mas que nada.

My ma has this friend who cures sick people for a living. She's as sweet as glazed apples, but sweetness doesn't get you picked first for teams in dreaded high school PE class. Only a few months back, she jumped on the pastime called exercise, as her outlet for the lemons life decided to throw in her direction.

She finished a biathlon last weekend - 8km of running, 37km of biking & 4km of running. To the mathematician, that's 49kms of achey limbs. To the majority of the population, that's tough shit.

Once I put my jaw back in its place & set my astonishment aside, I have to announce that I have absolutely no excuse for not accomplishing so much more in terms of fitness. I am nineteen, & yes, I am a far cry from the lazy armchair-fixture I used to be. But I am meant to be at the pinnacle of my health, at the prime of my fitness(!) but all I am is actually just pwned by a forty-something, who only started training a few months ago. Needless to say, I am absolutely inspired to get this arse into gear.

I know I've been mercilessly recycling the 'fitness' theme on this blog, & I'm sorry! I must sound like the most broken of records, the most boring of classes on plumbing-for-stone-cottages!

But the reason I am so obsessed with conquering this fitness thing stems largely from years of childhood trauma... & perhaps the time calls for an anecdote:

In freshman year (yr 9) of my living in Ohio days, I looked forward to PE class as much as boys look forward to castration. I'd get picked 2nd to last for teams, & I'd routinely get two strikes in baseball & then get pelted in the breasticles by the very fast, very painful ball. Any team losses, because of dropped balls & missed hits were most often on my behalf. It goes without saying that PE was definitely a fruitful time in the shaping of my self-esteem. That, & I was also an absolute babe.

Now, one fateful day, we made our way to the track field. Had I any notion of imaginative thinking at that point, I may have said that our breathing foretold that of cattle being led for slaughter. We were told that participating in a run was mandatory, failure to do so would mean an F for the semester, & that the sign-up sheet was on the table. I spent the next few minutes telling the coach that I should be exempt because of my asthma. She asked if I had a medical certificate or even a puffer, & the answer was 'no' on both accounts. So with an air of defeat, I had to run for the sake of my life. Being an extreme babe, my 'life' was essentially my 'grade'.

Now, what I didn't realise was that there were varying degrees of runs on the sign-up sheet. The least of all evils was the 100m sprint. In hindsight, I think I could have done that. However, having spent prior minutes convincing the teacher of my blatant inability to run, I missed out on the lesser evils. By the time I got to the sign-up sheet, ALL THAT WAS LEFT WAS THE 2KM RUN. /fmylife

You have to understand that gruelling & fulfilling exercise to me was equivalent to flailing my arms for three minutes, holding weights also known as Campbell's soupcans, or walking from my chair to the fridge for another bowl of ice-cream. (No lie.) That day, I was the sorriest sack of shit on that field, gasping for air like the ugliest of fish & clutching my guts like a woman in labour. To this day, the shame still haunts me during the stillest of nights. I went home that day & told my mother I demanded a medical certificate for my asthma. She laughed at me & asked what made me think I had asthma. As it turns out, my shortness of breath was not actually asthma, but terrible fitness levels & possibly blocked arteries. The most shameful part is I was actually convinced I had asthma.

So there, context.

This is why I am now obsessed with fitness & strength. This is my penance & apology to my twelve year old self for ever letting her be exposed to that sort of trauma. On that note, I told my dad the other day of my desire to do parkour, & his response was a fat resounding laugh. Thank you, papa, I totally feel the faith!

(But I'm absolutely serious about working on my mental & physical discipline required for parkour. For the past week or so, I've been doing pushups, planks & hovers before letting the head hit the bed. Any of you fit kids out there have tips for core-strengthening exercises? Throw them my way, por favor!)

& on an absolutely unrelated note, I was going through my @replies on twitter, & I saw so many I had missed from when they were sent! I don't know if this was a twitter glitch or just my bad eyesight, but I was a little miffed for not having seen them when they were sent. Case in point:


ciao lovelies.

i submitted this post without a title or tags

This morning, I had every intention of throwing around words about a new fascination of mine, until I was rear-ended by another car, & decided, that perhaps a shift in today's blog content would be appropriate. When I say 'I was rear-ended', it is not actually my dramatically bad use of metaphor coming into play, I meant it in the absolute literal sense of ZOMG MY CAR GOT HIT.

If my car could talk, I think she'd say that she's not too fond of the homo-erotic experience. I may be a little presumptuous to say that she probably doesn't appreciate it up the arse, but that is her business!

So tomorrow, I have the gleeful task of attaining a repairs quote & taking a poor soul's money.

What I had initially intended to blog about was how the $2 markup on asparagus is taking a decisive toll on my quality of life. Really? No, not really.

Parkour has recently been brought to my attention like the fact that test-tube babies aren't actually grown in petri-dishes has recently been brought to my attention. & BY GOSH, I am utterly fascinated by parkour & harbouring the resolve to learn. DEAR AGILITY OF MINE, GOOD FREAKING LUCK.

But I insist on you watching the following youtube clip featuring David Belle, who is largely credited for founding parkour. Not only did the video get a chortle out of this esophagus, but Mr. Belle is also quite easy on the eyes. By 'quite easy on the eyes', I might actually mean 'absolutely delicious'. Now, watch:

I think what makes parkour so appealing to me is the extent of discipline required of mind & body, & hot damn would I like some! Not to mention, I might actually have something more credible than my overworked 'I can do origami' catchphrase when faced with an assailant in a dark alleyway or the underside of a bus.

