it became immediately apparent that they were just friends. We talked for the entire remainder of the wait in line before the girl asked if I was there alone for the show. The boy suggested that I sit with them for the second show and the rest of the festival. I said yes thinking that I would never talk to either of them again and it was just a friendly conversation with two people.

I was wrong. My negativity and automatic assumption that no one wants to know me or spend a moment more than they need too was proved wrong. They saved me a seat for the next five films. We talked, laughed, and shared moments together. Things went so well becoming friends with the girl and having my cold heart slowly melt due to the boy, that I invited the two over to my apartment, my private space, for the Oscars.

Oscar night rolled around and proving my negative outlook on people wrong once again, they both showed up. Of course I was excited to see the girl again, we were friends and I had not seen her in over a week. The boy was a whole different story. I was excited, anxious, nervous, worried about what he would think, if he would like me back and all the usual thoughts that someone with a crush would conjure up.

The night went better than I could ever imagine. I made a dinner of a roasted chicken and potatoes with a cheese soufflé. (Because the girl is a vegetarian.) I undercooked the chicken by 5 minutes, nervously taking it out without having stuck the thermometer in the right spot. The soufflé fell. In my eyes, it was a terrible dinner. The boy cleaned his plate and could not stop praising my cooking, which made me blush a terrible shade of scarlet. He offered to help clean. He came to get me whenever an award I was interested in was being presented. He was a perfect gentleman. And, no matter how often the seating plan seemed to change on my small couch, he would always sit next to me.

The night was over and we said our goodbyes, finally exchanging numbers to text and we texted well into the early hours of the following day. I have never met someone so honest, kind, and loveable who I could realistically see my self with. It may not be "true love". It may never go past a friendship. For the first time in a long time though, I have found someone. It is too early to tell anything except that he makes me happy. He may be my "someone".

That is why the eighth of February through the tenth of February and every day since have been so great. Because of just one person. This may be the end of my stereotypical, chronically single, negative life and the start of something really lovely.

I am going to go attempt to fall asleep to Penn and Teller Bulshit now. (Can't completely give up my negative ways just yet. cynicism=life)

Not my best work but I guess it will do.

2009-02-24T20:16:00.000-08:00

So this week the assignment was to do an inventory of being, because when we start writing about the characters in our scripts (which should be coming any day now. Its been almost a month and a week or so and I haven't seen anything directly writing a script so far.)it may be easier. Lets hope so.

I am Gillian.

I am 21 years old.

I don’t think that my age should matter, because no one in my life views me as that age.

I am quite tall, but if I wore heels instead of vans I might become a giant.

I just recently started wearing red lipstick, I think it makes me more aware that I do have feminine quality’s.

There are two other feminine quality's that I can’t seem to get rid of. They rest on my chest, and they are hell.

Almost everybody notices them, and around half of those people comment on them.

It is why for the past 4 years I have been contemplating a reduction.

I don't think I could ever part with my hellish lumps of flesh, nerves and glands though.

I hate the parts of my life that some people envy.

Some of those parts are body parts.

Other parts include my ability to be alone.

I sometimes feel lonesome when people are around, but never lonesome when I'm by my self.

Other times I need to be around a large group of people and can't stand to be alone.

These two times always seem to collide.

I don't tend to have very long relationships with friends for one reason or another,

But I always have meaningful, very close bonded relationships.

I find that I can become close with someone very quickly because people seem to trust me.

I have met a great deal of people in my life time, and they all told me so much.

These life stories are ones that I will never tell though.

For I do not tell things told to me in confidence.

I love film, films, tv shows, and almost everything to do with the entertainment.

It is what I want to do with my life.

One of my dream jobs is to have Kevin Smiths Career.

Kevin Smith is my hero, and he writes, directs and edits all of his films.

It's fairly rare for someone to have a career where they can have their hands in

All of the cookie jars, but not get caught or get their cookie jars taken away.

