We've Got Bigger Problems in North Carolina

Dear Politically Enamoured,

Yesterday I lost all respect for North Carolina.

To be more specific though (because blanketing generalities are always a slippery slope), I've lost respect for those who supported the Amendment One that defines marriage as a union between a man and woman. Not only does it discriminate against certain sectors of the public, it devalues the force that motivates people to come together and to get married in the first place: the love of another person. Some of the arguments put forth by the opposition have been regarding the "sanctity of marriage" or the "natural way of living", ideas wrought with religious undertones.

Firstly, the sanctity of marriage can, and has, been destroyed by straight couples before and probably will continue to be ravaged until the end of time unless we come up with a better system of keeping tabs on spouses. On top of that, there are individuals throughout history who have felt an obligation to marry the opposite sex because of societal values, and have left their heterosexual partner in shambles because they finally had the courage to accept their sexual identity. Wouldn't it be advantageous for the majority if everyone could be open about sexuality, so that such relationship misunderstandings could be avoided? Besides, wouldn't the sanctity of marriage refer to the fidelity of one individual to another? If a person is not even being honest with himself, the probability that he would be true in a relationship is slim to none because he would never fully be honest with his partner.

Secondly, the nature of things is to evolve. We no longer use our flight or fight response to flee from rabid wildlife (once again, there are always exceptions), but instead are plagued by adrenaline when public speaking. ANIMALS are homosexual: mammals, sea creatures and insects have all displayed homosexual behavior. Why then are we using the argument that nature did not intend for same-sex marriage? Aerodynamics did not intend for bumble bees to fly, yet nature has allowed them to.

To be honest, I respect the public's right to practice a religion and to posses religious values or views, but cannot respect someone's decision to force those upon others, especially when God is used to justify a law. One of my absolute favorite people is a devout Catholic, but also has a different gender identity and is a lesbian. Her response was "If you think that it's impossible to be gay and a Catholic, then you obviously are not a Catholic". An opinion that I think screams "Northerner", and calls for respect in times of debate. Love is a human right, in whatever form it manifests itself. 

Anyway, I'm glad to hear that Obama thinks there are bigger problems in North Carolina than people falling in love.

Love more everyday, in every way,

arctic hipster

  

A Post Written in Cautious Tones

Dear Claustrophobic,

This morning the walls began closing in on me; I was afraid I'd be encased by plaster.

Everything about my family, my high school, my friends is so achingly familiar that the word "home" has taken an extended meaning. The cracked side walk where I used to stop to collect pieces of concrete while walking with my mother as a child, is home. The back table of Tim Horton's beside the window, where we teenage hooligans talk far too loudly and stay far too long, is home. My friends copy of The Poisonwood Bible on the bookshelf across from my bed, a novel I have yet to read but at which I gaze softly at as I fall asleep, is home.

The issue at hand is that I am so accustomed to living like this, that I'm terrified of becoming a rare tropical bird who's niche is ripped away from her when I go to university; I don't want to flutter and flounder as a student only to try to fly my way home to a place that no longer exists. Let me explain: as much as I could possibly want to return to "home", it is a temporal destination. Were I to stay here next year, the aspects that make home great would not be the same. My friends would be working or at university, I would not be at school enjoying a first period spare, and I probably would feel very, very lonely.

Perhaps that's why leaving home is such a touchy subject for me right now. My family will always be supportive, and friends will come and go but the great ones will always stay, but well, I don't know who I will be when I come home.

So this morning I felt cornered by the realization that I would be losing my room to my brother next year, but mostly by the fact that even my physical definition of home is changing.

Home is where the heart is,

arctic hipster

In Memory of an Adolescent Chemist

Dear Lovelies,

Last night I wrote a response to an acquaintance's poem about my friend.

Two years ago a close friend of mine (who's nickname is that of an ancient city's), was subjected to a wannabe intellectual's affections. Not only did he rip her heart out, he posted various verses- fumbled and mostly written using inaccurate chemistry metaphors- about her over Facebook. Classy right? Of course I'm probably hypocritical because I'm ranting into the blogshpere, but thought it important make a witty retort. To be honest, she just laughs about the episode now and began snorting with laughter when I brought this to her attention. After all, he tried comparing her to an electron. Enjoy.

