Becoming Full White Girl

The other day I was sitting in my usual spot in the library, which is a hidden corner wedged between two small bookshelves. If you’re lucky enough to be able to fit though the crack between them (and are short enough not to be seen), you get a spot completely to yourself where no one can bother you. I was catching up on some much needed reading and enjoying my favourite smell of musty paper and the absolute comfort of complete silence that my reading corner gives me, when all of the sudden I see a blonde pony tail and two blue eyes peering over the shelf, staring at me.


She was basically wilson. Except not an old man.


I absolutely HATE being interrupted while I’m reading and if this blonde pony tail and two blue eyes belonged to an adult and not to a 5 year old little girl, I probably would have given her the stink eye and asked her to leave me alone. But I couldn’t give a little girl the stink eye because that would make me kind of an asshole.

“Hi.” She says to me.

Well. I guess I am not reading today. 

“Hi,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Hannah. What is your name?” Her voice was so quiet and sweet, she could make Snow White sound like a redneck trucker. She spoke so properly and had the softest, cutest voice in the entire world.

“I’m Danielle.” I put my book down revealing the cover towards Hannah which had a picture of a baby chicken on it.

Hannah’s eyes widened, “Do you know your book has a chicken on it?”

I’m taken by surprise at her question, “…Yes, I do. That’s why I wanted to read it.”

That was not why I wanted to read it but I wanted this conversation to end so badly because “stranger danger” is a thing and me talking to a little girl while in a very confined and hidden corner makes me look like a dangerous stranger. I was trying to give Hannah dry answers in hopes that she would stop being interested in me and my book and that she would eventually walk away but then, Hannah lets out a giant gasp that sounded as though she had just watched me throw a puppy off of a roof.

“Do you eat chickens?! Because my mom says that eating chickens is bad! Do you kill chickens?! Because that’s really bad! If I ever saw someone kill a chicken I would probably cry! I will never kill a chicken and I will NEVER eat a chicken!”

I want to leave.

I am uncomfortable.

I am terrified of Hannah.


Actually Hannah.

Hannah’s sweet, little, church mouse voice starts to get louder and louder and louder. She reaches a Godzilla level of loud when her mother finally decides to be a parent and finds her daughter and tells her to quiet down.

“And who are you talking to?” Her mother asks her.

That’s when she looks down and sees me slumped in my “secret” corner, looking like a deer in headlights as I stare at her and her child in utter bewilderment.

Hannah’s mom was super apologetic and felt so bad about her child “disturbing the peace and quiet” and she hoped that, “Hannah wasn’t too much of a bother.” I was really appreciating the apology and was actually starting to like this weird duo of people but then she said, “Hannah is really passionate about veganism and I’m so happy she was able to share it with you!”

Hannah’s mom then hands me a sticker that has a cartoon picture of a chicken on it that says, “I am not a nugget!” in big bold letters.


Never in my life have I been so stunned. In an alternate universe I would like to think I would have told her how insane I think she was and mention how the louis-vutton purse she was carrying was made out of leather, which in case she didn’t know, involved killing and skinning a cow. But in this universe I was way too nice and thanked her and even complimented her shoes.  Because she was wearing the exact same pair of shoes that I was which caused me to have an existential crisis.

I have become one of them. I thought to myself. And by one of them, I didn’t mean a vegan because I might go into a subhuman state if I could never have stake or chicken nuggets or cheese ever again. I had become one of them meaning I had become a true white girl.

I had always said to myself that just because I was biologically white and a female did not give me the excuse to act like a stereotypical white female.

For years I had convinced myself that if some doula ever told me that I needed to eat avocado toast in a bath of quinoa while drinking a starbucks frappuchino, or anything that sounded remotely too white for my brain to process, that I would straight up punch her in the face. Well, I met that doula in the library that day and I did not straight up punch her in the face. Instead, I complimented her shoes because I was wearing the same ones as her. Because I was just like her. Because I was an ultimate white girl.


Sometimes I wish I wasn’t, Karen.

After Hannah and doula left me to read (finally), my existential crisis went full force and I couldn’t help but think if I had said or done anything remotely that white in the past and then I remembered that I let these phrases leave my lips:

  • I’m making avocado toast. Want some?
  • Hot yoga was so amazing today, oh my god. I feel so detoxified.
  • Can you pass the quinoa?
  • I just spent $200 in Victorias Secret
  • I feel sooooo good right now. Oh my god lets get booster juice.
  • I just finished season 3 of Gossip Girl
  • Is this fat free?
  • How many carbs did I eat today?
  • I need Starbucks
  • Does your iPhone battery drain as fast as mine does?
  • That dog is so cute oh my god. I can’t even.
  • I’ll be ready in like, 10 minutes. I promise.

In hind sight, these phrases are white but not, “crazy white-person” white. And what do I mean by that?

Non-Crazy White Person:

  • drinks starbucks coffee
  • has a pinterest account
  • participates in hot yoga
  • addicted to her iPhone and macbook
  • complains about the humidity ruining her hair

Crazy White Person:

  • thinks “free-range parenting” is parenting
  • make their pets wear clothing
  • only eats salads
  • gives out chicken stickers promoting veganism to complete strangers
  • spends $2000 on a purse

I think the difference is pretty clear.

