"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.
  ¶ 2:20 AM