I've been doing a lot of thinking about blogs lately, which shouldn't be that surprising, because I'm practically addicted to mine (albeit pathetically so). It dawned on me that I've gone through all these efforts to be anonymous so I could have less self-disclosure when I write on here.
Somewhere in there, my signals got mixed. My friends read my blog, people I like read my blog- and somehow I started censoring myself again. Not vastly, I mean, there's only a certain amount I can really censor my lewd character outside of my blog even, but it bothers me that I am afraid to talk about certain issues or something. But I realize that it's all a self created thing too. So, no more withholding.
With that, I also realize that some of my readers, one in particular, get a little antsy and disgusted when they see me dribbling on about personal matters, and at first I put a lot of constructive thought into that question of "why are you telling me this?" But then I realized that this has never really been about other people, and never will be. This is the only on-the-record me time that I will ever get, and I'm sorry if that is upsetting to some. I am not going to be inhibited anymore.
So I suppose you can see where this is going... ANGRY EMO POSTS! ALL RIIIGHT!! And perhaps, if I ever have sex ever again- just kidding. Sex life = still personal and non-existant.
First topic on the agenda. I need to change the status of things with Mr. Pink. In light of what has recently occurred with a scholarly gang-member friend of mine, I realized that what Mr. Pink and I have is completely fruitless, and completely not what I want. I'd rather die alone then be trapped in the cold Lake area for my whole life. Which would happen. I'm having a real issue with parting ways though, because a)
it isn't really so bad, and maybe I just expect too much from people- maybe that's been my problem all along b)
I am not cut out for Uni boys, c)
I'm afraid of what it would do to him, d)
I never see him, and I don't want to end it over the phone. It's too easy to yell and hang up. I love the guy, but I don't think he knows what love even is. What's been happening, is nothing. I phone him. I make the plans to go see him. I write him letters. No letters. No phone calls. No plans. No fucking expression of "hey, I do give a shit" past, "oh, I miss you." But is this one term of endearment that I hear every second phone call or so, worth my time and energy? Don't say "I love you" every second sentence, but do something.
I had a talk with Fenton yesterday, and told him that I feel abandoned. And that was an embarrassing concession, but it's true. Meanwhile Mr. Pink told me last week about "this awesome girl at work" who asks him to smoke up all the time, indirectly hinting that "it really sucks that you aren't around, and don't like smoking up all the time." I should have told him to fuck off right then and there, but I didn't because I felt guilty. What if this is what long distance becomes to us both though? A perpetual game of making the other jealous? Because I know he gets absolutely enflamed whenever I mention any of my non-gay guy friends, notably a more recent one, and he knows that I get irked when he tells me about all the girls are falling all over themselves for him out there because he's got his highschool diploma. And therein is another conflict in itself which is pretty self-explanatory...
Godzilla made me cry today. I've had so much on my mind that I forgot to take the food crumbs out of the drain-catch and wipe off the stove, and she nailed me for it, and launched into the litany of, 'you're so immature...selfish...I don't like having to call you on all your mistakes- you think I enjoy it? God why can't you just think of other people for once, because I have better things to do then chase after you." Luckily enough, nothing slid out of my eyeballs until she left. I've found that if I just stare really hard at people when I think I might cry, that I can hold it in. But it makes me gassy. I am getting tired of litanies.
In conclusion- I discovered yesterday, that me and a friend of mine are not so different again as far as aspirations for our current personal lives, but- that doesn't mean I'm up to making any more stupid mistakes. If someone ever likes me again, they're going to have to slap me in the face and call me 'Johnny' because I'm not going to sacrifice my mutton for a hell of a long time. I was going to pay said friend $10 to be the advocate of this said motto for me a while ago, but perhaps he'll get his opportunity in the future.
I've been in a really strange mood all day. I chalk it up to hormones- but I've been all distracted and glum, and probably not good company. Plus, I forgot to meet Bento for coffee, so now I'm dead meat.
Originally, I had this interesting dilemma where ALL my pictures were posting here immediately, due to some linkage/tag screwup, but now ---> refer to my Link sluttiness, and my Flickr stuff is there. Nude photos to follow shortly.
You are a rodent, disguised by a human body.
It has gotten to the point where I don't want to wake up on the weekends. I don't mean this in a Livejournal "I want to jump in front of a train" way though. There is nothing quite as amazing as being loathed by someone in your sleep, and being the subject of someone's anger before you even awake and confront them in any sort of way. I wake up, I leave my room, I get yelled at and in my half-alert state I become quite bewildered. I was sleeping! What bad things could I have done while I was sleeping? And this sets the precedent for my weekend wakings. Godzilla tries to kill me with glares, with tones of voice, with slamming around of stuff. I ask her, "if cleaning makes you so angry, why do you do it? Let me do it if you're going to be insufferable." The other part of this is that these wrongs that I supposedly must commit with my evil alter-ego cackling all the while, are things I have never been aware that I should even do in the first place. Who knew that fuzzies on the inside of a washing machine were enough to make someone go ballistic- that the washing machine should be washed out everytime I use it to prevent this dirt buildup? Dirt in a washing machine? We are amazed.
The real problem that is arising is that it isn't seeming so unfeasible to move out right now. Sure, I have no money, but I'm starting to value my sanity over my comfort, and taking the bus to school every morning for an eleven o'clock class, from St. Albert, is not such a formidable pain in the ass all of a sudden. Like, I'm really getting tired of this, and the more I entertain the thoughts of throwing all my stuff into garbage bags and leaving, the more I know I'm more likely to even do it if I'm pushed far enough. But in all this, there is my grandma- this is the rub right here. Hell, it's the thing that keeps me here. I don't want to leave her alone with Godzilla, and I know it would be really really selfish of me to pack up and go right now, because she's already so stressed out. So, I'll stay. And really, I'm more prepared to say, "so why don't you move out?" to Godzilla, then offer to move out myself, when it really comes down to it. Because I know that I am an intrinsically good person. I also know that I'm not a slob, and actually fairly meticulous when it comes to being a clean roommate. I also know that it is not me who is the unreasonable party here-I am not the freak. But I have to say, my confidence is always sort of being undermined by all of this crap, so it's hard for me to even think that I am a good person sometimes without sounding like I'm lying to myself.
It all comes down to priorities though. Godzilla's priorities are to clean until her hands are raw, and to do it fast enough that she can watch TV for the rest of the day, and by extension, the rest of the week, without having to worry about cleaning. Her priorities are to leave the house only for the essentials, to have no friends, and to be a substitute teacher with no hope in hell of ever retiring.
My priorities are somewhat different. But everytime I get confronted with something I have "done wrong- or a wrong committed by inaction and lack of 'unselfish foresight'" I wonder, "when have you said, 'gee thanks for doing that. Gee, you did a good job of that when you did it. Oh, thanks for doing all my chores for the last month," and thusly, I am not suprised at my own "behavior" because really, when you can't do anything right, why try? Why continue to agonize over the details of your housecleaning when you should be doing homework, if it's never going to be good enough? I really have to get out of here. 1.5 semesters left.
A piece of art, for which I am not your thief.
When I woke up this morning, I was horrified about my now-erased blog. I was advised to leave it, but decided against it, because it was disturbing me, and it was disturbing others. "Funny, but scary too." And I felt like a total monster for writing it. From now on, I will stay away from expansive amounts of alcohol, and hand-in-hand with that, away from writing implements if intoxicated by any substance, that have the exposure of a blog.
My day was spent quietly. I putzed around the house and contemplated my Grandmother. My parents came to visit before I took off to Fenton's house to watch movies, and they ended up buying me Taco Bell and dropping me off at Keegan's- for some reason, this restaurant has become very important to me. If Fenton were to ever suggest changing venues for our nights out (just him and I), I would fight it, tooth and nail, unless we were going to the Chinese place across the street with the creepy mirrors ("the false grandeur"). Part of the original plan of the evening was to do arts and crafts also (print transfer patches and wristbands = my awesome idea, birthed at 1:20 pm) but apparently, le poulet tropical (I know it's 'chicken', but it's funnier that way) of Fenton's Ma, are sensitive to fumey substances . We compared our sad love lives and chatted merrily over crap pizza instead, and then walked to his place after renting "Nothing", one of the greatest Canadian flics I've seen in a while.
The movie was about two guys that basically hated away the world, so that they and their house were the only things left in a great white void of endless nothingness. And they could hate away any object, world condition, or mental condition (albeit sometimes only temporarily). And they couldn't bring them back. They went through all these "two men lost in the desert" phazes (excluding cannibalistic desires- after eliminating "feeling hungry"), because there were no other people there. Big focus on eyes in cinematography, and bigger than usual focus on special effects, and absolutely amazing improv-based dialog. It was really quite a well done, and well thought out movie. I have a feeling this paragraph is missing a bunch of hyphens, but whatever. A hyphen free zone. Ha ha...did you see that? Hyphen free. I will cause my teaching peers endless pain.
And then, the tense game of chess. I lost, but not too miserably. Must hone strategic-forming skills.
On my way home, the wierdest thing happened. A man named Garni, with very little english, was at my bus stop- lost, and desperate for a phone, and so nervous about being lost that he was somewhat hard to understand. My phone was dead, so I asked some girls if he could borrow their cell phone, and that was fine. He phoned for a ride with an Indian dialect that I've never heard before, and then told me straightaway where he was from, how long he'd been here (I didn't ask) and how much he loved it- he works at the Batai Village restaurant as a cook- his boss's name is Ramesh. So we're sitting there and he asks me if I'm hungry. And I'm in the middle of saying, "not really" when he pulls out some restaurant left-overs and hands me a chunk of tandoori chicken. So we sat there eating chicken and flat bread (can't remember the name) for about ten minutes, talking about Mill Woods (where he lives). It was pretty incredible, and my god was that good food.And it's so funny that I was eating food that a complete stranger had given me, in the middle of the downtown core, at twelve-thirty at night. It sounds terrible, right? But it was really quite a profoundly unique moment. He's a very kind man.