I have come to terms with myself being a full white girl and if you’ve evolved into full white girl mode too, there’s no shame in it. Unless you’re allowing your 5 year old to become vegan. Then you’ve entered full on white person crazy town and might just be called a doula on the internet.


It Was Not That Simple

I often wonder how people react when they find out a loved one has passed, not because I’m creepy or weird or desire for people to die, but because when I first found out that my dad had died, the first thing I asked for was a book. I’m fairly certain that this is not a common request from someone who just found out 30 seconds prior that their father had died, which is why I’m always so curious what other people desire when they get devastating news. I desired words. Words were my first love and my ultimate comfort and I wanted to read the pain away. A book was the only thing I wanted.


Not what I meant by “words were my first love” 

Words had always been my safe haven and writing offered me an escape from the world I was in and the ability to create the world I wanted to be in. So, you can imagine how much of a surprise it was to wake up one day and have no desire to write. Words were my first love, writing was my second, and suddenly all my love for both of them had disappeared.

For a while I thought I had just lost interest. I no longer wanted to write, it was that simple. Blogging now sounded vain and stupid, reading felt like a chore, words looked like complicated equations rather than the poems and works of art they used to be, the blinking black line on an empty “Pages” document now seemed daunting rather than an opportunity to create.

I no longer enjoy writing or reading. It’s thats simple. I just need a new hobby, there’s nothing wrong with me. It’s that simple. 

Maybe I should have developed a new hobby because being a writer allowed for me to become insanely talented at being introverted and predominately near sighted from staring at a keyboard all day (plus, nobody warns you about the amount of paper cuts you’ll get from being addicted to books) but developing a new hobby was not the answer to my problems. It was not that simple

I didn’t realize the complexity of my problem until I started to see other blemishes in my personality that were never there before.

I used to be a morning person, I now wanted to sleep until 3pm and then take a nap at 4pm.

I used to love to do my makeup and dress nice, I now wanted to see how homeless I could look before people started to come up to me and offer me their spare change.

I used to have to tell myself not to eat the entire box of pizza in one sitting, I now couldn’t even eat 2 slices if I was held at gun point. giphy

I used to want to talk to people 25 hours a day if it were possible, I now considered a 5 minute texting conversation with my mom too much socialization.

I used to think the summer night sky was the most beautiful thing God ever created, I now found it vast and empty and cold and hopeless.

I was now vast and empty and cold and hopeless.

It was not that simple.

For a long time all of these changes to my personality didn’t seem like a huge deal. You’re just growing up, discovering who you are, your personality and preferences are just changing, you’re learning to love new things. 

But what happens when you don’t love at all anymore? Is that just a part of growing up? The world turns you so cynical that you just invert and completely lose the ability to love the things you once did? The people you once did? The places you once did? No one ever told me that’s what growing up would be. None of the books I read warned that “discovering who I am” would do this to me. This was not me “growing up” and learning who I was. It was not that simple.

After 3 years of being stripped of everything I loved about myself, of being told it was just a phase and I would grow out of it, to suck it up and power through, to just pray and everything would get better, to cheer up, to be grateful for what I had, to stop being so down, to stop ignoring your calls, to answer your texts, to come to your party, to try to be like how I was 3 years ago because she was much more fun, I finally admitted to everybody and to myself that it was not that simple


The only pharmaceuticals I will allow to be labeled

As a society we have degraded mental illness into stereotypes and pharmaceuticals. We have labeled it as being a trend, something that people admit to having because they were “looking for attention” rather than looking for support. We look at those who lose their lives to suicide as cowards rather than victims. We tell people who suffer from anxiety to just calm down and those who are depressed to just cheer up. We label those who take medications as weak while the ones who aren’t medicated are unstable. We use the words crazy, insane and psycho to describe those in mental health units but we should being using the word “brave” because they were the ones who weren’t afraid to get help. We have labeled mental illness as something that is simple, when it’s not.

I had to ask myself what was holding me back from doing what was best for my health and asking for help. I had allowed society to label me, to put me in these boxes. I would no longer be Danielle, the ambitious, free willed, cat loving, hard working, book loving, pizza eating, writer. I would now be Danielle, the girl with depression.


In case you were wondering, if you Google “cat pizza” this masterpiece comes up. 

I was so afraid people would only see my illness rather than all the other good qualities I possessed. I didn’t want to be labeled, to be judged or to be criticized on the choices I made to get help and get better and for 3 years I let this fear run my life.

I had to ask myself what was more important, my health or what the world thought of me? I picked myself. It was that simple.

It’s taken me 3 years too many to speak up and finally ask for help. In that time I gained 40 pounds, walked away from job opportunities, school opportunities, lost friendships and loved ones. I lost some of the best years of my life because I was letting mental illness control who I was and I was too afraid to talk about it.

The #BellLet’sTalk movement means so much more to some people than just raising money and awareness. The #BellLet’sTalk movement allows some people, like myself, to speak up and get their lives back from mental illness. So while you tweet and text and comment and Instagram and Facebook #BellLet’sTalk, remember that it’s not just a hashtag because mental illness is not that simple. 