In Memory of an Adolescent Chemist

An oracle compacted into 35 Mega Bytes

Lights up an unsuspecting Muse's

Distorted grin:

The truth of a common disease contacted the masses

Through a Modern-Day-Miracle.

The only symptoms? Infectious laughter,

Swollen, weepy eyes

And russet cheeks that glimmer with fresh, joyful tears.

The Adolescent Chemist has made a discovery

Explored the perilous depths of teenage biology.

For years he has been

Proclaiming unmatched successes

Aided by the Modern-Day-Miracle.

This moment he has deconstructed

A fifteen-year-old-girl's heart,

Rummaging in it's contents and reducing

The Life to protons and electrons

Arranging these pieces in fumbled

Sci-Artful verse.

He is caught under the impression

That this muse is blinded by electronic

Fluorescent lights.

Miracles happen to those who believe in them.

As the non-chalant, over confident

Perpetually condescending

Chemist, decodes her ever changing Hormones, in clumsy language,

The Muse gingerly shuts off her laptop,

Moves past the marvels of innovation

To look out the window.

A mysterious smile plays on her lips,

As she thinks to herself, as it should be,

"He only ever wanted me for my pheromones".

Much love,

arctic hipster

Long Exposure Photography Gone Wild

Dear Crazy Cat Ladies (and Gentlemen),

Today, we can rejoice.

After spending a couple classes being incredibly productive Red and I have created this lovely long exposure image:

Why yes, we did in fact spell "CAT" using flashlights as well as a laser pointer.  Although you may be fooled into thinking this is a merely a waste of time, I assure you this masterpiece will reshape the general public perception of felines around the world. Basically Red and I just really like cats. They are finicky and bossy and all around grumpy, which makes them kind of hilarious. Where dogs are trained to serve and seek fulfilment through the satisfaction of their owners, cats have their own agendas and develop complicated personalities. Besides, cats are very similar to hipsters.

Recent events have only reinforced the idea that living alone with several cats is probably more satisfying than ever getting married, especially because I'm becoming an incredibly invested feminist. However, this does not detract from my dream to wreck a wedding dress and take wicked pictures. But I suppose that can be done without the hassle of finding a husband.                                                         Perhaps Red and I will be crazy cat ladies together, after all she seems to be pretty excited about it.

Meow,

arctic hipster

"We Teach Life, Sir"

Dear Politically Driven Artists,

Last night this woman changed the way I see art.

Rafeef Ziadah is "an Arab woman of color" who's poetry puts Keats to shame. Yesterday at rehearsal the cast began bantering back and forth about different political issues, mainly about political videos. Basically we're all incredibly opinionated about the way Canada is run and all happen to regularly research global happenings, so when I-man brought out her lap top and offered to show us a short video she thought was interesting, nothing was out of the ordinary. However, when we had finished watching Rafeef Ziadah pour out her heart and brandish her anger like an Arabian curved sword, it was possible to hear a pin drop in the rehearsal space.

It's nearly impossible to fully understand the conflict between Israel and Palestine, but listening to her for a moment sure makes you want to protest. Poetry is an emotionally charged medium to get a message across without wasting a single word, making it an incredibly effective way to get a message across. Rafeef is a Palestinian Refugee who harnesses her anger through poetry, an admirable feat considering English is not her first language. As she admits herself during a performance in Toronto, "When we Palestinians get really tired we pronounce our "P"s like our "B"s, and we become Balestinians". Her accent does not hinder the power of her words though, as she also speaks in Arabic on Hadeel, her debut poetry album.

Refeef's passion was what really hit me. As we sat in silence awestruck by this stranger on the computer screen, all I could think of was "that's what art is suppose to do, that's why we have art".

This angry poet's performances can be found on YouTube, but I highly encourage you to by her album.

In the words of Refeef, "We Teach Life, Sir" through art.

arctic hipster

We laughed. We Sang. We Recorded.

Dear Avid Artists,

Today I've become a recorded sensation!

Obviously I'm exaggerating, but there was a need to add some enthusiastic punctuation into this post and well, that statement basically wrote itself. However, there is some truth to it. Arctic Asian (I know that as you read this you'll probably double over from laughter, so it is in no shape of form meant to be a racist joke), who happens to be a multi talented musician, was unlucky enough to be strumming her guitar in the hallways when I was walking to class about half a year ago. She was singing "Swing Life Away" in a style that was so honest, so incredibly heart felt, that I stopped dead in my tracks. She laughed at me, and that's how we became friends.