Where am I at right now? I'm worried about Bullshit Proof Vest. And hoping that Bento and the Boy had a great time at their show (River and Stream? Fawn and Stream? I dunno....)
 - acrylic gel medium that we would have been using. Doubly worse about not doing this craft, was that we didn't get to use my glass bead acrylic gel either. Le suck.
Let's get drunk and talk about rationality
In a not very well thought out plan of adventure, Mooke and I decided to convene at the Powerplant today at a ridiculously early hour and drink. And drink we did. By the time my class rolled around at three thirty, I had two pints sloshing around in me, as well as one litre of coffee- a veritable walking water balloon; I should have been leaking every few steps. So, my Edpy 442 lecture went swimmingly, as I can tell by the fluid and nonsensical notes I ended up taking. Realistically, it was a short brisk buzz, but fuck I'm dumb. I can't believe I actually did this. Again. I mean, you'd think I'd learn these things the first and second time- but I just got carried away. At least it wasn't as bad as being buzzed in Art 131 on a painting day. My god. Everything dissipitated by the time EDIT 202 rolled around though, and we listened to two old computer savvy ladies from St. Marguerite's go on about ICT standards. At one point in the lecture, the younger one was telling an anecdote related to double checking your links before presenting them in a class, as she'd had a link for a site about the Titanic, that was not involving a boat...And the older lady piped up and said, "She really means that it was for Titanic TITTIES!" People were shocked for about two seconds, before they were screaming with laughter- this same lady later told a terrible story about how "it was so funny that Billy found a used condom on the playground. I simply told him to put in the garbage, and made up an insect name for it." It was uncomfortably bad, because then she started talking about how "we didn't have AIDS to worry about in the early nineties" (you slutty slutty children). I mean, really....you're an elementary teacher for fashlugginah's sake. But, no one ever said Ed-anybodies were smart, I tell yoo wot.
Going to Hell is So Hot.
Today was fantastic.
Here are some highlights:
*I had peach tea on my way to school today. So good. Admittedly, the stuff my mom left here is all flavour and no kung pow (read: the incredible amounts of caffeine I have come to need to keep me somewhat "with" the program on the way to school). Tea has sort of been growing on me lately (in my armpits, the small of my back...just kidding). And I feel so sage drinking it. I just feel like I could solve all the world's problems over a cup of tea all of a sudden.
*Marginal Lit is MAKING SENSE! We are amazed! I'm feeling a lot more comfortable there, and suprisingly (and probably to the annoyance of some of my other classmates perhaps) the repetition of the concepts, over and over, is what is doing it. Everytime I hear one thing explained in a new way, it just becomes that much better. And I only have one ear, and it's the left- so HA. (I'm going to start lording the structure of my neural pathways over everyone, better watch it)
* As previously mentioned, BSPV and I had coffee together again, where we pored over his marginal lit theory (diagrams, for lit theory = awesome!) that he's been meditating heavily on. Our coffees always seem so short, but today we had the epiphany to sit together in English for once, and thus spent the whole class passing notes and giggling over our prof. It was so much fun, but I have some pretty crap notes to show for it. Good thing my neural pathways are so awesome. And that the Cat Lady said I could borrow her notes if I was "that easily distracted in the future."
* Instead of studying for three hours until my lab, I felt a little inspired and wrote some poetry, while also rehashing and re-writing a couple that I'd done at a previous time. At first I felt bad for not studying, but with the vein that my day has been on, I quickly got over it. I'm going to Hell anyways, right? And I'm happy how things turned out. I still have to organize them all into some sort of ordered volume though so I can get Fenton to edit them for me somewhat. And then? Who the hell knows.
*Walked to lab with trepidation, having never actually sat down and made a website on my own, from the ground up. And, unlike what I was expecting, it was a joke. Microsoft Frontpage? Come on... So, putting the minimal effort required of....any Ed. student, I now have a page worthy of around 1995 vintage that I made, and that no, I will not link to. It's fucking horrible. The least you could do, oh conceited TA of mine, is give us a little creative license to find our own text, images, and video clips- not give us a web-page of lame samples. A ten second clip of a football game. A badly done clipart computer. A boring text document that you wrote. Boo. We are disdainful of this criteria. That said, I still enjoyed doing it all anyways- gives me an excuse to do mindless work, and pay attention to detail. And to think about other much more delightful things. Like books. And other stuff.
You make me smile quietly
Today has been a long day.
Scowl-mode was in full strength today during ESL, as interesting as the class was. We talked about critical growth periods today, and how they related to learning language. Specifically, we reviewed the old "Genie" and "Victor" cases- the first being one of a girl who was neglected and abused for thirteen years (never learned speech, was completely isolated socially) and the second being about a boy who was in effect "les enfant de sauvage" or a wild child, who was captured and "civilized" when he was about fourteen years old, after living autonomously in the wilds of France for his childhood (again, no language). It was very interesting, but my prof kept making comments on how these children were no different from chimps. And so on, and so on, despite the incredible learning that both kids did achieve.
More seriously (I say serious, because it jarred me) he talked about hearing and cognition, and said that people do most of their "learning" from the right ear (the right corresponding to the left lobe which shares the majority of the "language center"). I had never heard this before, and talked to him after class to enquire about some further reading I could do on the subject. I have to admit that I was a little alarmed at hearing this, wondering if there was something that was wrong with me that I'd never been told about, and therefore, never made the effort to adapt to, due to the fact that I can't hear anything on my right side. I kept wondering- is this why some concepts need to be repeated to me until I get them? Is this why I'm more visual?
But really, there is no cause for alarm. Prior to talking to Bento (who swiftly allayed my concerns) I had the inkling that since I'd never known any different, that my brain would have adapted to that from birth. But I wasn't sure. Talking to Bento was thusly all the more reassuring. Still I wonder just how different the way I learn is in regards to this, though everyone does learn differently. An MRI-F on me would look insane though, I bet.
I asked Mac (my busdriver) for some sage advice this morning regarding being intimidated by intelligence- and true to form, he delivered it, with his usual gruffness, and I felt absolutely stupid for getting upset about it in the first place. Bento later reinforced it, and now I'm not worried. It's silly really.
On the weekend, Elaugh's light fizzled out, and I had to go get her a new one. I consulted all the different types of 150 watt bulbs in the selection and got her a different model then the first. She's been active like crazy ever since, doing the Tremors thing, climbing the sides of the tank, and just being generally amiable. And I'm finally able to keep the tank the correct temperature. I imagine though that if it cools down again outside, that she'll slow down a little. Apparently the new bulb also simulates sun-light better.
Today we did non-verbal cue practices in my Ed. Psyche. class, which was also interesting. We had to be on our worst behavior (non-verbally) for one session as a counsellor, and our best behavior for the other. My bad behavior was awesome, except it was so hard to do! I felt so bad! And Anna's bad behavior was good, but it was funny because she was also having a hard time not laughing at my story. She finally had to make me agree to talk about something boring. I was flattered- I thought I was boring. And as for Anna, I didn't think rugby could be so cool to hear about. We talked all the way to Edit- which was boring. The girl next to me was a Linux user, and kept grumbling. I've never used Linux, but I sympathize- this course is offal. A lot of the classmembers are starting to pick debates with the prof.
And there is some debate coming up. The debacle that is the Alberta Supernet for instance, and how that relates to the classroom. It seems like an enormous waste of money, just to say, "we're going to do this, because we can", meanwhile the arts (fine and otherwise) get starved of funding. I mean, Art, in any highschool has become a complete joke because of lack of funding, but hey, now we can interact with a math class eighty-five kilometers away? I got some math for you- if one class runs in the direction of another class eighty-five kilometers away, going roughly about 100 km/h, how will the speed or efficiency of learning been altered? Instead of thirty students struggling through math, you now get to watch 30 more on a big screen struggle with you, with only one teacher? My god, so exciting. And so on, and so on. Students were airing concerns of lowered employability rates (in an already low demand market), but really, I don't think it's that much of a concern- people place too much importance on the idea of a personal mentor to put their faith entirely into technology.
A little differently, I had a chat with the Linux user (loud flailing drama majors = always fun) after class, and discussed the idea of autonomous learning a little more. Some kids can (she did) do grade upon grade of learning completely on their own. They don't need interaction with other classes- if anything, they need more independence- something a computer can give them.
I'm bored. But, coffee with Bullshitproof Vest tomorrow = Rad.
I'm a creep, I don't belong here...I want you to notice when I'm not around
A bottle-blond be-mohawked boy came to our door tonight, and demanded to speak to the owner of the house. Grandma was indisposed, so I listened to the spiel. Fosterchildren. Godzilla came to the door casting a dubious eye towards the hapless youth,
"Sorry, we don't want any orphans, or who-ever it is you have for sale."
Mothra clears her throat and awkwardly ushers the boy out the door, wishing him a faltering "good luck" as he goes. Godzilla grins smugly.
Fuck I'm bored. My tuner is also broken. In an effort to combat the ill effects of my upcoming quit date, I had it in my mind that I would use my guitar (currently hopelessly out of tune) to help battle cravings while at home. No such luck, so I'll have to pick up a tuner on Wednesday I suppose. Doggone it. My brother berated me for not being able to do it by ear, so I tried doing that again, but I can't even remember what a tuned guitar sounds like anymore. I think I have E done correctly, but that's about it. It's about time that I dug it up again though- if there's anything I've learned from those damn pyramid schemers, it's "you have to make the time to do something you love (such as swindling the gullible)." But I'm bored. Did I mention I'm bored? I'm really bored. Cha-liiice
A note to ThreeDeeGlasses: LCD Soundsystem is starting to grow on me.