I did say that a driving theme of 2009 is fitness, & while I am quite proud of my dedication thus far, I feel like I'm hitting a plateau in terms of its physical manifestation. Or maybe it's just the fact that I can't reconcile my desire t0 look fit with my desire to stay in kahoots with my first love, which inevitably happens to be food & its constant consumption! Ay, Dios Mio, I don't know. But I do know that parkour is sexy, & I want in.

I have papers to write & ups to push, so my disappearance starts now!

checking in

It has come to my attention that:
a) This blog has undergone some serious neglect like Jessica Simpson's torso, &
b) I would like to make an apology to Jessica Simpson for crafting analogies at the expense of her weight & possibly self-esteem. I will have consolation in the fact that she will never read this.

Now, if you are of the Nikki Malvar variety, this post may be relevant as a documented archive of recent thoughts & occurrences. If you are not of the Nikki Malvar variety, however, this post may be as useful to you as a dead fly in your expensive lobster bisque.

So here, things & stuff:

1) I watched Coldplay & they were phenomenal. To make further comment would be a grievous understatement of their performance, & would be an injustice (almost) worse than poverty!

2) In the past two weeks, I have consumed more cereal than in my whole life combined. Why? Because I hate cereal with as much hate as tastebuds can muster, & I have been clinging to this very idea for the past nineteen years... Up until my ma introduced me to the sexual revolution that is Sanitarium's 'Light N Easy'! (Hot damn, product placement! :-O)

3) I think Rihanna is an idiot. The previous sentiment has been slashed out after considering the uproar that might possibly have ensued for its lack of tact. I have instead decided to say, "I think Rihanna needs to get the hell on out of that relationshit with Chris BrownBlackNBluiser". I realise I don't know these people personally, & frankly never will. I realise that there is emotional investment & a previous history, I realise this, I do. But Rihanna dear, aside from domestic violence as being, you know, illegal, the fact that he hurts you is demonstrative of his disrespect. The fact that you stay for this kind of treatment is indicative of your own lack of self-respect. Walking away is undobtedly difficult, but you are worth more than sticking around to be the black, blue & red paint of some retarded artist's canvas.

I don't even like you, Rihanna, but I am willing to teach you a thing or two about the Japanese art of Origami. & a little side of roundhouse kicks & uppercuts.

4) I have a small bruise on my left thigh, also from my favourite lover. Incidentally, I will not be taking my own advice because it is with firm resolve that I will stay in this physically-driven affair. FITNESS FIRST, I STILL LOVE YOU DESPITE THE FACT THAT I WALK INTO YOUR EQUIPMENT ON ACCOUNT OF I AM CLUMSY.

5) I cook a damn good mushroom risotto. Future husbands of mine ought to be fond of carbohydrates because risotto is the only damn good thing I can make, aside from the occasional microwaveable canned soup.

6) My recent guilty pleasure has taken shape as Katy Perry. My musical sensibilities dictate that I can only like the Debussys & the Chris Cornells of the world! But oh sweet Jesus, the infectious pop has found a place in my heart, like heroin in the bloodstream! Like undigested gum in the bowels! YERRR LIKE IN AN INDIANNN SUMMAAAR IN THA MIDDAL OF WINTAAAAR!

7) My mother's Caesar salad is delicious. If I had a Caesar salad rank board, it totally sits in the top ten . Also, I may have tasted maybe all of eight Caesar salads in my life. Delicious, I say!

8) I am entirely frustrated with university & everything associated with academic responsibility. Each subsequent journalism class I attend just confirms how this is not the profession I want to enter. It's hard news, straight-cut reporting & chasing the important kahoonas for their two cents worth, & I am a lady of embellishments &, at best, a trembling sack of shit. I'm in my final year, & at the end of this year, I will have a degree in Communications, which hopefully I will not need to use. Come on artistic breakthroughs, come to mama! I am terrified of the big bad world of post-studies employment. The recession isn't doing much to appease this weary heart either.

Oh dear.


three-hundred-sixty-five days of vanity, coming right up.


One large child in leotards & zebra-printed stockings. Can be seen attempting to curl into foetal position, but fails miserably because her flexibility is as awesome as a ham & cheese sandwich without the ham or the cheese.

The large child speaks little sense on most occasions & is in constant pursuit of edible things like chocolate, mushroom risotto & notebook paper.

If you look like any (or both!) of the handsome responsible men below, please claim your specie-confused child immediately. Thank you.

I spent a portion of the day writing a song, WITH WHICH I AM MOST DISPLEASED.
It's a novelty song, but melodically sounds...serious. Ugh. If I try to pass it off as a normal song though, the weirdness of the lyrics is as conspicuous as my pantylines in white pants! Oh disparity, why must you be so unkind to me?!

That, & I have a terrible case of writer's block. There's a (short) story in my head with emotions as lovely as understated cocktail dresses, characters with longings matched only by the lack of expectation, & oh dear I have no words. Every day I don't write this, I forget something about the smiles that accompany the dialogue or the terrible impatience of self-control. I forget, I forget, I forget.

Sorry, I get emotionally erratic when my art refuses to take shape. Grr.

Anyway, to part, I leave with an image from a photo-meme I was working on, which I probably wont complete on account of it being very tedious. But here:

19. A picture of you with someone you love
: :D

Oh, in response to SuperJV's comment from previous blog post - No, I will not be putting my written work back up on the net. I took them down because I found some of my work plagiarised, & I don't want to risk it again. I'm sorry. It's a shame though, I always loved hearing the feedback on my literature. But c'est la vie, eh?

Foux De Fa Fa!