Back to becoming the next Justin Beibs though. What possessed us to start this project is beyond me, but we are creating a Film Fest video with Red (another crazy talented accomplice, who probably has more sense that A.A. and I combined), which will include an original sound track. Note that the usage of "Original" is somewhat loose, because we are in fact doing a cover of "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver and Birdy. Our interpretation in definitely unique though; we are using a program on Red's Mac book to layer our voices, an acoustic guitar and a piano. We finally began recording the raw material today after many weeks of rehearsing, which was terrifying. The expression "Liking the sound of your own voice" is false, at least for me. Basically Red won't allow us to listen to the raw material or we'd spend days re-recording in the hopes of achieving perfection.

I'll post the finished product in a couple weeks.

Stay Tuned!

Arctic Hipster

The Dog In The Wig

Dear Suckers for Sob Stories,


This afternoon you're in luck.


It's about time for some motivation posting, considering the last couple—although illuminating important issues, providing emotional release etc.— have been incredible downers. I don't try to be a party pooper, really, just sometimes I have random bouts of profound reflexion and thus feel an unconditional need to share them with the general public. 


Anyways back to why you're lucky!  When you imagine "Sob Stories" you probably have a mental picture of that scene from the Notebook where that really sweet, sensitive, completely misunderstood guy kisses What's-Her-Face and they are drenched in rain which is a metaphor for their drowning in emotions, but really a storm of emotions, and you are crying because it's so beautiful and for some reason her hair is perfect and you kinda want to kick What's-Her-Face in the face because of that, especially because your face is blotchy but also because she's kinda stupid for taking him for granted, then again it might be  because you sort of are in love with the soaking What's-His-Name.... you get where I'm going with this?

When I think Sob Story though, I imagine crying from laughter. You know that gut busting, red faced, wheezing from lack of air laughter? Yeah, that's what's about to go down so mentally prepare yourself to die from laughter. 

Look at this Panda! He is having a bad day. Next time you're having a bad day visualize this incredibly sad Mr. Panda, simply attempting to slide, then BAM! Sad day for him, laughter for us. 

 See this person helplessly floundering in the deep snow? Notice that her leg is still resting on the fence, while her arms are flailing. However, what truly marks this picture is the fact that the photographer is leaning over the fence to capture the moment, not to assist thevictim.  

AHAHAHAHA! You know who this dog looks like? A George Harrison from the Beatles. Or perhaps a news reporter, or a pilot from the 70s... oh the possibilities are endless. However, this picture will forever be hilarious, no matter the era. Oh Dog In The Wig, you have brought me endless happiness.
"Poor hopeless sucker struggling in the snow, say cheese!"   

We can only imagine what must have taken place once she was liberated from the frozen sand trap. Heh he.                                                                                                

"Happiness hit her like train on a track....
        Oh the Dog Days are over...."


Love arctic hipster
       

Because Shit is Empowering

Warning: This post contains profanities (used with creative license of course), for effect and are not intended to offend. 

Dear Exhausted, Fed-Up, Tired, Internet Junkie,


Do you ever get to that point when you're so utterly overwhelmed by emotions, whether it's anger or compassion or grief, that you no longer feel the ability to voice them?


I'm taking part in this year's V-Day North production of the Vagina Monologues and seem to be experiencing a hell of a lot of those types of moments. The subject matter right off the bat hits heart: The production is aimed at breaking the silence surrounding rape, battery and violence against women. Every monologue illuminates an injustice and a struggle, great or small, that affects a multitude of people, not just women. One in particular that comes to mind involves a brother trying to protect his sister from dishonoring her family (ie: sleeping with her lover before marriage), providing a social commentary on the honor killings that frequently take place in Eastern countries such as India. The murders are an attempt to eliminate the "shame" that an unchaste daughter would bring upon her family name, but most cases involve rape victims. In Canada, we've seen cases such as the Shafia family come to justice, but this is not the case in the rest of the world.


