Thursday, September 30, 2004
Today was the weirdest day ever. When I say weird, it sounds melodramatic, but it was just weird. I was really "off" at the beginning of the day...nothing really important to say, but at the same time, for the first time in a long time (Time, time, time, time- there just to get the repetitiveness over with) I was joyous in my "off" mode, rather than being depressed for not being on the verbal ball, precariously balanced witty retorts and whatnot. But, all of a sudden, I woke up, and consequently became turned "on." Oh yes, turned "on" indeed...

But still my day was odd. It wasn't surrealistic or anything, just awesome to the point where I kept wondering when something was going to go wrong. This feeling accumulated to breakage in the last scene of "The Dollhouse" (by Henry Ibsen) when I irrationally had a fear that my cellphone was going to go off in the most crucial (yet incredibly stretched out) part of the play, and people would jump over their seats and kill me in a feministic rage. Or sick their pussywhipped women-fearing husbands on me. And no doubt, it would be Westjet phoning me to talk about his day. I was completely convinced that I'd left my phone on after checking the time at intermission; so much that instead of really paying attention to the overdrawn play, I focussed all my energies on muffling my bag as well as possible with my sweater. So of course, after concentrating all my energy and holding my breath in await of disaster, it didn't ring. It was actually turned off.

My class was unproductive again today. We talked about Toni Morrison's life story-no discussion, no debate, no solid concepts covered, just more promises of "the feminist goodness yet to come" next class. Left me hangin' it did. And then I attempted to complete 12th Night, and almost forgot that Grace Kelly was picking me up to get a professional consultation on my rat nest at her hairdresser's place.

I hate walking into a salon. As one by one the staff turn to look at you enter, their eyes widen in horror as they see the do that you lack. You can see them analyzing the texture of your hair, the split ends, the planes of your face, flipping through the perpetually out of date style guides in their minds. Glances were exchanged and I consoled myself with instead looking at the colors in my hair, which are its best feature in natural light. But, surprise surprise, I got a good person to consult me. No lake of cold pancake mary-kay girls here with fifties-era bobs and fire-engine lipstick on stuccoed faces. So I have the haircut picked out, but the only thing is is that people kept pushing color on me, for "funk" factor. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. I can't even make my clothes match on a regular basis, much less match them to my hair. And the other thing is...I sort of like my hair the colors that it is naturally. I really don't like this "highlight the hell out of everything" phase of hair couture lately either. Everyone's got color, and I guess I sort of started to pride myself in being happy with what I have. Not to mention, I have done the color thing once, and while I really liked the dark dark brown/black chunks in the layering I got, I also got red that only stayed red for like two weeks. It didn't turn awful pink or anything, but it did this coppery thing that was allright, but still... I guess I'm still thinking about it. Apparently it's pretty cheap to color all your hair in one go, and I wondered about like a darker brown or maybe black. I've always been curious about black with blue eyes, but apprehensive because of my ruddy skin. But the other thing is I hate the idea of ever having "roots" showing. HATE IT. It's the most horrible part of dying your hair completely, which I've never done. But, I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. I have the haircut all picked out, and actually, I'm quite excited about it. I love change, it brightens my day.

I got to hang out with the boys today again, which also totally makes my day. It was funny though, because I enjoyed their company so much today that I felt compelled to write gushy emails upon getting home telling them so. They're awesome.

On the bus ride home today, I met some strange people. All first years, so maybe not so strange, but god...naive and untainted, going to Filthy McNasties to celebrate one person or another's legality. On a Wednesday no less. Terrible. I later ended up talking to my bus driver, Jason, who used to be a writer. The fact that he wasn't anymore made me interrogate him, and chide him about how once a writer, always a writer, whereupon he confessed that he still writes but basically (albeit he said this with an indifferent sort of brave-face tone) won't ever show anyone because he fears their judgement. Understandable, but also sort of wussy. I'm not one to talk though either. Point is, he seemed wellspoken enough, and sometimes you can tell if a person is a good writer merely from the way they talk. Anyways, he drives bus, and he loves it, but claims he has no time for writing anymore, and nothing to write about. Balderdash, I say. And he also is freaked out about blogs. He seemed like a bit of an internet conspiracy theorist, and on a few points of the impossibility of confidentiality, I agreed with him, but on the other hand, who the fuck cares? Who the hell cares about my new haircut? Who cares about my deranged family? No one. He seemed to think that the world would be automatically out to get him, whereupon I assured him that only people to worry about were the mothers of old bf/gf's you had when you were thirteen. Take that Gigi.

I'm going to go abashedly to bed now.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004
  Let me grope your head
"You are moderately psychic." "You really are quite psychic, so it's worth taking the time to investigate those aspects of the paranormal that interest you. Consider purchasing a dream interpretation book, a beginner's set of tarot cards, or the latest astrology book to see which tools best suite your personality. "

And El Chupacabra originates from third dimension in my closet. Third cork tile in on the left (the "bad luck" direction) right next to the wig-that-shall-not-be-touched/acknowleged (it's back in my room again, in all it's genuine 'real' hair glory, reminding me of the tapestries that my eastern relatives keep that are made of the woven hair of our ancestors. I shat you not. My mother has had the horrifying experience of being shown this artifact with, "My god, your hair looks exactly like *insert irish name of a long deceased person*." Sick. What's next? Toe-nail clippings?

Seriously, I do have some nutty quirks, like my inexplainable attraction to turquoise and pink objects (I gravitate towards them, but yet do not own or wear either), and being able to tell sometimes what my prof is going to wear to a class, but really, I like to think this is due to a) a mild case of autism or, b) the horribly strict and predictable lives that some of my profs lead. And besides, what is the significance of being attracted to turquoise or pink? It was seriously a question on the quiz I took. My guess is that it has to do with aural colors, which I have absolutely no knowlege of, though The Russian swore that he saw people's auras, amongst other things that escape the normal view of the rational. I can sure pick them... Asshats and crazy people = awesome!

Yesterday, I read something interesting in le Papier, among other terrible things. This weeks edition of le papier was truly a terrible thing, and I hang my head in shame for not having something to contribute. Again. I'm sucking at this time management thing. But yes...the interesting thing was surprisingly insignificant:

A boy got arrested outside of Lister sometime around three in the morning with a cashbox tucked under his arm. Apparently he was a resident, and he'd stolen it from a vending machine. Disciplinary measures to follow.

Now, sure, this seems sort of an odd thing to notice, but the whole image of this kid skulking across the road with a cashbox tucked carefully under his arm in the dead of the night is sort of an interesting thing. What was he doing? Why did he need the money? There's a whole story there. And I'm going to write it. I am constantly getting inspired by weird little paper blips, and I think it's high time I start doing something about them rather than accumulating all this crap on little bits of paper and stuffing them into a chinese republic tea can. It's seriously full already.

Mr. Pink called last night, and we talked and talked and talked and talked and talked, and I think it's safe to say that I'm still incredibly enamoured of him despite a short period of confusion about our dynamic and a little blip involving a raspberry pastry. I have discovered that Mr. Pink is the force that keeps me blessedly grounded. He's just as motivated as I am to see and do as much as possible in life, but at the same time, he's always going to remind me of what's important in life, whether he intends to or not, in case I forget. And I'll always remind him if he forgets. It is inexplicable sometimes what we have together, but at times it is so clear it hurts that I could be so stupid and been able to forget that. I feel like such a lummox for the amount of complaining that I've been doing about him. I got so carried away that I was forgetting that he's human, and with that, I'm just as human as he is, and not really entitled to complain about someone who hasn't done anything wrong. And here's the kicker, I've been just awful lately, so if anything, it's him that should be complaining about me. I've gotta grow up. But I suppose by saying that, I've just taken the first step.

He told me another scary Metis story last night that gave me a nightmare about having a nightmare. It was about something called a (I can't remember the Metis term) "wind cannibal." It is about a monster that takes the form of cold cold wind that whirls through the woods looking for human prey at night. Once it finds someone, it freezes them from the inside out, and after it has killed enough of them (attacking villages in waves) it begins to devour them. Little native popsicles. So, the original way of keeping it away according to the oral tradition involved a medicine man intervention, but with contact came the "cure" of using bible pages for tamping materials in a musket and "shooting" the beast. Boo for christianity. So though it is very probably an "abstraction" regarding something else, like the harshness of a winter or something, the concept of this monster scared the poop out of me, and I had this dream that I woke up from sleeping in the Sprite (read: the trailer me and mr. pink will be sleeping in at the cabin for thanksgiving) in that way that we do when we have nightmares: Straight up, eyes closed and afraid to open for fear of being faced with the stuff of dreams. And I open my eyes and look out the "picture window" that is beside the bed-cum-table of the trailer, and see this dark wispy shadow with red eyes and frosty breath that sends me into shivers and spreads hoar frost curliques inching across the glass. And then I woke up. In my own bed, in the middle of a noisy city.

Deuce's article published today. I don't know why this is such a big deal to me, but I was seriously glad to see him published. It's kind of sad that he can't come to the meetings though. His ranty presence would be a refreshing break from the "boy's club" that likes to dominate conversation. I'm starting to feel like I can stop putting concerns for politeness up front. Now, if only I had something valuable to barge into a conversation or debate with other than, "Well, interesting point, but I felt Khofi Anaan should not have had the plasma guns available to him in the new James Bond video game as it proved to be an unfair advantage to the other party involved, who consequently kept getting her slow-moving ass kicked constantly. Perhaps an AK-47 would have proved to be more equitable in this scenerio."

Hm...if you hit the shift key over five times, you turn on the "sticky fingers" quality, which would be useful how....?