How Dare You Paint Your Finger Nails, Danielle.

I promise you there’s a logical explanation for why I’ve gone missing for three months. It’s not a super cool reason like “I decided to take a spontaneous vacation to Vancouver and hiked up the Rocky Mountains” or “I bought a 1972 Volkswagen Bus Vanagon and went on a road trip to California” or even “I’ve been learning how to play guitar and my fingers are too bruised to type.” No, the reason for my absence isn’t nearly as fantastic as any of those, but it’s a reason that I’m proud of.

A month ago, I decided I was tired of being unhappy. I had been stuck in this life where I was working a job I hated, drove a car that broke down on the side of the highway, twice. I had isolated myself from the friends that I loved so I could be with people that I didn’t love, I said no to concerts, drive-ins, shopping trips, day trips and salty foods to save money that I didn’t even have but worst of all, I had realized I was pleasing everybody else while I was letting myself down.

I had contemplating changing some things in my life for a long time but was always so afraid of what people would think. What would my family think if I quit my job? Sold my car? Moved to London (Ontario…not England. Although I wouldn’t pass up London England if the opportunity came)? Booked a trip to Mexico? Enrolled in University for English? Cut my hair and died it a colour that isn’t naturally mine? I had thought and thought and thought but wouldn’t make a move to change anything because I was so afraid of what people would say. If it wasn’t for a Saturday night last month where I found myself parked in a Walmart parking lot in my moms minivan wearing a hoodie that was 3 sizes too big, eating my weight in Greek yogurt, I probably wouldn’t have changed anything. “Why am I not going out? Why am I not learning something new? Why do I stay inside my bubble of comfort? Why am I wearing a sweater that’s way too big for me? What’s in my pocket? Oh, it’s a coupon for Bath and Body Works.” If it wasn’t for those thoughts, I wouldn’t have changed a thing or have my new ocean scented candle.  


And here we see where my entire pay-check went.

After that night, I quit my job, I put my car up for sale, I said goodbye to some people that I loved very much, I signed up for counselling, took a pottery class, took a painting class, took a writing class, went to a swimming lesson, learned how to roller-skate (I still fell twice. My tailbone is killing me), started looking for a new car, got my nails done (this may not seem like a big deal but I wasn’t allowed to paint my nails for FOUR YEARS because of my old job. Painting my nails was the most liberating activity I had done for a long time and I will not feel shame for this), made a new friend, contacted an old friend, learned how to change a tire and made the best pancakes you could ever imagine tasting.


This is exactly how I looked rollerskating. Sparkly shirt and all. 

These things may seem like small victories and you would be right in thinking that. They are small victories, but they’re MY small victories. I did these things. I decided to do them and so I did. I stopped letting my family and my friends and sometimes even strangers make my decisions for me. I wanted to do these things, so I did them and I haven’t felt this happy in a long time.

I had been told that I was being selfish by doing these things. I was selfish for quitting my job. I was selfish for saying goodbye to some people who had been there for me during my worst times. It was selfish to move so far from home. It’s selfish to leave the church, to stop volunteering, to not want to get married by 22, to not want kids by 25, to not want kids at all, to stop caring what people think. You’re selfish, Danielle. These were the thoughts that had stopped me from changing anything. I didn’t want people to think I was selfish and that I didn’t care anymore. It took me a long time to realize that this thought was the least selfish thought I could have. I had stopped doing the things I wanted to do because everybody else needed me to do something or be something else. Everybody had something to say about my life and what I was doing with it, except for me.

I never understood the feeling of being content with yourself. To be truly happy where you are and with what you’re doing and the decisions you’re making but I understand now. I am content. I love where I am.

Do something this week that you’ve always wanted to do, you were just too scared or too broke or too tall or too fat or too whatever to do it. Stop telling yourself that you can’t or you won’t…unless you’ve always wanted to like rob a bank or know how it feels to die or take candy from a baby. I don’t condone that you do those things.

I have never been happier and there’s nothing selfish about being happy… or having pink finger nails…or buying an ocean scented candle that makes your bedroom smell like a beach.

The Book Gods Probably Think I Need To Be Medicated

I’ve found myself going slightly insane this past week because I’m on my reading week which means I actually have free time and free time is probably the best present you could give me next to money… and maybe the diploma I paid thousands of dollars for, but free time isn’t a gift that I usually receive so when I do receive it, I crawl out of my cave (aka my bedroom that is littered with dirty laundry that I had no time to clean until this week) with a look of confusion and search for my family and friends and a normal sleep schedule that seems to have been missing since my senior year of high school.

I’ve been filling my time reading books that don’t involve human anatomy and aren’t required readings for my exams or for assignments and it was no surprise when I discovered that I don’t actually own any books that don’t have to do with human anatomy so almost every day this week I’ve taken my moms minivan to the nearest Chapters bookstore and grabbed every book within my slight that looked even remotely funny and had nothing to do with the human heart or statistics or contained the words “health care provider” anywhere within them.