It is difficult to process one monologue by itself—the pain, the triumph, the social implications—but listening to 18 others can break your heart. However, the heaviness of the context is contrasted by the liveliness of the cast. To be honest I was completely caught off guard when the cast began talking about how vaginas are actually shaped like Penne and vulvas were shaped like shell pasta (while eating shell pasta). Not that I come from a conservative home, but conversations about gentitels don't generally happen on a regular basis. And then the SWEARING. It's funny though,  I felt so ashamed and uncomfortable, as though I had done something wrong even though I was not the one who was yelling "fuck" or "Clitoris". 


Then I let go. I stopped associating the words with negative feelings, with negative meanings. Why not be proud? Why let words reduce me, belittle me, own me? I'm a writer after all and should know the power associated with words. 


This afternoon I came home, feeling deeply saddened after rehearsal.


So I swore and I swore and I swore and I swore.

arctic hipster

Sunshine Spray

Dear Procrastinators and "Night-Before-Essay-Artists",

Monday just happens to be the perfect day to avoid all forms of work.

The air is frigid, my head is heavy with sleep and thoughts of endless to-do lists. It's February, a month supposedly filled with romance and mutual warmth, but which is more so marked by report cards and diploma results. Truly, I should be working on my sentence structure and balancing chemistry equations. The two subjects seem to be combining though, as asyndeton sounds like a molecular structure ("the omission of conjunctions that ordinarily join coordinate words and phrases" source: Terms for Advanced Placement English Exams), and the rules regarding the combination of pure elements resembles those surrounding syntax.

If you've managed to read those last sentences without yawning, your energy should be bottled and distributed among the general public. What an idea! We could call it "Sunshine Spray", a product that increases serotonin levels in the brain therefore better mood. It could be used like hair spray, absorbing into the hair follicles straight to the scalp and into the cranium. Because it would be a hormone, it'd have to go to the medulla before being distributed throughout the body.

Can you tell I'm tired?


Hope you find your own "Sunshine" today,

arctic hipster

Stealing the Fame: Lady Gaga in a Parka

Dear International Readers,

I may possibly be famous in your country.

Every year for the past five years the Funky Fairies have been helping to win the fight against cancer. We host bake sales, go door to door and look for other creative ways to raise money for the Relay for Life. Our total was $13,000 last year, with a grand total of $34,000 since 2008. Every member of our team has been affected by cancer in some way, but last year we took the cause even closer to our hearts. One of our friends and team member, a fifteen year old, had been diagnosed with throat cancer.

Not only was she forced to move in order to receive treatment, she would not be able to attend the Relay for Life. It is incredibly difficult to imagine the hardships she had to endure, especially so far away from the support of her friends. But she triumphed,recovered and celebrated: In a year she was cancer free.

Our entire team was disappointed to not have our friend with us, but felt in our hearts the importance of the Relay. She motivated us to double our fundraising goal.

The afternoon before the Relay our team was interviewed. We were asked why we participated, and half way through a teary eyed answer about our recovering friend she walked out from behind the news van.

The result? Sobbing, screaming teenage girls appearing on an episode of "Ice Pilots". The volunteers from the Relay helped bring up our friend and the producers of the hit show flew up her parents. Needless to say we were eternally grateful.

Therefore, the Funky Fairies are famous in foreign countries.

Basically, I'm like Lady Gaga but in a Parka.

Born This Way,

arctic hipster

P.s. Very much appreciating all the page views from Russia!

"Why Don't You be the Writer, and Decide the Words I say..."

Dear Serious Sonneteers,

Do you ever reach a point where there's no more "up" from here?

It's almost like you've been climbing a mountain. You've prepared yourself for months, conditioning your body to handle the challenging elements so you can face any obstacle head on. You are proud of each step even if it may be misplaced, because you are still moving towards a goal. You push forward despite the looming possibility of failure. You fight against doubt. Simply imagining the top is enough to boost your morale.

And then you reach it, the idolized precipice. It surpasses your expectations, satisfies a dream tucked profoundly within the folds of your heart. Not only have you made it, you've proved to yourself that you are capable of something great.

Yet, another thought soon consumes you. Without a goal, without anymore rock to climb, there is only one direction to go. What a horrible realization that no matter how much you've labored to climb, you will at some point have to stumble back down. From that point on, the feat doesn't seem as significant. You are a person who has climbed a mountain, but who's world is slowly falling to pieces.