As a result of this purge...I have nothing to say other than Mr. Pink informed me that there is a religious sect based on Spongebob Squarepants. To which I say, "where do I sign up? Finally, a faith I can truly devote myself to, once a day on Nicklodeon." Provided I actually had time to watch tv, much less bow to it's general direction during said program and pray to yellow spongiform, jellyfish and crabby patties joints for beauty and happiness, this would be a no-brainer. Link to follow kiddies. But when you think about it, SpongeBob does have this "Jesus" quality to him, albeit it involving him being blindly nice to everyone, no matter what. And Squidward has all the makings of a Judas, or even the devil. Patrick would be an apostle. Not necessarily a smart apostle, but definately a blind follower. Mr. Crabs...the possibilities are endless....The leader of the Roman empire? If any of these guesses have to do with the actual premise of this new faith, I'll shat my pants. Oh, and Rob the lobster? The innocent that helps Jesus shuck his cross along, probably. Jesus needed muscle, and Rob always provides muscle for SpongeBob. And last but not least, certainly would be the Squirrel. I would like to say that her name is stereotypically Sammy the Squirrel, but I can't honestly remember. However- I'm going to venture that there are some Mary Magdalene-esque qualities in her character, other than the fact that she could kick his ass in Karate anyday.

Monday, September 27, 2004
  Jumping into your moat. Splash.
I had such a long day... It stretched and stretched and stretched, and I drank so much coffee (like a litre) and still slept at every opportune moment rather than cracking a book like I should have been doing. I did get some reading done, just not the imperative stuff. I still need to read Twelfth Night, but I will do that tomorrow I suppose, because I need to rejuvenate myself with some sleep.

Elaugh is looking a little scraggly around the head. This worries me because that means she's been "snagging" on a lot of things, as she's not ready to molt yet (far from it, as she is still really luminous and iridescent from the first one). I suppose I'm going to have to be extra careful when I handle her, because I don't want any of her scales coming up. The occasional bent scale is inevitable, but I feel terrible if I find one and instantly blame myself, though I am not the one that loves to play "Tremors" and dive into things rather than carefully slithering and sinking into them. She just rears up and dives down, like those awful worms of lore, even like the gross ones on Beetlejuice. I think it's hilarious, but only if she's not scuffing herself up in the process. Stupid thing. I can't believe the little "surprises" she leaves once every two weeks either. My God! I understand that she basically shats out everything that she can't digest of the mouse, but damn, if I don't catch it right away it turns into a vile mess of bone/fur/mouse bowel nastiness. I'll leave it at that.

Two men flirted with me at the bus stop on my way home tonight in two seperate occasions within minutes of each other. Me: hair pulled half-hazardly back, falling over tired, bloated from two teen burgers too many and squirmy with a full bladder on the first day of my period. It was kind of special.

I had lunch with both of my favorite boys today though which was also nice. I sort of slept through lunch with Fenton a little bit, just sort of sitting beside him curled up and listening to him yammer on. The boy likes to talk, and I was able to muster up enough huzzah to say a few things, but mostly just watched him and listened with my face squashed into my bag and thus only one eye open, feet stretched out on the register. It was peaceful.

Lunch with Allan was nice too, as by that time I was fully awake and we talked for a good two or three hours until he escorted me to my film class. Film class was good, but despite the excellent sense of humor my prof posesses, I started getting heavy lidded again. We talked about the "Chungking Express" though which I totally enjoyed. God that movie is rad. Everyone must go see it, if only for the dialog alone, and I was able to rant about how awesometastic the dialog was until my prof told me to shut up with a pleased smile on his face. Not enough people in our class talk, unless you count the lummox in the back that repeats the last three words of everything my prof says that makes him laugh (the lummox) before he has these loud stupid sounding guffawing fits long after everyone else has stopped laughing. But at least you know he's enjoying the class. Alot. He does it during the movie labs though, which is annoying, though not as annoying as the Warrior for the Definition of PostModern Lit talking through the whole thing. That girl is the bane of my existance.

Speaking of girls, I thought a lot about them today. I think I am going to write an article on pansexualism, which of course is sort of unrelated to me thinking about girls, but psht. I am still curious about such things though. However, being charmed by the writings of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sappho are not entirely justifiable reasons to jump into that. It's not that I wouldn't use it as an excuse to be curious about a sexual female bond, but I don't want to be disrespectful either. At this point though, I'm pretty sure it has less to do with any sort of sexual curiousity as it does with finding a mutual understanding and deep bond with someone, and I'm starting to wonder if males aren't too abrasive for me, or too unwilling to
try and figure me out. I want someone to want to figure me out the same way that I try and understand others as much as possible. I like knowing all about my loved ones, but it doesn't seem like a reciprocal thing sometimes.

So whiny....must get some sleep.

note: the treatment of men by the media that be...wot wot.

Sunday, September 26, 2004
  Irrational is my middle name...
I've been plagued by weird thoughts all day. It all started when I woke up and started thinking about my great-grandfather's brother on my mother's side. My grandmother told me a story once about him that sort of traumatized me. She shouldn't have told me, and I think that if my mother had found out that I knew it, she would have been fairly upset with my grandma.

Aunt Mary sat in the kitchen with the new baby, rocking it gently back and forth as the crowds of company bustled around in the living room, occasionally darting into the kitchen to grab more tea, or a set of spoons for the music that would be played later by all the uncles with their violins and guitars. Everyone was there in anticipation of seeing the tiny new little girl that nestled quietly in Mary's arms, as she and her mother had just arrived on the Island after travelling from Alberta. Time passed and the baby awoke and looked around with her wide dark blue eyes. She was a very alert and watchful baby the nurses had said in the hospital, always looking around, afraid of missing something in the cold environment she now found herself in. All of a sudden, a towering man crept into the kitchen. He was a brand new grandfather, and as proud as could be of this tiny little thing that could fit into the palm of his hand easily. She was small now, but she'd be tough when she was older, he'd boast.

"Jacob's drunk," he said tersely.

Jacob was his father's brother, a man that no one had ever known to be sober, even in his early twenties. They imagined he'd just never learned how to cope with misfortune properly, or that his irish blood was too thick. They'd laugh when they said the latter, but exchange grim glances when they saw his hands shake at their doors in the morning, asking, begging for money. He was branded by family members as a born loser, tolerated and floated around out of respect for blood.

The grandfather reached for the baby and gently lifted her out of Mary's arms. She'd raised him alone when his mother had died suddenly of polio during the epidemic; his brothers had been shipped off to another aunt and uncle. The baby cooed delightedly as he settled her into his hand and gave her a bottle that his daughter had exhaustedly handed him. Jacob staggered into the kitchen.

"I hear there's a new arrival," he slurred softly, looking towards the grandfather and the auspicious bundle of wrinkled pink skin in his hand. Though Jacob was many things, he was also harmless, along with being a coward and a fool, and the grandfather knew this. He held a finger to his lips and gestured for Jacob to come take a closer look.

"Be careful," he warned. Warnings from the grandfather were not to be taken lightly. The oldest out of the three boys of his father's, he was the one that held the family all together as his father grew older and less able. Jacob leaned closer and the baby gurgled as it finished drinking from the bottle. He quietly examined the baby, gently gave her his finger to hold. And then he started to cry. He fell down onto his knees and put his head in Mary's frocked lap and tears flowed from his eyes like rivers as the grandfather and aunt looked on with horrified looks of confusion.

"Jacob, what the hell is the matter with you?" The grandfather asked in alarm.

"She's not right!" He moaned. He cried and cried, and repeated that sentence over and over, much to the horror of the young mother and all the dinner guests, maligning god, maligning nature, and finally asking what the mother had done to herself to deform the poor dear baby.

Upon hearing this story about a month or so ago, I realized that no one really has to know everything about themselves. Certainly not every circumstantial thing linked to their existance anyways. I would have liked a little more mystery anywho.

At about this time is where I jump in with the irrational fantasy I've been playing out in my head all day. I wondered how easy it would be for me to just drop everything and leave. Just go somewhere and write.

My comparative literature prof was talking about writer's exile last week, and it intrigued me greatly, because we debated whether or not exile would be necessary for someone to write their completely honest memoir in. And I fought that it was. I don't think I could write objectively if I was around everyone else that I knew. If I was far away, in an unfamiliar setting, I could write anything though. When I was in Katimavik, I wrote like there was no tomorrow. I've never been as productive now at writing as I was then, and I miss it. And it isn't just because I have no time. It's because I have all these fears of people I know reading it when it is so far from ready to read. But my family is the bane of my existance when it comes to gaining privacy at anything. Anyways, there's a bit of an explanation to be had before I get to the actual explanation of the fantasy.

I went to my aunt Harlot's house today, because her daughters and their respective husbands were all in town. And I love them all dearly enough that I was willing to sacrifice being under the watchful eye of Harlot to see them. Not so much watchful lets say, as demoralizing and fault-seeking eye howbout. And we had a good visit, but of course this always means me smiling as I listen to the friendly and funny banter of everyone else, throwing in my two cents only occasionally, but since they are such delightful people, I love to just sit and listen to them anyways. And this brings me to the fantasy- their lives are so exciting. They've always been exciting, all the way from the get-go, and I feel like I'm just wasting mine when I hear what they've been doing. And then I wonder if I am wasting it, and doing what I really want to do, or if I should just follow the impossible dream after all, and just be a writer? Basically, I question myself, and everything that I'm doing, and wonder if I am doing any of it right, or whether I am just flying by the seat of my pants, blindly informed about whatever guides me, and missing out on bigger and better opportunities. But THEN, my cousin informs us that she's pursuing her PhD now, upon her recent completion of her masters, and I wonder- how the hell did she fit that in with all the travelling and the high life? What are they in on that I am not? Where the hell do they get money to do this? So by the time I got home, my head was just spinning with doubt, worry, or irrational plans. Irrational plans were infinitely more delightful to think about though, is what I think I decided.