I discovered that my new favourite place is the business section in Chapters because nobody ever goes down there and I can sit in peace with a stack of books that I find hilarious and entertaining and nobody will judge me for sitting on the floor while looking at books with pictures in them even though I’m a 20 year old, full grown adult. While reading these books I suddenly remembered that I have a blog and it’s probably covered in tumble weeds and cob weds from neglect and if there was social services for blogs, I probably would have been reported long ago and would be sitting down in an interview with scary government people trying to explain why my blog shouldn’t be taken away from me and sent to a group home, so I thought that it would be both productive and entertaining to write about the writing that I encountered while at Chapters.


Who would have thought this would be the second best place next to heaven and the McDonalds drive through after a wicked hankering for french fries

I started off with this lovely book titled “The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F*ck” by Sarah Knight and it’s not the typical book that I would gravitate towards mostly because I don’t use profanity (unless I accidentally stub my toe or people cut me off while driving) and it was in the “Do It Yourself” section of the bookstore (which I think was put there out of pure humour because this book is obviously just one big troll for people to read and should be in the humour section but someone at Chapters was feeling like a level 100 troll one day and put it in the DIY section) and I was feeling adventurous so I picked it up and I’m so glad I did because it contained things like this:


I personally believe I am in “The Enlightened” category but most of my friends would disagree with that and would put me in the second category.

I also enjoyed this list of things that I should and should not be…caring… about because all of these are extremely accurate except for Greek yogurt. Yogurt that’s so thick is stays on the spoon even when its tipped upside down? Why wouldn’t you care about that!?


This book also decided my outfit for every Monday for the rest of my life.


The next book was called “Nice is Just a Place in France” by The Betches. I picked this one up only because of the name of the authors, obviously. I realized this was probably meant to be an extension onto the bible (as if the bible wasn’t long enough) because it contained some key life lessons that I didn’t realize I needed on my personal appearance.


Texting habits were also mentioned. I’ve been superhyped on Adderall for the last 6 years apparently.


It also told me that the root of all my problems is my enormous hair, which I already suspected was the culprit.


I then found a book that was an adult picture book (that I unfortunately cant remember the name of nor who the author is…please don’t sue me) which was AMAZING because it was like reading curious George all over again except George got a little too curious and ended up experimenting with drugs and went to college and became a wild party animal (pun intended) and is now an alcoholic and is stressed and in just as much debt as every other North American college student.


Yes, exactly my life.

I probably sat there on the floor of the business section for a good 45 minutes and I probably would have sat there for at least another hour if I didn’t come across this page that made me question why I found the activity of sitting in the business section reading adult humour books, enjoyable.


I thought that the “Book Gods” were trying to send me a message that it was time to put the books back now so I walked my way to the humour section but couldn’t help but notice the God forsaken romance novels that were so conveniently placed on a red rack with a sign overtop that said,  “For Your Valentines Day Pleasure” and I instantly wanted to throw up my Starbucks coffee that cost me almost $6 but I held it in because I cant afford to throw $6 onto the floor of the business section and I would instantly regret my life because all the business men coming to pick up books on financing or stocks or motivation would have to walk around my vomit but now that I think about it, if you’re buying books from the business section am I really the one who should be regretting their life here?

The Book Gods had made me realize that my choices in literature are questionable for sure, but at least I don’t read this,


or this,


or- are you kidding me? Is she… in a wheelchair?


Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about reading a book that had a section on anal being the final frontier.

Tables Are For Glasses. Not For Asses.

I’m not sure if my hair was bigger than usual last week but there was something about me that was attracting straight up weirdness to happen.

Last Monday I was sitting in a classroom studying (which really just means watching Netflix with a book in my lap and a highlighter in my hand) when all of the sudden I hear the door open and this couple walks-no, stumbles inside WITH THEIR TONGUES DOWN EACH OTHERS THROATS.


Literally what happened. Except it wasn’t two men…

There they were, fumbling with the door knob trying to get it open and then clumsily walking into the room while knocking over the phone mounted on the wall and brushing up against the various posters that were unsuccessfully persuading me to get a PhD, while I was sitting in a corner watching Vampire Diaries.

I was hoping that maybe one of them would notice me sitting at my laptop with my cardiac diseases textbook on my lap and my cat sweater that says, “What do you call a pile of cats? A meowontain” on it and my mouth wide open in surprise and disgust, but they never did.

So, I found myself sitting in the corner of the room having no idea what to do in this situation.

Do I interrupt your fornication session? Would that be weird? But it would be weirder if I just sat here and did nothing and pretended that I didn’t exist. But what on earth would I say if I interrupted you? Do I say excuse me? Pardon me? What the hell are you doing? Can you please suck face in another room? Tables are for glasses, not for asses?


Amidst me thinking through all of my options, things had apparently sped up much faster than I would imagine is an appropriate speed to go at during one of these events because the guys hand proceeded to go up the girls shirt and I could see her red bra starting to poke through from under her white cardigan.

At this point I decided that it really didn’t matter what I said to them because I did not want to see any nipples today other than mine (that is a sentence I never thought I would write) so, I did the first thing I thought of and I coughed. I felt that this would have been  the best thing to do, except I was getting extremely grossed out and uncomfortable at this point and the cough came out more like a really weird hiccup noise but it still did the job. I’ve never seen two white people get so red so fast in my life. It was like they got an instant sunburn. Alas, they had finally noticed me.