I am a person who has climbed a mountain and is waiting to tumble back to earth. Ellie Golding seems to understand my predicament, or at least listening to her song "The Writer" is causing me to have delusions of sympathetic singers. Anyways, it's been a rough week and I'm starting to doubt the significance of success. Hopefully you're in a better mind set.

Please post some sunshine soon,

arctic hipster

P.s. Kudos to any of you who noticed the new font.

Breakfast Dance Party

Dear Dancing Manics,

This morning Student Council helped wake up a bunch of stressed out teenagers.

For the last couple years the council has been serving cereal, fruit and yogurt during exam week to "feed young brains". The program is pretty successful considering the majority of high school aged students have a tendency to sleep in, rushing to school without having eaten breakfast. Not only does skipping a meal slow brain function, it also can drastically affect mood. High School students' bodies are already running rampant with hormones that cause them to lose concentration on normal lessons, not to mention we have the attention spans of nats. However, we still become engulfed by various education experiences, although not academic. For example "How To Text While Having Eyes Remain on the Board", "The Effects of Red Bull and Monday Mornings" and my personal favorite, "How to conjure the Correct Answer When a Teacher Singles You Out for Clearly Being Stuck in La la Land". From a teacher stand point, the odds are already stacked against students when it comes to school and a lack of food only worsens the situation. 

Lack of food + Stressed out Teenager = Incredibly Difficult Exam. 

To relieve some of the tension in the school this morning, my friend and I suited up in complete 80's aerobics wear and blasted some dance music. Not only did the crazy costumes attract students to the food table, but they also caused some giggling. Between the two of us we had sparkly safety orange head bands, two pairs of bright purple tights, teal body suits and some rad rasta fire sneakers. The atmosphere was incredibly lightened compared to  a typical exam morning. My friend and I were dancing while dishing up cheerios and milk, kids were shyly grooving as they moved towards the gym, and teachers were bopping as they passed our table. A real breakfast dance party to sneak in a bit of fun before taking a desk in the gym. 

Well... we had fun at least. Perhaps not everyone was as pumped as we were, but you have to admit it'd probably would make the exam seem a lot less scary when there are two eccentric girls wearing fluorescent outfits offering you cereal bars. Besides, spandex in the morning is great way to start your day!

Dance, even if you're by yourself,

Arctic Hipster

"I Want You to Read This Essay Between Now and When You Die"

Dear Sunset Watchers and Final Moment Gawkers,


Today was a day of lasts. 


It's the final day of the semester, evoking some contradicting emotions. This morning our entire Senior Drama class arrived fifteen minutes early, knowing full well our director would be late. We may have pretended to expect the Black Box door to swing open at any moment, but all any of us really wanted was to was to be together for one last time. Slouched against the entrance to the drama room chatting about things that didnt' really matter, leaning against one another and smiling despite being completely exhausted, holding hands as couples, but also just as friends. We were the image of familiarity. 


The past couple months have knotted our heart strings together by a single thread, a profound love of drama. Had it not been for drama I wouldn't have known some of my best friends. We would probably have seen each other in the halls but never cared, never took the time to become friends. I can honestly say that I love my cast unconditionally and would drop everything to help any one of them who needed it. I also know that they would do the same for me. We have been together through thick and thin. The day of the plane crash in Old Towne, the nights we got standing ovations. 


But today was our final class as a cast, and not without some tears. Our Director revealed to us that he enjoyed our cast the most in his last ten years of teaching, which is saying a lot considering he taught Dustin Milligan. Sharpies in hand we signed each other's cast t-shirts and joked that if anyone got famous we'd all get rich. However, I can't imagine ever selling mine because of the sentiment attached to it. Family relics come to mind, and I'm sure my grand children will laughingly appreciate "That Strange T-Shirt of Gramma's".

The other last today included the last cupcakes raffled off in French and an interesting last text in English. Our teacher left us with an essay by Mordecai Richler titled "1944: The Year I Learned to Love a German". The author is Jewish firstly, and in context 1944 would be a year many Jewish children learned to hate Germans for what they had done to their people. Our teacher explained that he had given it to us because he wanted us to understand the impact of literature, finishing his lecture with "I want you to read this essay between now and when you die". The impact of the statement startled me not only because of the directness in which he had said it, but also the implications. He wanted us to read the essay because it would make us better people, because reading is important. 