Depressed, I sat on my bed and conjured up a plan as I skimmed through the USA Daily that my parents brought me back from New York: I would finish my semester, paying only for the one, rather than both, like I'd originally planned. Then, I would take the remaining (if not paltry sum) $2200 plus money saved by eating only rice for the next three months, and hightail it outta here and start over. Either jump a cargo ship as a crew temp, to Europe, and get a job there, or go down to the States or Mexico. I could afford to live in Mexico I think, very easily. Next, buy a typewriter and hole up in my skidgy apartment that will probably be overridden with roaches, as the old cliche goes (the old type-writer and roach hotel cliche). And of course the cheap red wine for inspiration. Truthfully though, who doesn't have the romantic notion of starting your life completely anew, sometimes? Anew, and with one clear purpose of writing something worth bringing to print. God, with impossible amounts of reading to get finished, as well as two essays in one night, this is so much more appealing sounding than the prospect of staying in school. I need to get out of here, and while last week I was thinking I just wanted to go to my parents house and hide under my old bed, I think I just need to get out of this city. And it sucks, because I don't have any good reason to be unhappy right now, but I just am. I have good friends, I do good in school without trying, I live in a nice place (albeit not my own), and I'm not starving. There must be something wrong with me. Cue to angry and badly spelled emo poetry...

Saturday, September 25, 2004
  The Cure
We all parlayed forth to Halo last night, as I'm sure you could tell in a certain asshole's blog. I had a really good time, but in all the dancing, I felt like an ungraceful clod for the most part. Usually, I consider myself to be a good dancer, no holds barred, or however the phrase goes, but I had barely any rythm. When I have barely any rythm (hormones, believe it or not, do this to me) I tend to use the same moves repetitively. I was in a new club, and thus it was not good, because I hate being repetitive and become more inclined to goof off and make a bad first impression all around because hipsters don't like it if you don't take their "refuge of the ONLY like-minded elitists here" seriously. Read: finely arched and plucked eyebrows raise over a long mentholated cigarette in scowling disgust as you gyrate and grind your hips on the closest "gay" boy available. I say "gay" because Fenton is a sexless being for the mostpart nowadays, thankfully.

Of course, when one is dancing badly, the first cure that instantly comes to mind in such a setting is not necessarily the best one. And not necessarily effectual either. I was even welcoming becoming hummingbird-esque, buzzing and flitting around "gracefully" in my mind's eye. But could my goddess of the liquor assist me in what is usually so easily done with one pint? Of course not. It would be too easy to turn me into a dancing bear with only one screwdriver. Three drinks later and I felt not a thing. A looser and more venomous tongue, mayhaps, but otherwise I was depressingly sober and out more money then I wanted to be. I was in a better and more raucous mood later though. Originally, I was being all fretty about money and dancing and whatever, but about one third of the night I did at least know to say, "fuck it. Enjoy yourself while you can."

Halo: Good music, cheap alcohol. Oh baby, we shall return.

Westjet got tired (read: crashed) so we pulled out early before the loving of Halo was orgasmically complete, and went to Chicago deep dish, and my god if my friends don't think I'm the most defenseless thing on the planet or something. Mr. Smith knows better. It is stupid perhaps, but I'm just not afraid of people at all. It doesn't matter if I am or not. If you're going to hurt me, it's going to happen, whether I know you or not. I'll deal with it as it comes, but there's never any point of fretting about it theoretically.

  Daze Me
There are days when I wonder why I am my father's daughter. I wonder why I don't hate him, and similarly why he doesn't hate me, because our similitude is either massively off-kilter, or eerily similar- it goes either way. And then I remember what we have in common:

Musical tastes. Listening to music loudly. I sing along just as loud and rock out, but he doesn't. Writing. He writes just as well as me, if not better. This causes discord though because he doesn't find it as easy to get "published" as I do, and I end up feeling bad. Artistry. He is amazing at drawing, better than I am by hand, but whereas I push him to do more, he's only started now to draw and paint again. And he sells himself short. Humor. I inherited everything that makes me and others laugh from him, though he is considerably less talkative than I, unless he's had a few. We once sat through an entire wedding reception of people we didn't really know, and made fun of everything around us, giggling like mad idiots over our rum and cokes. We're good at being quiet. We're good listeners, sometimes to a fault.

But we're so different too: My dad has a calm diplomacy about him that I don't think I posess, that maybe I'm jealous I never seem to pull off as well as he does. He can deal with anybody, and make them listen and see the logic. He keeps his temper in check far better than I, though his is a brighter blinding flash of terrifying than mine could ever come close to. He's more left brained. He doesn't softly count on his fingers when he thinks no one is looking. We can both drive anything we put our minds to driving. We both put safety first. Dad is more anal about safety than I am though- he doesn't see the reckless joy that I see in coming home from a day of breathless excitement with a sunburn to show for it. He thinks ahead, I don't. People rely on him to keep themselves sane, to be supportive, and I'm not sure anyone really relies on me for much that they couldn't handle themselves. No one really really needs me more than anything or anyone else that would fit my meagre job description sometimes. Perhaps this sounds self depreciating, but let me explain. If someone in our family doesn't have an answer for something, the first person they will conjure up is to phone him, no matter the time, because "he will know." And he always does know what to do, or the best answer. I don't think anyone's ever treated me like I have "the best answer" past wanting to have weather, wildlife, or plants identified and expounded upon. Which, bless my lucky stars, is one thing I'm thoroughly knowleagable about.

Despite all our differences though, which I think (though this may seem to prove otherwise) outnumber the similarities vastly, the important thing is that we have what we have. And whenever we sail together and I look up to see him also grinning like an idiot as we keel way over on the boat, as my aunt, experienced sailor that she is, backpedals for more height on the boat that will never flip, despite our seventeen knot winds, I know that I am definately my father's daughter.

It's occurred to me that I don't think of changing dynamics of my parents very much. Not that I'm worried about them or anything- I suppose that I just never question what they have with each other, but I notice that what they have with each other is still a constantly changing thing, which didn't seem possible after 23 years of marriage. It's not that it changes for the worst, it just changes. They are less the mother and father in a sound marriage now, than they are giggling six year old conspirators that run off hand in hand on some great new adventure constantly. I never see them as a "mature" couple, and frankly, I hope they never are. All these old couple things that happen like getting seperate beds, or "learned behaviors" like shutting out the opposite spouse's voice, or learning tolerance for the good of not having to change a long-term consistancy, or any other horrible thing, are things that scare me for them. I don't want that to happen to them. And on a more selfish note, I don't want them to happen to me. I don't ever want to be with someone that doesn't love me absolutely as much as I love them, or vice versa. Scary stuff.

My mother and father came back from Ontario and New York yesterday, which is why I'm all gushy about them right now. I love seeing them. My mom and her friend were walking through wilderness in lower Ontario and found a snake. True to form, the "snake curse" has followed her everywhere she goes for her entire life, since giving birth to me. The difference was that this was the first venomous one she's ever found. A juvenile missisauga rattlesnake. I've schooled her well though, because though she'd never seen one before, I've beat the angular pit viper head schematic into her head so often (all the trips to Australia- without me to be the Steve Irwin to her silly tourist on the savannah) that she knew to get away from it quick. Initially I was horrified that she'd found the thing of course, especially after seeing the picture, not just because it was venomous, but because it was also a juvenile- read: not yet perfected at the skill of consistant venom doses upon striking- read: the amount of venom an adult missisauga would pump into you wouldn't kill you, but a juvenile could very easily almost deplete itself of venom into you, (only needs to eat about three-four times a month, at being only about three months old- hasn't tried out the little stabbers often enough), which could be really really bad for you. I'm of the mind that it wouldn't kill you, but it could cause a lot more complications than not- though both my mom and her friend are very brushed up on their first aid. So, I said "initially I was horrified", but after I was done having a fit about it, I was sort of jealous.

I remember racing through all the hoodoos at Dinosaur park during the heat of the summer, looking for snakes with my brother for the whole week that we camped there. He was of course terrified to with me on this pursuit, but the prospect of walking around where rattlesnakes lived without me proved to be moreso. The crickets were also in full fledge at the same time we were there during the summer, which made it all the more nerve wracking for him. "Is that a rattlesnake? How're we gonna be able to tell the difference?" I didn't know personally, but always told him I did know to ease his mind. I thought I knew, because I once saw a prairie rattlesnake in a zoo rattling once, but the more we traversed, the more I realized that it wasn't going to be an easily discernible thing until we were right on top of the thing. And as I looked at the chubby trusting face of my little brother often twisted into paradoxisms of terror and admiration (the golden years of the brother-sister bond I assure you), I often hoped that it would be me that found it before him. My parents would have killed me.

