Air + Loverboy = transition perfection.

NOTE:
I wrote this on Dec. 22, but am only now publishing it. So there.

Well, even though I'm at work, I consider the holidays officially begun! Last night T and I opened our gifts in celebration of the solstice and danced naked around the fir trees. Well, not really the last part but we did eat vegetable lasagna and watch Charlie Brown Christmas. The reindeer at the top of our winter tree was appeased by our seasoned joy or something to that effect.




Mmmm, presents.

Today, I shall mark time at my shortened work day by eating chocolate and thinking about how I should stop eating chocolate and then a train will whisk T and I away to my home town of Special K- Kitchener, Ontario. Home to: the second biggest Oktoberfest outside of Germany, a lot of deserted factories, a lot of crazy people, the inventor of and company for the dreaded Blackberry and a handful of womanizing quantum physicists. Oh yes indeed.

I am looking forward to it. Seeing my peeps(family) and peeping my props(not working). I am going to force T to watch Sound of Music with me. He thinks he can escape but he is mistaken! He will be singing yodlelay-hee-hoo before he knows it or can help it.

Can I please give myself a pat on the back for one of the best transitions on a mix cd ever? This will be a spoiler to my sister so Kris don't read this paragraph before christmas. So anyway, I start the cd of with some solid, vibrating energy goodness. Some homegrown stuff, this CD is mostly about Montreal and me so Arcade Fire, Malajube, Stars... Eventually I bring it down a bit for a few songs, the last of which is Run by Air and here is the great transition part: I wanted to do a quick mood change after the mellow out, bring things back to life after the beautiful, hypnotic Air some WHAMMY- Loverboy. Oh ya! Workin' for the Weekend. That's right and it is SOOOO sweet! Canada-love, 80's style. You don't believe me? I will send you the cd comp at your request and you will hear the perfectness of the transition yourself, and you will become a better person for it.

I hope you enjoy the hell out of the holidays and rock till your block has a hole in it's sock!

Merry holidays y'all.

my future ghost bakes cookies

Tonight, I shall eat a potato. Oh yes. Don't even try to stop me. There is just one lonely potato left. I shall microwave him because it's fun even though it makes the potato kind of spongy but potatoes are so good it barely matters and I shall mash it up with the left over canned peas and he will be king. I will eat the king. Tonight, tonight.

T is going to be all engineery tonight so I get to dine alone. Which I like because I can eat whatever small, weird bits I want instead of a normal, full dinner needed by metabolism-of-fire man.

So I have this interesting new manifestation of stress wherein my entire face is trying to scrunch up somewhere in the corner of my jaw. I can literally feel my shoulder and ear being pulled into my jaw! What in the hell? C'MON! Flying fuckballs from planet shittyshit! The only thing that relieves it is pressing really, really hard where my skull turns into my neck. That's okay, it looks perfectly normal to walk around with my thumb dug deep into the back of my head.

I bought some herbal tea from czarfucks thinking maybe that would help because...i don't know why. maybe I just wanted some. So I chose orangetastic-zinglicious-energygasmic-choo-choo of taste, flavour. I poured it into a glass to cool it off back here at my slave desk. Looks like a big glass of man pee. Almost orange, it's so piss-concentrated. Know what I mean? Why does guy pee look like that? So of course, all I can think about is how much it must taste like what a big glass of hot, steaming, fresh from the bladder man pee must taste like. Want some?

Christmas is coming and the goose IS getting fat. By goose I mean me and by fat I mean freaked. It's just all happening way to quick! All the snow disappeared a couple of weeks ago and there's just no time to relax on the couch in my pajamas watching my slave monkey wrap presents while my ghost(ya, that's right, my very own time-travelling, future ghost-me) bakes ginger and molasses cookies in my kitchen.

Instead, I'm at work, trying to unhinge my shoulder from my ear and finish off my steaming glass of pee while the snowless clouds hover over the skyscrapers of Montreal.

Since the boobwomen office next door moved out, I wonder if I could sneak around some corner and have a little nap on the plush carpet out in the shared hall. So quiet and boobless out there now. Maybe just hide out in the stairwell for a bit and relax. No one EVER uses the stairs here. Ever. By the way, I have seen four elevator factories in my life and they were all one-story.

Put that in your craw and smoke it.

...for it is a human number; it's number, is six-hundred and sixty-six.

Queer eye for Santa.

Please note: I apologize for the mish-mash of tenses used in this recounting of my tale. I wrote it in a hurry and I'm too lazy to edit.

Friday afternoon I had a secret adventure on the mystery floor. Me and Scoob were scared at first....

I had to go to the silent floor at work. The second floor which can only be accessed by a special, magical elevator -it's true, it has a hidden button on it that you have to know where to press.

It's the floor of big wooden locked doors and silence. I've never come across anyone except the occasional janitorial staff member. It's where the old file storage room is for where I work. I go down with my dolly full of boxes to put in our locked room. Right away I notice that one of the other doors is wide open. I can see big windows over-looking the street and tables with balloons and a christmas tree. The lights are off and it's quiet. I throw all the stuff I need to into our storage room, leave the dolly in the hall in case I need to make a quick getaway, and tip-toe up to the open door.

I put my head in and look around. It's huge! Like a big ballroom but scattered with remnants of what looks like a kids party. Balloons, markers, jingle bells. I take some tentative steps in. I formulate the excuse of just losing my way if someone is inside asking me who I am.

On the walls, are a number of dark, faded paintings of priests and cardinals. Must belong to the church that's beside the building.

To the left is a wall with windows and an archway into another room with old 50's style couches arranged like a waiting room. Through the windows I can see there is also another door, a hallway to the right and another archway to the left. I go in. The left archway leads to a set of stairs down and what looks like a tiny lobby. I can hear Elton John music playing at the bottom.(Still Standing is the song.) I try to visualize the outside of the building but I can't think of what in the hell it could be down there. There is a central lobby with elevators in the middle of the building that everyone has to take and nothing else, or so I thought. I guess, the secret elevator brings one to the secret floor with the secret rooms and the secret lobby.

I am momentarily tempted to go down the stairs but figure I'm pushing my luck with that idea. I go down the hall to the right. All the while I'm thinking, " Souvenir. Need to get some kind of souvenir."

I pass a coat room, then onto the bathrooms. HAH! Perfect excuse to be in here. "I was just looking for a bathroom!"

I try them out. They look kind of like the ones on all the other floors except way less fancy. No marble counter top and really bad toilet paper. Just like a religious bathroom should be.

There are a few more closed doors in the hallway which I sneak past. I don't want to walk in on any creepy church stuff going on behind closed doors.

Back into the ballroom and I see at the other end is an entrance to a very dark kitchen. I figure I'm going to get caught any second and am starting to feel a little panicky but I HAVE to go into the kitchen. Again, it's gigantic. Big silver fridge, dishwashing station, stoves, middle island with shelves, shelves, shelves everywhere. Just like a restaraunt kitchen. I decide I have to economize my snooping and just pick areas of particular interest.

Nothing in the fridge. Big freezer has hotdog buns, little butters and ice cream. I picture myself sitting on the counter, eating straight out of the ice cream carton in the dark with a plastic spoon and the flick of the light switch as I'm caught. Instead, I grab a herbal tea bag (orange flavor) as my memento and decide I've tempted fate long enough. I hurry for the door but not without noticing a drawing tacked up on a board, amongst others, near the christmas tree. In a split second I know my real souvenir will be nabbing that drawing. I know also that I cannot steal an innocent child's christmas drawing so, I know that I will have to scan it and bring it back, pushing the limits of sneaking boundaries not once, but twice!

Just as I'm leaving I hear the elevator ding. I run to my dolly to look like I am doing important business and head for the hills. A tired looking girl pushes a cart full of bags of chips and plastic plates past me without even casting a glance in my direction.