There are a lot of reasons to do things that are not required. From spending a couple extra minutes outside a drama room door, to reading an essay about a Jewish man falling in love with a book of German Origins, we may do things because in some way we feel the need to finish them. Drama is over, but I don't think any of us would have accepted it without our non-verbal good byes this morning. 


And well, I probably could not live the rest of my life with an unread essay on my desk.


May you finish what you start, no matter how hard it is.


Arctic Hipster

The Ultimate Five Minute Blog Post

Dear Readers Who "Just Don't Have Time" Today,

You're in luck because this is going to be a fairly straightforward and compact post. 

Life has been moving quickly: Finished two three hour mental marathons (a.k.a. Departmental exams) thus my creativity has been temporally maimed, "Hamlet: Zombie Killer of Denmark" runs tonight in the blackbox theater and someone you may recognize is definitely running the light board, and Baby Brother Hipster has become Teen-Hipster making him fit the JB haircut even more.

In other news, there have been nice days weather wise (However,  I say this relatively, because up here -25 is pretty nice). The sun has decided to grace us with her presence, and so she deserves to be documented. We are gradually seeing more light, and those couple extra minutes make a difference indeed. It's hard to function when it feels as though everything is blanketed in darkness. Paired with the cold, the lack of light affects can cause the world to look more lonely than it actually is. The social climate changes with the time of year here. Although the continuous night allows for viewing of the aurora, it can drastically change a person's mood. 

So much for being straightforward!

"I wanna light up the sky, Light it up for you...."

Arctic Hipster

Dear Marker, Please be Nice to my Soul.

Dear Alberta Education Marker,

Tomorrow all of us English 30-1 Students are going to be submitting a correctly formatted piece of our souls for evaluation.

Perhaps you don't see the three hour exam for the monster it is because you have already paid your high school and university dues. However, you too are affected by the emotional destruction caused by diploma exams: you have become desensitised. It will not occur while reading dozens of essays and personal responses that in your hands you hold the entire future of a student.

Every university requires English 30 as a prerequisite. But that will not matter. All that does is the use of proper grammar and appropriate choice of literature details. When I open up the darkest part of myself to demonstrate my understanding of a text, you will not be seeing it with empathy but as the result of literary devices used to create mood.

While I write I shall pry apart my ribcage and allow the words to flow out in the rhythm of a heart beat. I will use figurative language to persuade you to think I'm smart. I will mention specific details that will impress you, but only in a distant way, because to you I am words on a page. Little do you know my guts are spread on the pages you read. But you don't know me, and you don't know what I'm capable of. You don't expect a northern girl to kick your exam's ass. You will see my paper as a number, mark it with an unfeeling hand only to throw it back into a pile of a hundred others.

Writing is ripping out bits of ourselves then trying to make sense of it on paper. Under what circumstance should this be allowed in a system that is suppose to teach children about the merits of literature? All that results of a English Diploma exams are overtired, stressed teenagers who are bleeding on the inside from pouring the continence of their hearts into a paper that might only get them a sixty. How is it possible to submit students to emotional warfare, then have educators wonder why kids drop out of high school?

It is unfair and immoral to force someone to relive a moment of "great loss", then to ask them to structure it so that strangers can deem their experiences "pertinent to the topic". Art is subjective, and reflects the creator no matter how analytical the piece may be. Students take it as a character fault when they create art only to have it rejected.

Yeah, I get the whole "But we're just as good as them" reaction when kids in the communities get their exam scores. After all, it's hard to imagine what is going on in Alberta and it's reassuring to know we're able to measure up. That still leaves the problem of the almost alien scores though, as they are created by mysterious beings far away from earth it seems. If a student gets one hundred percent of sixty, how do they know when they succeeded and when they had difficulties if they are not allowed to see their paper again?

Anyways, I hope dear Marker that you can be kind with the pieces of soul heading off your way in the near future.

Live Long and Prosper,

Arctic Hipster

How the Contents of my Fridge Became Breakfast

Dear Sunday Sloths,

Some days it's nice to just cheat on making breakfast.