Gee, I'm all over the memory lane now... it was on the same trip that I also convinced him to wade up the little river that cut through the campsite with me, for about a mile and a half. It was shallow for the most part, with a fun little current that we would slide along on sometimes. In retrospect, this was should have demonstrated to me at the time the amount that my little brother looked up to me, and trusted me. The water was opaque for the whole thing. Not only had we spent the whole day looking for venomous snakes, me serving him with no alternative, but now he was wading down a muddy river alongside me, tightly clenching my hand, despite his eight brave years. It would be later that day that we would see a beaver from the distance of the bridge that was roughly the same size as he was, and even later still that he would learn that beavers drown dogs in self defense and be terrified to go near beaver lodges by our house because of his small stature. And so we waded down Dinosaur river, slowly feeling our way along the slippery clay bottom by squishing our toes around, mindful of sticks and holes and sometimes eddies of stronger currents. With the speed of the river, it should have been clearer but it wasn't. It was only up to our hips at the deepest though, this occurring at a time where he asked me if it was true whether sturgeon fish were in this river. And I didn't know, but we proceeded; I tight-lipped with what I hoped he assumed was my unfading bravery, while thinking about the prospect of seven foot behemoth fish eating my brother or at least scraping him up with their spiky protrusions. The hike ended at the prospect of us turning around, and me questioning whether erosion (a new grade five science concept) applied to humans as well as we sloughed our way back upstream. I taught my brother about erosion on that day also, holding him still as he giggled when all the clay around his feet washed away with the current, leaving his feet in a deep hole.

Thursday, September 23, 2004
  Beautiful losers are leaves or snowflakes that never get caught by joyful hands
By all means, I had a good day, if you look at all the events except for one through a rose filter.

I was late for my EdPsych class, and realized as soon as I got there that I had forgotten to bring the ONLY assignment he'd asked of us. It was on a pretty red disc at home, quietly waiting to fulfill it's purpose. So I begged for permission to hand it in before the end of the day. And I wrote it up in Rutherford. Enter the rose filter thing: The piece that I wrote at home on my favorite school memory was incredibly lame. The piece that came to me as I sat down in a panic, was not. I wrote about my old social studies teacher, and it turned out awesome. Slid it into his mailbox a half an hour later. Point one for the little doods.

After this little jaunt, I decided to saunter up to the RATT to see if I'd missed anything important at the meeting of le papier. No one would tell me anything about the meeting, other than, "it was the same", which is retarded, but nothing earthshaking happened other than me forgetting to talk about Joel with Boss. A lot of people published this round, so I'm thinking that no one needs my badly written crap anymore. When it comes right down to it, I do really love writing for le papier, but I don't like being forced to write stuff like that, because I'm tired of reading my stuff after the fact and having my own self realizations that it's complete garbage most of the time, because I didn't try hard enough. So I want to try hard, but unfortunately with the way my time is going, that means less articles. Anyways, I was uncomfortable at the RATT after only being there for five minutes because of no money, and the intensifying bad mood that was creeping up on me, so I didn't stay long.

And the piece de resistance:

My english class got off to a bad start. I indulged for the first time in months before I went in, which was awful, and I thought I'd get sick. And then, I remembered that I hadn't read Twelfth Night, and the rest of the class had. The lecture part was fine, not even confusing, because I knew roughly what the plot was before I walked in. However, halfway through the class and past some terrible analogies, my prof decides we're going to do groupwork. Panic! Think of a plan stan! I read the first two pages. Act one, scene one. I made one observation about love being equated to an unpleasant experience for "most of the characters", expecting that stare that harkens the "you fucking idiot" treatment, but instead, by incredible tragic fluke, the response was "what a great observation! God, that's so true throughout the whole work isn't it?" Insert my weak assent. "Hey, wouldn't it be great if the girl who only read the first two pages of the play gave the presentation on that topic?" And thus it was so. I bullshitted for a good four minutes, expecting my ruse to disintegrate into a pile of crumbling debris immediately, almost afraid to stop talking because it would be such an imminant mass stare of shock and disbelief, followed by titters and ripples of laughter.

"Well done dear," my professor said, smiling kindly.
"Oh, I totally agree too," called a guy from the back.

I was speechless. Only in the movies! But I still felt terrible about it, and avoided eye contact with my prof for the rest of the class and made a hasty exit.

Touching only briefly on my bad mood: I did something I shouldn't have done, and it blew up in my face. Initially, seeing as it was an explosion of awfulness, I was sort of shocked and hurt at the strength, sight, and boldness of the explosion, but at the same time, the fuse has been burning towards detonation for a while now, and I had totally forecasted it, if not that it would happen while I was standing at ground zero with a ticking bomb. I hate that I was right all along the most I think. Fortunately for me, it was just pie, not plastic explosive. I can't put together the pieces blown apart by a high powered PE, but I sure as hell can lick the pie off my face and still have it taste as good. Sure, now I'll never have a whole pie, but that doesn't affect my feelings for pie in terms of more long term things, like taste or digestion. Exploded pie is just as good as whole pie could have been, because it's just missing a couple of things. I hope the pie knows that. And yes, it was raspberry pie, so of course the little pieces are good. And still hot.

Oh I'm a sneaky english student...here's looking at pie. I love pie.

  God loves a hypocrite
Say Yes-Elliot Smith

I'm in love with the world
through the eyes of a girl
who's still around the morning after
we broke up a month ago and I grew up I didn't know
I'd be around the morning after

it's always been wait and see
a happy day and then you pay
and feel like shit the morning after
but now I feel changed around and instead falling down
I'm standing up the morning after

situations get fucked up and turned around sooner or later
and I could be another fool or an exception to the rule
you tell me the morning after

crooked spin can't come to rest
I'm damaged bad at best
she'll decide what she wants
I'll probably be the last to know
no one says until it shows and you see how it is
they want you or they don't
say yes

I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl
who's still around the morning after

I love this song, but it also makes me sad. I have no good reason to be sad, but maybe I do if I still feel it.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
  "Because Jesus said so" is not a good enough reason.
Lots been going on lately. Lots and lots. Ok...I exaggerate. My life is action packed right now, but not in a "hot sex everyday and non-stop hijinks by night" sort of way. There are hijinks, sure, but the hot sex has a stand-in that is not nearly as exciting, and is probably part of a food group. Right now it is probably raspberry juice. Who am I kidding, it's always raspberry juice- better than the deed anyday. I really seriously realized that my statements the other day about being scared by the physical aspects of the opposite sex were farcical this morning though. I had a good talk about sex last night that also cemented this, and I just sat there before I went to sleep and went, "Damn. Who am I kidding when I say 'I don't want sex.' I'm such a fucking horndog." But...I'm still not a completely immoral horndog either-translating roughly to the truth of waiting, and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting, as long as I have to for something, anything, to happen on the end of that silly boy in the Lake of Cold. And I don't just mean sex- I mean something meaningful.

I got an angry letter in response to my article directed at Jordan Blatz yesterday. Once again, he blinded me with not science, but vagueness, dull pointless re-iteration of the vagueness, and then accused me of some sort of slurring. Why no ociffer, I was not drunk when I wrote that article! So...he agrees with me, but thinks I'm out to get him because he's one of the big boys. And I am. Who uses Camrose to justify that they "live out of town" and feels the pain of the masses who get the financial shaft? Camrose?! It's like maybe an hour away, tops. Not to mention the lucrative drug trade one could take advantage of to get themselves through school...but I digress. Until I see something happen, I'm going to stick by what I originally got as an impression of Blatz as a running candidate. Are you taking this seriously? Or are you doing this to impress your frat buddies? Just because you know some socio-political jargon (profusely used like the "slur" of the elite I might add) doesn't mean that some people won't nail you to a pasture fence for being too vague in your goals. Do something. Change something. Don't be a Chretien.

That would be a good letter if I wasn't terrified of the response I'd get for bashing a SU prez. And actually, I liked Chretien, so I would retract that statement, even though he didn't do too much of anything either.

Deuce and I have made nice with each other lately, and he's been asking me to preview some article/letter/but mainly article (opinion) ideas and pieces he's had. And my god, the man is as abrasive as shark skin, but damn. I was impressed. Me and the Boss had a little misunderstsanding over one thing that I sent him, but I think that has been rectified by now, as I ducked out of playing middleman. I really hope Deuce keeps this up though- I love reading causticly funny things. I wish I was better at writing them though.

Today is going to be a good day I think, but for all the things that won't get done. I stupidly agreed to help Fenton out on a few things. Ok....be company for Fenton on a few things, and it's not that it's stupid and I won't enjoy it...I just didn't realize until this morning what a shatload of reading I have to actually start committing to. I have to have Twelfth Night done by Thursday night...One english class a week and you'd think I'd be able to handle this, but nay nay.

But fain, sir Fenton and sir Smithy, willest thou accompaniest me to thy purjuror of alcoholic beverages on the eve of friday? Indeed they will be, and god said, "it shall be good at the tavern of Halo, if not saintly." I might end up spending the night on sir Smithy's couch though, being as I have no money to get a cab home, and absolutely no desire to go home early from a bar. Indirectly, I'm hoping he'll read this and invite me to sleep on his couch, but I'll probably end up passing out there anyways, what with all the cheap alcohol I plan to ply my system with, me having no money and all.

In other news....TRAGICALLY HIP! I have ticket! I have no money to pay for ticket, but I have one! And somehow I will come up with the money, even if I have to sell my body in the parking lot before the show to pay Fenton's friend back. And by selling my body, I don't mean graciously ripping out a kidney for someone with a bottle opener.

"Don't have a cooler? Oh well, that thermos of beer should do."

Speaking of Thermos', I went to Walmart yesterday on a whim with the ladies, and ended up getting some massively cheap groceries (Ramen- 25 cents!) but when I got to the cashier, I made the joyous discovery that my pin number was still "overtried"...the pin number that will not let me access my money hundreds of kilometers away because I screwed it up three times at Safeway on Sunday. The pin number that will ensure that I will be indebted to Grace Kelly for the rest of my life- something she will abuse to her advantage:

"Oh Emerson...would you do thisandthisandthisandthisandthis for me? No? Don't have time because you're a student with no life who has no time to pleasure read, much less take more than fifteen minutes in the shower? You ungrateful so and so! See if I ever do anything nice for you again. GOD, it just doesn't matter what I do for you, does it? Don't you realize that I'm just as poor as you are?"

