Don’t RENT Garlic Bread

I really, really like garlic bread— and I don’t mean that in a silly, “I’m so random xD” type of way. Garlic bread has always been an escape for me; it was something that nourished me, and most importantly, for the most part, was there.

In every way, garlic bread was always it, even when its grease stained my duvet. Garlic bread… well, garlic bread was always there.

When I eat garlic bread, I, like most other normal people, am stricken with thoughts concerning 2004 film adaption of the Broadway musical (pronounced musical) RENT. You know that movie where everyone has full blown AIDS because it’s the 80s, they’re artists, and live in New York City? That one.

I classify watching RENT and eating garlic bread as a ritualistic, almost primal experience. In between wiping crumbs off my naked, boxer-brief clad thighs and sipping on my grape-infused water made with Dasani flavour drops, I am forced to examine my own complicity in furthering the asinine displays bohemian liberalism perpetuated throughout the film’s plot.

Trust me, I am a huge fan of camp; I’ve watched Mother Dearest at least four times since the new year began, but RENT is where I draw the line.

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i don't have many friends,
my presence is less than tangible

altogether, i continue to be

but the few friends i have,
continue to be

(no subject)

i walked through the blank solstice and

i counted every single step

one, two, three and

four and five

with one, two, and three being the most

and four and five without forethought.

staring at the fluorescent grey

hued streetlights by the bodega flicker like it always does

one, two, three, four

sometimes five—

and though

i gotta get away

and so on


six, seven, eight and nine

ten balconies in my shitty neighbourhood

to me, them, and unwanted doves—

pigeons that we stopped shooing away anymore

and they’re there

eleven, twelve—maybe thirteen

if it didn’t skip to fourteen

without a necessity to

blink because without pause

they can step and stand before


(no subject)

i need you, my god

i need you

i need you like a filthy fly, who needs its

touch to touch a rot that no one wants to touch to

break through the glass;

glass that’s laughable

to everyone else that sees through it.

blocked by it, but

my god—

i need to keep you in my thousand eyes that

will take me to a place that i cannot

and will not cut through but will be

in every detail that i didn’t want to be.

i need you more than i want to touch

the rot that’s right there allowing,


(no subject)

i know that i’m not

not the only one

that dreams,

dreaming with a blade in millions that


taking in the world’s bitter at the very time its sun does


i know that i’m not

not the only one, i’m not

the only one


in its daily routine

dead or alive, and buried

and visible

but always scattered because

i know that i’m not

the only one that dreams

of a bitter coated raindrop that to

me will be

enough to be a part of its


High School, More Like Low School


When I look back, the aftermaths of receiving a final mark of 72 in grade 11 physics was the greatest gift the universe has ever bequeathed onto me— including the ability to use words like “bequeathed” when the in access with only a moderate compulsion to immediately swallow a klonopin.

I was Bart Simpson in that episode where he mustered enough resolve to believe that he could pass Mrs. Krabapple’s history test and avoid being held back a grade, and the emotional imprisonment of knowing that you can put Your all into something and have it mean nothing because Your best is nothing more than a fresh pile of healthy dog shit. 

 Until I took physics, there wasn’t any subject that I could not excel at if I devoted enough time. And this was back then, before entering University, before my awareness had the capacity to take those quintessential childhood traumas and manifest itself into mental illness—I truly believed that I could force myself to do well at anything. Academia was the only aspect of myself that plainly separated myself from the ignorant rural people around me; the only separation that incited interest from a workhorse immigrant father and a formerly-immigrated mother still pretending that she did not abandon her mutt kids to the wolves.

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i'm going to keep my writings here, old and new
this is less of a blog and more of a poorly-curated geocity page
cause i probably should keep track of something in my life ヽ༼ຈل͜ຈ༽ノ 


Arthur is Racist

Ah, the Garcity Issue. Our answer to another campus publication that rhymes with, Garcity. I, unfortunately, do not have the necessary scholarly expertise that is required to depict neo-Nazis as not neo-Nazis, nor can I make an article that can seriously convince its readers that quote-un-quote brown, literally just the word brown, chinos from the Gap is the University of Toronto’s latest must-have fashion item.

So, unlike the other Garcity, I am going to write about, something.

One out of every five individuals has either, took their childhood for granted, or is currently taking their childhood for granted. Childhood is a stretch of time that, first, begins when one is first aware that they’re people. It’s kind of like Alzheimer’s, but reversed in a Benjamin Button-ed kind of way. 

Once Bb realizes that they’re in fact people, they grow into individuals; individuals who are scared of laughing Elmo dolls, and have favourite TV shows such as Arthur. Arthur, everyone knows what Arthur is.


It’s a long running PBS cartoon adapted from the Animorph-inspired collection of essays and illustrations that non-anthromorphic, real-life white human man, Marc Brown, created. It was one of Bb’s dearest; at least in Bb’s top five, above American Idol audition episodes, but below Dragon Ball (the original without the Z or the GT).


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ondiHACKS Vol 1: Halloween Edition

Shit, shit, shiiiit. 

So the funds that would’ve been put into making this a reflective surface was forcibly taken and used to promote a collaborative, soon-to-be-installed mandatory leave policy at a University —a university that’s definitely not this one. The proposed policy change that I’m talking about is called the “Go-Kill-Yourself-But-Don’t-Be-Enrolled-When-You-Do-It-Lol” amendment, and its implementation will make an event, such as the Fire Nation’s attack, comparable to stepping on a lego during the day of 9/11. Legos fucking hurt, but my god, at least you’re safe at home on the ground floor. 

The proposed policy amendment has an oddly long name because the student union helping to push this policy believed that using more characters would give it the same amount of nuance that persuaded poor people into repealing Obamacare. According to anonymous sources, the project was originally titled Operation “Stop-Being-Poor-and-Sad-You-Can’t-Be-Both” before being officially proposed to the public. The name altered the name after paying $500 to a public relations executive for the approximately five seconds it took for the executive to let them know that the original name was a tad tasteless.

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