So I go back upstairs. I scan the picture, grab another box as an excuse to go back to the storage room. I was hoping the door to the ballroom would be closed so I could just slide the drawing under the door all anonymous-like, but the girl was still there. I hung out in the storage room trying to think of a good excuse to walk in and put the picture back on the board. Do I do it without a word and leave her guessing? Do I pretend I found it on the floor? Do I tell the truth? As I'm trying to decide, she walks past and I hear the ding of the elevator again. She's gone and the door is still open. Luck out! I pin that sucker back up and consider it all a job well done.

And after all this, I must say I am pleased with my find. Check out this wicked drawing of Santa Claus. The artist's take on Santa seems to be that he is a slim, stylish santa (note the work casual pocket details on his suit and fetching,low slung belt with urban purple accents on the sleeves.). Look at the great stance he's got. So rakish!
I also love how he is not saying Ho ho ho. He's THINKING Oh oh ho ho. I hear it in an exaggerated lispy, gay man caricature voice in my head. "Oh oh ho ho people. Sthanta Claus is in the house!" Someone yells, "Work it girlfriend!" in the background. I just know there is a Prada wallet or something designer in that present box he's holding.


Ah yes. SO this is what goes on in secret church ballrooms on hidden floors in office buildings. Children get together, play with balloons, eat hot dog buns and ice cream and draw pictures of gay Santa Claus. Well alright! Mystery solved.

Too much information

Feeling better. Always the peak of emotional maelstrom the day before the period. Menstroooation.

I had a cathartic epiphany last night brought on by a film. Shall I tell you which film? I guess. Shortbus. I thought it would be a cutesy, showy, "oh look at us urban people" movie but it was really really good. There was subplot of a depressed man who could process, intellectually, that he had an awesome boyfriend who loved him like crazy and he loved him back and he knew he was lucky but thought he would never be able to really feel it, emotionally. Like really feel it and feel the happiness. I was crying, crying , crying. I empathised, but it also snapped the elastic in my head. I's the same situation that happens to people all the time when given advice they know is true but can't really feel it until that moment when it clicks..the whipcrack moment when you finally get it.

Anyway, the movie made me crack open the desire I had to FEEL that some battles are best not fought. Happiness is more important than being perfect and right. If a battle, no matter how just, seeps into your happiness like poison you can and should walk away. Joyfully. Laughing as you wave your white flag. Gleefully flinging the money in the robbers face, giving him his ill-gotten gains that he can rot with if it releases you to be free and happy. etc. I'm not talking about hedonism; thoughtless, immorral, selfish pleasure seeking. I'm not saying abandon all responsibility...you know what I mean. I saw all those sad people in the film, trying so hard and not seeing. I do that too much. I have so much that I keep myself from being able to enjoy. I don't want to do that.

Let's see how long it lasts. It's in print now, so you hold me to it!

On a lighter or icky, depending on wether you are a mucklewhite or not, note:

I am usually wholly prepared for my period. This month, I completely lost track of where I was in the month. I use the Keeper, which I love, but I have been caught without it today- much to my horror.

I had to borrow a tampon and was given 2. The first one was perumed fer christsake! Disgusting. I threw it out and decided to just wait a while. When I decided to give the second a look, I wasn't sure about it either. It was in a plastic applicator and had this faint perfumey smell. Was it the applicator, was it the tampon? Then I realize, sitting there in the stall, that I have a tampon shoved up to my nostril and I'm sniffing it furiously like a rabbit sniffing out danger. Then I realize that i'm sitting in a toilet stall, with a tampon shoved up to one nostril, laughing like a maniac. I mentioned to T that I'd rather just bleed down my leg then go back to those evil, chemically bastards. Maybe I'll try that declaration out today.

A big bucket for the vomit.

It's barely 9am. So far:
-Reading on the train, a novel so sad. Feeling it like it's happening.
-A contened looking man, absorbed by his muffin, on his way down the escalator.
-Tiny, tiny raindrops, barely visible, melting all the snow.
-A bright, new, red leather chair through the window, in the empty lobby of a street level office.
-A woman, working alone in a currency exchange depot, staring at her Starbucks take-out cup.
-My own peacock blue gloves glowing in my periphery vision against the grey of everything else.
-An exchanged glance of weariness while waiting for the elevator going up.


What a shitty week. All because of one stupid thing. I shan't elaborate. I won't even hint at the nature of it as my new strategy, on which I am working hard, is to just let it go. I'm not very good at that. Each daily injustice, of which there are many, wether it be personal or global, tiny or grand, burns me. Flaming, flaming fire of injustice and I just keep thinking that there is some way! I need to let it go. It's the balance. Knowing when to fight and how much. I can't become apathetic or timid which is impossible for me. I must learn to balance the fight with life. Think of good ole Kenny singing it in your head: " You got to know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em."
Damn straight. Who wrote that for real? Surely not Kenny Rogers. My dad would know. Must make a point to ask.

Can you read between the lines?-the fire that is burning through, almost to my finger tips. Wanting to lament, lament, lament and counter all my efforts. "Lies!" my fingers want to type. "Never give up! Destroy yourself before giving in!Injustice!Injustice!, Injustice!". I need poison control. I know when to fold'em I just can't make my brain beleive me.

I think I just don't drink enough. Booze is the answer! Maybe I'll start drinking at work. A big bottle of hooch on my desk and a big bucket for the vomit.

ill-ustrated

Small note: I claim to have drawn the following in purple ink and that is true but the colour scan at works sucks ass so it is in black and white and that's that my friend.





P.S. I wasted HOURS of vluable work time doing this. HOURS!

less tell more show

This morning I caught the fog before dawn turn to sunrise. Regard!





And while your at it, take a gander at the motherlode of wood we had to move and pile for ourselves. Real country livin.

After Pa and I are finished milking the chickens tonight, we are gonna start canning the squirrel preserves for the comin cold times.

Spiffity quick

Workity work work work. By work I mean eating a cookie and writing in my blog. I actually do have work to do but I am putting it off. There is usually a lull in the middle of the afternoon and work makes time go faster so I'll save some precious, precious work.

Worky worky work work.

This morning I used the building's complimentary shoe-shining contraption. I had eyed it, first suspiciously, then curiously, then covetously(new word?); all in month long phases since I've started working here. In fact, I think there may have even been a few days where I eyed it with contempt for some unknown reason. In the end, I gave in and had myself an old shoe-shine. You press a button and stick your shoe or ratty, abused 8 year old Blundstones in my case, under the cleaning brush, then press the "lotion" dispenser with your foot and put it under either the dark or light polishing brush. Didn't make them sparkle or even shine but they look less like I've been stepping in horseshit and razorblades. Ahh the wonders of modern science. "Spiffity Quick Shoe Polishing Robot. Won't make'em shiny but they'll look less like you've been in the horseshit and razorblades again! On sale at all excellent retail empires"

Last night I slept for a full 8 hours. Didn't even wake up once to pee. That's the first time in months and months and months and months and months. I feel so rested. Like I could accomplish tasks and everything. At least 1 task surely! It would be cool to sleep like that every night. Or even once a week. Once a month? Maybe it's a new dawn of a new full 8 hour sleep life.

I went to the dentist last night to get a large cavity taken care of. Now I feel like I have a sharp piece of popcorn stuck between my tooth. Why can they NEVER get it right the first time goddammit?

Can you even believe it's the end of november? I have to stamp the date a million times a day. I've never been so ultra-aware of the date and time as I am working here. Stampy stamp stamp. Every time I scan even a sheet of paper I stamp the date and then assign a scan id that is the month, day, year, hour, minute, second. I even count of the seconds. It's spilling over into my free-time as well. I'm finding I regard the clock and calendar incessantly for no reason. Always need to know what time it is. Do you know what time it is? What's the time? That's right, it's time to get ill. And what's the time? Why, it's still time to get ill. So what's the time? By golly, it's time to get ill. Please note that if you are not familiar with the Beasite Boys you will find a large void in your life that cannot be filled.

Have you ever caught yourself thinking in the mirror? Normally you approach a mirror with the awareness that you are about to see yourself. I just was so absorbed in thought that I caught myself for a second in the bathroom mirror unaware. It was creepy. Looking in the mirror is always creepy but it was extra creepy. Mirrors are the tool of the devil anyway.

