Just smile!


Always feeling the joys of life and knowing how to look on the bright side are great qualities to have if you really do possess them. Otherwise, the silver lining tarnishes easily, especially when one is a lucid cynic with an acid tongue.

In parallel, expressing the disdain of your existence, being a sarcastic whiny bitch and getting discouraged for a simple broken nail can irritate many aspirants of rolling in bliss and petals.

In fact, the “beauty of life” spans a broad spectrum, an unstable curve that oscillates between deploying your bosom in laughter while you wet your velvet dress in an Italian fountain and crying your broken toe curled into a bed bug infested mattress.

We lie, we encourage ourselves: all is well, all is well! Smile! A positive thought on Facebook! Smile! We grin for cameras and friends! Just smile! A pill, a drink or a new toy to forget our sense of powerlessness on this planet that spins out of control in resonance with our own vehicle skidding on its lifeline.

-How are you, Christine?

– I’m ok. I do my best…

– Good! Good! Gratitude!

– Wha’?? Ha, yes … I’m grateful for the things I have. Yes. Beside my yeast infection. That I’d rather not have.

– Uh! Well, er … ‘T’was fun seeing you. God bless and Namaste!

– Mmm, ok, thanks. But not so much “Namaste” as “Monistat”, if you get my drift…

Nowadays, there is a fake Zen pop attitude that swings my mood into a greater scowl.

We don’t know how to react to the moping blues, the gray areas, and the bloody reds. Maybe we can manage our own little end of the universe, but not those of others.

Tell your colleagues that you bought a little Maltese dog, everyone will “Awwww» while weakening at the knees. Add that it’s to fill your loneliness that has become unbearable, and it will create a chill around the coffee machine, I guarantee it!

Or, try listening to the neighbor talking about his wife’s cancer without finishing the conversation with a “Well, I’m sure if she stays positive, she can beat it!” While shaking stupid thumbs up and squinting your face pinched between empathy and diarrhea.

We prefer a happy lie than a sad truth. Come on! Smiiiile! Life is Beautiful!

The exception is when the outrage and grief becomes unanimous. We are the world, we are the children, we are the pink ribbons and we are Charlie Hebdo. Then, we can express how life is an unfair whore. But in the personal things, it is best not to complain much.

Yet naming the ugly does not detract from recognizing beauty and naming it as well. To focus on the positive is good. But be careful of hypocrisy rolled up in a rose coloured glossy wrapping, you could choke on it.

It is our duty to say when it’s not going that well, too. To say that life is bad these days is okay. It’s human. And ugliness is lovely against the too perfect, in a wabi-sabi way, as twisted as this blog. Chaos is the nature of life, the magnificent lotus that grows in shit.

Just the same, we should say «My life is wonderful as ever! » when, in fact, it is. Wow, seriously, that’s great! Truly! Don’t we love, love, love those moments? Enjoy it! It won’t last…

In short, if you could please not push your agenda of happiness on the misfortune of others, that’d be swell.

For my part, I will try not to lower your spirits too much with my stories…


Being all smoke and mirrors.



The rock ‘n’ rollers of my youth are all turning to ashes. They were once so free and arrogant, a cigarette in one hand, a fuck you in the other. No future.  No future for you.

The image of the rebel with his eye squinting behind the white curls and blue volutes make me ache when I think that those God damn puffs gave them all cancer. And now my heroes are dead.

I smoke too. Not all the time, calm down. Less and less, as a matter of fact. But there seem to be a strange battle between my wish to kick the habit and some death wish to kick the bucket. Romantic suicide at the entrance of a bar, flicking my health at the manhole in the street. No future, no future for me.

There is also that silly concept of “Everyone but me” which seems to be accepted by the dark side of my brain. As if I could outsmart Death. As if I thought that coating my bronchial tubes with a fresh layer of asphalt only occasionally gave me more chances.

In my head, I’m Lauren Bacall striking a match for Humphrey Bogart. I’m Bowie, blowing the cyanide dust of his fag in front of a multicolored lightning bolt. I am Dorothy Parker, as dark as she is bright, blazing atop her typewriter.

And then, there’s this filter between me and the righteous, those who lecture me, butt in and wrinkle their smooth foreheads at my Peter Jackson’s. The more they shake their head in disapproval, the more I shake my butts at my souvenir ashtray from Cancun. I give them the stink eye. Well, I’m stinky all over. I know.

It’s not like I didn’t lose people I loved because of the coffin nails. I think of them often when I cough. I put myself in danger of extinction for every five minute buzz. I should really get that nicotine monkey off my back, before it gets in my lungs.

Because, yes, I am aware that I’m sucking on cancer sticks, leggo my Zippo! I also diminish my existence with each day of inactivity, every dirty dancing with a bottle of Glenlivet, every threesome with a Big Mac and fries, every barbecued pork products I pig out on,  each crossing between the exhaust gases in traffic, each compulsion, each YOLO moments, I slowly consume, smoulder and waste my remaining days.

In short, I’m now taking a good hard look at myself. I’m wondering why I huff a poisonous hue in the face of karma? What runs through my hazy mind? “I’ll smoke if I want to, Grim Reaper! I’ll tap you on the shoulder, at 102, to tell you that I’m taking a nap and ready for you, now, Ô bony one. ”

Well, congratulations my big tarred fool!! I applaud myself with my lovely yellowed fingers!