I think I can do that, and I have made it my entire life to do so.

My other love in life is food.

Not just any food though.

I love cheese, red meat and potatoes.

I love frozen dinners.

I love pancakes and crapes.

I love soufflés, and I am getting better at making them.

I love baking.

I love cooking.

Most of all, I love eating.

I have very high standards for a lot of food, but I end up eating a lot of junk as well.

For most people like my self who love to eat and cook and bake, this wouldn’t be a problem.

I on the other hand am at a high risk for Diabetes.

That makes food my friend and my foe.

My fuel source and my grave digger.

I like driving, but I don't drive all that often.

I have an addiction.

I know some people may say that the word addiction is too strong to call what I have,

But I know that it's at the least a large problem.

That problem is buying DVD's.

I will spend upwards of 300 dollars in a month buying DVD's.

I will buy mostly TV seasons.

I own DVD's that I know I will never unwrap, never watch, but never want to throw out.

I suppose this is better than having an addiction to drugs, but I would still rather not have the impulse every time I go by store that sells DVD's to go buy one.

Even if I hate the film.

I love walking into my clean, open, empty apartment,

The only trouble is that I hate cleaning.

I love taking baths and will rarely take showers,

But I feel as though I'm sitting in my own filth.

It doesn't help that my hair falls out at the rate of a cancer patients post-chemo.

I don't want my outward appearance to mean so much to me but I know deep down it does.

Some days I want nothing more than to be accepted.

Other days I want nothing more to be ignored.

I get sick often.

Some times it is as simple as a cough, other times it’s a little more permanent.

This can include breaking of bones, ligaments, and even prolonged sickness.

I wish I could be healthy 100% of the time, but I can't.

My immune system never has enough time to recover,

So the inevitable happens.

Over and over and over and over.

I want to be in a loving, caring relationship.

For a long time I had given up hope that anyone would like me in that way.

Then I met someone.

He is amazing, talented, smart, caring and kind.

I hope it works but that is something only time will tell.

My name is Gillian, and this is 2009.

I guess this is one of the days that i'm glad no one reads this.

-gillian

No, that is not my interpretation of anyones eyes post viewing the arc of the covenant.

2009-02-19T17:44:00.000-08:00

Alright. So another thing that will be posted here is some pictures of what I call "I would rather die than write right now". When I hit the wall or whatever people call it, I bake/cook/roast/make food in some manner.

So I was trying to write yesterday (18th of Feb.) and just couldn't. So I decided to make my first Eggs Benedict. The recipe is as follows, Thanks Food Network Test Kitchens.

The picture is mine, and I have to admit, for my first hollandaise sauce, I was very pleased.

http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchens/eggs-benedict-recipe/index.html

The price I paid to get this sucker out of my brain? My family day.

2009-02-16T22:44:00.000-08:00

The Price I Pay

I have, perhaps, the easiest, best paying job compared to everyone in and even around my age.

My boss, Amanda, is a true character. (I realize, however, that this is the pot calling the kettle black here.) She grew up in London, Ontario and received mediocre grades throughout high school, but passed by on her looks. As much as I don't want to admit it, she is pretty. (Although it is a little satisfying that she's aging quickly.) Her grades were just good enough to gain her admission into U of T, so she sprinted from her hometown. She had barely been in Toronto before her father died; and just as quickly as she had raced her she dropped out of university, going home to take care of her mother. It wasn't long before the Toronto bug bit her again. At once she moved back and found a job as a model and hostess. Working at the restaurant, she met people galore. One was an entrepreneur, Steve, who was at start of creating what has become a construction empire. The marriage came quickly, although (and a little surprisingly) out of true love, not simply because of the money that came with him. Her wedding took a full year to plan, and she was, as they say, a bridezilla. It didn't take long for her to leave her humble beginnings behind and transform into a money-spending, frivolous bride. Where she had at once stood at a size two, she took most of her betrothal year to whittle herself down to a zero. (This, when she tells the story, sounds almost as important as actually marrying the man she loves.) And while it was still fashionable to do so, she decided to have a kid right away.