So, to summarize, slept normal, shined shoes, noticed the time, saw self in mirror. Thrills are non-stop for this lady-person. Why, I haven't' even mentioned the scone I ate that tasted ever so slightly of lemon pledge but was good anyway. I wouldn't want to make you jealous.

Pa rump pa pa pum

Is it wrong to reprimand a homeless person? I guess I figure the answer is no because I just did. Every morning, the same guy is sitting by the church outside of my building. He shakes his little cup with an air of aggression as if that was going to convince people to donate. Maybe he is just clinkling the change to show us all that he's got some. I think not however. So this morning, he blew his nose in a tissue and then tossed it over his shoulder into the yard of the church. I said to him as I passed, "There is a garbage can right in front of you." There was, not even a foot away. He knew what I was talking about. He looked over his shoulder to the tissue.
Did he get up and correct the situation? I doubt it. I wasn't going to hang around and wait for it to happen. I don't know, it just annoys me. Obviously, people on the street usually have serious mental issues but, and here is where I get preachy, C'MON! I have seen him sewing up his bag and rolling cigarettes, it's not like he is so mental he can't think straight. Put the tissue in the fucking garbage can. Ya, that's the kind of mood I'm starting the day off with.

Hot beverage bells are going off in my head. They are saying "Ding dong Melissa, go buy me and drink me even though I'm just sugar and syrup mostly." Because why would I go buy a cup of mint tea for example. Waste of time. If I must buy a hot drink, it should have a long name and at least 3 different ingredients. It's just that kind of a cold, pre-winter day where you want to sit in a little coffee shop for a bit with your beverage and a baked good and a friend across. You could watchpeople walk by, puffing their breath visibly into the air out in the cold while you and your pal and your drinks were all toasty warm. You'd even enjoy the middle of the road, non-offensive CD they would be playing like John Mayer, or that mixed christmas cd they hand out to all retail stores with Bing Crosby and David Bowie singing Little Drummer Boy. Even that would be sitting well with you. Mind you I love that song and it always sits well with me but when you are hearing it as you walk past the GAP or Old Navy or whatever, it's more annoying. Not the song but the fact that it's playing in the situation it's playing in. I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I think I'm making it up as I go along.

And yes, it's a new word, I made it up: clinkling.

You know, I'm just sitting here feeling kind of crappy and sorry for myself. Feeling fat and listless and tired, worrying about money and dentists and hair cuts and stuff. In the background I hear the manager complaining as usual that she is stressed out and swearing and cursing people in english, french and italian. Then the boss man comes back to our area. He wants to know about the arguments she has been having with the president(who confusingly is third in the chain of command) about work stuff and resposibilities and crap. The boss man(executive director?) asks her what's up with that and she complains a bit and then he tells her that his mother is in the hospital. They rushed her in with low blood pressure from internal bleeding and she's not responding to treatment and she's been anorexic for a year and they can't do surgery because she is too weak AND his wife is starting chemotherapy again but they know she is going to die and he thinks she probably is at home crying all day when he is not there but tries to put a brave face on it.

God.

That sure shut the manager up and it sure shuts me up too.

It's called pissing OK?!!

I'm just going to make a pit stop. I'm just going to the little ladies room. I'm just going to the Ladies. I'm just going to powder my nose. I'm just going around the corner. WHY DON'T YOU JUST TELL ME YOU ARE GOING TO PISS!! I would prefer it!

I'm just going to piss in the toilet. I have to piss like a race horse. I gotta piss out some piss into the piss hole from my piss hole. ANYTHING ELSE but what you tell me 10 times a day.

Here's the thing. It's the receptionist. I'm second in line to answer the door when she is gone so she has to call me to let me know each time she has to micturate(thank-you Big Lebowski for entertaining AND educating.). I cunnigly devised the plan for her, that she just call me and let it ring once and hang-up to indicate piss-time. I thought it would save me the cloying metaphors. Ha ha contre moi though! For some odd reason, she now feels compelled to physically swing past my desk now to let me know instead.

Hhhhhhh. That's my new aliteration for a resigned and mildly annoyed exhalation.

So this morning there was frost. Frosty frost on everything. I liked it. Sparkly and cold like frozen fairy land. Winter is here, oh yes indeed.

Tomorrow I will take some photos of the environ. Good for you! you say. Good for you too! Enriching, like hot vitamin chocolate. Why do they not make fortified, vitamin enriched, antidepressant, metabolism boosting hot chocolate?

Please, I beseech you, go read these insane movie scripts(that are really short) and share my joy. The debate is: were they written by someone THAT deliciously insane or are they just pure comic genius? You tell me! Just go here. To read more choose from the archives along the right-hand side of the page. Oh please someone else read them and enjoy with me! Here is a sample to wet your whistle:

"They fight around all these power tools and Napoleon wins but the guys boots don't fit so he sends the dead-corpse down the elevator (old-timey, made of wood and rope)with writing on his chest 'NOW I HAVE A MUSKET HO HO HO' and the terrorist leader is trying to act like he's all on top of it but he's shitting his old-timey pants(britches?)"

He's shitting his old-timey pants??!! (Britches?)!! If that does not make you laugh we can no longer be friends.

That is all.

You say you want a revolution?

Here is a word I think should be brought back into common usage. You can help me out on this. If you make a point of using it once or twice a day in the presence of others, it may catch and soon my wish will be granted.

Heretic. We just don't accuse one another of heresy anymore! It's funny, c'mon and do it!

Example: Somebody pushes you out of the way to get a seat on mass transit. You yell "Heretic!" at them. Watch out though, they may be learned. They may remark that they have done nothing to indicate straying from the doctrines of the Orthodox Catholic Church. You just shout back at them that obviously they are indeed worshipping at the teats of the false idol of pushy, assholeishness.

Think of the thrill of delight both you and any onlookers will feel at this refreshing approach to insult! Use it in more mundane settings also to liven things up.

Example: Having dinner with your pal. "Pass me the salt you godforsaken heretic."

Use it in a loving way too! If you think of it, it actually is a compliment. Who wants to be one of those Orthodox Catholic chumps? Not me.

Example: "My dearest, darling heretic, I miss you and wish you were here spreading the word of false idols with me here in the forlorn american bible-belt.

Or let's start using it as a hip new adjective.

Example: "Do you like my new sausage dog?" "Wow. Heretical!"

Ahem.

Well how about the word crud then? Let's start using crud more often.

Craptastrophy. Digitgradient. Bulgeous. Asscock. Lugubrious. Grotty.

What words do you want to hear more often?

AHH! Update! Update!

I came across this old word for snotty. Muculent. Isn't that great? There's another beautiful insult word for us to use becuase it's all about spreading love.

Today Brucey, I'm going to make you work!

Bruce Dickinson is still hot. Metalicious. Wether he be a long-haired minion of Satan in spandex and leather or a clean cut airline pilot.



My birthday was fab. Massages, vegan brunch, booze...good times people, good times.

Put up the old christmas tree. The winter tree as we like to call it. I tell you, I smelt snow this morning. I saw 2 tiny, hard flakes. It's coming. I welcome you winter. Snow and snow. I will frolick in thee.

Now excuse me, I must finish this wine and give Maiden my full attention.

what a useless blog! Just wanted and excuse to put up pictures of the Dickster.

happy birthday to me

What a fantastic day! Seriously. I could not have asked for better. I've been looking forward to today like mad. Usually I'm not all that big about my birthday but this year I really welcomed the excuse to just take a day off to myself and do my thing.

I slept in and spoke in french in my dream. Nothing terribly philosophical, just "Nous avons pas le temps pour ça. Faîtes-le vous-même." I can't remember the circumstance but it felt good to be saying.

So I slept in and when I woke, I promptly received 2 birthday greeting calls. I opened my 2 letters from friends and saw the sun come out from behind the clouds. I drank copious amounts of hot beverages and went for a walk to enjoy the first day of sun in ages.