When I get Old- Alkaline Trio
It has been a fairly great day, and my screen has finally stopped flickering, so I no longer think it is on the verge of death. Class was enjoyable, and oh my god this is a boring way to start a post. Jumping into the meat of things:
Marginal Lit is both starting to become more clear, but also, contradicting that, a little bit fuggy, because the definition of what "marginal literature" really is, seems quite nebulous right now. Bullshitproof Vest clarified a few things, but I must say, the way that he talks inspires me to diagram what he says, because he's sort of a visual thinker, and I don't follow visual explanations with...no visuals. Maybe I'll do that next time. I still got the gist of it though, which is the important part, but oy, I have to start paying more attention I think, and possibly going over my notes before going to class.
At coffee today, the subject of aging came up betwixt my company and I, that got me to thinking along his lines. What is going to become of us all when we're old? A whole melee of things occurred to me, and while I told some crap story about being like the scootertastic hag off of "Waking Ned Devine", I really started to wonder. I looked up at him and wondered what he'd look like when he was old. Wondered what I'd look like with a wrinkled face and an eyebrow ring. Wondered if I could still rock out to the Dead Kennedy's if I were old- holed up in my resident geriatric home room. Wondered what my friends would be like when they were old- if some would make it to be that old, which was a fucking scary thought. Will I ever wear those stockings that wrinkle around the thick ankles of old ladies? Will I have thick ankles and vericose veins? Of course I will, but then I think of all the other freaks and geeks out there with tattoos that will wither and fade, and admittedly, this is sort of funny, but it's also interesting to imagine how our generation will weather the next fifty years, which brings on a whole other plethora of interesting musings.
All these things that we hold important and dear to our hearts now- how will that change? I'm curious to see what happens. I'm curious to see if my piercing holds out that long (j/k) and see if my style comes back when I'm in my mid-forties. I'm curious to see myself go out of style though too, to see when I become dowdy and "out of the loop", and the uncool mom. Because I will be an uncool mom, guaranteed. Everytime I see these mothers that try and keep up with their daughter's, fashionwise, I want to yarg. Admittedly, there is some credit due to those that can devote the time or the money, but if you're like my mom, you're comfortable in yourself, and this is not an important priority. She likes what she liked in the eighties and early nineties, and that's never going to change. And she sticks to her guns, and still looks great. Perhaps that's why. This has gone not in the direction I wanted it to go in.... To return though- I just wonder what will be happening ten years from now. Someone invent a time machine, and let's go.
God this is dumb. I feel really strange right now. But anyways- I read an article in the paper on Saturday about journal writing. Apparently, journal writers are more likely to suffer from insomnia and depression, especially females (ie: Virginia Woolf). Wow, that warms my heart. Seriously though, I am both dubious of this, and agreeing with it, but I think that there has to be a further analysis into the ends that journal writer's meet when they are recording their days in the first place. Specifically regarding the insomnia bit though, I'm inclined to think that my insomnia would be worse then it already tends to be if I didn't journal, because there would be no cathartic purge of the thoughts that clog my brain. As for depression- that's a crock. Not the clinical diagnosis itself obviously- Ok, I feel like I'm talking out of my ass here, so I'm just going to stop.
It's amazing outside today, and everyone that I've seen has been happy and animated. Good old vitamin D.
Song of the day:
"Such Great Heights"- Iron & Wine (I stopped listening to the soundtrack weeks ago, but it's playing on my playlist right now, and it always makes me smile).
My monkey, a monkey, the monkey, their monkey, our monkey, his monkey. The collective monkey.
Yesterday was smashing good times (this word, smashing, has been invading my vernacular a lot lately- a bit pretentiously I might add) with The Borg + 1. We watched what I gauged would have me crapping my pants in fear by the half-way point, but instead of screaming through the original Takehashi (the spelling is probably horribly wrong, but you know who I mean- the guy is an awesome director) production of Ju-on: The Grudge, or Dawn of the Dead, we giggled inappropriately and roared with laughter through all of them. It was quite good. Fenton, Bento and Hydrass are quite hilarious when they join forces-Hydrass will become a regular- I command it, because he's cool like that although I used to find him slightly intimidating.
When I was perusing the video store, I found another movie (cannot remember name, goddamnit!) that was done by the same animators who did Blood: The Last Vampire
, which was muy cool- I'm going to rent that next time I have renting powers in our little get-togethers. The animation in BTLV blew me away, to the point where I almost (ALMOST) didn't care that it was like a 25 minute teaser- therefore, I must see this movie. It is newer, and therefore, must be more awesome. Hopefully.
A few things have arisen about my previous post. They will be dealt with accordingly, although it is clear from a phone call tonight that the status of things is swooshing downhill at lightening speed. And it's not even my fault. Wow. The thing that worries me is that what he sees as complacent contentedness to the point of everything being boring as ok, I see as dysfunctional as all hell. My function is not dsyfunction. But, all of a sudden, I know exactly what to do about everything I've been stressing out about, and everything will be fine.
In other news, Godzilla was seen traversing the public streets this evening with her minion Mothra trailing behind her, hoping that Godzilla would not fall onto the ice and do herself an inexplicable injury and hence need Mothra to carry her home- On her mighty wings (I had to say that, I HAD to- it made me laugh). Mothra also noticed that Godzilla is quite out of shape, but still managed somehow to subdue Mothra with flames shooting out of her mouth as they walked. Mothra therefore didn't get to say much, but rather, watched Godzilla wheeze and gasp along, and still spit out choppy gaspy sentences about lots of nothings. Something about eating, or crashing airplanes with pilots that miraculously survive depressurization, and consequently, the odds.
"You know, people just had much more mettle back then than they do now. Nowadays, we're all pussies."
At the mention of "pussies" coming out of Godzilla's mouth, Mothra gasped in embarrassment and looked away blushing from the 52 year old scaly monster.
If he were half as smart, you'd be a work of art
Once there was a funny girl that lived in the colder hemisphere of the world. She lived a fairly non-exceptional life, going to school, hanging out with her friends, never really knowing what to do with all the little spaces of time she had left over. After some thought, she realized that if she were able to bundle all the little spaces of time that usually landed in the middle of various activities, she would have one large chunk of time ineffectually spent on her hands. And the funny girl was in loathe of being unproductive and bored.
Salvation came in the form of some ill-wrapped snowshoes at Christmas time, from her parents who might as well have been wiggling their eyebrows suggestively as they wrote invisibly on the card, "we know that no-one will ever work out for you, so here are some snow-shoes because you'll need to exercise in the cold isolation of the north. Because really, no one will keep you from that teaching goal, we're positive. We're absolutely positive that you will end up fulfilling all your dreams because, simply put, you're too scary already for anyone really. Just like your aunt."
She actually liked the snowshoes a lot, despite the portent of their message. They were sleek and light aluminum, with durable plastic webbing, as well as sturdy alloy crampons on the bottom in the event that she might have to scale an unusually large snow drift. Easy to use straps that were simple to tighten with merely one pull were also excellent, as the funny girl didn't like fumbling with more complicated rigs in the cold. Like fiddling with ski-boot adjustments in blasting wind, it would have been uncomfortable.
The first time the funny girl ever used her snowshoes she dragged him with her. She was excited, elated, bounding away with the light jackrabbity steps that the snowshoes allowed her, and bounding back, like a loyal dog on the frozen lake under the full moon. The funny girl thought it would be romantic if he came with her. His feet were cold. After a while of walking in silence, the funny girl was still enjoying the sensation of padding quietly on top of the sparkling snow. It was warm out, and her sweater and snow-pants were well insulated. He was getting grumpy, but still keeping an optomistic tone for her. The funny girl offered him her snowshoes so he could try them out, but he scowled at her momentarily. I'm much to lazy for that, the boy said. I'm never going to be active if I don't have to, he guffawed, adding that he would just as soon drive somewhere then walk. The funny girl who had been quiet until this, got quieter as the boy started talking more seriously about his plans to move to a warmer place also. And a shiver grew in her that turned into a shudder. The shudder started in her heart and moved down to her legs and back up before blasting into her brain like a stinging sub-zero wind.
You can't use snowshoes in a warm place, she protested. What about my snowshoes? The boy told her his feet were cold, and asked, could we please go back to your house now, it's really much too cold for such foolishness. The funny girl became quiet again and they trudged back to the shore and came upon a landlocked floater plane that her neighbors owned. It was covered in snow and glowed like a huge skeleton in the moonlight as they climbed over the ice crests that littered the shore. Maybe I should learn how to fly and be a pilot, the boy suggests. Maybe, the funny girl says. I could be a commercial pilot and deliver Fed-X, the boy says. Maybe, she repeats, while looking at her feet, her snowshoes piled up with snow make them look foreign. Anchored down Yeti feet that sparkle as they approach the disgusting orange streetlights that illuminate the lane.
As they walk down the driveway in the knee deep snow darkened by ghostly shadows of tall pine trees, the boy holds her hand, tugging slightly, but trailing behind as she breaks a trail with her snowshoes. A huge snowdrift looms next to the balcony of her house. As they walk by it, she realizes she is fatigued and no longer amused by the mighty swooshing of her snowshoes, or the glimmering powder of snow they joyously kick up behind her. The funny girl decided to rest in the bank, and fell gently backwards into the soft snow and looked straight up.
The moon shone bright and luminous, rings radiating away from it in tight and glimmering haloes. The imposing silouettes of the pine trees infringed on the edge of her sight. The boy towered above her, looking down only slightly amused. You're so silly, he admonishes and makes a move to pull her up. The funny girl shakes him off and laughs, a low nervous chuckle. I'll meet you inside, he says and leaves. She hears the door slam with a solid thump that sends a small spray of snow trickling through the air to land on her cheeks. The porch light turns off, and she is alone in the dark, in the shining snow drift looking at the sky.