Here's a way to impress yourself: Eggs-a-la-Laziness. Enjoy.

Ingredients:

1Tbs butter
1/2 Onion, chopped
1/2 Pepper, chopped
Last Night's Baked Potatoes, chopped

5 Eggs
1/2 Cup Salsa
Pinch of Cinnamon and Cayenne

2 Green Onions, chopped
5 Cherry Tomatoes, cut in half
A handful of Cilantro, chopped

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

2. In a cast iron pan (or other pan you can put in the oven), melt butter and fry Onions and Peppers on medium high heat until translucent. Add chopped Baked Potatoes and cook until brown.

3. While potatoes are browning, whisk together Eggs, Salsa, Cinnamon and Cayenne in a mixing bowl. Pour mixture into the hot pan, allowing eggs to gel. DO NOT STIR!!! Sprinkle on Green Onions and place Cherry Tomatoes in mixture.

4. Bake in oven for 11 Minutes, until eggs are puffy. Let sit for two minutes, then garnish with cilantro. Cut and serve.

Feel free to add cheese or hot sauce, depending on your taste.

Bonne appetite mes amies!

Arctic Hipster

Building Up the Library and Burning the Midnight Oil

Dear Creative Creatures,

At some point it all begins to sound the same doesn't it?

The melodies that once spun tales of broken heart strings are reduced to a formula. Novels that were the idols of sophistication and the solution to the human condition become words cleverly arranged on just another page. Colors that embodied the darker parts of an ulitmate truth seem nothing more than pretty pictures. Everything has been done, overdone, over-redone.

But not here, and not now. There is a place between places called a perspective, and it is one thing that has not been seen before. It is the life boat of an artist.

I challenge you to figure out yours, and I will explore mine, and then we will sail friends.

Fly the colors but don't tell them our names,

Arctic Hipster

The Brighter Side to Addictive Personalities

Dear Addict,

That's right, I'm talking to you looking at the computer screen.

I apologize for the previous sentence fragment, but it was necessary to create a dramatic opening line. There's my addiction, incomplete things. I have the annoying tendency to leave a projects unfinished, to think and then be unable to completely express my thoughts. I love the idea of travelling, but I would rather pack my things and then spend my time going to one place, continually on the airplane waiting in anticipation rather than actually getting anywhere.

Some people are addicted to sugar, to exercise, to Angry Birds.

Yes, even Angry birds. My mom has actually begun dreaming about the silly iPod App. She even admitted to sleeping better after she had left the game alone for a couple of days. For the entirety of Christmas break the holiday calmness would randomly be interrupted with passion shouts of "You stupid little porkers!".
The first time she yelled at the screen Baby Brother Hipster and I practically died from laughing. Now every time she gets near the game we both look at each other and can't help but crack a smile. Perhaps the name just says it all. She does seem pretty angry at the pigs. She came up with some great improvements to the game as well. Ptarmigan birds could be thrown at the pigs to freeze them until they shattered.

In fact, the mother parental also made a good point about addictions. She said that addictive personalities don't relinquish their addictive habits, they simply move from one addiction to another. We have a family friend who tried to quit smoking by replacing cigarettes with yogurts. Apparently he would go for breaks with his buddies and take a silhouette with him, and his buddies caught on to the habit. He was able to give up the cigarettes, but his buddies just took a smoke as well as a snack break. Go figure.

There are lots of hazards addictions, don't get me wrong. However, some of them are a little bit comical. The following are a list of strange addictions and obsessions I've pulled off the Internet and taken a liking to:

• Pagophagia: addiction to Ice
• Geophagy: addiction to Dirt
• Crackberry addiction: Guess. I dare you.
• Pica: the opposite of a food addiction. Eating everything but food addiction including couch cushion, detergent and bleach.
• Cat-Lady-Syndrome: addiction to cats and cat memorabilia (I may be guilty of this...).
• Addiction to Hair Pulling
• Compulsive Cleaning
• Addiction to Teddy Bears

If that hasn't made you giggle, please check out this new addiction of mine. When Parents Text is definitely aimed for the younger demographic, but it'll have you giggling and snorting within the first five minutes. It's a website dedicated to fumbles on the texting device we used to call a cellphone.

Have a great Wednesday!

Arctic Hipster