Me and you both, Scott.

I think the guy was in shock and was so embarrassed that he didn’t even notice that his hand was still on her boob and the girl decided she was super uncomfortable with him giving her a mammary exam all of the sudden and threw his hand off her chest and pulled her shirt back down at an olympic record speed.


Maybe I should have just done this?

The guy proceeded to tell me that he had no idea that anyone else was in here and that he was really sorry and blah blah blah. I politely nodded as I felt my face turning red from trying not to laugh and I told him it was no big deal, but maybe next time they should check if someone is in a room before they decide to…make out in it. The girl ruffled her hair and straightened out her bright red bra as the guy did up his belt (which I had no idea had come undone and I immediately became so much more thankful that I decided to let out my hiccup cough) and they left the room with their heads hung low. After they left I proceeded to call my boyfriend and tell him what happened and then continued to indulge myself in the addicting hobby of filling my mind with extremely hot men playing vampires but all I could think about was who wears a red bra with a white shirt?

Electronic Trash Bins Just Aren’t Doing It For Me

I didn’t boycott my computer for the last month if that’s what you’re wondering. In fact, it’s actually quite the opposite. I’ve spent more time watching Netflix these last few weeks than I have my entire life and I didn’t think it was possible to be sick of laying in bed watching a mind numbing amount of Vampire Diaries and terrible romantic comedies that have extremely predictable endings, but I have been proven wrong.

Being in bed as sick as a dog (who even decided that being “sick as a dog” was even a thing? I’ve seen like 3 sick dogs in my entire life while I’ve seen 50 sick humans this past week alone)


I googled “sick dog” and this is what came up. 

is prime time for writing but as you can tell, I’ve written nothing since my last blog post was in December. I was laying in bed with a drippy nose, a cough that sounded like I smoked 50 packs a day and a bed side table covered in drugs, (and not the good kind either) I realized that I couldn’t write a damn thing. I was trying to be all witty and funny and “girl next door-ey” and make people think I’m hilarious yet also very educated and someone they would want to be friends with and braid each others hair and paint each others nails…unless you’re a guy and your hair is short and you’d rather not have your nails painted, which would make that scenario extremely awkward instead of enjoyable. rawI found myself struggling to find something to write about that sounded even remotely interesting or funny which pissed me off even more so than usual because I literally did so much these past 3 weeks. I left the country, went to New York City, got stuck in the middle of a Hanukkah Parade (and I’m not Jewish, so figure that one out), started back at school, almost got into a car accident…twice, made a snowman wearing a bright pink Barbie coat and a hat made of out racoon fur (myself that is…not the snowman), found out I have a foreign exchange student from the U.K coming to live with me and almost died from eating bad Nutella.

SO HOW COULD I BE STRUGGLING TO FIND SOMETHING TO WRITE ABOUT?! There’s literally been so much going on! How are my fingers not bleeding from smashing the keys on my keyboard so much?! I DONT EVEN HAVE THE TIME TO THINK ABOUT THIS! I NEED TO BE WRITTINGGGGGG JBCWHEWIHFIHWEH!!!!!!

But there I was, sitting down in front of a blank sheet on Microsoft Word with not a clue what to say or being deeply dissatisfied with what I had written to the point of crumpling it up and dramatically dunking it in the electronic recycling bin on my desktop, which I have to say was not nearly as satisfying as crumpling up an actual piece of paper and tossing it into an actual trashcan. Alas…even technology fails me at my darkest moments.


I realized that I was not dissatisfied with my work because the writing wasn’t good or because the story sucked or I thought people would like it, but I was dissatisfied because it wasn’t funny.

Humour is the one attribute about myself that I will never hate or want to change. I started this blog over a year ago for a very simple reason, because I wanted to make people laugh. I 8fb502b5a788c9d21bbe76683cb92ce6wanted it to be a place where people could come when they were sad or having a bad day to put a smile back on their faces. The posts I had written were good…they just weren’t funny so what was the point in even posting them?

And here I am again, this time staring at a half done, untiled, Pages document (because somehow I convinced myself that if I used Pages instead of Word, my writing would be funnier???), still being unsatisfied with my writing and not thinking its funny enough or witty enough or good enough to be published….but I’m going to publish it anyway’s.

I’d be lying if I said I was satisfied with this post, and I’d be lying once more if I said I thought it was funny. This isn’t the sort of thing I’d be excited to publish and show the world and bring home to my mother so she can put it on the fridge and we can all stare at while we wander into the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat bad Nutella that gives us food poising for 2 days.


This is no longer my feelings towards Nutella

But, its still my work, and I still spent a good two hours  of my time writing, editing, proof reading, re-writing it twice more and googling funny gifs and memes to incorporate into it, so I’m going to publish it and I’m challenging you to do that same.