The air today is like whipped cream. It's soft and mild and smooth. I went to the health food store and bought trail mix with papaya bits and walnuts and yogurt covered raisins. I talked to an old man about ducks. Now, here at home, enjoying cranberry juice and hommus with pepper crackers, I had to open the patio doors to get some more of that creamy air. The wind is starting to whip up and I can hear the river currents racing and the tall, tall tree branches swaying.

Perhaps the bonus of not having much free time is that you enjoy it sooo bloody much when you do get it.

33? You will be good to me.

This what today looks like:






Oh and while I'm posting photos, here are my pumpkins:



Happy birthday to Jonathan Ross and Danny DeVito and Martin Scorsese and me!

We all look like freaks!

Boring you softly with my song

Well well. Look who's feeling less like death warmed over.

Past few entries rather bleak but feeling on the upswing. Somebody is going to be 33 tomorrow. I have booked the day off work for the occasion. I mentionned it last week and they've probably forgotten and will be pissed off when I don't show up but I'm not reminding them in case they change their minds. It's my birthday dammit and I will NOT be working. No way, no how.

Instead, I will be sleeping in until nature awakes me rather than the effing alarm clock. I will be lounging in my new housecoat greeting the morning sun(or morning rain as the case has been for the last month.) on the lake with a steaming, fragrant cup of tea. I will play new cd's generously offered in honour of my 33rd year and wait for all the calls and mail of birthday greeting to arrive. Ha ha. Considering that I am ususally at least a week late greeting everyone else on their birthday, I'd be surprised to hear from anyone! I am a pro crastinator. I crastinate with the best of them.

Anyway, I intend to make my birthday day a leisurely, peaceful day to myself. Haven't had one in a long time it seems. Somehow I've managed to escape the full-time work routine up until my 32nd year and it's rough already. I can see those who have been grinding away for many years gritting their teeth in hissing disaproval of my whining. It's all relative. We all have crappy lives and then we die, each enduring our own personal hells.

Luckily, it's all punctuated by times of pleasantness. I won't go into details as it will sound like a Rogers and Hammerstein song. By the way, I love Sound of Music and I don't care who knows. I HATE musicals but dammit, I love the Sound of Music. So there.

Oh ya, I'm going to put up my christmas tree tomorrow also. Let the goodtimes roll.

Holy shit I would NOT suggest reading this, it's really bad. Seriously!

Look at this woman's beautiful photographs. Here They are so scary. She made them between 1970 and 1981 and then jumped out of her window to her death at age 23. Bloody art. So dangerous.

So what's the deal? Hardly any blogs this week. Shall I be honest and boring or make something up? There's just been nothing really. On the one hand I've been settling into a comfortable contentment that I haven't felt in quite a while. Had housing problems since I moved to Montreal that have always kept me on edge and seeped into all other parts of my life. Finally, at our new place, we can live in peace. I shudder in superstitious fear just typing it, but it's true. T and I are slowly unfolding into our human selves again. Living and being with the T is the best and happiest thing I've done. With a peaceful home to be together in, it makes life seem like it has a beautiful point to it. Yet, at the same time, a nasty chemical cloud of depression and anxiety is knocking about in my brain. Such an odd mix of feelings. It's like an unwelcome visitor that you know will just show up whenever it wants and won't leave until it's ready and when it comes, you let it in and try to carry on as normal until if fucking decides to leave again.

I write this as if it were a personal diary. What the hell though. I've always been a huge fan of truth. I love to hear the truth. And what else will I say anyway? I'm not a writer and I can't invent.

Here's the thing; I should not communicate with the world during PMS. Look at this blog entry! In the olden days, instead of publicly ranting about my insanity I would use the phone to work out all my heaving emotional issues. Can I get a "HEY!" from my girl peeps on that one? Calling up some asshole to show him/her a thing or 2 and winding up cementing the image of "psycho basket-case" that s/he had already pegged you for. Or calling some other loser, all weepy, begging for the care you deserve only to realize 10 minutes later that s/he's a complete moron who is AWFUL in bed and why in god's name are you lying to him/her by pretending to love or give a rat's ass about him/her when really, you barely even like them but you just want some validation for craps sake! I'm even tempted to call a few of them now to inform them that any attention they got from me was from a place of complete and utter self-loathing and could I, I would remove that portion of my life with a knife and light it on fire.

Ha ha. I just deleted an entire ranting paragraph about people I have previously known (male people) and what I would like them all to know about our times together. It wasn't friendly or pretty and even though I deleted it, it's darkness is still looming in the ether somewhere, bringing evil wherever it drifts. Don't you hate when you think about people you wasted precious time with and all you feel is an overwhelming desire to have a 4 day shower to clean the icky-icky memories off. Uh....

So my parents are coming to visit tonight for the the weekend. Lucky them! Hopefully I'll have kicked off some of the brain-stink by then. What a mishmash of genetic randomness hath sprung me forth. And now, I'm speaking in old english.

I think that's the signal to stop."Really?! You figure THAT'S the signal to stop? Good call trainwreck!"

Whoo. Someone needs some "rest".

Good start to an overcast monday.

I think the St. John's Wort makes me nervous in the service. What does that saying mean anyway? I go look up now.

If You're Nervous in the Service" was a marching song that was sung by female soldiers in World War II. Marching songs of this kind were for the purpose of keeping everyone in step, and they often had humorous lyrics:

"If you're nervous in the service, And you don't know what to do, Have a baby, get out of the Navy."

There ya go. Don't tell me I haven't learned you nothing.

SO anyway. Felt like I was a little too wound up today and decided to go buy some Valerian. Ya that's right, I'm a herbal junky. It worked real good. I feel relaxed now. So relaxed, I just stood in fascination, for a little too long, at the garbage can in the office lunch room and held the stalk of a big plant that had been thrown out. It was real big and had this big open channel inside of it suround by smaller open channels with each of them being, in turn, surrounded by even smaller channels. A fractal of nature. I kept thinking, "A fractal, a fractal. That's where the water goes. A fractal, a fractal." I was actually a little grossed-out too. Like cells in a microscope. All visceral and living and raw. It's called being 100% completely insane.

So there I was, holding this recently abandoned plant stalk, still half in the garbage, lost in fascination from a valerian-fuelled stupor, looking and thinking like a mad-woman. Luckily I don't think anyone really noticed. Or if they did, they didn't care.

Now I'm eating a pear and I can feel all the littel pear cells all compacted, fractalling their way into my cells. Okay, I can't really but I bet I could if I thought about it.

Moving on.

How's about that local sports team?

Sigh.

I'm living "The Office."

This is my SECOND blog for one day. (see below for first.)

I just lived an episode of "The Office".

The president of the company came back and told us that he'd found a gift for the secretary's 5 year anniversary in his desk. He'd forgotten about it for 2 weeks. He told us we all had to go up to reception to award it to her. So the 8 of us go into reception and she is on the phone looking disturbed. She doesn't even glance up at us or acknowledge our presence at all. We all know from previous conversations with her that she is in the middle of getting divorced and remortgaging her house to pay her husband off to get rid of him.

So she was on the phone with the bank because she was having problems getting the money. We are all standing around watching her try to remortgage her house while she completely ignores us. After a 2 or so agnozing minutes, the president says we'll come back later.

We go back to our desks and El presidente lingers around waiting. He is in a chit-chattting mood and makes a remark about my legwarmers. (I'm sure you are all picturing me on some kind of flash dance outfit).
He said, "Weren't they fashionable way back when?"
I say, "Yes. These are the same pair I wore when I was 11 years old actually."

He says, "When was that, five years ago?"

I say, "Triple it and you are closer."

"26?", he says and I realize my math skill suck. "32.", I tell him.

He says, "No way. I want to see some ID." He's not saying that to be jokey or flattering. He does not believe me and suspects me of being a liar with my pants afire.

I say, "You want to see my driver's license?"

He says, "Yes I do." and then thoroughly inspects it. He informs me that he would not have put me past 26. That's a very specific number.

Thankfully, the secretary comes back at this point to see what we all wanted. He shoves the box at her and says, "Sorry it's 2 weeks late. You already know what it is because you picked it out for yourself, but open it anyway."