A year later, Olivia was born.

Eight months later, Amanda had surpassed her pre-baby weight, and was a size double-zero.

Then, a month before Olivia turned two, I entered their lives.

The first time I served as a "nocturnal au pair" for Amanda, it was still called babysitting. It was a Friday night, and I asked how long she and Steve would be. She replied, "I don’t know, two or three hours? We're just going to grab something to eat and we'll be right back." I trusted her (there wasn't a reason not to at this point) so much so there was never a word about money. Around 8:15pm they left for their night out. It wasn't until two in the morning (somehow a few hours turned into 2am) when I heard the garage door opening. I didn’t get any apologies, but I did get paid. For six hours of work, I got $90. I'm used to working actual jobs where 'work' is truly involved, but to sit on the couch, watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, and eat, I earned just shy of a hundred dollars. It was the start of a slippery (on her part) and greedy (on my part) slope.

Six months later, having abandoned the "on occasion we might need you to watch Olivia when we go out" verbal contract, I was now what Amanda had job-titled me as a full-fledged, night-time nanny. It was her thirtieth birthday around the beginning of September and she was set to host a huge, catered event. To make sure she never had to check on the kid, Amanda had booked me from 7pm until 1am on the Saturday night, and 8am to 1pm the next day (it is hard to take care of your child when wildly hung-over, I assume). I showed up at seven thinking I would have to put Olivia straight to bed, but she was already out like a light (Amanda tends to give her one more than needed of children's Tylenol when she wants Olivia to fall and stay asleep). I made friends with the caterers, talked and joked around, all the while wishing that I was at the film festival with my friends. Around one in the morning I attempted the impossible, to bargain with a drunken Amanda to let me go home. Each time I asked when I could leave, she would try to dance with me. (It was probably hilarious to everyone sober there; unfortunately Olivia was the only person in the house close to that definition.) I felt like the parent at a kid's graduation house party, where everyone was too drunk to be reasoned with. An hour later, Amanda announced that she was going out to an after-hours club, ordering four van-cabs to move the whole party. It wasn't until 5am, more than four hours later than my shift was due to end, that Amanda finally stumbled barefoot through the door. A further three hours later, like the Employee of the Millennium, I was back, waking up Olivia, making breakfast, taking her to the park, and lending a hand to clean up. Around noon, Amanda and her posse woke up, all with terrible hangovers. For my fourteen hours, I was paid $320. I went home and proceeded to order a large pizza and wings from Pizza Hut (heck, one of us should at least eat with her money).

It didn't take long for Amanda and I to fall into a pattern of her expecting that I would never have a social life, and me expecting that she would want me to work at least five nights a week. Around this time, I lost my voice. On my first Friday night off in what seemed like ten years, I had planned to go see a movie with a few friends. When I was getting ready, around 8:30pm, my phone started having seizures. I was in the bath at the time, with my cell resting on my bed, so I couldn’t get to it in time. I assumed it was my friends confirming so I stayed in the bath for another half hour. After drying off, I checked my phone. I had eight texts from Amanda and thirteen missed calls. Instead of reading through or listening to them, I called her. "Where the fuck are you Gillian?! You were supposed to be here at 8pm! Don’t you ever write anything down? Steve and I have a very important dinner that we need to get to! Don't you have anything to say?!" I tried to respond, explaining that she had in fact booked me for the following night, but since my voice was shot it probably sounded like “Scratchy-scratchy, scratch SCRATCH!" "Well, just hurry up Gillian! This is really unprofessional." A little bit scared, a little bit guilty (even though I wasn't in the wrong), and a little bit hungry for extra pocket change, I texted my friend, cancelling at the last minute (which I hate to do), and proceeded to make my way over to her house with my hair still wet. When I got there, Steve was already in the car, and Amanda had grabbed her purse, storming out. Four hours later they came back and Amanda was so peeved that she went straight to bed without a single word to me (Steve paid me, apologising for her behaviour). That night, I went through the night's texts and voicemails, noticing that the very first one she left, long before the tirade, read "do u like William and Sonoma? Thinking of an xmas bonus 4 u!" Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, you have nothing on Amanda Aqunio.