Dig through your archives and find something you wrote that you absolutely hated and publish it (it may be absolutely terrible but it could be hilarious and make for an excellent opportunity to make you feel much better about yourself now) or if you’re not a writer, take a chance to say something to someone that you always wanted to (unless its something not nice… then I suggest you keep it to yourself), or wear that dress you think you’re too fat to look good in, apply to the program you think you have no chance at getting into or pick up a map and decide to go somewhere completely new for a while. Do something you told yourself you could never do, because if you never do it, you’ll be right in telling yourself that you couldn’t do it  and then I would be wrong by telling you that you could do it… and I like to be right. So go out and do that thing that you’re thinking of doing but you said no to a million times because I need to be right…and I also want to feel less bad about publishing something that adds no meaning to your life…. Okay, but does anything I write add meaning to your life? I wrote a blog posts about Jello Cubes having raves, banana farts and Canadian Geese attacking me. This post is probably the most normal thing I’ve published in a long time and I’m being way too hard on myself. Ahh……I need a nap…and to check the best before dates on Nutella from now on.

“Ma’am, I’m wearing a name tag.” And Other Phrases That Will Get You Fired

I’m not sure not sure what it is about Christmas that makes people so insane, but it’s really getting tiring to deal with. I mostly feel this way because I work in retail and talk to grumpy customers all day who say “Where are your winter tires?” and then proceed get mad and call me a number of colourful names when I tell them that we in fact, do not sell winter tires because I work in a grocery store.

Yesterday I had a woman get mad at me because she wanted me to cook her a chicken (I fry chicken and cook food a living. One time someone commented on my blog and told me I was the “Queen of Fried Chicken”and I’ve started using that as my official job title and put it on my resume so, shout out to the blogger who made my job title much more amazing,) but she didn’t want me to cook it with the skin on it which I then proceeded to tell her that it’s quite difficult to peel the skin off a raw chicken, but after it was cooked I would peel it off for her. But that wasn’t acceptable and I was “not providing service to a loyal customer” so she asked me what my name was so she could report me to the manager. I looked at her as I pointed to my chest where my name tag was and said, “Ma’am, I’m wearing a name tag.” The customer didn’t find it very funny but my coworkers did.


This is an actual picture of me at work, I promise. 

So yes, the holidays make people kind of insane which makes it really difficult to fry chicken with a smile on my face and not give customers attitude and potentially get fired (because I totally could have been fired for that, although it would have been 100% worth losing my job over) and even animals are no exception to the crazy. I was on YouTube watching cat videos (don’t you dare judge me, people do this all the time) when all these “Cat gets stuck in christmas tree” and “Waffles the Cat explores tree. Knocks it onto baby.” and “Cat won’t leave tree because he gets high off of pine scent”, videos came up and I realized that humans are so insane around the holidays because their cats are driving them crazy by ruining all their expensive decorations.

Just watch this and tell me you wouldn’t want to go and yell at the ‘Queen of Fried Chicken’ after all that?

I did manage to find videos of the Christmas trees seeking revenge on cats and scaring them in return for ripping out their branches and knocking off all the wonderfully overpriced ornaments and I realized that the solution to all my grumpy customer problems would be to offer each angry customer a free singing tree to permanently scar their cat from jumping at their christmas tree.

No insane kitties = No ruined christmas trees = No crazy customers = I won’t get fired and will remain the Queen of Fried Chicken (which could be a good or bad thing because I don’t really want to be the Queen of Fried Chicken forever. I know, how shocking.)

Although, singing christmas trees are a tad bit expensive to be giving away for free (and are quite creepy and look like a prickly, mossy, pine scented, Sorting Hat from Harry Potter) we can always give customers free wrapping paper so people can just wrap their cats in Christmas paper and leave them under the tree until Christmas is over, like this guy did. The cat gets to whiff in pine scent all day while the humans don’t have to pick up the tree and redecorate it three times a day and they don’t come in and yell at me for not selling winter tires in a store that sells food. It’s a win-win-win situation.

Your cat will also look 300x cuter with a bow on its head, guaranteed.

But, Danielle, don’t YOU own a cat? Why aren’t YOU acting crazy?

Ha. Haha. You poor child. You must not have met me.

I am ALWAYS crazy when I’m out in public. Not “mean to shop workers” crazy…but just normal crazy and my cat is deathly afraid of my christmas tree so he doesn’t bother with it. THANK GOD for that because I still live with my mom and she buys all these expensive ornaments from Pier One Imports or Winners or some other “Mom” store that sells overly priced, glittery objects that smell like perfume and if my cat so much as breaths on one, he will be turned into soup. And maybe a nice pillow covering. Or a new tree skirt for the tree. One of those three anyways.

Toronto Needs To Chill On The Canadian

So I haven’t made a blog post in two weeks and no, it wasn’t because I died, although I thank you for the concern but I have gone missing for the last two weeks because it is exam season… so I wish I actually had died.


How I feel during exams

I’ve been studying and finishing up final assignments and reports for the last few weeks, (which actually means I’ve been binge watching “The Crown” and YouTubing episodes of questionable British television while a book sits in my lap) and I have had no time to write on anything that doesn’t have to do with cardiac diseases and I highly doubt people who read my blog would want to know about cardiac diseases (although cardiomyopathy is quite fascinating and I highly suggest you Google it if you have the time). But despite all the assignments and lab reports and exams, I managed to find the time to take a day trip to Toronto with my mom because who doesn’t want to go downtown Toronto at the peak of christmas shopping season? Well, my mother apparently doesn’t mind the insanity of Toronto this time of year,so she dragged with her.