Another shudder races through her body as she hears the faint creak of the boy climbing the stairs inside the small house. A coyote howls in the distance, and the wind picks up a little bit, spreading more snow over top of her. But she is not cold. Her fingers wriggle warmly in her mittens, and her toes dig into the lining of her boots snugly. The bindings of the snowshoes hold firmly, and the funny girl feels oddly rooted by them, though they stick up awkwardly as she lays in the snow. She is still, and she waits.
The funny girl is certain that the boy will come and get her eventually. He'll start to worry, and he'll come and get me, she murmurs to herself. The wind blows more snow over her, but she doesn't notice because she is warm with the thought of him digging her out of the snow and warming her cheeks with his breath. She becomes more still and waits.
She waits and she waits, and the inevitable happens. The funny girl has become covered in snow, and though she is warm inside, the cold is starting to work into her veins. The legendary winter vampire of local lore, a frost-wringing and malevolent spirit, had found her. She could feel his wintery needles digging into her cheeks, her toes, and spreading slowly up her bones. If I get saved before he reaches my heart, she thinks to herself, I will be ok. And she waits, and the vampire is hovering around her head, she can see his ice-blue eyes looking fondly down at her as he claims the funny girl for himself.
The next morning is clear and sunny. Minus five. The boy assumes the funny girl has jumped into her own bed, only mildly confused as to why she didn't come and say goodnight to him as he slept on the couch. It was the appropriate thing to do afterall, seeing as they were at her parents house. The funny girl's father comes out of his bedroom yawning, and exclaims over the beautiful weather while saying good morning to the boy. The boy does not ever see the strain in the greetings that the funny girl always claims to notice. Hours pass. The funny girl must be sleeping in, her mother says, exasperated that her daughter has not grown out of this habit. The others agree.
Later, the temperature sinks, and the small home warmed only by the wood stove, has started to have the crisp lovely smelling air that only wood-stove burning homes have. Would you start a fire, the mother asks inquisitively of the father. The boy offers to go get firewood, and clomps down the stairs, throwing over the door and stepping into the brisk air. The ghost of the moon is visible as he shivers and walks to the woodpile in the freshly fallen snow. He should go wake the funny girl up, he decides. He's lonely and wants someone to talk to, other then her parents, who really, are quite boring, no matter how much she constantly protests against this.
Walking back to the house, he is startled by the sharp sound of a chickadee breaking the silence. So much noise for such a little bird, he mutters, looking over to the bird feeder which is surprisingly desolate. No birds, and after the chickadee's call dissipates- absolute silence. Next to the feeder is a new drift, a larger drift then the one that had been there the night before. The wind-lines on the drift are graceful and smooth, and a slightly bluish tinge lies in the shadows and furrows of the sculpture. A snowshoe is sticking out of the bank. The boy gasps and drops the firewood with a loud noise and curse. Dropping on his knees before the imposing pile of shining snow, he digs hand over hand, hoping it isn't too late as his hands pull the snow away from the black snowpants and boots. He pulls her out of the drift with a gasp, and a cascade of snow showers down covering him. His breath catches as he brushes the the snow off her face with his warm knuckles.
The funny girl. Oh that funny girl. Her eyes were closed peacefully, her skin was alabaster white, and tendrils of brown hair poked out of her toque. Her lips were blue, but softened in a patient smile, so unlike the scowling frowns she was capable of. He checked her pulse. Checked her breathing. Pulled his head up to her chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. Hastily, he dropped her back into the snow and ran back into the house shouting. And she lay there, by herself again for a while before her eyes fluttered open.
She got up and watched an ambulance slide on the ice at the entrance to the driveway. Watched them load the funny girl into the back with extreme care. Watched the boy drive away in his car, the opposite direction of the ambulance, smoke pouring out of the exhaust she always asked him to fix because it was so loud. She watched her parents drive away in their white truck behind the emergency vehicle with hopefully flashing lights. Then, silence.
Shrugging and tightening her scarf, the girl turned and walked towards the lake, snowshoes quietly shushing through the newly fallen snow. The sun was setting, and it made the snow glow like fire as she walked into the colors of the encroaching darkness. Never had she felt so light.
(I realize this is quite silly, but it was sort of a stream of conscious thing. I'm in a wierd mood. And the sleep thing, that ain't happening. A large part of this is obviously fictional, but it isn't an analogy for anything either, just wierd words based on a small event. And yeah, I went snowshoeing last night. T'was grand.)
Even Tapeworms have friends
One Hundred Things you may or may not know about me.
(I've been working on this for like months and just finished sometime yesterday. I really encourage doing this, because it teaches you a lot about yourself, especially where your own contradictions lie, plus it would be nice to see everyone elses lists out there so I don't feel so self-possessed. I'd love to read them.)
1. I love raspberries. Anything to do with them- Je adore !
2. I really enjoy the simple things in life. My needs have never been complicated, nor my wants. That's why I always seem like I'm overwhelmed with complication. A pursuit of something simple always seems to explode in my face.
3. I am so flexible it hurts sometimes. Mentally and physically. I'm certain if I exercised more, that I could touch my right buttock with my right foot all the way around. No such luck yet. Mentally- I acknowlege that I have a problem with putting myself first sometimes, and will often put myself out extreme lengths to help people, but bottom line, is I wouldn't do it unless I loved the person, OR, I'm not thinking when I do whatever. That said, I'm much to much of a jerk to have some sort of martyr complex. I'll laugh before I pick you up off your feet, but I'll still pick you up.
4. I have a weird relationship with mathematics. Any chance I get to do some sort of problem solving is something I tackle with perverse glee. This factors in to how cheap I am. I budget either scrupulously well, or not at all and pretend like my finances are always ok. Which they are, for the mostpart.
5. If I'm angry or clogged with thoughts, I clean things. I enjoy cleaning, but not in an OCD way- just for the time for mindless work and thinking that it provides. And personal satisfaction at seeing my reflection in toilet bowls. This said, I don't like being told to clean. And I don't like people telling me how to clean.
6. I love fingerpainting and sculpture. Anything that has my hands in direct contact with a medium is orgasmic fun.
7. I collect things that glow in the dark. It could be anything as useless as a paper clip, and I'd keep it forever if it glowed in the dark.
8. Will give head for dark chocolate. I absolutely love chocolate.
9. My father's side of the family is somehow really vulnerable to addiction. Everyone in his immediate family smokes except for him. And I do. This scares me.
10. I have something called Golden Hars Syndrome. This has made me research quarry for my entire life, because no one knows what causes it. Gamma rays or space aliens. Seriously though- I have it very minorly- people were amazed that I turned out as intelligent as I did. It took me a long time to reconcile to how different I was from other people- but now, I am sort of proud of it- it sets me apart.
11. This isn't to say that I still don't have my moments of anguish about it, but really- what is going to change? I make the best of what I got. And look at what I got.
12. I defy normalcy. I have perfect balance. I bowl lefthanded, hit righthanded, write righthanded, play volleyball left handed, switch hands in badminton, throw lefthanded- the list goes on.
13. I still climb trees. Don't tell.
14. I'm curious about everything, which gives me a short attention span. I get left behind A LOT on hikes, walks, and mall-runs. I look at everything.
15. I love meeting new people, to the point where I will strike up conversation with strangers when the mood strikes me. I like knowing about whatever is on people's minds in regards to whatever they feel like talking about.
16. I don't have many secrets and I wish sometimes that people were as interested in me as I am in them. I told a friend once that "I wish people would rummage through my sock drawers, or snoop in my stuff." I wouldn't be invaded, I'd be flattered. Woe befall me if I ever have a stalker, lol. "Where are my underwear?"
17. I really want to have sex in a lot of strange places. A quincy being one. A crawlspace being another. Bizarre. Freudian analysis dictates that thusly, I don't find it easy to find privacy. Which is true.
18. I'm vulnerable when I'm out of control of a situation, but this isn't to say that I don't enjoy being out of control sometimes. Sometimes I just feel like spinning around wildly until I smack into something and get knocked out. Not literally.
19. I'm double-jointed in my left thumb.
20. I have a prosthetic ear that I throw at people constantly, when they don't appear to be listening to me.
21. I have had eighteen surgeries requiring TKO, and two that were local anesthesia. I can still count about thirteen of the IV scars.
22. I'm cocky (no pun intended) when it comes to intimate relations, but truthfully, I think I've just gotten lucky. If you're bedding down virgins, of course they think you're awesome at everything. Really, I am still sort of a naif myself.
23. I've always had this hidden explosive urge to get a Moped and just take off across the country with it- strap a typewriter to the back- and just go. A real unhealthy fascination with writer's exile, I tell you.
24. I'm in love with the idea of a tiny insignificant apartment with a fire escape to sit on, and sunlight coming in all day through one window at least, a futon, a tiny fridge, and a clanking radiator in the living room and art on walls making the space seem smaller then it really is. And warm creaky wood floors covered in braided rugs.
25. I'm a packrat. I also steal hospital supplies.
26. Only Belly knows, but I'm a good singer. I used to sing karaoke quite a lot and jam with the boys in Katima-V, and thus learned that I actually had talent. I auditioned for a band once but didn't get it because I choked, to be quite honest. I have written quite a lot of songs, but they sort of collect dust. I miss karaoke though, it was fun.
27. I can do anything I put my mind to, very well. Sometimes it might take me a little more effort to learn something, but once it's there, it's stuck for life. Like driving tractors. I will never forget how to do that.
28. I love being up high. Heights fascinate me, because I like seeing how much further into the horizon I can see. Also, there is something about regarding all the anonymous lives that hum along below that is really interesting. But I don't have a god-complex, just a "people are an infestation, look at us go!" complex.
29. I really like plants, and wish I could have a garden to putz around in. This is hilarious, because I'm also real good at killing plants. Only about one in three ever live.
30. I've never really been romanced before. Being a silly old romantic at heart, I wish I could be, but often just end up romancing the people I'm with instead.