Since we are all at our desks, she has no choice but to stand out in the open, in the middle of the floor, all by herself, while we all watch her open an unwrapped cardboard box. It's a clock.

She says, "It's a clock." President says, "Just like you picked out."

Vice-president man takes it from her to inspect it. "That's a good clock. Very nice. Nice choice. Look, it has a barometer."

She informs him that it is useful to her for when she makes soap in her sparetime. Apparently, barometric pressure affects soapmaking.

He says, "So you just will stick this clock in the soap?"

She says, "Ha ha. Yes. That is right." Not seeming entirely sure wether or not he was joking. I wasn't sure either actually.

It only lasted a few minutes but it was painful. Five years and you get a stupid clock for sticking in soap.

Note to self: you suck.

In my personal google calendar, all I have marked are work holidays and my period.

I guess that's pretty much all anyone has. Wait a second, that's not true at all.

Tom Cruise diary:

Oct. 3- Holiday

Oct. 7- Period

Oct. 17- Be a total mental wierdo like some kind of cult-leading freak with cameras in my teeth so I can take photos of the disbelievers of xenu: note to self: move cameras to another body part, getting tired of smiling all the time.

Why am I writing about Tom Cruise for Xenu's sake? If you have not followed the link, PLEASE go read about Xenu! All hail Xenu!

Anyway, I'm sure some regular person's calendar has more than Tom cruise and I.

Regular Man Diary:

Oct. 2- Meet with JB re: Henderson account. Wear tight red underwear to feel sexy and confident.

Oct. 5- Give presentation re: connective solutions for flexibility in contractual databases. Drink heavily to sustain the feeling of wellbeing.

Oct. 9- Golf with Larry and JB. Bring hookers.

Oct. 13- Wife's birthday and period. Work late.

Oct. 16- Flight to Bangladesh to oversee factory fire.

Oct. 31- Halloween. Dress up like a big fucking asshole.

Or something like that...

Took an extra dose of St. John's Wort today and now can barely keep my eyes open. Is it wrong to eat 2 lunches?

Oh ya and Happy Halloween. Look out for the Great Pumpkin.

Who's the real beyatch?

On the train this morning, a woman sat across from me with a walkman. I don't even mean discman, I mean walkman. Tape cassette player.

Now, I'm no music snob (I am) but C'MON! Tape??? I relished in the ease and convenience with which I could manipulate my ipod settings. She tried to hide her cassette player behind her bag. I smiled to myself, with satisfaction, at the voluminous choice of my personal music collection I had at hand. She glared defiantly at me as if daring me to call her on her inferior audio equipment.

Here's the thing though, she could have rocked that walkman. She could have paired it with some massive headphones and painted it with pink and black polka dots and carved "I love Bon Jovi" in the casing with a protractor and I would have been jealous. Jealous I tell you! But she didn't. She just sat stiffly, staring down at her lap, fiddling slightly with the volume dial, darting her eyes angrily up everyonce in a while to see if anyone was mocking her; her thin, pink, sparkly lips set in a grimace.

Why even bother? What could she possibly have cared to listen to? What is it with those sorts of people with their half-hearted music listening? I imagined it to be some sort of self-help tape. "How to Not Live Your Life Hating Every Moment of It." or "Failing at Everything?-You're Not Wearing Enough Make-Up Lady!" or "How to Get Married, Become a Manager, Give your Dog a Make-over and Get to Heaven for Less than a Dollar a Day." Something to that effect.

I'm being so hard on the lady.

Tomorrow: I will look out for some man to slander. It's all about the love.

But seriously folks, it's Halloween and I haven't even thought of what to get dressed up as. Maybe that's got something to do with the fact that I have nowhere to go even if I do. I could just sit around the house dressed up like a pineapple smoothy or Linus Van Pelt on a bad acid trip or Ernest Borgnine's Corpse but what fun would that be? I have no party to go to! Waahhh. I have no friends to start with, probably because I am such an arse. I could crash a party but I'm not hip to all the good spots in this town. I will stay home and perform voodoo instead. Like I do everyday. Same old, same old. Sleep, eat, work, do voodoo.

Do you enjoy knives?

I was looking for an extension of my contract and then I found one, and heaven knows I'm miserable now...Well, not really. I dunno. Money is good for paying rent. This job is good for providing ample time and privacy for blogging and reading about samurai...I suppose I should be grateful but there hasn't been sun, in what feels like a year, and the coffin lid of depression seems to be creaking it's way toward closing.

So i'm employed (barring any psychotic episodes that would get me fired) until at least the end of march. That means we can heat our place and eat everyday too! Not just one or the other!

Coffin lid of depression.

Went for a walk at lunch to help activate dopamine and what-not. Still really like Montreal. It's a fab city. Even if I don't technically live in it anymore. It has a really good feel. It feels honest. I'm not sure how to explain. You know when it's snowing big fat flakes of snow and people are prancing around in their fancy attire that is entirely ill-equipped for the weather; hobbling on their high-heeled boots or freezing their asses in their skimpy leather coat, pressing their cellphone to their red ears with frozen, ungloved fingers...and then some supercute guy or gal walks by with the ugliest toque ever and a huge parka and mittens and they are smiling because it's good? Toronto is the gonad in the heels and leather, Montreal is the one with the toque.

Sorry for being a hater Toronto, but that's what you get fer wearing your stupid high-heel, calfskin boots.

Maybe I should start a whole separate blog on Toronto vs Montreal. Any true canadian will now have visions of blue maple leafs and red c's with a white h's in the middle.

Can a person get insanity due to an uncared for cavity? I will go check now. I looked for 2 seconds and got fed-up. Let's play Hungry Hungry Hippo instead!

Today is the first day in about a week where I haven't got the wobbly feeling in my forehead like I'm about to go mad. Like there is volatile jello, bubbling in my forehead that will seep into the rest of my brain and make me lose all sense. Fever? Sinus infection? Anxiety? Alien DNA? Fucking insane? All of the above and a mon chi-chi?

Sometimes, I go to the wikipedia entry with all the names of Simpsons episodes just so I can trigger the episode in my head.

Creeeaaakkkk.

Rats off baby.

This is my unsolicited advice for today: If you liked the Duran Duran in the 80's and you haven't listened to them in a while, go do it. Even if you have to just sing it in your head, rediscover D x 2. Rio, New Moon on Monday, Planet Earth, C'MON! It's still good.

1. Fashion your hair into a mullet (bobby pins will do the trick).
2. Put on something shiny.
3. Highlight your cheekbones and apply pearly pink lipstick.
4. Cut off the tips of an old pair of gloves(then put them on. it's not just the gesture of cutting that counts, like some kind of 80's voodoo.).

Now play air synthesizer to Duran Duran. Pretend to be Nick Rhodes. Look serious and pout your lips and look around while you pretend to play all the synths that surround you and twiddle knobs on your special synth driving computers. Go on, you know you want to. Shout out stuff like: "Good thing my model girlfriend is waiting for me backstage with champagne after I finish playing keyboards in my great band!" or "Too bad all other bands don't know how to make a decent video like we do!".

For a couple of weeks during the moving strife and sinus infection and such, I had to force myself to eat. Rare for me. Now I'm making up for lost time. I can not stop eating! Rats off to me. And instead of coffee, which did not agree with me in the least, now I am addicted to tea. I'll tell you what though, tea and chocolate soy milk do NOT mix well. I'm sorry, they just don't.

Yesterday I was dressed like someone who heals their cats emotional troubles with crystals. I wear things to work that I would not, in a trillion years, consider wearing otherwise. Speaking of healing with crystals; this morning on the train, I sat across from a woman like that. I couldn't see her sweater under her coat but I am positive it had cats embroidered on it, or there was at least a pewter cat pin. Now, I love cats. I LOVE them. I just don't need to hand stitch their images into my clothing. ANYWAY, I have no problem with cat sweaters or the people who wear them. Rats off to them. Let's face it though, it does indidcate a certain personality profile.

So, she was reading some sort of cheaply bound, photocopied, print-out book on healing. With little quotes in the sidebar like: "Expect all your needs to be met. Expect answers to all questions. Expect abundance at all times." Pfft. Ya right.