I don’t really like the city to be quite honest which is kind of ironic since I’ve spent most of my life living in one and have been to Toronto more times than I’ve been to the town I was born in but this time I actually didn’t mind going BECAUSE I GOT TO TAKE THE TRAIN!!!!!!111!!!!!

Whoa, calm down lady, you’re probably thinking. No. You don’t understand. Taking the train here is EXTRA cool because I’ve taken the train three times in my whole life. I have been on airplanes more times than I have been on the train AND I WAS SO EXCITED that I accidentally texted the wrong person about the train routes and the most Canadian thing ever happened.


The nicest stranger I’ve ever encountered had no idea who I was but still gave me directions… and this isn’t the first time this has happened either.

Even though I messaged the wrong person, I figured out how to get to Toronto (ON THE TRAIN!!!!) and I got a picture of Ontario’s biggest Christmas tree. It reminded me of the massive Christmas tree in the middle of Whoville in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” except it wasn’t as whimsical… and Jim Carrey (who adds to the story because he’s conveniently Canadian) didn’t light it on fire.


See, look how pretty!

I also got to see a pink Christmas tree forest which I had a love hate relationship with because the colour was pretty but all the pine needles stuck in my sweater and all over me and I went to school with pink pine needles stuck in my hair for the last three days and people were all “Ew. You don’t shower. You had that in your hair yesterday.” and I’m all, “You uneducated swine. Do you realize how hard it is to get things out of curly hair? I found a Halloween sprinkle in my hair from 2005 last week. Things don’t just ‘wash out’ of curly hair.” Except I said it a little nicer than that. I think.


I was then forced to take a million photos of the city I have been in a million times because my mother was with me and there’s some rule written in the Mom book that says you have to take an unnecessary amount of photos of your children, so this is me protesting by hiding in an elf house, which she still managed to get a picture of.


I was also encountered by a Costco amount of free food and if you don’t have Costco where you live, I feel incredibly sorry for you because Costco gives out so many free samples that you could literally eat a free lunch worth of food there. I know this because I’ve done it and I’m not ashamed of it. Costco also allows you to buy anything from diamond rings to toilet paper to frozen fish all in one place. It’s like Walmart on crack.

Here I am with free soup, which was delightful because it was so dreadfully cold.


And here I am WITH FREE POUTINE!!! This made me more excited than the train because not only is poutine a Canadian delicacy, but it is quite possibly the BEST drunk food you will ever eat in your life.Not that I was drunk here…and not that I would know that t’s the best drunk food from personal experience or anything…. It’s also full of salt so it makes your arteries feel extra warm. And clogged.


I also encountered several other super Canadian things like a giant moose made of moss surrounded by Canadian beer bottles. Apparently we love to drink more here than they do on the questionable British television shows that I love to drown myself in… like Geordie Shore. Yes, I know, it’s garbage television BUT I CANT STOP WATCHING DRUNK BRITISH PEOPLE!! IT’S SO ENTERTAINING!! “YOUR A WANKER! YOU GOT WITH A BIRD LAST NIGHT! I SAW HIS WILLY! I WEED THE BED!” British reality TV is just so much more entertaining than the American versions, mostly because they call women birds, they can use the word “willy” in a serious conversation and when they pee themselves they say “they’ve weed” themselves. Ahhh…the British are a fascinating species.


And I got to see the CN Tower (again) which is always fun. I also learned that my mom used to work in the building that I have, ever so nicely, decided to label for you. She was a receptionist there when she was my age which seems crazy to me because my mom was already married and had her life together when she was younger than I am and it makes me feel like I’m making poor life choices. Sorry, Mom.


Although my day was filled with Canadian stereotypes, free food and pink forests, my day got even better because I discovered this gem:


Umm, Danielle, this is just a board where people write what they’re thankful for? What’s so great about this?

Well, most people wrote friends names or family members,”Mom” appears quite frequently and boyfriends or girlfriends names were popular, but there were three particular names that made me love this city even more that I already did that day.  img_4982

Someone had written Chicken nuggets and Tasty Wok at the bottom of the board and I was laughing so hard that people had begun to stare at me and my mom walked away from me pretending she didn’t know me. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE!! I LOVE THIS CITY!! I kept thinking, because chicken nuggets is EXACTLY what I was thinking about writing on that board.

Just as my mom was coming back to steal my phone to take more pictures, I noticed a third one that made me laugh even harder.


Someone was thankful for HARAMBE. This meme just won’t die. I mean… I know Harambe died but… you know what, never mind.

So, if you’re having a bad day, I highly recommend that you “accidentally” text a Canadian because they’ll probably reply to you in a really funny and kind way or go order a poutine because anything covered in cheese and gravy is bound to cheer you up. If poutine doesn’t help you, I don’t know what will.

Cats Have Now Joined The “Mile High” Club. Yes, You Read That Correctly.