Yeah, what an oversight of me. I hadn't realized you were poor while attempting to look over the pile of impulse items you buy everyday on the mastercard you can't pay off. I also didn't realize that the poor were so well fed. Oh sure...I see students eating havarti sandwhiches every day.

Vagina! This is my transitional word of the paragraph. Got your attention though, right? I am really enjoying my women's comparative lit. class. I really enjoy feminist theory, and the literature that we are reading is pretty cool. I'm still torn on Beloved though, because certain aspects are completely amazing, but other qualities of it, nay, the incredible inconsistancy and confusion, are a little disparaging. The class itself is stupifyingly ignorant though. The people I mean. The ones that speak just completely do not seize novel concepts at all, novel themes. They attack technical aspects with ghusto, but it really struck me that none of them really think with their hearts with some of the inferences they make. There is one girl, and of course there is the Talker that are more in touch though. These other crazy girls though seem to be missing the point though. But it's frustrating because they get all harried and nitpicky fighty-like over stupid things, to the point where hands raised become redundant and you can't get a word in edgewise- namely the point they are missing (well, the point I think they're missing, lol). Our prof is absolutely mortified with disgust sometimes- you can see it in her eyes. So I need to start speaking up. I have an inkling that if I start sitting next to the Talker (who is my friend anyways) that I will be more inclined to speak out, rather than being in "the front line" and vulnerable on my own.

Fuck, all this valuable time wasted when I could have been catching up on readings. But I had to get it out. Messed priorities.

Monday, September 20, 2004
  The Most Accurate Quiz EVER.
Get to know the REAL you by crash_and_burn
Your Name
You Are A:Emo Boy/Girl
Your Favorite Band/SongSnoop Dogg - Gin and Juice
You Like To Read:Horror books
You Firmly Believe In:Abstinence
Everyone Thinks You Are:A respectable person
You Were Conceived:Underwater
You Will Marry:A punk-rawker
Quiz created with MemeGen!

  Idealists are formed from the dishonesty of others
Total strangers are more honest to the idealist than many of the idealist's loved ones, something that propogates a hopeless idealism, because everyone thinks an optomist is cute, though annoying at the same time. Why would dishonesty be encouraging of the growth of an idealist? No one thinks she can handle the truth, though ideally, it is something she is desperately seeking every day. No one tells her otherwise to her own conclusions often enough however, and she ends up being a very deluded person- it will be too late for her when she is left to her own devices. People will start telling her the truth unabashedly because they don't know that she has been lied to so long for her own protection, and she will slowly crumble from the inside out, into a hollowed out shell like everyone else who cannot salvage a bad situation, see the good in any illwill, or consider the possibilities and remain perpetually flexible and adaptable.

Being told that she is a freak: A harshly worded truth from a stranger

Being told she is sexy: A lie from someone desperate

Being told that she is naive: A truth long overdue

Being told that she is beautiful in everyway: A lie from someone who wants her to live her life with at least a beautiful personality, not turning into someone who hates everyone and everything for what they are, and what she is not. Also: a lie from someone desperate for idealistic love.

What happens to an idealist again? Bitterness, a sour taste in the mouth, a distrust of themselves and the people they love, a refusal bordering on a fear to let go of the drape covering their heart completely.

What a cynic I am turning into.

  Jealous Guy- John Lennon
It's probably a good thing that these little moments of self pity become fewer and far between. It seems that these little verbal idiosyncrises are directly attributable to hormones sometimes, and thus making me embarrassed, but at the same time, reluctant to delete them, because they seem like purer forms of expression because of the fact, despite the fact that they translate to a lotta garbage most of the time- occasionally there are gems though, lol.

I really wanted to talk about the term Godzilla though. I have decided that my aunt has the gift of duality in her character, and when I say duality, I mean that she is Grace Kelly with the temperment of Godzilla (read: breathing fire and toppling anything in it's path, leaving a wake of complete destruction and horrified people). As far as Grace Kelly goes though, she is a very attractive woman (mostly owing to the fact that she's never had kids), and she is one of the classiest, dignified and graceful people I can say I'm related to- but when her wrath is invoked, it is best to run for cover. She does have a few things going for her that the Harlot does not though. Firstly- I'm not afraid to stand up for myself (eg: yell right back at her), and secondly- she is willing to admit when she's made a mistake, and she will apologise. In the manner of our dynamic, I would say that she's more my sister than my biological aunt. We have the same issues, though they are more ironic for her than me. This doesn't prevent me from saying that I don't want to be like her when I'm older though. Maybe I want some of her qualities to rub off on me, but there are some that I'm terrified of catching inadvertantly by having her as the only other real female role model around me constantly. Thankfully, my brother and mr. Smith have vowed to keep me in check should I start trodding on the fragile infrastructures of humanity. (that doesn't really make sense, does it, but it does sound poetic...so I'll leave the phrase, all arty and unthought out.)

On to other things than my dsyfunctional growing as a person...

Sailing was amazing yesterday. The wind we had yesterday was the wind that we should have had for the whole summer, even if the temperature was not so agreeable. I maintained the helm for the entirety of the trip too, which was nice. Cold, but in GG Kate's sweater and a watchman cap, I was able to keep warm, though my vision consisted of a slit between sweater and cap. The wind was sporadically between 8-10 knots, which isn't a hell of a lot, but still enough to bring on a tinge of exhilaration as well as rosy cheeks under the fall light. It was really a beautiful day, the boat was well tuned, and the - I just can't explain an amazing sailing day anymore. I'm starting to realize though that what makes a good sailing day great, is not actually the sailing; it's the amount that you release yourself fully into the process, the amount that you are able to leave everything behind when you're out on the water just reveling in you being there, and nature surrounding you- directing you- You are at the whimsy of all elements.

Yes, this was an intentional pun in the naming of Whimsy, though the boat that we sail now is but the successor of the boat that my grandfather built entirely by hand. It still slays me that he sold that boat for the Tanzer 26, but as I understand it, the buyer offered a ridiculously high price for it, and when you have four daughters in their forties that are financially dependent on you, it's hard to turn down that kind of thing.
  The Morning After- Elliot Smith
This may come as a shock, but I have been doing a lot of thinking again lately.

I have a friend who I had a horrid nightmare about the other night, and I woke up very sad, because it rang prophetic, and I hate prophecies, because they have the same odds of happening, or not happening- as I see it in my head.

I'm also starting to think that love is really just a big gong show. And I think that I'm developing an unhealthy fear of intimacy as a result. A result of my past, or as a result of not having to care about who I'm intimate and how I'm intimate with them much anymore? When I say this, I am referring in particular to how I can be as uninhibited as hell around any of my gay friends, but revert to frigid nun chum girl around friends of the opposite sex who happen to be straight. I think I may be trying incredibly too hard and ineffectually to be covert here. I've gotten too used to the sexual buffer zone between Mr. Smith, Westjet, and myself. It takes all the steely nerves I have to look Fenton in the eye, much less throw myself awkwardly hugward in his general direction. When I accidently get touched by him, I jump a million miles into the air. It's not that I'm repulsed or anything by him, but I don't know what it is necessarily either. It is the same thing with mr. pink too.

The thought of "doing" anything with anyone right now, even now, mortifies me, and it's horrifying that I don't know why. When I said not too long ago that I used to feel a lot of giddy anxiety about seeing mr. pink, it was a pretty physical feeling, like a flipping stomach, but I don't think it was all that sugar and spice stuff, I think I was wrought with worry about expectations I may not fulfill. This may actually be the root of the problem. I love how I learn things about myself by writing stuff down in long dizzying exploratory paragraphs.

I'm afraid of expectations, I'm afraid of you jumping to conclusions, I'm afraid of intimidating you with my sexuality? I'm afraid of your judgement. I'm scared that I'm not going to be able to be with anyone and be happy. And I'm scared of ending up like Godzilla.

When I took the quiz below, it wasn't as hard to check off "would be comfortable as a hermit- absolutely" as I thought it would be. This doesn't mean hiding out in the moors of Ireland as I once wrote in the days of the boy sabbatical: it just means that I would rather be happy on my own then feel like the piece of shit I seem to constantly feel like when I'm with someone maybe.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Main Type
Overall Self
Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

Enneagram Test Results
Type 1 Perfectionism 58%
Type 2 Helpfulness 86%
Type 3 Image Focus 58%
Type 4 Hypersensitivity 46%
Type 5 Detachment 50%
Type 6 Anxiety 38%
Type 7 Adventurousness 78%
Type 8 Aggressiveness 78%
Type 9 Calmness 54%
Your main type is 2
Your variant is sexual
Take Free Enneagram Personality Test

This is very weird to me. I think I'm questioning the accuracy a little. It's a little embarrassing as it lies, lol.
  "Because--It's Leonard Cohen Day!"
I got really annoyed this morning because I had the full intent of looking at some Leonard Cohen poetry, and I realized that what little of the stuff I have is in the C-Lit course pack that I gave to mr. pink so he could read some Dany Laferriere. And it's been four months and he hasn't even cracked the thing open. I keep telling him what he's missing, but ... all that is missing is Leonard Cohen in my life.