She was underlining that which she deemed important, which just so happened to be everything. Why underline everything? Does that not somehow negate it's intended effect? Was that not a question posed by Hyposocrastotleclese? "Does overuse of the highlighter not null it all to hell?" I think is the exact quote. Maybe she just liked drawing lines to show it had been read. Her lipstick was fuschia like a blooming, hothouse orchid.

This morning, I just wanted to stay home and finsh putting up my spice rack. I wanted to listen to music, open the drapes to see the river and tidy up the place in my pajamas, all the while appreciating the fact that I am in my own little detached home. Cold and damp is not my care! Lack of neighbours is the thing. Yes indeed. Rats off to me!

It's really serious.

Gawd. I am so in 1998 today. I just finished reading ,several years late, Girlfriend In A Coma. It's been said by everyone years ago I'm sure, but damn. Mr. Coupland, you have gone into my head, discovered my main problem in life the universe and everything and wrote a book about it.

It's both a little exhilarating, somehow, to be able to share traits with others in your generation and yet, a little shame producing also- to be such a tool of your environment or whatever causes the likeness. Everyday, from waking to sleep, lives the nagging, paralysing feeling that I have sooo much I could be doing and yet...nothing. I do nothing. SO much to offer. And nothing. It's HORRIBLE and I know I'm not the only one. My compadres feel it. Why are we smart, creative, sensitive, insightful, original and completely and utterly incapable of releasing it. We cannot manifest. Will it take the end of the world like Coupy suggests?

Also, I can't get Le Tigre out of my head. Hot topics is the way that we run. The book and the song probably came out on the same day. I'm in a time warp.

1998. Bit of a piece of crap year.

As were most of the 90's let's face it.

I tried to take note of how many Morrissey lyrics were quoted in the book but lost track, as I was more interested in the story.

Sing to the tune of your choice- Library, library, I love you. You give me books for free and ask nothing in return, sauf que je les retournes dans trois semaines.It's bilinguiscious. Like Mr.T. and not like me. Uh-oh. Rhyming. First sign of mania.

So, instead of creating and challenging each day, I eat, electronically archive various bits of paper trails of financial transactions, eat some more and sleep. All the while berating myself for my sluglike lack of contribution to things as a whole. No offense to slugs.

Whine, whine whine you say. I KNOW!!! But continue I shall it seems. Doomed to forever see the wasting of potential and effect no change. I know if you don't understand you just CAN'T understand. "WHy don't you f'ing DO something about it you little knobhead?"- you ask me.I DON"T KNOW!!! I DON"T KNOW!!!! AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Meanwhile, these cornnuts taste good. Is is corn-nuts or cornuts? Cor-nuts. Corn-uts. Cocornougatnuggettuts = coconut-covered, nougat nuggets with a cornut inside. I will eat the world.

You wanna piece o' me?!!

PMS, PMS, PMS.

KILL, MURDER, STAB.

Stereotypical but true.

Last night after work, with only 4 minutes to catch my train, and a maniacal need to pee, I run to the station bathroom. Gare centrale and only 2 stalls in the lady pee-room. I say "shit, shit!", as there is a line-up of 2 people, and run out, thinking I don't have time. Then I reconsider and run back in. The last woman in line is just going into the stall and she turns and looks disaprovingly at me as she closes the stall door.

I wait, tapping my foot for a bit. I mutter under my breath, "C,mon, c'mon."

One woman is clearly still doing her thing but the other woman (the one who gave the look) has flushed the toilet, pulled up her pants and zipped. Now she is just standing there-I can tell by the angle of her feet. Silence. She is taking her time to piss me off. Little does she know though, that I am insane PMS woman.

I kick the wall once to relieve some stress as I start really panicking about either pissing my pants on the train, or missing it entirely and getting home 45 minutes later than I want. Another 20 seconds or so pass and finally she comes out. I rush past her and speed pee. I come out as she is drying her hands and on her way out the door she says to me,"You shouldn't push people around."

WHAT THE FUCK??!!! She is teaching me a lesson for being in a hurry and being impatient? How about look at your own motivations darling, and consider why you need to passively-aggressively stick it to someone. You can't pee well under pressure? You work in a massage parlour giving hand-jobs to stinky, divorced, middle-management losers and have no other way to exert some sort of power or control over your life?

My self-righteous and hormone fuelled indignation is peaking and rather than turn around and bite out her eyeballs, I wittily(not at all) hiss,"I'm not pushing anyone around. Fuck off."
"You fuck off, bitch." she replies as she makes for the door."
Continuing to hurriedly wash my hands (hygiene first ladies and gentlemen!) and without even turning around I yell, " Why don't you come back here and say that you fucking whore!" Ya that's right. Why don't you come back here and say that you fucking whore.

I had a taste for blood and I ran out of the bathroom, glancing briefly at the feet of the woman still in the other stall who is probably thinking she best stay where she is.

I exit and whip my head left to right, searching with my laser-rage vision for her tall and lunky (probably strong as hell too), frizzy-haired self. I see the top of her head running like hell down-some stairs and completely off my friggin' rocker by now, I run to the stairs with phrases like: "You want a piece of me?!!" or " You messed with the wrong lady, mother fucker!" and "Don't start what you can't finish you pathetic, chicken-assed cunt!" running through my head.

Luckily for me(and her, but probably mostly me) Mr. T yells out my name and tells me to hurry to catch the train. My pulse was still pounding in my ears on the train, partially out of rage and partially out of disbelief at my own insane behaviour. She probably was NOT expecting that to happen. So am I a total jerk? Normally no, (although some might dispute the hell out of that) but during that whole incident, yes. Yes I was a jerk. What can I say? Although I have mouthed off a few (many) times, I have never been in an actual fight.

I still think she deserved a punch in the puss.

Incorrigible.

RIP, drunken leprechauns.

I feel as though the vice-grip that has been clenched around my cerebral cortex has been released. Like the spike of fire that has been lodged into my neck has been removed. Like the hundreds of angry, drunk, leprechauns, golfing in my forhead have all dropped dead and....wait now, I don't really feel like I have a bunch of dead leprechauns in my head so scratch that last analogy. Anyway, I feel better dammit.

After MUCH hard work, we are moved in and I daresay that I am happy. YES that's right. H-a-pee-pee-y. It's quiet and pretty and all ours. Fucking life eh? One minute you are in hell, the next, you are sitting at your table looking out of your wall of windows at the water with nothing but the sound of the river's current and some ducks, thinking: "Well fuckballs! This as a distinct improvement!"

So, things have become easier to appreciate. On the commuter train ride(my second ever) I was able to admire the scarlett and orange leaves and the drizzly blue mist. Listening to Grandaddy on my iPod (thanks goes out to my sister for donating her old one to me!)as they repeat the line in -He's Simple. He's Dumb. He's the Pilot. "Could you love this world if this world won't love you?". I've confronted that question alot the past, well, past few years actually. Good things have happened, most namely the T and Quebec but hell, there has been alot of crap. This is the first time in quite a while that I've felt the universe doesn't hate me.

I could even appreciate my fellow travellers on the train. I thought to myself: we are all still kids in bigger bodies, wishing we could go back to bed or stay home and play. Usually, when in a crowd, I am thinking only how much humanity reeks of idiocy. Felt different today.

Maybe I won't become a crazy, violent street person after all! I won't end up pushing around a shopping cart of flaming acorns and hurling them at anyone who dared to look me in any one of my eyes (Which I would be believing I had 5 of {how's that for a complicated verb tense?-if you are reading this my Paris dwelling friend, try translating that into french for some grammar fun!-}).

So PARTY AT MY HOUSE! WIHOOO!!! By party I mean - going to bed at 9:30.

Balls and beards.

Holy balls, does packing ever suck. Wah wah wah. That's all the time I will give to that becuase it is consuming every waking moment recently and I'm SICK of it. Bloody life drama.