31. I am too sensitive and passionate for my own good. Sometimes though, I can be the totally opposite. I'll always be passionate, but sometimes I'm pretty fucking oblivious to the feelings of other people.
32. I think that I will probably smoke tea for the rest of my life, about twice or three times a year- just go on a walk with a notebook and get high somewhere on my own and enjoy the quiet of whereever I happen to be. Or be around those who provide "stimulating" discussion. I can't smoke during school very often though, because it does a number on my working memory.
33. I am in fucking love with photography. I have been itching to get into it more seriously lately- and money allowing, I will. I just have a knack for it, and I love being behind the lense, not in front of it. Ever.
34. My memory is really bad. I say this constantly, but it scares me how bad my working memory is. It has been getting better though. One thing I found, is that for some reason, my memory is amazing when I don't smoke. Must get oxygen to brain...
35. I don't like people who abuse the L- word. It really bothers me. Love is like a car in the garage. You don't have to constantly remind yourself, or your significant other, that there is a car parked in the garage do you? Every morning? "Honey....there's a car parked in our garage!" I mistrust meaningless repetition.
36. It may not look it, but I've been really fashion conscious since the age of like eight. Being able to buy my own clothes at thirteen was like heaven. However, I will sacrifice style for practicality at the drop of a hat. If you offered me a parka that could fly, I'd buy it.
37. I hate incredibly passive people and get pissed with myself when I catch myself being stupidly passive. Love used to make me passive, and still makes me fear it (love) for the reason that I might be like that again. This said, I am a dominant person, but I don't dominate....that doesn't make sense does it. How about, I don't like to be dominating- sometimes I wish everyone would just make my decisions for me.
38. I enjoy sewing. Consequently, my lack of time has tuned out this as a creative outlet, and turned it into more of "I must repair my clothes imperatively, or they will fall off my body. Or, in the instance of my Clash hoody, I will cry."
39. I don't like talking about myself. I constantly think I talk about myself too much to others, and it embarrasses me later when I look back at times where I inadvertently gabbed about me for what seems forever. I also never tell anyone about my personal problems- when I do, that means they've left the realm of my control, that I seriously need some advice. But otherwise, I keep it to myself or vent on my blog, finding that if left to my own devices long enough, I can usually sort them out. This exercise however, is an obviously massive exception. And personal things that come out as funny stories, are really just nothing, though I love to exaggerate everything.
40. Writing is something I love to do. The power that words have absolutely fascinates me. And true to the form of a writer, I suppose I'm quite narcisstic, because I too dream of getting published for some reason or another someday. And going with that, I have a curious respect/disrespect for words. I'll use words in inappropriate context, just to see what they sound like, constantly. Or just mispronounce them, but not on purpose. I'm just an idiot that way. It's not my voice in my head shouting their pronounciations, it's some strange australian...kidding...
41. I'm not afraid of much. I mean, I get scared sometimes, but I have no concrete phobias. Sometimes I think I do, but I don't really. I can't just say, "I'm afraid of pirahnas" or something, like the rest of the world. You know what made me apprehensive when I was a kid though? Not being able to see my feet when I went swimming at the beach. Like, not when I was swimming, but when I was walking in the lake. I watched far too many ocean nature documentaries as a kid. Sharks this, skates that. I would have nightmares about being eaten by sharks in the cold Lake constantly.
42. I have a cast-iron stomach. It's really hard to gross me out. When it really comes down to it, I think that I feel like I sometimes have to say, "Ewww grosss" to remain socially normal. But really.... I'll touch your herniated intestine and go, "shit that's cool" if anything.
43. When I was thirteen, I pulled 112 pages of political discourse behind the lyrics of the Chumbawumba cd and read them all (I'm fairly certain I still have them- 25 pages on Trickle Down Theory anyone?) Ok, that's boring.
44. I have lucky red transformer underwear. Only my immediate circle of friends know this. But now, the world...
45. I'm interested in taking some ballet lessons eventually. Hopefully before I become post-natal dumpy with that delightful little uterine paunch. I really love dancing though. I rock out anywhere at any time when the mood strikes me.
46. I am an extremely physically active person during the summer, when I have time and resources. I love being on the move doing anything, because it sort of satiates a little bit of wanderlust I constantly have picking away at me. Being busy distracts that.
47. I am socially awkward. Not awkward in the usual "I'm shy, tee hee" manner, but awkward in that I have a complete disregard for social conduct as far as conversation goes. I'll talk about anything, if I understand it well enough. I can be smooth and social in any situation, but there are times where I plug in the music for the whole day and blot the world out. Also, I don't like making small talk. It's strained, and I'm just so much more interested in the things beneath the surface. I don't care about how your cat made a cute noise this morning. Even better, don't demonstrate it, I'm not listening. But of course, sometimes things evolve from small talk, so I'm not a bitch that jumps into questioning what you think of existentialism right away. Also- I ignore social protocol. I'm a little impulsive that way. Ok, very impulsive, and protocol reminds me of velvet barriers. You either follow them, or you plow right over them, because if you were to challenge the velvet barriers (the ones in movie theatres, ok?) they'd fall over like 90 year old shoveling a sidewalk. So what's the point? Precarious etiquette? I say, blunder ahead full speed.
48. I don't try hard enough at anything. I am only possessed to put lots of effort into things or people that I love. I realize this is terrible, but it will be a life-long quest to come out of being an underachiever I'm told. I'm getting better then I was though.
49. I completely abhor makeup. I get the impression that people think I'm a slob sometimes because I don't wear it, but honestly, the thought of covering my face with that goop to be socially conforming and hence "attractive", just completely repulses me. The first time I ever (and hopefully last) wore it, was for my highschool graduation.
50. It is hard for me to fall in love, but when I do, I fall damn hard.
51. I'm a pacifist. If I got cornered in a dark alley however, I could also defend myself. And I know that I make lots of tough girl talk, but I would never raise my hand against anyone. Seriously. Punching my friends is excluded from this though (by the way, I've figured out the reason I do that is because words fail me at the moment someone teases me- to be improved upon).
52. I don't think I'm very modest, but I try. Which is why I've only written fifty-five of these, as opposed to 100. Plus, I like to be mysterious, though really, everyone is mysterious forever. I don't ever want to seem predictable though either. Solid, but spontaneous.
53. I'm constantly waiting for something to happen. I notice everything around me happening to other people that seems extraordinary to me, though not necessarily them. And the stupid thing is that there is always something happening to me. I suppose what I'm really waiting for constantly are more profound moments to occur in my day- waiting for something to happen that I couldn't possibly write about that I'd just have to keep in my head and treasure for ever.
54. Inexplicably attracted to cynical and slightly egotistical people. It sounds so bad to say it, like we're awful people, but these people, in my mind, are the best people.
55. I could spend hours playing catch with a tennis ball- it's just that great- but only if I have someone to play catch with.
Hyuk...I'm getting light-headed from lack of food. This is what I have produced as a RESULT.
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Easily shattering fragile night
I'm so tired of this family. If not for grandma and my dad, I could take or leave the rest of this bunch of psychos. Godzilla probably won't speak to me for about twenty-four hours because I stoutly argued against paying extra for a smaller container of margarine (me being the only margarine using member in the house) for the fridge in which I currently have about twenty-five percent of the space in. On this note, I've learned acutely well how to hold my tongue, because I didn't let her know the half of what I thought about this ridiculous quarrel. It's stupid and petty but my unspoken coupe de grace goes something like this (all these great/terrible things that I never get to say in the moment, whereas I just can't shut up in any other context):
"Maybe if I spend more on margarine, other foods, and shit that I don't need, I too will be financially co-dependant on my Mum at the age of fifty-two and counting."
Mum and Grandma had a horrible time at the hospital. Grouchy orderlies, dissappearing charts, and a complete disregard for fatal allergies, along with an understaffed floor, prompting my mother to ask me (upon hearing about my day) if there was a full moon upon us, because "people are being SO weird today. It's been awful!" Grandma looks exhausted, and my mom has been dealing with the wrath of the Sister Agglomerate all day also, which is trying on a normal day, even for her.
The EDIT 202 lab was a bit of a bomb. The times I did pay attention were full of redundant and stupid bits of knowlege ("this is how we save to desktop") and thusly, the parts that I ignored while I actually worked on the lab, were the bits regarding the next lab, ie: how to upload website pages and make a website, which is terrible, because I have little to no real inkling on how to do that. And today's lab itself? Well, let-me-tell-you... There is technologically incompetant, and then there is executing a lab based on MS processing and clip-art entirely.
"Well, infect me with Leprosy by a nine-banded armadillo, I jes did NOT know it would be this fun!"
Big news. 11:25 = Zed TV with Mingus Tourette and Charles Bukowski. I'm creaming my pants with excitment.
You have to be wrong
Today has about knocked me on me arse.
Me first class went well, except for Ghetto Superstar automatically assumed t'was me that sent in the letter to our professor that stated "the rest of the children in class seem to be more intelligent than I, and would you mind explicating things a little slower for me and more simply?" Not that I didn't sympathize with the person that wrote the letter- BUT, I wasn't having problems following the class, just with the paralysis that grips me arms and me voice box at inopportune times. This Irishly inflected entry has been brought to you by someone upset over the amount of class we passed today on not too much of anything. However, there was a nice segue (not the scooter by the way) by The Likely Gang Member that served to save about twenty-five minutes of class.
And since I'm sort of on topic, the coffee with I-Pack-A-Nine went really well. I was only an ass a few times. And of course klutzy and a little daft, as I later realized (eight blocks away, an hour and a half later) that I'd left my scarf at A & W. The Cat Lady and I went and fetched it after we convened to Second Cup to chat about all my problems.
Grandma made it through the biopsy ok, but spent a while in recovery due to some respiration problems, so I didn't get the phone call that caused me to relax a little until the middle of English. But, so far, she seems ok. She just got home, and my mom is exhausted, so I'm gonna go make her dinner.