It really hit home today how much Godzilla's lack of socialization (save for, ironically enough, all the middle schoolers she subs for) has made her act like a complete adolescent. This morning- I wake up tasting vomit in my mouth and reeking like a bar stool sat on by a fat person with hemerroids, and thus logically, head for a shower. A great hot purifying shower. And Amaryllis followed suit. We always shower on Saturday. Them's the rules. But Godzilla has decided to take this morning to try and do her laundry. Now...the conflict last year was that she decided she wanted my laundry day, which was Sunday, and like a passive shlub, I let her have it. But now she wants Saturday morning? Anyways, the point is, only in this household, does a fifty two year old woman punch a cupboard, stomp up the stairs swearing profusely and slam the door as hard as she can because two showers in a row have prevented her from doing her laundry for a half an hour. Godzilla is not as bad as the Harlot by far, but godsakes...

Truthfully though, I worry about Godzilla. Much like the movie states, she's a very misunderstood creature. She doesn't go out at all. The only reasons she will leave the house is to go grocery shopping, or to go substitute teaching, or just go shopping for stuff she has no need, or no home, for. She's going to be in debt for the rest of her life, but she can't seem to see past that, and her standard of living is too high to be sustainable. And she's so unhappy, unhappy to the point where it seems like she's just going through the motions of her life. I hate that I'm saying this, but I want the right man to swoop out of the sky and save her, because it seems like that's her only out. Even so, she refuses to believe that Dogface (the ex) will never come back to her. However, it isn't my place to ever say that anyone isn't living their life properly. There is this trend of inflexibility with Godzilla and Harlot though that completely mystifies me and shocks me. It's like self-torture. I want them to be happy so badly.

Ernest came over to drop off packing materials the other day (Harlot's ex), and I was so happy to see him that I gave him the hugest hug and told him I missed him, because I miss him so much. We chatted and our eyes sort of misted up and he left really abruptly before I could call the girls to come say hello. I don't think he could bear to see them. Ernest was the only other sane male in this fucking insane half of the family - the other planet apart from my father for all the harried female asteroids to set up a calm orbit around. He is one of the most amazing people I've ever met, and Harlot blew it, big time. It's becoming a bone of contention that no one is sympathizing very well with her on her part. In all her strongly feminist ways, as soon as Ernest was gone, she started treating and speaking of him like he was the plague, and set about erasing every single trace of him that she could. Every single male she's bitten the head off after mating has met the same end. She has re-decorated her residence more times than I can count, and of course, now the boy has lost another father figure, and gained a bitter bitter mother who ships him off to any available relative when it suits her needs, or when she can't be bothered by him.

Being part of this family is both a blessing and also one of the most confusing parts of my life-the dynamics of it are as inconsistant as subconscious thoughts. I don't think I'll ever figure out this stuff, but I hope that whatever happens I become a planet, and not an asteroid.

On the upside of my day, I got to hang around with my favorite gentlemen today, and also go to a pet store.

I met my future cat at the petstore today though, and hope that our paths collide again when I'm ready for him. I hope serendipity is going to ring true for once. He was the runt of the litter, and he had blue eyes, part of his sealpoint siamese/manx/tabby heritage, a manx face with siamese ears, and delicate white paws. He had light light creamy brown/gray fur with darker gray spots and spotty stripes with black in the middle of the dark gray(not tiger stripes, spotty stripes, like this: . . . .. .... ........) like a little map of amazon river systems, or whale migration routes. The dark fur on the stripes and on his back was tipped in silver though, and his belly was a shocking white (same as his feet- little white mittens) with a smattering of islands of dark grey fur running in a little line right down the center of his chest and belly. He was honestly one of the most beautiful cats I've ever seen, and I demanded to hold him, and he shivered in my hands until I spoke to him, whereupon he calmed right down and nestled in the crook of my neck and purred. I would have called him Emerson. Or Chaucer.

With the boys, I had the fortune of seeing the most terrible movie in existence, which is liable to put your whole movie watching career well into perspective as we later found out, hashing and rehashing the shittiness of the thing, much to Westjet's disdain ("Don't you think we're being a little pretentious here? Ha ha..."). I honestly don't know what to say about Catwoman, other than equating it to a self induced smack in the forehead. It was not even worth the three dollars we paid to get in. Usually they're at least worth that much, but not at all. They didn't deserve my money or 110 minutes of my life. I could have spent that time much better even by sitting down on a curb and making farting noises with my eyesockets, rather than emerging from the theatre with bleeding sensory impairment. Of course, I could do anything seemingly boring with that crew and have it be a blast. Whether it be seeing if I can out-dour Fenton, or make mr. Smith and Westjet pee their pants by talking about my vagina too much, we always make a good time, even out of a short time.

This message has been approved by me-So smell mine! Yeah, you know you want to.
Friday, September 17, 2004
  Nothing, nothing
Id ith getting stho hard to breadth becuz of thith sthtupid cold that is sthtarting in my head. Achoo achoo. SNnnrk. Achoo.

My week has been really, really good. I am enjoying all my classes, even though some seem torturously not arriving at any specific point yet. I don't like courses where we beat around the bush for a semester, and have to go into tests with vague concepts to spew back out. I am a living breathing thinking person! SNnnrk... achoo. Also, I am elated to learn that the amount of work is something that will keep me buzzing away busily for the semester, though it has all of a sudden become imperative that I become an organized time structuring being. Organized? Not slacking off? No allnighters? More than one midterm? What? It's like I have to start being an academic or something.

Fenton and I have been hanging out at precariously arranged lunch times, and that has been nice too. No longer do I just drift around exploring campus with food hanging out of my mouth. It sucks that Mr. Smith has his labs starting at the exact time we two get our lunch arrangements. Friday has been cleared for the new Mr.Smith coffee time, though as it goes, an exact time is never really set until a day prior. SNnnrk. Achoo.

I thought I had something pretty important to say, but I don't think I do. I don't feel silly lately though, which is a relief. I feel normalesque, smart, witty and of course, look like a fox, as always. Speaking of which, I got my headshot at le papier changed. I call it "waiting for the bus." No one gets to see it until I write up some nastiness on campus microwaves though.

Wednesday, September 15, 2004
  "Hey Girlie, what you got there?"
"I don't like to walk where things are nice, aesthetic-according-to-men. Show me poverty, show me the homeless and the lonely old. Show me a tangible purpose to one's life no more complicated than mere survival. I'll see condemned houses, vacant skeletons of businesses, and the wrecked people that remain there. An emotion worn on a sleeve rather than secretly stowed away in a cavernous dwelling.

Through their survival they gain vitality from the struggle. They are down on their luck, there's no mistaking that, and even the shiniest bits of existance are easily tarnishable by a haze of hallucinations. They do degrading things for food and shelter; degrading to others, but more important- to themselves. But how can others, the "others" think that they "those people" don't understand the horrifying things they must do to survive? But with this, or without it, comes sweetness where you least expect to witness it.

I admit that the intended concept for this bit of prose was unclear to me when I first started writing it. Instead of clearly conveying some sort of cognitively well-written thing, it came across as judgemental and ignorant. I realized after a featured admonishment from a friend of mine, that I had gotten too carried away-in the wrong direction, and realized that the more I looked at this, the more I just wanted it to be an innocent observation, devoid of judgement, but having a small endearing metaphor to it. A cliched metaphor, sure, but still a harmless one.

I walked through urban decay today. I saw the flashing of police cars and ambulances, not streaking by as usual to somewhere else, but slowing down, checking housenumbers, tavern addresses. I was somewhere else. I saw men sleeping on benches, men and women fighting in the streets, boys robbing the disabled man who couldn't cross the street, I saw men furtively looking at girls from their darkly lit intentions, and I saw a crowd of men throwing apples into a heavily laden tree, shouting, laughing and bantering amongst themselves, pure exquisite joy on their faces. The green fruit was overripe, and somewhat bruised as it tumbled to the ground among cries of delight, that 'we're going to make pies.'" A siren screamed anonymously by.

I wrote this yesterday after walking for what seemed like days, if you were to measure it in the amount of things that I drank in around me. I had sat down to write this on the steps of a small modest looking church when a man named Warren sat down next to me. Warren was thoroughly enjoying the prescription of "Josephine", but after some cheerful chatter, he informed me of his abstract poetry writing abilities ("I can make anyone cry.") and thus became the first man to ever write me a poem that was from the bottom of his no doubt erratically altered beating heart.

"Why did you leave me at, at filth.
I do.
Did I look at someone else and make them cry?
You feel I flew."
-Warren B.

I also met a lady named Myrna on the ave, and she actually followed me for about two blocks, because she wanted to read the pins on the back of my bag (please don't question whether I'm naive or not, because I'm not, I assure you). I asked her automatically "what she did" because she appeared very familiar with the area and sharply observant with her darting swallowlike motions and glances. "I keep an eye on the girls." Immediately my mind sprang to all sorts of conclusions, so I asked her to specify. "They don't let the drunk ones into the shelters at night, so I make sure they stay out of trouble, keep warm, get food and stuff." Upon my enquiring she told me that she just did it "because someone has to", elaborating that she was on worker's comp., and "bored silly" with nothing else to do. She said that she'd been there, she knew what it was like, and she didn't want anything to happen to the ones she saw there now. And I asked her if she needed help. She said she didn't really, but told me where I could find her if I ever wanted to try and help anyways. And I think I may sometime, although any number of things that I'm not prepared for, physically or mentally, could happen. I was completely enthralled at the brevity of this hawk-eyed sharp tongued ferocious woman. As we walked down 95th, she told me the names of people we passed, and those people in turn would greet Myrna by name. I think she's an unsung hero, this petite woman in acid washed tight jeans and a mullet, and foam heeled running shoes, with the faded pink tee-shirt and the rose tinted bottle-rim glasses that is glaring back at me, not with avarice at this spoiled girl traipsing about in the wrong neighborhood, but like she immediately knows that though I am who I am, it hasn't made me immune to pain or suffering.