By the time Christmas had rolled around, I was still scrambling to get a gift for the family. Originally, I was going to find Olivia a pretty little shirt. But I knew better. I had helped Amanda unpack new clothes for Olivia before, and they were not cheap. When Olivia had started preschool, Amanda had gone to TNT Baby to stock up on "running around and getting dirty" clothes. This included plain t-shirts (at forty to fifty dollars a piece), four pairs of leggings (sixty bucks each) and a couple of new sweaters (every one around a hundred dollars). I did not feel like spending a ton of money to have Amanda ask for the receipt. I passed by a Williams Sonoma myself, thinking of what to get for Amanda and Steve. They had a princess cookie-cutter set, on sale no less. I thought it was cute, cheap(ish), and something the family could do together. I showed up for work that day and surrendered my gift, which was quickly thrown on the floor next to a mountain of gifts. Amanda told Olivia to go and get my gift from under the tree; it was a big, hot pink Holt Renfrew bag. I slowly proceeded to open it, revealing a key-holder from Coach (which after a little internet research I learned cost $110). It was not my style, but I was grateful all the same. Amanda went on to explain how it made her think of me with all my keys (I have four total) and how it was so 'me' (it is brown, ecru and shiny, and by my definition, tacky).

I don't think I will ever stop working for her. Somewhat out of fear, but mostly because of the money. That’s the price that I am willing to pay.

----Alright, so this is a little lengthy, and somewhat fictional but I had no idea what the hell my proff was trying to get my class to write. It started out as a personal essay, then it was a character analysis ( closer to screen writing) then it was a jumble of vignettes, then it was the apocalypse. All of that turned into this paper. ( or as I see it, jumble of words that took 5 hours of sitting in a crummy Timmies on my day off to write. blah)

-gillian

And Breathe.

2009-02-16T22:33:00.000-08:00

Natural to Preternatural Through Rock Band

By: Gillian Frederick Date: February 3,2009.

December 31^st, 2008 was the first time I played the game Rock Band. For most people, this would seem like an uneventful, dull experience, but for me it was not only memorable but life altering experience. For about two months prior to December 27^th, I had been very sick, so much so that I barely had a voice. It was especially tough given that speech had always been my main source of communication, yet I was suddenly forced to find other means; I all at once felt pushed into a corner. It was harder still because I also express my emotions through singing quite often, but this outlet disappeared with my voice. My friends, in frustration, seemed to vanish as well. I felt as though I had been isolated from society, as if I was a balloon that a child had let go of for one minute and forgotten about the next.

The 27^th of December was the day that much of my voice returned, thanks to a minor day-surgery.

By the time that New Year’s had rolled around, I didn’t have time to re-find my friends who had all seemed to react to my prolonged laryngitis as if I had been in some terrible, disfiguring accident and they were scared to see and be seen with me. So I decided to spend it with my family; my family being comprised of my mum, my future step-father Gerry, my stepsister Erin and my younger step-brother Fraser. Gerry, my favourite family member, by far, in a parental sense picked me up around 7pm.

It has long been a Stephenson tradition to eat bad M&M's food on new years so we sat down to a pre-heated oven feast. Things quickly slowed down as neither Erin nor Fraser are the most talkative brother and sister, so we all sat down to watch Revenge of the Nerds. Not long after, Fraser had suggested we all play Rock Band. This initially struck everyone in the room as odd, coming out of Fraser’s mouth, almost like an out-of-order escalator that suddenly springs back to life, but a welcome one nonetheless. So we all took our positions as the new band, “FEG” (Fraser, Erin, Gillian). Admittedly, it was not the most creative name, but then again none of us thought we would work well together at the game.