Phatic is the most pretentious word I've heard in a long time. I learned it today in my ESL class, and basically it means "small talk", like, conversing about precipitation, slippery sidewalks, the temperature, and of course, the relationships that people have with their pets. So, if you ever want to condescend to one, or a large amount of boring old white guys, commence with the, "could we please conclude this boorishly phatic communion?"
And ESL, what a boorishly bad class that is. I like the premise of it, I really do, but the more I get into this "education" degree, the more it turns out that I'm really just being taught how to be patronizing. Because that's what my ESL prof is, fucking patronizing. He started talking about this research project he did on "Bingo people", (there's a great deal of lingual things that just get tossed out the window at all the bingo games he's been to apparently, and he got funded
for it). And his "cute anecdote" goes something like, "the first time I went, some guy handed me a card and said something absolutely unintelligable, and it freaked me out so I ran away." He apparently came back a week later with friends so he wouldn't have to be alone, because "it's like a whole other planet in there." I have a feeling I'm going to spend a lot of time scowling in that class. It's a good thing I'm in the front row, like a care bear of negativity beaming out my "we dissapprove" energy. I mean, I'm sure it's a valid study somehow, or else he wouldn't have gotten funded, but when you deal with anything, human or animal, there is some respect involved, and he doesn't give me the impression .... Additionally, and a little bit ironically, his lectures are not "like-free" zones. My name is blankity blank, and I like, teach english.
I tell you whut boy, you c'mon over to my town and say be-jiggered stuff like dat, and someone's gonna knawk yer block off doggonit.
The person that lives next to the pervert across the back laneway had a fire in their house today. Apparently the inside was a total writeoff, and the street was blocked off for the day by emergency crews. No one knows what caused the fire. In other news, I think the perv's woman dun gone left him, as there are ridiculous amounts of pizza boxes cascading into the laneway from his driveway. Realistically, it's probably a whole bevy of other things, but, I just don't like the man. I don't dislike many, as a rule, but I really don't like him.
Mum and I went with the grandfolks to get some dinner at Doane's tonight. God I love Doane's. The number 25 with extra chicken, or number 105 with squid, scallops and prawns- wow, cook me an orgasm. That said, I feel like I'm going to explode, and I didn't even finish it. We walked around Bonnie Doone afterwards (mom is big on walking in malls for exercise after a restaurant meal) and I got a new toque (to replace my one four year old Arrogant Worms toque that you can't see the autographs on anymore) and mitts that match, since I lost my gloves. Incidently, these mitts have strings on them, as well as this beautiful robin's egg blue stripe on them, which was the second thing I noticed after spying the cheap price. I think I may go to hell for the amount of cheap that I am. If I don't die of botulism first ("dented cans are cheaper you fool!")
That is all. Tomorrow is going to be one hell of a long day. But, an action packed one, to say the least.
I've finally deleted my old garbagey blog. And let me tell you...lots of garbage...lots and lots of it. It's amazing how people change. Namely, it is amazing how much I've changed and continue to do so. It was not a joyous trip down memory lane though when I zinged through it, more of an "egads, what a terrible person I was (am) ?"
There was something I was going to mention, but I've forgotten. My mom is staying two days over = rad. We've already had homemade fettucine and minestrone. Godzilla wants her to move in.
In other realms of strange: Despite the fact I had this stupid line all planned for asking an anonymous person to go out for coffee with me, it completely left my head when I cornered the poor kid after class today. His face turned a little red, but at least I won't have to keep up this weird idea of blogger etiquette that I hate - eg: "Well, I read their online musings...but I wouldn't possibly -NO, couldn't possibly, talk to them in public."
That crap annoys me, even though I understand it causes a lot of awkwardness for others, namely the time when Bento was sitting next to a guy that was perusing Bento's blog right next to him. And of course, le papier, but that's a whole other gamut. The way I see it, is that I would love to be able to meet some of the amazing bloggers I've read. Not that I could name any right now, but they're out there....and I'd love to shake lots of hands and give unfacetious comments to their faces. Damnit, my tea is cold. I waited too long.
There are a couple of things about all of this ranting above though that I neglect to mention. Firstly- I am a socially awkward person, in the fashion that I write better then I talk. So, said person that I cornered today will of course be completely appalled by my fumbling for words on Wednesday, but I suppose we'll see. Additionally, though blogs like mine are disgustingly honest at times, I worry that some people form their entire opinion of a person based on them. I know that writing is "the window to the soul" or some crap, but certain blogs serve certain functions to people, so you're not necessarily seeing all of the facets of one person via their blog. I mean, if someone were to read my blog and judge me, they'd get arrogant self centered narcissist negative nancy noodlehead, but if they read it and knew
what the function of this blog was to me, it would be an entirely different thing. My blog is my ranting place- the one place where I can talk about myself, my ailments, bitch, complain, and just vent. Venting is the big one, because when I write things and get them out of my system, I also get a chance to mull over my issues as they're formed on here, and sort out the problem for myself. That's it, in a nutshell.
Death and indigestion.
A few things I forgot to mention:
* I went and watched my grandma's scope at her appointment the other day down at the Garneau medical center. Her doctor is quite reputable, I was assured by all the mysterious plaques from Texas on his walls, and hand drawn pictures from people who had evidently survived his surgery procedures. The scope is something that would clear the room at a cocktail party, but I thought it was very interesting. I've never seen aveolar flaps in "real" life. More soberingly though, I also saw all the scar tissue from the last round of cancer. Awakening. Even more of an ass-kicker was a man with an electronic voice-box in the waiting room. If I smoke long enough, I too can have the silky chords of Stephen Hawking.
*Godzilla has been a little tense lately. The latest row was me walking out of the room when she started ranting about how athletes are over-paid, and how this affects her life personally. I left, because it was the same lame arguments that I've always heard on the subject, and because I wanted to get a glass of water. My departure, apparently "huffy" and "full of attitude" was what started the row. I see: slipping innocuously out of the conversation I didn't even know was directed at me (I thought she was directing it towards her hapless mother). And rant, and shout, and rant and shout. In retrospect, I should have just told her to shut up, if it was really directed at me. Listeners can do that.
*Something I've been meaning to elucidate on for a while: If I walk through my house right now, and pick up any given object, there is a spread-sheet in the den that lists who that object will go to upon my grandmother's death. The bed that I sleep on, the lamp that I read by, the pictures that hang on the walls, the coffee grinder, the house beneath my feet. You get the picture. It's hideous. Morbid, superficial, awful and yes, makes me very uncomfortable that my grandma has been working the kinks out of her last will and testament with great fervour lately. Included with this has been the nasty financial bits dealing with the Sister Agglomerate. The SA has taken numerous loans out from my grandma, one for example being around 50 K, from the wealthy sister no less, so you can imagine how bad the rest are. This acts against their inheritance, so my dad god delegated to inform each of the SA that their debts would affect them. And a stink has arisen, as predicted. One denies owing anything (namely a certain 50 K), and on and on and on. It is all so disgusting, but it has gotten me thinking about my own will and testament, or my lackthereof. And I think it will remain 'my lackthereof' - just auction off my crap, ok? Unless I have kids. In which case, auction off my crap and split the dividends between them equally. No wait, give the smartest kid an extra penny or two, because chances are, they'll be the one taking care of my legal matters. Poor bastards.
However, though it all seems awful to me, I do understand why my grandma is doing all this. It is making her happy to know that everything will be taken care of, that everyone will be ok after she's departed. And plus, I empathize with wanting to get the nasty bits out of the way so she can just sit back and enjoy what time she has ahead of her, which is probably a long time still to come hopefully. I can't deny that I'm still worried that this is the last year though. It seems more serious this time around, and she's still talking about refusing the surgical procedure, because it would be bigger and worse then the last one. Her biopsy is on wednesday, so after that, we shall see. I also keep thinking about Wendy. Wendy got told "eight weeks" in December, and died in two. No one has told Grandma a time though, and I'm sort of hoping they don't.
*Something strange is going to happen tomorrow, I can feel it in my bones.
*I added a snail to Copernicus's vase a few days ago. In all it's asexual wonder, though I'm hoping the hermaphrodite function is broken in the thing, or that Copernicus likes baby escargot- else I may have a problem later on. Nothing that the toilet can't fix though I suppose. Anyways, as of now, Copernicus plays Pen. guard and will not let Egbert cross a certain line of height on the side of the vase walls. Nor will he allow the snail to sit on the Rhodenderon roots. He sniffs it, scowls (betta's scowl, you better believe it) and knocks his block off, turning a fifteen minute journey to the top into a completely fruitless endeavor. Egbert reaches the bottom in like one second flat. If I were Egbert, I'd have self-esteem issues by now. But he still perseveres, and in the spirit of not losing an eye, he pulls his little gangly eye things back in as soon as he senses Copernicus is near. Like a crustacean skydiver putting on goggles before the plunge. Maybe my snail is into extreme sports. He's really quite tough. Not only did he survive -40 with a windchill tucked into my jacket pocket on Wednesday night, but he also lived through the emotional turmoil of sitting next to the salt shaker at Joey's Only. Imminent death for small crustacean from guiless human whimsy. . .
*My dad watched me feed Elaugh today, and she dropped her mouse. It was embarrassing all around.
"Umm... She doesn't usually do that."
"Well...should you try again then? Or will she do it on her own?"
(My snake can't do anything on her own but nap, and make tunnels in woodchips, and eat.)
[Attempt to pick up mouse. Reptile decides she is on the open savannah, and should protect her kill with utmost ferocity. Hisses a little, sticks out tongue, sizes up my gloved hand. I curse under my breath and push her head away. Dad snickers.]
My dad tells me to lie to cops.
"If a cop asks you whether or not the address on your license is accurate, why the hell are you going to say yes? Oh please officer, slap me with a fine because I'm so fucking honest."