So, apparently, the office across the hall has some sort of association with, or allegiance to, Russ Meyer. Seems like all the women who work there are 7 foot tall amazonian proportioned women. 4 inch high heels, blindingly blond hair and the biggest boobs they can bob around on their pointy-toed legs. Sound like your dream office? Then you are a creepy creep. They are always in the bathroom admiring themselves in the mirror or outside smoking - admiring themselves in the windows.

When I look out the window I can see ships going along on the St. Laurent. They move so slowly. I've always kind of wished that working on a ship (not a bloody cruise ship, just a regular old cargo ship) was a more viable option. Considering that I have no desire to be a highly-harrassed, female pioneer in male-dominated work-forces, get seasick, and enjoy not being away from my peeps for months on end, I'd say it's pretty much a write-off as a careeer choice. Still, I have romantic notions of brisk, over cast days in the middle of the ocean, out on deck as I gaze into the distance, smoking my pipe, the salty wind dampening my beard. Wait a minute: I seem to be a man in this fantasy. So clearly, the whole thing just doesn't work.

Livin' the dream.

Nothing like starting off a friday morning with seeing a crack..uh, crack-lady-of-the-night-(rhymes with boar) being handcuffed and dragged off by cops in the metro. She was about 5'2" and maybe 80lbs, tottering on these crazy black, platform boots.I'm guessing she was in her 20's but going on 70 from the haggard lines on her face. At first, the cops tried to restrain her but she yelled, so they just sort of followed a few paces behind as she tried to pretend she could just walk away.

They went in circles around the metro platform like this, like an apathetic, slow motion game of tag a couple of times until the cops finally decided to just handcuff her. With one on either side of her they pulled her along as she went limp in between them with her legs stretched out front. She looked like a mop. A crack-smoking, emaciated, doomed mop. Poor girl.

Chief Wiggum after tranquilizing Frank Grimes Jr: "If I can tranq one freak on stilts I know I've done my job." Seargant Lou responds: "You're living the dream chief."

Apes have feelings too.

Well, the mysterious ways of the universe unfold a new twist for my T and I. We have signed a new lease. We are moving out of Montreal into the country! A friggin detached winterized cottage on the lake. That's right, detached. NO NEIGHBOURS! Just a lake. Bloody hell if this doesn't do it for us, I don't know what will. We are going to be SO boring and it's going to be SO great. No going out, just staying in and watching the water, listening to insects and the wind rustling the leaves. Perhaps toddling off to the library or a lakeshore walk when the urge strikes. Obviously, we will continue worshipping satan...
So what's the catch, there's always a catch. Well, I mean there are other people living around but we don't share walls with them. It is distinctly possible that we will freeze to death in the winter but we are hardy. Plus there is a wood stove(also highly pleasing to me). We will warm ourselves by the fire and eat roasted tofu dogs like old-timey times. Uh and ya, it's costs way more than what we are paying now. Worth it.

I bought green tea before work and they had a sample drink out. "It's iced mocchachino frappachino." said the cashier or flavoured caffeine engineer or whatever it is they are called by their capitalist devil masters. I said, "Are you fucking kidding me?" Because I have a compulsive potty mouth and because it just sounded like a joke to me. He was french-french and not quebec french so he replied. "No, I am not keeddding." with a puzzled and slightly hurt look in his eyes. Why would I question the integrity of his response on a matter so clearly evident and unremarkable, he seemed to wonder. Mocca-friggin-frappa-crappa-chino. Tasted good though. Maybe I'll go back and let him know it was fucking A.

So I'm pumped full of cafeine. Idea #1: Tofu dogs injected with caffeine = cafuweenies! Roasted, boiled or broiled, broasted, foiled or coiled, they are bursting with tofuey goodness and bustin' with wholesome caffeine energy potential! It's nature's way of honouring the new frontier of progress and taste!

I should not drink caffeinated beverages. I cannot hold my caffeine. I feel like a nervous ape with tourrette's syndrome. I wonder if Ms. Jane Goodall encountered any of those. I picture this one ape kinda living with her, sitting around at the table, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his fingers and nervously smoking a cigarette, with a shoulder tick, telling her in sign language that "he's not sure but he thinks the other apes might not respect him". And asking her if she minds if he takes the last pancake.

I've been listening to the Ricky Gervais show too much. All that talk of monkeys and freaks.

Holy crap, it's nearly lunch time. Corn on the cob, celery and carrots and scrambled tofu. The lunch of a champion! A satan-worshipping, hepped up on doofballs, potty-mouthed, work-slacking, moving to the country, champion!

Flagrant! Idolatrous! and wrong.

Man, everyday I prop myself up with fresh resolve only to have it knocked the fuck down in what seems to be some sort of great cosmic joke. After each shitty apartment I look at, I still maintain hope that the next will be better but each gets worse. When I say shitty I mean that literally in the case of yesterday. The whole place smelled like shit. The walls were puffing under the paint, with liquid shit I'm guessing, and the floors were wavy from mopped up shit? The next place after that, in the freezing rain of course, looked great! Top floor, pretty, quiet street, cheap rent-guy didn't show up. PERFECT! ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY PERFECT!

I give the fuck up, pardon my fucking french. Fuckity fuckshitting fuck it.

And so....I just signed for the courier delivery because the receptionist was either pissing or shitting in the bathroom and it was one of those electronic signing things that are all the rage with the kids these days and I started with a big S and didn't know what the hell came next for a couple of seconds there. I remembered and scribbled the rest of my last name and said to the guy "I just forgot my fucking name." He didn't seem terribly concerned for me.

The title of today's post comes from Professor Julius Sumner Miller to whom I was introduced through the very excellent Hilarious House of Frightenstein. After posing the problem of what would happen if a cylindrical container were to have 3 equi-distant holes punched along the length of the cylinder and water was to be poured into the cylinder, where would the paths of water fall? He declared that the commonly taught answer in which the streams from the top and bottom hole would fall in the same place and the middle hole stream would project further than the other two was wrong. In fact his quote was that it was "That is WRONG! Flagrant! Idolatrous! and wrong." I love it. To this day, 24 years later I love it. I love him. Each time I consider the events of the past weeks I think of this quote and I picture him yelling at me from beyond the grave, trying to remedy my ignorance.

By the way, here is what spellcheck suggests as a replacement for Fuck fuckity fuckshitting fuck it:

Fuji bucket bucketting Fuji it.

"Absofuckinglutely" completely stumped it.

Caps lock on, caps lock off.

I asked these people here at this strange bankish type place to hire me for a 6 month contract and thereby usurp my temp agency. Har! Will it come to be? Will I be making a crazy per hour rate shortly? Will I be wiley enough to hide it from the student loan robots?

I've been calling apartments endlessly. Just spoke to a very insane woman. While merely trying to inquire a few details about her advertised place for rent I got the entire story of a problem tennant who is meant to be taking drugs for her psychiatric problems but refuses and has a dog with dysplasia??!! who pees itself in the apartment but she won't put it down until the 5th anniversary of her husband's death. Also, apparently she sits (just typo-ed shits. shitting in her car would truly be eccentric.)in her car and plays the radio loud, smokes pot (she whispered the word pot as it is so shocking and repeated it to make sure I understood," pot!") on the balcony. I thanked her for her honesty and proceeded to mark a very big X through the ad.

There is a woman here at work, my slave master I guess, although I hardly slave; I sort of leisurely task. Anyway, (let's call her Rocco) she always speaks very sweetly on the phone to people and then before the receiver is even fully back on the hook, she is swearing like a sailor at them. She really comes up with some great stuff. Fuckshits being my favourite so far. She talks like a new york cab driver. Eg: "How does this letter sound? Dear Dinks, in regards to the discrepancy yadayadayada, bunch of bullshit and uhhhh, whatever, some other stuff, the end Go to hell."

Then co-worker# 2, let's call her Cerealbar, replies with: "WHA??" Which she is always saying because she is deaf in one ear. Sometimes she yells it out of the blue or even if you just walk by her.

In the past few minutes alone I've heard Rocco and her visiting-from-Chicago counterpart talk about velvet elvis, penis piercings, being too fat to wear tanktops and have short hair and how much Rocco reminds Chicago of Chicago lady's old aunt Dora. What a compliment conisdering Rocco can't be older than 40!