I was the first to take the mike. Fraser was on drums, Erin played the guitar. With the stage set, the game started. Singing that first song by Nirvana was an instant release. It was as if I had forgotten all about the two voiceless months, the friends that had left me behind, all of stresses that had compounded, all of the pressures of family, school, and health. Most importantly, and unexpectedly, we all worked as a team.

Most people describe bonding experiences as a heart-to-heart talk, or persevering through a father-son climbing expedition, but I have never connected so quickly or warmly with anyone as I did with my siblings that night. Sure, I had always cared for them. And in some form I believe that I had loved them, but things changed significantly for the better that night. We played into the wee hours of the morning, hoping to finish the entire game in a single night, a Herculean task which we did not accomplish. Now instead of mindlessly watching TV or silently seeing a movie, neither involving any social interaction, every other weekend when Fraser and Erin come down for a visit, we become the staggeringly talented rock band, FEG. And a true family unit.

---So this was my second paper, and thankfully I redeemed my self by getting a 93% on the paper. I still have no idea how any of these exercises are helping me with screen-writing, but i'm hoping things turn for the better soon.

gillian

The start was shaky.

2009-02-16T20:58:00.000-08:00

So we were supposed to do the seemingly easy task of describing our noses. I finished mine early and started reading it to the class, which was a terrible idea. This is the first draft which was written in the span of around 10 minutes.

I have an unfortunate nose. At one time it was absolutely lovely, but then it was broken. Twice. Both of the breaks were personal and 'unmentionable'.

It has two bumps on the bridge, which look like a downhill ski jump. After the second time it was broken and reset, a good friend (whom I later ended up dating) ran his finger down the bridge, imagining that his finger was a sled and my nose a fantastically fun tobogganing hill. It has forever made me self conscious of my nose.

My nostrils, surprisingly, still flare, which I have inherited from my dad. Every time I start to laugh or snicker or become sarcastic in a way where I find myself funny, my mother (if she is around) will start cracking up. Mostly because it and my equally unfortunate nails are the only family resemblance I cary. (it may also be that I look like a goon when my nostrils flare)

My nose gets runny all of the time, which leads to rashes from tissues, making me a real life Rudolph.

Like the rest of my body, my nose gets covered in freckles. In the summer time, or any time UV rays are close to my face, my nose breaks out into hundreds of small brown/orange freckles like a kid with a peanut allergy, (after eating that odd resses peanut butter cup far after their parents have gone to sleep) breaks out into thick puss filled hives before running for their EPI pen. Sadly, in lieu of an EPI pen, I have to wait for the long season of sun to pass, when all the sunscreen in the city has been bought and empty sunscreen bottles litter the floor of my empty apartment.

It's the middle of my face.

Clearly, it was crap. My proff. seemed to think so as well. She seemed to like the "noses" that were massive metaphors, so that was my second draft.

Downhill on an Uphill Incline

This ski hill is unlike any other ski hill known to man. Unlike the Kitzbuhel in Austria or the Zermatt in Switzerland, which will forever stay in their places, this hill moves on a daily basis. It has seen the world through the eyes of the hill marshal who follows wherever the hill goes. This hill seems to have frequent avalanches whether it be the summer or winter. During the warmer seasons some of the snow melts away to reveal circular patches of the brown red dirt that shows through. Thankfully, without fail, every winter the white pale snow returns. Just like any of the best ski hills, there are moguls. This particular hill has two permanent moguls down the main run due to two severe earthquakes. The hill marshal fell hard because of these quakes, but picked her self back up to dig through the rubble. Although this hill is constantly on the move, two globe like spheres that seem to change colour with their surroundings are forever in attendance to the hill. From when the sun rises until when the lights on the night hill are turned off, the hill marshal and the rapt globes are always there.

Bare with me, it gets better.

Gillian.