Ok, so my dad would never say the f-word, or the h-word, but it would be damned cool if he did. Or would it? Is it ok for your parents to be just as profane as you are? In anycase, just another useful nugget of advice from the padre, to be added to advice about death, taxes, and how to take out a mortgage. Because I'll definately be dealing with the latter anytime soon.
It's gotten to the point where I am looking at every single apartment ad that I see, in the vain attempt that I will find one that says, "Hey? Broke and looking for independence? We'll give you this 500 sq. foot walk up built in the forties (read: slick-ass hardwood, brick, and old metal radiator = dreamy) for free! But only because we know how desperate you are. Perhaps we'll charge you fiddy dollars rent, just to be a little more selective. Did we mention that you have a window that opens up to a fire-escape, and that school is a healthy twenty minute walk away?" But alas, it is not to be. I will squander my youth living in this house (don't get me wrong, I'm fully aware that it's still a sweet deal to live rent free) with rules, regulations, stupid aunts, cold basements and ...god I'm such a whiner. Meanwhile, I still industriously look at these little pieces of paper on cork-boards that flutter profusely and hopefully about. I am sort of formulating a small plan in the back of my mind on this note though, that would be one step in the right direction: Spaz is coming up from Calgary to take her next semester at the U, because she can't hack it being so "far" away from home- in whichcase, she will need a place to stay, and I will be due for some freedom (I am almost 22 already- in a cloistered state). So, I may propose a plan to my parents that they pay my half of rent so I can shack up with Spaz. And Spaz's parents will be happy, because I'm "quiet", "responsible", and "a good academic influence" and as for Spaz, I love the kid to death, she's like a little sister to me, and after Godzilla, even Spaz and all her notoriety (temper, discombobulation) will be a fucking godsend. We'll see how that goes. I realize that it's also stupid to look a gifthorse in the mouth though, with all this said- because essentially, I've made it through three years debt-free because of living in this pad, and it is extremely comfortable, and free, and free, and free... But when do I stop "building character" by dealing with Godzilla, and start being comfortable with the notion of returning to that place where my bed happens to be after school? When do I get a home?
I was going to stick some "lost puppy" analogy in there, but instead remembered the rhinestone freak from "Suicide Club" who liked to stomp on them. Plus, it would have added to the pathetic, and that's the last thing I need to do right now. Fenton went and rented some movies for us to watch at Bento's house tonight (well, yesterday night, I suppose), and that movie and "Run Lola Run" was what he turned up with.
"Suicide Club" was a "social commentary on the disempassioned youth of Japan" and really, I thought it was really good, but drawing the meaning of the whole thing was rather difficult because either meaningful clips were extraordinarily vague, or lacking semblance with other parts of the movie. Existential....of course it was existential. Whether you are connected to yourself, and all that jazz. Because intrinsically, I suppose it could be easier to connect to others then yourself, because your essence is spread to others via their senses. Whereas, you.... I have it in my head how you would ensure you were connected to yourself, but it's difficult to put into words. But, back to this film. The cinematography was really good, and creepily done. Like "Lost in Translation" it put a new and more in-depth look into Japanese society, rather then the stereotypes that we've come to know. And the whole concept of the movie is of course quite applicable (if not moreso, in retrospect) to North American youth also. What struck me, was that (I didn't get whether the movie was trying to portray this...pardonez moi if I gaff here) the outcome of all these kids in particular committing suicide is because they had nothing to take seriously. Or, that somehow life had become trivialized, or that final line had been crossed as far as desensitized youth. Disempassioned. Right. Duh. Anyways, long boring picking-over aside, it really was a pretty decent movie. Now, if only I had friends who didn't laugh uproariously when swaths of schoolgirls get plowed to mush by trains. All of our sentences are going to end with, "so I think I'm going to kill myself now" for weeks. Maybe in another life, I will strive to be some clean-cut Christian girl who hangs out with frat boys. In the spirit of misunderstanding Quantum Mechanics though, I probably am a clean-cut Christian girl in another universe, right now
I found a hand-written advertisement on the bus the other day for "What the Bleep?" and had to laugh out loud. The website was listed on it, after all the neatly penned rave reviews (clearly this person wants the world to see this movie...) as well as the cult of Ramtha site. Nice.
"Run Lola Run", was....full of running of course. I'd seen the movie before, but hadn't liked it the first time, and somehow liked it this time. The thing about that movie is it takes some patience to watch, and sometimes I don't have that. But I enjoyed it much more this time. I certainly noticed a lot more then I did last time. No comment.
In parting news... On the bus tonight I saw some police doing their duty, breaking up a fight with some punks that I usually see hanging out on 97th street, who had started up something with a homeless dude. But the thing was, all I saw was this seething mass of brawling shadows. Those cops sure can fight. One man down. Going with my Jesus-Christ Superstar complex that all my friends seem to think I have, I'm glad I didn't walk to the library stop to be warm instead of standing in the stop by the Bank of Montreal. I might have had to open a can of whoop-ass = Dangerous.
When I am missing you to death...
I really miss mr. Pink. I went out and got drunk with WestJet tonight for some extremely explicable reason. I feel like shit right now (ie- I have the spins and am listing to the right, heavily) and will probably go to bed soon, but god I miss the boy right now. I just wish that I could fall asleep next to him, even if he wasn't going to be there in the morning. I just want him near me. Why is it always me that gets into these fucking long-distance relationships? Am I some sort of freaking awful sadist or something? Why can't I just be with someone who I can always see for once?
I miss him, and I want him here right now.
So yeah, a little intoxicated right now, which was incredibly unwise. I have extra money, and I go and blow it because I feel miniscule amounts of guilt for a friend whom I'm trying to estrange. Go figure. Perhaps things go down easier with a little tequila. However, from here on out, I shall learn the meaning of "NO."
I should be sleeping, but I just can't bear to drag myself off yet. Classes were good today, but somewhat unproductive. My English 314 prof likes to dance little irish jigs around himself, which is frustrating. And I can't gather up the gumption to speak up in Marginal Lit, which I oh-so-cleverly announced in front of a classmate of said class today, while he smirked in a niche of the Humanities hallway. Fucking brilliant, wot.
What a fucking useless day, full of fricatives and expletives. I'm never drinking again, so help me one-faith-or-another.
Cranky, but respirating.
For all my talk about being afraid of dying, I had not one single thought about anything when I almost got hit by a car yesterday. The driver braked, slid sideways, and stopped about two and a half feet away from me, car turned to fully intersect his lane. I just went "huh?" and gesticulated my apologies with my hand, like the pedestrian that everyone hates- the one that is apathetic to the terrified four year old that was sitting in the passenger's side, who would have seen your head smash into the windshield at a forty-five degree angle, with a car travelling speed of fifty km/h, had you actually been hit.
And I didn't freak out because I almost died. Because I realized, maybe I wouldn't have died, though I seem to be always assuming the worst. Cut hand with knife- get gangrene leading to endocarditis and die. Break leg- get flesh eating disease like cousin did- die (cousin didn't die...chill out). Get hit by car- Die horrible death of smashed ribs piercing lungs, bubbling frothy blood out of mouth and nose. But I realized that I would have been sent flying at the most, and just slide on my face on some ice covered asphalt- causing me to give up on my good looks forever, and live on a deserted island. Which, when looking at th temperatures right now, is not such a terrible idea. Other then the playing in traffic bit.
I went over to my friend the Cat Lady's place yesterday, with the sudden epiphany that I needed to have a girl chum again. Not bloody parts and juice of girl, I assure you, but just someone I could talk about infectious diseases and swap boy stories with. And that's what we did. Fully intent on studying Kafka and playing with her cats in the beginning, while she pored over...pores and spores in her hip looking Immuno text, I ended up instead flipping through her pathology/disease flashcards. The demonstration at the bookstore cites prime storing idea of plastic card holder pages in a small binder. Like baseball cards. Or Pokemon cards.
"Hey Billy! I'll trade you my Bovine Spongiform-E. for your Ebola, how 'bout it?"
"Well, I dunno Sammy, I sort of wanted your first edition Gonorrhea card..."
We discussed that you could probably make a game out of them, like those damn nerdy DND guys, or Magic fans. Millions of dollars in income would ensue. Each card comes with a graphic picture on it, of what the physiological aspect of the infection appears as- if visible. Bento's Boy and I discussed the prevailing amount of diseased penises in the collection and giggled over the pussy images. That's "Pus- y", not what you thought. Although there are some in there also. The Cat Lady screamed and ran away when I showed her,
"Fuck! This is why I'm going to be a Lab tech- I can't stand seeing that shit."
And last but not least (and old news-sort of- to some) Westjet got in a little trouble yesterday. He flipped his car on the way to school, and while he emerged unscathed, his wallet got gouged with $700 worth of fines that ensued, and his car is a write-off. I'm completely not responsible, unless I choose to believe in Karma, or the power of ill-thoughts, but of course I still feel really bad for the guy. He's going to fight all the fines in court, but seriously, he fights everything, for the sake of being difficult. And...that's all I'm going to say about that. But I am glad he's ok- though it didn't seem like he could be happy about that when he told me about it. Isn't surviving good enough? Sure, fallout, but at least it's proof of life, of living, right? You certainly can't fine dead guys.
"Go underground. It's warmer." - Roy, from the bus stop who misses his woman. At least he has a woman to go home to.
Well, that time that always incites little shuddery orgasms down my spine everytime I waltz into a new classroom has arrived. I love school. So far, all of my courses, most notably my MWF courses have been pretty cool. The only ones I'm not so sure about are my ESL course, and of course EDPY 442, but only because I haven't gone to the latter yet. ESL- a frumpy young man with the potential to induce hypnosis with the tone of his voice, or make me herniate with the severity of his flopping jokes. You don't expect the young guys to be frumpy or unfresh, but this guy is as stale as dumpster food. Take that- TZING! Parry, thrust, stab, stab. I'm such a bitch.
"Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, or as my ESL prof would spell it, njuk."
Promptly after that, I hung about the entrance to humanities before one of my abusive friends showed up and slapped me around momentarily. Afterwards I phoned another one and he came and sat with me. Friends- it hurts so good. Then, we stalked back through the halls to fetch Fenton, abandoning all heartless tactics before sweeping him off his feet with our magnificent glaring beauty off to Remedy. You see where I'm going with all this crap? I'm warming up before I attempt to write another Opinion, though I may have just psyched myself out by stating that.
My fingers are cold, my dungeon is cold. If only my speakers radiated heat. Or my subwoofer. I mean, it sits there and belches base, why not belch some heat too? Preferably 25 degrees of warmth, which by the way, is the opposite of what it is outside right now. Tomorrow is supposed to be bitterly cold, and I pride myself with the unbending academic spirit I have, because unlike all you dad-funded ho's out there, I will be at school tomorrow. Hell or high snow. Maybe I'll strap on my snowshoes after I get off the LRT, just for the dramatic effect. "Intrepid academic sloughs to class despite minus one million degrees outside temperature. What does she have to say about her courageous feat?"
"It's easy to persevere and get to school when you're listening to Gwen sing 'Bubble Pop Electric' on your discman. I could climb mountains listening to that crap. Damn," she said. Her nose fell off and crumbled into a billion pieces on the threshold carpeting. "Double-damn. Well, guess I'd better get to class now."
I figured out the ultimate toll of constantly being exposed to my dad's sisters in all their multitudes. I may lose my sense of humor. That scares me. That is the common link between them all, that they have no sense of humor whatsoever. They could see "the world's most rotund man" roll down a hill screaming out a Menthos ad, and not crack a smile, a snicker, a humored glint in their eye, nothing. As a sidenote, the Harlot came over last night, which is when I had this epiphany. Also, I realized that she is the epitomy of "Jelly Fish Woman" from that stupid Bridget Jones movie I saw- one of those people (and everyone knows at least one) who casts barbs left and right (or in this case, stinging blobbly jellyfish) though she seems completely oblivious to the fact that she does it. Meanwhile, we, the victim, are left tallying our jellyfish scores.
"Jeepers (yes, she says this word often), it's a good thing I came over, things are falling apart huh (in reference to grandma being ill, Grace Kelly being on her back due to her back)?" One Jellyfish.
"I really like your hair like that Emerson. It's probably the nicest it's ever looked." One Jellyfish.
"So, you must have had a pretty relaxing holiday huh? Unlike the rest of us, you know, because of grandma and stuff. God, what I would give to be so young and uncaring like you." One Jellyfish.
"Thats cute. Oh, how cute. (All instances regarding the word cute, count). That's so darling! Awww, adorable (they count, because they're in reference to all the "grown-up" things I do)." Four Jellyfish.
Total Jellyfish: Seven. And Thus My Life Is That Much More Fulfilling.
No more Bridget Jones talk though. Although, I'm sure my readers would enjoy an exercise in the destruction of grammar this stupid movie could take me on.
Example: "Got out of bed today with difficulty. Priority number one: get more sleep, and stop obsessing over every single shag you've ever had. Work not fulfilling. School, very fulfilling. Met with all my bagger friends...Miss my boyfriend
(and typically, we would ruminate for about half a movie here on how "peachy" it is to have a significant other, and how now we are saved from becoming spinsters to be eaten up by their cats, or from becoming aged cougars (read: alcoholically preserved tanned pieces of teriyaki)). You get the point. Will now go to write article as highly respected member of Le Papier. Do you see the formation of the illusion of grandeur happening here that also carried that movie to the end without a break? Unhealthy.
Parting note: I was starting to have this little neuroses about death a while ago, and have finally settled on a solution to get over it and die without fear. When it happens. If it happens. I got a new watch for Christmas, a TMX, which is basically another sporty chapter of Timexes immortal watches (I say this jestingly, never having a lot of consumer faith in anything but the phone company). How this plays into my could-die-at-any-given-
moment-aphobia, is that the watch has an 8-ball feature that essentially answers all my yes or no questions with "Hazy", "Not sure", "Yes", "No doubt!", "Sure!", or "No," "You're Going to Die Infidel Scum," and other equally hip vague answers for my quandries. Specifically, for my little problem, I have thus been asking my watch, if the apprehension of dying from an activity strikes me, whether I will die or not. And the trivialness of the whole idea and watch feature trivializes my fear, and makes it go away. I mean, that doesn't mean I'm going to go play in traffic anytime soon, but at least I won't develope some deep-seated fear of living life on the "precarious" well-lived-on branch as I was starting to think about. And it's funny, and anyone that can laugh at themselves can get over fears.
"I think we're alone now, there doesn't seem to be anyone around...."
I didn't realize until the middle of this song, this song amongst many others that I absolutely did not feel like dancing to, how much the Roost is a zenith for misfits. It used to be that I reveled in this, but the more I look around, the more I realize that no matter how low on the ladder you are, even if you're at the bottom of the scrap heap and surrounded by scrap heap brethern, you're still being judged by one of them. Or several of them. No one can just sit back and relish that they are comfortable because they are among their own kind, the ones they assume are just as unshallow as themselves. I really don't like the Roost anymore, and shall endeavor at any cost to avoid it and instead frequent Halo perhaps- which is obviously sort of worse, because Halo does seem to attract more of the elite flavors of our young society. Or, I will drop bar scenes altogether- this being the wiser imperative in the long run as I quickly run out of money that is supposed to be fun money until at least the beginning of May.
I felt like everyone was staring at me tonight. I've never felt so ill at ease in my life, but decided I was just feeling susceptible or something. However, Keri flirted with me. Alot. And that's never so bad, even though she was shining and glassy-eyed with tea and a little intoxicated.
I'm going to go crawl into bed with Greg Bear though, and see how that goes. Currently, it's a Biology 20 overview with some gunshots and schitzophrenics thrown in for good measure. And bad writing. Really really bad writing.
Le tete d'shit
Man, I am such a fucking shithead. Not only did I tell Mr. Pink (blurt, was rendered unable to stop the flood emerging from my mouth, whatever) about WestJet, but I mentioned WestJet's color discerned distaste for him. Bad idea. I didn't think you could hear a scowl over the phone. So I feel like crap, because he probably didn't need to know that. Also, WestJet phoned immediately after and invited me out to a movie. And be absolutely buggered if I could say no to him. Spent six dollars on food prior, and six on movies for both of us. To top it off, I was still a mite peckish, so I bought a popcorn. And Westjet being Westjet, did something that makes me want to hurt people- he helped himself. I think he ate about half of it, if not more. Didn't ask. Just assumed I'd bought it to share. Sorry, NO. I know friends share, but we don't have to fucking share everything all the time. Is nothing sacred? I was so disgusted in that "this is the fucking last straw" sort of way, that I wanted to throw it on his head and just leave. But it was a good movie, so I stayed. Even though I am constantly getting more irritated with him, I realized just now that I feel more sorry for him then anything. But then again, what I deem a meaningless existence, doesn't mean meaningless for him. Just different. I can't wait until school starts again. It's easier to space yourself from people when you're preoccupied with things that seem more legit then ...life....which is hilarious to say, but you get it.
By the by, we watched Brigette Jones 2: Beyond the Edge of Reason (or something to that effect) which was superficially quite funny, but riddled with appalling things. Like realizing her boyfriend wasn't so bad as she's surrounded by prostitutes in a Thailand jail who are telling their tales while she winds about Mark D'Arcy (ha...what a play on names) , or the fact that the Thailand jail was so pleasant and sanitary looking, and a fully untraumatizing experience for a completely stupid "british" woman character whatever. Fucking stupid. But still sort of funny. Lacking in any particularly good wit though, a trend sadly consistent with the first film. Fuckers. The only thing I enjoyed was watching Colin Firth and Hugh Grant duke it out. Always funny to see British men fighting. Or giving their rendition of, anyways.
I'm sort of in a pissy mood. I apologise. But I have some funny dreams to talk about. First off- I had a dream that Mr. Pink was showing me some film that he'd made (he's very into amateur filmmaking) and one was a shot of his chubby cousin falling on her ass on a hardwood floor. Very funny. The other one was wierder because it started out with him singing in front of the camera, and then one by one, his family members started entering the frame and singing. By the end, the frame was filled, the back row was swaying- it was like a rock concert, and I have absolutely no idea what they were singing.
The other dream I had was that our house was full of snakes. All non-venomous, and free and crawling all over the place. Snakes of every concievable species, even unrealistic ones. I got bit by a metallic gold snake, and a baby cornsnake crawled into my ear- like I could actually feel it in my dream, and when I woke up my ear hurt. The funniest part about this is that no one was afraid, it seemed like a normal thing. And also, there was a robot snake that was actually a vacuum cleaner. It had a robo-snake head that would kiss the operator on each cheek, turn on samba music, and start vacuuming.
Finally, was the most interesting one of all. I was at a wedding, and from what I could surmise, it was Mr. Smith's wedding. Apparently someone forgot something (by the way, white tuxedoes...) and Mr. Smith, Fenton, Anoxic and I all jumped into this really new model of a Lada and took off somewhere right before the thing was supposed to begin. Apparently the Lada was Mr. Smith's too, and we drove like speed demons to whatever destination. I remember that Anoxic was "out" and acting like Jude Law. The car left the road and was all-terrain, provided the driver drove in reverse over said terrain, which was a stubble field and a canola field at one point. We all ended up getting stuck in the mud, and then pushing the car down this really british looking back-alley to a pub that I supposedly owned called....(can you take it?) "Moira's Mire". Drinks downed by all, and wedding returned to. And no, I do not know who Mr. Smith was marrying...sorry boys.