Monday, September 13, 2004
  Children are like Mylar sails...noisy, fragile, cumbersome, and completely beautiful all at once.
I honestly don't know what to say right now. I've so enraptured in thought for the whole day that its been startling and somewhat disappointing to hear what does come out of my mouth when I need to say something.

I went to the most amazing concert last night. I'd never ever say it to anyone's face, namely not a certain friend of mine, but it totally kicked the proverbial crap out of Sloan. Sure, I idolize the band, but Buck 65 just totally left me speechless, which given the concept is certainly a sick bit of irony. It seems like a cheap out, but I honestly don't know what to say. If I had to say anything about him, I would say, use your goddamn mind and download it yourself, because there are starving minds out there, and you're one of them if you haven't heard the stuff that comes out of that man's mouth.

The rest of the things I've been thinking about can be summed up in a poem that I wrote while manning the tiller on the Tanzer 26 (le boat) this afternoon. Tricky business writing and steering, whot, so it's a little rough.

I cut my finger on a razorblade this morning
Fumbling around in my medicine cabinet
Much as I sometimes fumble for words
Dull and uselessly bouncing around in my teeth

I bled and I bled and my blood bled some more
Dripping into the sink, oxygenated and useless
Like when some words leave my mouth
Wasted, and never to be used again

I have a lot of blood like I have a lot of words
But some wounds are seldom fatal
And some wounds are just constant and irritating

I bleed and I bleed and I bleed
I write and I write and I write
But my wound won't leave a scar
My writing won't leave a mark

The superficial wound does sting though occasionally
As wounds are apt to do when you pay close attention
The writing does stick when endeavored upon
Like shreds of toilet paper stuck to a cut finger

It is a pain to wash away

I think I really realized today what I want with my writing, and how fucking far I have to go. I also realized that I don't know if I know how to try. By this I mean...I've never had to try at anything before, but things that you really try hard at are supposed to be awesome right? So how does one TRY? It seems so silly, but it isn't. Another thing I realized is that I'm still pretty self centered, and I don't know how to be less like that. I try and I try but it just sort of comes back and I can't keep it away. It's hard to do. One very good thing I realized today though, is that I really do worry about my appearance too much, and that perhaps I'm not as bad looking as I think I am sometimes, and that maybe in my own eyes I'm a fox again. Woo hoo, because that's all that matters. LOL. It does tie into not being selfish though, because I think that the less concerned you are with yourself, whether negative or positive aspects, the less selfish you'll be. eg: "You're fine- so focus on other things." Other things: I need to articulate better. I need to enhance my vocabulary. In short, just be who I want to see ten years down the road I suppose. Gotta start somewhere. This is all quite a lot to be on the mind after the influence of one concert. Maybe I should go to more.

Also...project Harlem has been broaching my mind again as of late, and I wonder if this would be considered an immature concept yet...Because I still want to do it. It would be easier to do now than it would have been in the past, that's for sure. I still have the writeup somewhere too.

Feeding Time at The Zoo

I fed Elaugh for the first time today. It was sort of disgusting, and she swallowed a woodshaving too, but at the same time, obscenely hard to tear my eyes away from. As a sidenote, it was nice to see that her teeth are really tiny. Bite me all you want now, you psychotic snake, I'm not afraid. Ok, she's not psychotic, she's actually disturbingly tame. She'd climb up your pants if you held still in a park long enough, because she and those other domesticated snakes know the truth now. We're central heating, put on earth for their convenience. Watching her unhinge her jaw and then snap it back afterwards became my favorite part of the whole procession though, because you could hear the little *snick* when she did it, and it made me shudder.

And seeing as Zoo infers more than one animal...I have the cats now, for ten days. Pheonix tried to jump into the aquarium for a closer look when I was feeding Elaugh, only to do a rapid backpedal when Elaugh hissed at her and she realized the full gravity of the four and a half foot death worm before her paws. Mice are not only for snakes apparently, and snakes don't like cats. And cats are terrified of big orange death worms.

Saturday, September 11, 2004
  Once upon a very nice Zinfadel.
I decided I should write this stuff down before I forgot it, even though I'm like falling over tired and exhausted, with a sail and a concert to go to tomorrow.

My deceased grandfather's long lost relatives came into town from Ottawa yesterday. It happens that only my grandfather and his immediate family came over to Canada (before confederation), but something occurred that his mother (Kate) got so seperated from her four other brothers and sisters, that the children of her siblings (eg: my grandfather's cousins) didn't even know that my grandfather existed until their children were grown up. Apparently the spelling of my last name is so unusual, it was a rule with all the kids to check the phonebook of any new town they went to. And so check they did, and they found my grandfather's name once in Edmonton, and discovered that their family histories of course collaberated, and filled in missing peices for each other, great grandmother Kate of course being the missing link. Interestingly enough, there seems to be a trend of old maid temptresses in the family (read: strong willed beautiful women with bad tempers), as well as one black sheep, every second generation or so, that no one likes to talk about. My great grandmother kate had a brother named James that no one knows anything about, which I think is a pity.

The folks that I had a very fine dinner with tonight (like, fucking expensive) are the children of one of the brother's or sister's of Kate. During world war two, C was sent to Canada, but B was kept behind because he was older (slightly), and thus they were split up until it was over. I'd read Ben Wicks account of this a while ago, and always wondered about it affecting the british side of the family, so now I know. B still lives in Devonshire though, by Exeter, and not only did I get an invitation to stay there sometime in "the passageway that consists of my spare bedroom", but I got an invite from C and his wife J to stay in their cabin outside of Ottawa. So spoiled am I. I really felt like a snob tonight actually, because this place was pretty swank, and I was all dressed up, and we were all talking about the old family, and I guess there was a lot of money there (still is I guess). It's interesting, but it's also a little overwhelming. I always hoped for humble peasant origins. I really liked meeting these people though, it was neat.
Friday, September 10, 2004
  Coax Me
Sloan was the most amazing concert experience I've ever had. I seriously thought my heart was going to explode as soon as they started playing. At first I was being really fussy (sorry Fent) about everything, because I was so....missing the point. But when I just stopped thinking and stood and listened to the music, it totally hit me how amazing it was to be there in that instant on that floor, listening to the band that almost had a hand in teaching me how to approach my life with their lyrics.

That must sound lame, but I have seriously beeen listening to Sloan since the dawn of my music loving life. I think the first song I ever heard from Sloan was "the good in everyone" off One Chord to Another. One of my most favorite songs of all time is "Underwhelmed" from Smeared though. From a very young age, I realized that I was sort of like the girl in that song. A melodramatic artsy fartsy wild child with brains = an often frustrating person to be with. I just love everything in that song, and I suppose I always half wished that I'd end up with some guy that sure, maybe I did drive crazy, but would still be irresistably attracted to me nonetheless because of it. Attracted to annoyingness- YESSSS!

Anyways...Fenton and I ran into Benjammer there, so we ended up watching most of the show, if not all of it, alongside, and that sort of compounded huge feelings of guilt about Mr. Smith not being able to come. Mr. Smith probably likes Sloan much better than Benjammer does. *Guilt*

The first band that played front for Sloan was called Columbus. Big fucking deal. The lead vocalist was the only really enigmatic performer there, and by enigmatic, I mean painfully erratic in the quality of his singing. He seemed to pull it together by the last three sets though, while his keyboardist fought off imminent narcolepsy with painfully bored expressions. They weren't the most brutal band I've ever heard, I just didn't like them. No pop. No zing.

The Mark Birtle Project however....shock and awe! So good! Mark Raymond just totally blew rad gas out of his butt for the whole show with his vocals. The whole band had awesome stage presence, and obviously more important: tremendous talent. The thing that grabbed me the most was that there were some distinctly new age quirks to some of their compositions, but with a great old feel to them, much like the Clash, the Pistols and the Kennedies gave off. In fact, after buying their demo and giggling over the duct tape squares protecting the cd from the staples on the lunchbag paper cover of the slip, I really realized that the future needs them. We need more 'Never mind the Bollocks'. It made life easier to understand, and it made you angry and want to do something about the thing you were angry about. Thus is classic punk.

And the piece de resistance...It took what seemed ages for them to show their plain alt-rock-circa-the-nineties faces, but when they did....I was surprised at the amount of new stuff they didn't play, but elated at the amount of old stuff that they did. As I'd mentioned earlier, I was initially being very fussy about whether I could see the band or not, but I found that just catching a glimpse of Chris Murphy (my favorite band member) doing his thing every once and awhile was perfect as obviously hearing him belt out primarily lead vocals was orgasmic enough in the first place. So awesome! The sound was great, and they were just so incredibly LIVE. In front of me. And I enjoyed that everyone around me was equally a fanatic.

I wasn't the only one singing along. It's embarrassing, but I don't care: I usually am quite a "this is my space, here me roar" sort of person, even at rock concerts, and sometimes go through great pains to keep it that way and still enjoy the show, rocking out in my unobtrusive hip wiggling foot tapping kind of way. Enthusiastic and enjoying the show, but not too enthusiastic mind you. Not the case at Sloan. It started out that way, but by the middle of the show, I was like, hands in the air, waving them around, singin' real loud- just all over the place. But it was so great. And they had sing-along, just like they did at Palais Royale. I sort of wish that they'd done it with "The lines you amend", but the ones they chose were also great. More recent too, I suppose. The only real complaint that I did have was that they didn't play "Underwhelmed." But at the same time...maybe it's a good thing. It's sort of "my" song still then, not the song of a hundred other screaming girls.