I have to stop eating all the shitty candy I bought for myself. On a whim I thought it might be fun to have candy at work so I grabbed a handfull of the various bulk kind that you'll find in your grandmother's living room candy dish. Each one is unpalatble in it's own unique way. Banana "toffee" which was more like a hardened, slighty chewy marshmallow that disintigrates like dust in your mouth. They should adopt that as their product hook line. And rum flavoured toffee. Why? How about gin muffins or vodka yogurt?

Satan called.

I am so sick of peeing. I'm sure it would be worse not to be able to but I'm so bored with it.

I was going to explain the whole events on the weekend a propos the upstairs demons but I'm sick of it. Sick to bloody hell death. In summary we are going to move and we don't have to pay rent anymore. I'm so pissed that we have to leave our nice place and our awesome landlord but that's how it is thanks to the dense and festering, poor excuses for human beings above. I can't help but think of a million Morrissey quotes. Mainly that "evil people prosper over the likes of you and me ALWAYS."

I am forced to move on and so I shall.

Last night I ate ice cream AND a bag of chips. I haven't done that since I was 11. Hard times call for hard measures. Today I keep thinking, is it the right time to demand these people hire me and stop being the johns of my temp-pimp? I could be making 30% more if they would just give me a freaking contract instead of extending my stay by 2 month increments. I don't even give a flying shite about dental insurance or eyeball insurance or whatever, I just want to make the full wage and be able to see past 2 months into the future. I thought temping was good for me but now that I have a job, I don't feel like puking about, I like the idea of a little more permanence.

How VERY exciting. HOW THRILLING! The captivating prose rolls off my fingers, hypnotising all with my tales of wonder. Could I be more uptight and pissed off and stressed -out and boring? Probably, yes. A big yes on that one. Because there is no end to the miseries that can crop up right??!!

"Hi,Catholic guilt here again. Just thought I should let you know that you could be punished for only seeing the negative. You could have life made a million times worse to prove to you that you should appreciate what you've got. ALso, you're life will not get better because you are bad. Obviously you are doing something wrong and are being punished so...so ya."

But what am I doing wrong?

"Well, you are probably just a jerk or something. Or maybe it's because you got very lucky in love, too lucky and we can't really have people be more happy than is fair. Y'know, especially with you being a jerk and everything."

Later:

"Hi, Satan here. You really are a miserable little sack aren'cha? When will you get hip to the 21st century way? It's post modern to worship me. Join the crowd and I will give you party time."

Party Time? Ya great. Thanks for the suggestion santa..

"SATAN!!"

Seitan. ggguuuhhhhh.

And here I am having to pee, yet again.

Why Halifax sucks.

The world is a cruel and cold-blooded globe of festering crap. Why is it that Halifax can produce so much good music but be so evil in all other ways? A girl from Halifax murdered my sliver of hope that our lives could improve, by giving her incredible and perfect apartment away to someone else. We saw it at 10pm last night, I called at 8:30 am this morning and apparently she had "shown it to a friend of a friend who had taken it this morning". She can blow that pack of lies out of her jesus hole. Lies or not, it's gone. I had already seen my new life unfolding in detailed visions there. Oh, plus once, I moved to Halifax to go to NSCAD but after gave up after 3 weeks and 2 apartments. NOT going to get into that one. Let's just say that I felt Halifax to be oozing invisible death and literally felt as though pure evil was chasing me all the way to the border of, well, Quebec really. New Brunswick wasn't any kind of comfort just because it's so boring. SO, now that I have alientated a good chunk of the east coast---Allow me to clarify that I'm down with all other parts of the east coast. It's only Hellifux and New Boringwick that I have trouble with.

So I am drained of hope. I cried and blubbered and now I am just numb. Having to live with noisy and or psycho/mean/smelly/etc neigbours is miserable - plain and simple - and until we have more money to buy a better place, I will have to resort to anaesthesia to get through. Seriously, if any one can hook me up with that stuff you get through intravenous when you get your wisdom teeth out that allows you to be awake the whole time yet blissfull about someone cutting bloody gashes into your gums and sawing off chunks of teeth and the like...just a continuous little drip of that should get me through.

sigh. Must I resign myself to expressing my angst through mime? Is that the sort of person I will be turned into. Will I find myself worshipping Jeebus in an effort to reconcile with the disapointments and hardships of life? How will I keep renewing my resolve? Is it progress to imagine yourself flopping willingly out of a 28th storey window? Will a bag of chips help at all?

I just don't know.

I'll tell you what else. Someone, let's say someone with whom I work, is unsanitarily obsessed with her children in a "Holy blowholes woman, you NEED a hobby!" kind of way. A "Do you WANT your children to become incredibly maladjusted freaks?" kind of way. Suppose one of her children attended a -recently in the news- school with a shooting. Suppose she found it rather exciting that her daughter had in some small way become connected with such a widely-covered event. Suppose this child had ended up in a published photo along with some others crouching behind a car hours after the event as many of the confused and frightened teenagers and people in the area did. Now suppose this woman spent hours, scouring the internet to find a high resolution version of this photo to scrapbook this exciting slice of her child's life. AM I being overly critical to say that this is indeed disturbed? Scrappling for some feeling of importance through a child being in the same building, along with 10,000 other students, as a sick bastard shot 19 people and then himself? Maybe it's one of those- "You don't have kids. You wouldn't understand." things. I'm sure any trauma her daughter might feel has been soothed by her mother collecting images like some sort of obssessed celebrity stalker, only in this case there is no star.

Bleak.

The begin

Well, well. I like to think I am so behind the times that I am cool. It's like I just discovered the internet or something."Hey everybody! There's this neat thing where you can write and nobody will ever want to read it! ".

Ignoring that inevitable fact, I hereby vow to commit myself, half-heartedly, to document that which I deem worthy when it suits me, for reasons unknown.

This is what I won't launch into just yet (because I suppose I should use this space for things other than infernal daily realities):

1. My monstrously ignorant neighbour and her repulsive family that sound like drunk elephants as they pace endlesssly back and forth over our heads, shaking our ceiling and rattling our sanity.

2. How much I loathe the upstairs family of inbred hippotomeeses.

3. Catholic guilt about feeling seething hatred for a family of noisy, skin-covered, barf-bags conficting with a flaming sense of entitlement to be outraged by ignorant, self-involved, childish, mean and spoiled behaviour that robs others of a basic human right to peaceful enjoyment of their home.

Oh I am sorry to interupt this lucid tirade of mine, but as I type this on my work computer, which is all tucked in the corner and usually quiet and removed from all the people actually doing work, I can hear a radio playing on one of my masters' computers, monitoring the progress of the most recent newsworthy event here in Montreal. Someone or two or three people have gone into a college and shot people. The newscaster just keep saying a suspect has been neutralised, neutralised, neutralised. What in the crabcakes of yore does that mean?

By the way, wouldn't it be more than great if the newscasters were actually repeating it like that? "Neutralised, neutralised, neutralised." , and would somebody please start a company called Crabcakes of Yore? Somebody?

I have been sick for 1 week. The phlegm has been endless and the good times have rolled. Bloody sinuses. Not literally! I mean that in the british sense. Actually today, my first day back at work after a week, what I thought might be irritating dizziness has transmuted into a pleasant sort of giddy light-headedness. Plus I can almost smell and therefore, almost taste food again. I am not functioning well on the brain-front though. I usually have 2 routes to work, one involves no train changing but a longer walk, the other I have to transfer one metro line to the other but practically get door to door. This morning I conceived that I would take the least physically taxing route which should mean the no walking route but I only got as far as the idea that I could sit on the train and not get up if I didn't change stations and only realised as I arrived at metro Bonaventure that I now had to bloody walk for 15 minutes because of my choice. I also could really use a book of those autostereograms as I can't look at anything without going cross-eyed after 3 seconds. I also keep mixing up 3 with s. s 3econd3.

45 minutes till home. I have to take the walky way home because now the green line is closed do to shootingness.

Neutralised, neutralised, neutralised.