This awareness makes me yearn to abandon tobacco like a toxic friend. For real, this time… I want to kiss life on the mouth without that zest of ammonia and arsenic on my tongue. I deserve to breathe what I time I have left without wheezing, rosy all over.

In this instance, quitting is for winners. Let’s quit while I’m ahead.

Know that I am writing these lines sucking on what I hope is my last cigarette.

And she tastes so, so good…

Descending the gonads.



Doubt is the Denver boot of ambition. It’s the ALS of creativity. It makes us stumble, arms stretched out, in the darkness of our psyche. It makes us miss all kinds of golden opportunities, too busy crapping our pants with fear.

I doubt everything. God, the stove burners, myself and all the others. I would love to have great confidence. Some James Bond in the trust of my jaw, some Tina Fey in my hop.  Making finger guns to the suits. Banging the doors down and horning in: “You didn’t know you were waiting for me, but here I am, you lucky bastards! » Surely, I would have had a career, instead of living in a matchbox, wondering where my next paycheck will come from.

Not only have I hesitated to hand out a resume or a business card, I’ve held a chloroform rag on the mouth of my internal cheerleaders. I worked here and there, surfing my good and bad fortune, unsure of my value. I appeared as an outlandish Valkyrie with the language of a cheap barmaid but inside I tormented: “Isschhhh, hoooo, humm, no, I … I don’t know … what if? Look out!! «And when I was told «No», I shook my head «OK» and, without protesting, got back home with my self-esteem as beaten up as Rihanna’s face circa 2009.

Just this blog alone: for all the “You go, girl!! » I cling to the “Too personal, vulgar and weird”.  And at that moment, I knead my heart; question myself, confused and dubious. Do I make people uneasy? Should I change my style? Is it more important to please everyone or attract a sliver of true fans? Finally, the God damn stove burners, are they off or what?

So now, I’ve been rebuilding my dim-witted ego for more than a year and I’m breaking free from creativity brakes. Instead, I jump, bungee style, with open arms and cheeks flapping in the wind. Fuck iiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttttt !! I’m awesoooooome!!

Yes, I know that I may crash with a big thud. But, the hell with it. I write like no one and that’s amazing. Not for everyone, but amazinggazingazing! I am aware that I incur the odds of falling flat and bleeding from my teeth, but what if some fellows find the flying crazy woman funny and interesting?

Without becoming arrogant, it’s essential to be bold if we want to survive blandness. What joy do you get from staying in comfort zones? Conforming to safety never gives anything as good as a walk on the razor’s edge.

I no longer want to assume the worst and refuse myself the possibility of the best. So I printed this thought on the picture of a sunrise written in Monotype Corsiva font and I pinned it above my bed. I grabbed my confidence, rolled it up in a bunch in my panties and I’m practicing walking as if I had balls of steel. My testies are descending and my self-worth is rising.

When I’ll accost influential people that impress me with: «Hey, champ! Gotta job for your humble scribe? », I’ll stop. ‘Till then… «Gonads! Go!»

Setting low resolutions.


As usual, we end the year with excesses of all kinds, chanting to ourselves “New Year, new me!”

Finally, we push the first day of the rest of our life after Epiphany. Why, with the hangovers still fresh in the mind of our liver and all, it’s better to have a little drink to rebalance our enzymes.  You know? Health wise?

Since there’s still some leftovers such as sugar pie in the fridge, might as well finish it all, to remove any temptation before we start our detox. Also, perhaps, we should have a nap instead of going snowshoeing as planed…

And that’s how we begin the second week of the January: already disappointed in our lack of will power.

Many pretend that they never take resolutions. What a bunch of bull… We all yearn for an improved, revamped and optimized version of ourselves. And it is often when the ball drops in Time Square that we get things in motion. Or not. Here’s the pickle.

We throw the previous year like a whore we balled and that eventually bored and betrayed us. We welcome the coming year as if it was the woman of our lives, as if she wasn’t going to be a bitch like all the others.

We’ll want to reshape our bodies, parting with 600 bucks for a gym membership, forgetting that, soon, it’ll be minus 20 and we won’t even go out to put the trash on the curb.

We will vow to stop biting our nails, but the slings and arrows and taxes of outrageous fortune gives us ripped cuticles to our elbows.

We’ll commit to be nicer to others and less negative, but people keep acting like fools who deserve no less than a kick in the shin, come on, they’re asking for it, God damn retards.

In other words, we begin the year guzzling kale-ginger juice and finish it gargling with Jägermeister…

In 2007, a study by Richard Wiseman from the University of Bristol found that 88% of New Year resolutions failed. Yes, I got that from Wikipedia. It’s reliable. Give me a break.

What if we are putting the bar too high? Why want to change? Why set ourselves almost inevitably for failure? This self-shaming, this torment is a real waste of time and happiness!

Why not reduce our resolutions to the simplest and lowest? “This year, I’ll do what I can. I hope to make good choices as often as possible. ”

365 days after, maybe we won’t have shed all the pounds or completely quit smoking or kicked our compulsiveness to play online, but I’d bet that we’ll be much more serene about the unattainable perfection of being.

And if you disagree, just do it. Stop eating meat or swearing or going to bed late. I wish you good luck with that. We’ll talk in six months, okay? To see how’s that going.