I sort of thought I'd listen to Sloan while I posted, but somehow Taylor Mali wound up in there and I can't even concentrate on anything else when I listen to that man speak. So good!

I went to my first CLIT 266 class today, and who should share that class with me, but the Talker hisself. The Talker is a good aqquaintance of mine who writes for A & E sporadically, and I was pretty psyched to see him there, because he's really animated and thoughtful in class, and I enjoy hearing what he has to say. I was supposed to actually stay friends with the Talker during the summer, but well....the Talker still thinks I'm interested in him, despite the fact that he has a girlfriend that he might as well be married to. And I was never... I"m thinking I should invite him out to coffee with me and the men sometime though, when financial restraints get balanced out. He's a little more...I'll use "straight-edge" over the word "boring", but we'll see how it goes. As for the class itself, other than a Morrison novel, the reading material looks awesome. Awesome! What a nice day I'm having.

I went and bought food for Elaugh this afternoon though, which was a little bit sick at first. Well, there is nothing not sick about mice frozen in mid-wheel-run, with their eyes still open. Yuck. I should think that for the amount this is going to traumatize me while I feed the snake, that the little dead mice should be less than $2.75 a pop too.

Something to be said about Shaw cable: They make a mean mix cd. More news on that later. I have to go get all dolled up for dinner suga face.

Thursday, September 09, 2004
  The Good In Everything
I have a Sloan concert tomorrow to go to that I am shitting my pants with excitement about. SHITTING THEM! WITH EXCRE-I MEAN-EXCITEMENT! I also got a cigar box from the wenchly Bach Minor prof I hated, right before I took off for regions unknown, never to return to her accursedly cold classroom again. This is cool, because the box is wooden, and awesome. ALSO: I got into Women And World Lit 266! It's my only class on monday and friday, but what the hey now...not too bad. It looks like I won't be fucked for school afterall, but there still seems to be a summer or spring session in the cards somewhere. Damn me and all my first year hijinkery.

"Take what you want to try" my ass...

Also: I had a grand time with the menfolk today. It helped me unwind considerably, although I did get more excited about sloan. Fenton has caught the fever. He RAN to get tickets. He may scream like a little girl tomorrow, so it's a good thing I'll be there to catch him when he faints.

All that sampling when I should have bought the cow first. Or at least had some sort of initial direction. I just fumbled for beer, smokes and classes in intermittent periods for a whole year. And yes, to make matters worse, it was at Grant Mac. The awfulness.

I'm in a better mood. Tomorrow will be magical. Sloan-mania!

Human vs. Reptile Episode One

Human foolishly starts making dinner, and decides to see if reptile likes new hi-tech heat lamp tomfoolery. Checking on reptile leads human to thinking that picking up the reptile would be a good idea, in the sport of seeing whether it has died yet. Reptile is still alive, but cold. So cold. In human's haste and unthinking state, reptile ensconces itself on human's head, twining around human's really messy and tangled hair. It has become repti-bush, and the reptile refuses to return whence it came, and decides that human's neck is a good place to stay the night also. Human manages to get dinner hygenically made somehow. Reptile does not like chives and sourcream pasta sidekicks. Lucky for it, as human can't afford to share. Human leaves dinner to get cold and persuades the cold blooded heat sucker that life is much more interesting on the floor, and inch by inch, reptile gives up and thinks it has found a great new thing to stick its tongue out at. Human catches reptile and returns it to shoddy tank with nice heat lamp and expensive log shelter that reptile uses as lawn ornament. Human: 1. Reptile: 1

Human Vs. Reptile, episode Two.

Reptile wants to come out to play. Human thinks this is a good idea, because human suspects that deep down in it's cold unpredictable reptilian heart, reptile really likes human. As a friend, not a meal source. Human brings out reptile, and reptile is all cute and crawly aroundy on the hands for a little bit. And reptile has tricked human, because it has become a living set of handcuffs! If human tries to extricate her hands, reptile will surely bite her in the face with her little needly teeth, because reptile likes being in control over the stupid human. Reptile thinks it's being even cuter as its grip tightens, and human wonders if the reptile has ever wondered where the awesome mouse TV dinners come from. Even better, what would be a good way to convince the reptile to let go. Alas, there is no crowbar in the vincinity. Reptile is done being cute and probably wants to try and take down the human by wrapping around its neck again. Two loops for the four and a half foot reptile. Human sees where this is going, and manages to catch reptile halfway off hands and halfway to the jugular. Reptile returned to cage and glowy heatlamp. Sulks, and stares at human for a good solid minute. Trying to locate human? OR plotting its revenge. Human thinks "reptiles are so cute" and sleeps better thinking that.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004
So, initially the first day of school was good. Got a little anxious about time on the bus, as I've never gone through early morning rush hour before, but otherwise, arrived to first class unscathed. First classroom is really nice, with a great view. First prof on the other hand, not so cool. She must have talked about herself for the whole class. Now, I'm all about hearing about your educational accomplishments, but since when has running around videotaping skater boys counted as educational research. I realize skaters make a very definate sub-group, but it just sounded so lame when she was talking about it. I also noticed that when addressing students, she liked to use terms like, "the young", or "the youth" (i.e. "When you are addressing the youth, it is best to ...I find...") No wonder I hated all my junior high teachers--they talked to us like that. If someone is condescending to me, I shut them out. Also, she made a fairly beautiful generalized remark about how people that lived at home while they went to school were lame, and obviously incapable of being independent in any way. Some people, yes, some people no. Anyways, lets just leave it at "your first impression is hurting me."

Afterwards, as a result of magnifying dread throughout the class, I ran down to the secondary ed folks, and discovered, no, I cannot take this "you ignorant but adorable girl" without the rest of the ITP junk. As it stands now, I need another course in this semester, and an entirely rehashed winter semester. Now. However, this "shifting ass on the second day of class" thing seems to be becoming a regular occurence, so I think it should be ok. I'll make up for all the lame classes I took out of convenience with my second degree hopefully. No one ever said my life was boring, or intelligently led for that matter.

I had a rather good afternoon after class however, and my sour mood was lifted momentarily by a good little lunch time chat with Fenton, although the clouds sort of closed in when we went for headshots. I hate having my picture taken with a deathly passion. Half of me was screaming for a farm animal instead, but I realized that this is cowardly, and that really, if I vow to maintain always that looks aren't important, I have to stop making a big deal of it and bite the bullet when it comes to all this photography shit. I don't make a good conversationalist when I get all fretty over photo sessions though. The photographist was like, "ok, big smile now", and I sadly informed her that my little optomistic grimace was as good as it would get. I am mortified of showing my teeth in pictures. Of showing my teeth in a smile. I am mortified of being in front of the camera. I love being behind a camera, always have, but as is the trend of my life, I'd rather be the subjecter than the subjected.

This brings me to the thing that has been on my mind constantly for the last three days. And very distractingly so. I haven't really been able to focus on much, and very asinine things have been coming out of my mouth I feel. I think there are still little insecurities about returning to school (some of which were unfortunately validated today), and other things in my life that have just compounded together to depress me a little bit. Firstly, my self esteem has been down the shitter lately, and I can't stop these stupid teenage self-degrading things from coming out of my mouth. They just sort of fly out before I can stop them, like little leather winged monkeys going after Dorothy, and I sit there immediately after and wish I could take them back, because I don't want people to think that I'm like this all the time. And I don't know why I'm like this right now. Self-esteem issues seem so very high school. Usually, I am very confidant in myself, embarrasssingly so, because sometimes I don't realize I'm doing something stupid or making an ass out of myself until I go all retrospective on something. But I didn't mind being like that, just as long as I wasn't annoying, and I didn't piss someone else off, and I wasn't being a selfish attention hog.

I'm just tired of all this crap with mr. pink. Well, more like, the lackthereof. At least if I had a problem to sift through and solve, I'd know if I was standing on terra firma, or aether. So of course insecurity leads me to blame myself, because there is nothing else substantial in my mind to blame. And I hate that I'm being like this. And I hate that I don't care anymore. But you'd think that since I don't care, that I'd be back to normal. This means that I do care, and that I'm hurt. And I'm starting to think I don't need the aggravation of uncertainty, or uncommital non-chalance. What burns my ass is that there is no alternative to the current arrangement. Nothing rational anyways. Secondly branding my pooper is that he's fucking taking advantage of me. And I'm letting him. No one is allowed to take advantage of me. Or has been allowed. And I hate that he seems to do it so easily. And I wonder if I set myself up for all this shit, and start thinking I'm just better off being alone, because it begins to become unfair on my side, because I let my mind wander to perhaps more viable options, and entertain things I should not even think about in my current state of having absolutely no knowlege of anything in relation to the status of my so-called relationship.

Unrelated: I have a great article on the ropes for le Papier, thankyou Jordan Blatz, you big teddybear hearted schlub. And I say 'schlub' with every affectionate intonation of the word possible.

Death involves an injury?

August 2004 / September 2004 / October 2004 / November 2004 / December 2004 / January 2005 / February 2005 / March 2005 / April 2005 / May 2005 / June 2005 / July 2005 / August 2005 / September 2005 / October 2005 / November 2005 / December 2005 / January 2006 / February 2006 / March 2006 / April 2006 / May 2006 / June 2006 / July 2006 / August 2006 / September 2006 /

Link Sluttiness
evil // mad // adam w-b // shane // jaden // ben // robyn // thomas // she took the bomb // the great // ink // my flickr // vasyL // massive missives // street rag
comics of note
questionable content /// able & baker /// bunny /// a softer world /// creatures in my head /// nothing nice to say /// dr. mcninja

Powered by Blogger