Thursday, October 29, 2009


I am finally getting real. I say it all the time "be real" or " get real" even "really?!"; but I haven't been real with myself for quite some time. I am an adult now (yikes) and a real part of adulthood is straight talk. For years, I have buried my head in the sand regarding lots of things; my selfishness for one, which I used to blame on the fact that I was an only child, but I am getting way to old for that to have any merit and I am sure people are growing weary of it; my stubborness for two, I can be unbelievably rigid and I hate it when other people are rigid yet that's one of my predominant traits; and, my ability to put things off until the very last minute is the stuff of legend, I am a pro procrastinator, I have (had) myself convinced that I perform better in the crunch, but that's bullshit, the proof is the results and I happen to be very low on results; and, lastly, my realness. You see I have this very tough persona, I am always the brazen one, the one to deliver the hard truth; but, truthfully, I need to turn that mirror on myself. It is no secret that I am broke, I am fairly certain anyone who knows me knows that; but I haven't really done anything to change it or even make it better, I have just been talking about how I am going to make it better. Well the dawning of a new day is upon us, for I am getting real, really real, as real as it gets. I have had the week off and have been spending that time watching alot of "til debt do us part" and taking notes. I started keeping a money journal, every cent in and out is to be recorded no exceptions; and, I am keeping all my receipts, just in case I happen to forget to write something in. It's funny how it's taken my being near destitution for me to change my ways, I blame my former immaturity. It is day 2 of the new money rule change and I feel like an addict craving my next hit, I really really want to spend money but I don't want to write it down, it looks bad. They say the first step is admitting that I have a problem name is Bianca and I love spending money, and I need help.
And that's about as real as it gets.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Mo money, Mo problems??

Biggie famously stated "the mo money you have, the mo problems you get", but I beg to differ. Granted, Biggie is now 6ft under, but still, he was rolling in a pimped out SUV on his untimely exit; if I were to go today, I would leave a cheap Hyundai and a stack of bills, that seems very problematic to me. Contrary to that famous statement, I have no money and it would seem that I have mo problems because of it. Due to my lack of fiscal stability (read:no cash) I haven't paid a bill in 2 months, cue the "oh my gods", and I haven't had a paycheck in 1 month (the horror!) I have bills coming out of my proverbial ass, and to be frank, I wish they really were coming out of my ass, because then I could claim some crazy illness of bills coming out of my ass and collect some sort of disability. But, sadly, my only disability is my inability to manage myself financially. It doesn't help that I seem to have a bit of a job change issue; but, despite having very little to no money, I continue to eat out, go for drinks and shop. But, if I had "mo money", like the big man upstairs and I don't mean god, I would have less problems, correction, no problems. People with money just seem happier; they say that finances are the number one reason marriages struggle, that, again, seems very problematic to me. And the saying "money can't buy happiness" was coined by the broke guy trying to make himself feel better. To be fair, I do have a job, which I love and money is coming to me and not in "the secret" kind of way, it is actually coming. Honestly, I love money, it makes the world go round and while some people do some terrible things in the quest for it, a well balanced and genuinely happy woman such as myself could use a couple extra bucks, it would alleviate some (all) of my problems. Long story short, Biggie was wrong; "no money, means mo problems".

Monday, October 12, 2009

About Me

Hello, my name is Bianca and I am 24 years old. I live in Edmonton Alberta; I used to live in Toronto; but as you can imagine, Edmonton is MUCH better. After years of aimless wandering I have decided that I want to be a writer.


I am what you would call a restless soul. Some call me a quitter, some would even call me a flake; it doesn’t really matter what you call me, it’s all the same to me. Since the day I got my social insurance number, at the tender age of 17, I have had 27 jobs. It seems rather high but it truly did sneak up on me; you could say that I am a victim of my over-romancing.

I wanted to be a singer, in fact I moved across the country to Toronto, spent a ridiculous amount of money on a musical education only to realize that I have terrible stage fright; in fact its crippling, the thought of singing in front of a crowd renders me an off key singing fraud. So I quit school, stayed in Toronto and did nothing really. I slung coffee, twice; worked under the table at a shady Thai restaurant, and washed dishes at a Culinary Center. All were relatively short lived.

After being in Toronto too long and having accomplished nothing other than 1 year of jazz music diploma, a 3 month culinary intensive and a raping of my financial standing, I decided to move back to Edmonton and get my life together. I applied to the culinary program at the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology and after a rather short interview; I was shortlisted and later accepted. Have I mentioned I am a master in the art of the interview? So I left the life I built in Toronto and returned to the life I left behind in Edmonton.

My first job upon returning home was working for the caffeine giant that is Red Bull; I felt comfortable juicing people up, so I went from 1 caffeine giant to another. To this day, Red Bull is the longest job I have ever had. It almost wasn’t; I accidentally stood up the boss the day of my first interview, but she gave me another chance; she is a dear, we are great friends now. 2 years and 4 months later, I left; it was time, I had worn out my welcome.

After 2 years of moderate dedication I (just barely) finished my Culinary Arts diploma. I stumbled out in to the big world and realized, I FUCKING HATE THIS. In the summer after graduation, I had 4 cooking jobs in 4 months; all of which made me want to leap from the 28th floor. The last job I had was the lesser of the 4 evils; but I hated it nonetheless. So I quit like a certified asshole; and got another job, an easy reception job that had sweet hours; no weekends, all holidays off, 2 weeks at Christmas; it was perfect. They fired me after 3 days of work, they said I wasn’t a right fit; I firmly believe the balance of the universe was punishing me for being a dickhead to my former employer(s). Regardless, I was pissed and unemployed.

Then seemingly out of nowhere, this creeping desire to put words on paper began to over take me. I found myself wanting to do nothing else. 27 jobs, 2 educations, a cross country trek and back; and I decide I want to write?!

So here I am; and since I am very new at this writing thing, I feel I am currently unemployable in the field; so I created this place. This is where I write about my feelings; sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s sad, most of the time it pathetic; but it is always real. My only agenda is to become a better writer; there is no specific theme, hence no name that could say, in a few words, what is going to go on here.

My name is Bianca and this is my place, Untitled… because I didn’t know what else to call it.


If you have a bone to pick with me, feel like rambling on about non-sense (I LOVE non-sense!) or want to give me something for free (I love free stuff even more than non-sense); don’t hesitate to drop me a line at

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Block, Party

I have been going out a lot lately, due to going aways and the many expectations of being a deejay; and, recovering from my, many, hangovers has proven to be quite detrimental to my writing motivation. And things have been good lately, I got fantastic job, a dream job actually, working for Edmonton's culinary magazine and quite frankly I find it hard to write when I have nothing to bitch about. It raised the question of whether my writing depends on my misery. It would seem as though when I am miserable bitch I am a very clever young writer, but put a little pep in my step and I am rendered useless. Now the last thing that I want, is to be known as is miserable, but I need to be writing more than I have been in the last week. A conundrum, if you will, be happy and have an empty page or be a wet blanket and have pages full of ink, hmmmm... Life and all its mysterious questions have this young lady extremely baffled. But I'm sure I'll figure it out.