I  have a really bad habit of misbehaving in public. I cannot go anywhere without acting like a durranged lunatic. I think its mostly because when I think of something hilarious to do, I will do just about anything to do it and I don’t care what other people think as long as I get to be funny. One time I paid a whole dollar to ride on the merry-go-round ride in the mall that was literally built for 4 year olds. I sat up on the horse seat that fit one of my butt cheeks and smiled and waved to people as they passed by. Most people looked at me like I was crazy and I was “disturbing their shopping experience” as the mall security guard told me, but a few people laughed with me and that made it all worth it. It was the best dollar I ever spent.

Last week I didn’t attempt to ride another merry-go-round but I did end up in a book store which resulted in me picking out all the cat colouring books I could find and taking pictures of the funniest ones. I couldn’t help but do it. Some of their facial expressions were just begging for me to imagine them saying or doing something hilarious and I sat in the middle of the book store cackling away at a cat colouring book. I tried to explain what was so funny to my boyfriend and showed him all the pictures of the cats and said funny things that I think they would say, but he just looked at me like I has just smoked meth and suggested that I continue to laugh but on the other side of the store. And away from him. And I should return to the car after he did so no one would know we were together.

I thought I would share my epic cat monologues with ya’ll since no one else seems to understand my humour. But you also can laugh at me from a far distance and don’t need to be in the same room as me while I do these things…


“I purred once. It was awful.”

“Brenda shut the hell up or I’ll tell Steve about that time in Vegas”


“I’m only here because I heard that Russian women are hot. And they also said there would be free cake. There was no free cake… and no women.”


“Frank, for God’s sake stop it! It’s your daughters birthday party and you Will. Have Fun.”

“Shut the hell up Karen, I’m having fun! LOOK IM WEARING A FUNKY HAT. ITS FUN! IM HAVING FUN! ”


*sniff sniff* Do I smell chicken?


“Dude I’m so high right now”

” Yo, what time is it?”



“DONUTS MAKE YOU FAT?!!?!?!??! ”

And my personal favourite…




So, if you ever need a person to go shopping with, don’t call me. Because I’ll end up doing stuff like this and probably get us kicked out of the mall and arrested.

Also, what is this thing? An eggplant… with a window in it… and a tail coming out of the window????? I think the “high cat” is the culprit behind this one…



Told you.

So, You Want To Move To Canada Eh?

This morning I awoke to the news that my neighbours to the south had made the decision to vote Mr. Donald Trump as their president *slow claps*.

My Facebook feed is FILLED with American cries for help and “I’m moving to Canada” posts. At first I thought it was a joke and I’m like OKAYYYYY you all SAY you’re going to move here but can you really leave behind Target, Krispy Cream donuts, warm weather, cheap groceries and the imperial system just to get away from Donald Trump… 100% yes you’ll leave that behind because you crashed the Canadian immigration website.



Not that I really blame you all for wanting to come here, in fact I think it would be quite nice to have some American blood in this vast frozen land. So I thought while you’re waiting for the Canadian immigration website to come back online I will give you some basic tips about Canada! How exciting!

Things are expensive in Canada because our dollar pales in comparison to yours, we measure the temperate in celsius, our weight in kilograms, our height in meters and centimetres and our speed in kilometres- along with literally every other country in the world because everyone else jumped on the metric wagon except America. We also have several Canadian department stores like Canadian tire (yes, seriously), shoppers drug mart, Roots clothing store, and Tim Hortons is basically our Dunkin Donuts- and we spell doughnuts how it should be spelled- DONUTS. We also spell colour and favourite with a U, pronounce ‘Z’ as ZED and not ZEE and have the Queen on all our money since we haven’t really separated from Mother England yet. We also have a PRIME MINISTER and not a President. Our current prime minister, Justin Trudeau, is actually pretty rad and surprisingly young and handsome and he speaks french fluently (which is our second language- Alors, apprenez du français!). Google translate will be your best friend, as it is mine. 

Justin Trudeau

And here we see Daddy Canada in his natural state.

But don’t keep your hopes up ladies, he’s married to the most beautiful woman in the world.


Here we see Daddy Canada breaking the hearts of every Canadian woman.

Canada also accepts 30% of immigrants that apply because we have so much land and only have a population of 36 million people and we can’t sustain our population on our own. Which is a good thing for you, because if you have a degree, a family and a job, you’ll most likely be let in.

Also, don’t pet the polar bears, moose are real (and they’re also very violet), we have a real deer infestation going on in Ontario right now (deer are everywhere and they run out in the middle of the road and cause car accidents), Canadian Geese are evil (as I’ve already written about), the Beaver is our national animal, Tim Hortons is life but don’t order the hot chocolate cause it sucks, we still continue to go to work and drive in 5 feet of snow (so if you’re from Florida- good luck with that), guns are illegal to have unless you have a license for one (which is hard to get by the way) and our health care is 100% free, so feel free to bang your head against the wall as much as you want since Trump won, because your concussion will be 100% free to be treated.

Yeap, my country is pretty awesome and it feels extra awesome to be Canadian today since we have Daddy Trudeau while you have this…


But we already knew it was awesome here. We were just waiting on you guys to realize it.