Today, in the courtyard at work, there was a plethora, that's right, a plethora of tall, thin, effeminate men with shaved heads and expensive nerd glasses. They were all sitting alone on benches, one per bench, meticulously chewing their homemade sandwiches. I kept waiting for them to notice each other. I figured eventually, some suspicious glances would be cast or some inquisitive ones at the very least but they absolutely refused to notice one another!
With sandwiches held high in one hand, the other arm wrapped around their own waste, legs crossed, their gazes distant and obstinately non-recognitive(if it's a new word then so be it.).
I wanted to jump up and break the folly: "Look at each other! You are all the same man! You are never out here but here you all are, all at once! You will all go home and listen to Philip Glass tonight, admit your striking similarities!"
I chickened out though and opted instead to gape like an ape because I always forget that people can see me too.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Obviously, I must quote L L Cool J.
I'm goin back to Cali, Cali, Cali. Going back to Cali, hm, I don't think so.
Well I'm not going back since I've never been before, but I am going. Four months. Uh huh, uh huh. And before that even, I'm going to Boston. Okay just for a few days but apart from a couple of hours in Burlington Vermont, I've managed to live 33 years avoiding the United States of America. In a few months, I will be living amongst "them".
Some of "them" are in my stitch and bitch and "they" have helped me to see that not all Americans are to be feared and run screaming from.
In Boston I will drink tea, in California I will see the other sea. Yipee for me.
Well I'm not going back since I've never been before, but I am going. Four months. Uh huh, uh huh. And before that even, I'm going to Boston. Okay just for a few days but apart from a couple of hours in Burlington Vermont, I've managed to live 33 years avoiding the United States of America. In a few months, I will be living amongst "them".
Some of "them" are in my stitch and bitch and "they" have helped me to see that not all Americans are to be feared and run screaming from.
In Boston I will drink tea, in California I will see the other sea. Yipee for me.
Effin facebook
All right. Damn hell. I joined facebook. I swore, SWORE I would not but now even T is joining so bloody hell. Sigh.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Fall is falling
Fall is coming, I can feel it. All lovers of fall, like myself, seem to share in overwhelming sensory fall memories at the slightest scent of cool in the air. A million things all bundled up in a half second blip.
For some reason, the fall I am reminded of today, is moving, at 20 years old to St. John's. My first time away from my parents home. I had gone on the back of a motorcyle of a relative stranger who went on to become my boyfriend for 9 years. Together with him and an old friend, fresh after a year of recovering from a mental meltdown, feeling the best I ever had, I arrived by ferry on a crisp, late september evening with the low, orange sun carving the rocks of the island into monuments.
I went with only a knapsack full of things: some clothes, and some art supplies. The most free of possessions and worry I've ever been. I waltzed myself into a pleasant job at a bookstore, a live-in boyfriend and a subdued calm. Waking everyday with the smell of the atlantic coming through the bedroom window, falling asleep each night to the sound of foghorns, buying fresh bread and peanut butter cookies daily from the bakery down the street on the way to work, watching the ships dock at the harbour...
My strongest defining memory is sitting at home, in my first apartment in the late afternoon, alone in the huge, decrepit living room with only an old couch and a stereo and one cd to our name(The Cranberries would you believe. It wasn't even mine.). We had big bay windows on street level and the sun was beaming onto the wooden floor hitting one of my feet, warming and outlining it while the other was cool in the shadows. The dust was dancing in the beam and the voices of kids coming home from school drifted in.
The cd came to an end and I sat there, just watching the sun beam play on the floor, listening to the kids, feeling the outside air cool the room as the sun moved beyond the window down behind the houses. I felt the happiness of the naive. I was alone in my first place and the sun was gentle and the air was brisk and the ocean was near. It was fall. The calm season, the quiet season. After the brilliant buzz of summer and before the sharp white of winter, fall falls, warm orange and deep red and dusky blue, wool sweaters and early sunsets blazing fire, crunching leaves and cold ground, It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown!
So the first hints of fall always immerse me in this dreamy state. Like diving under the wave and seeing all the bubbles and seaweed and fish, the world above the sea forgotten. The wave of fall has come and under I happily go.
For some reason, the fall I am reminded of today, is moving, at 20 years old to St. John's. My first time away from my parents home. I had gone on the back of a motorcyle of a relative stranger who went on to become my boyfriend for 9 years. Together with him and an old friend, fresh after a year of recovering from a mental meltdown, feeling the best I ever had, I arrived by ferry on a crisp, late september evening with the low, orange sun carving the rocks of the island into monuments.
I went with only a knapsack full of things: some clothes, and some art supplies. The most free of possessions and worry I've ever been. I waltzed myself into a pleasant job at a bookstore, a live-in boyfriend and a subdued calm. Waking everyday with the smell of the atlantic coming through the bedroom window, falling asleep each night to the sound of foghorns, buying fresh bread and peanut butter cookies daily from the bakery down the street on the way to work, watching the ships dock at the harbour...
My strongest defining memory is sitting at home, in my first apartment in the late afternoon, alone in the huge, decrepit living room with only an old couch and a stereo and one cd to our name(The Cranberries would you believe. It wasn't even mine.). We had big bay windows on street level and the sun was beaming onto the wooden floor hitting one of my feet, warming and outlining it while the other was cool in the shadows. The dust was dancing in the beam and the voices of kids coming home from school drifted in.
The cd came to an end and I sat there, just watching the sun beam play on the floor, listening to the kids, feeling the outside air cool the room as the sun moved beyond the window down behind the houses. I felt the happiness of the naive. I was alone in my first place and the sun was gentle and the air was brisk and the ocean was near. It was fall. The calm season, the quiet season. After the brilliant buzz of summer and before the sharp white of winter, fall falls, warm orange and deep red and dusky blue, wool sweaters and early sunsets blazing fire, crunching leaves and cold ground, It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown!
So the first hints of fall always immerse me in this dreamy state. Like diving under the wave and seeing all the bubbles and seaweed and fish, the world above the sea forgotten. The wave of fall has come and under I happily go.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Mincing and waltzing.
At lunch today I saw this ancient woman mincing, yes that's right, mincing around the financial district of Montreal. She was dressed like an insane billionaire heiress. I'm sure that's just what she was. She looked so out of place. I imagine when she got dressed in her 17 bedroom castle with her pet cougar lazing by the liquid gold fountain, her outfit seemed perfectly "de rigeur". Waltzing around like that on the streets of Montreal though...a bit of an odd effect overall.
Her husband didn't seem to think there was anything unusual about her ENORMOUS hat and eccentric dress but he did seem a little nervous in the service about everyone else for some reason.
Her husband didn't seem to think there was anything unusual about her ENORMOUS hat and eccentric dress but he did seem a little nervous in the service about everyone else for some reason.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Say in crochety old person voice: I remember when...
Yipee! I just found a new way to bear work. Here.
I can plug in my earphones and suddenly, scanning shipping documents seems almost fun. As a big fan of my own country's music, I was particularly pleased to download their podcast #116:Rewind the 90s. Let me digress for a moment:
There are chunks of time that define my musical tastes.
Age 3-9 (whatever my dad's records were-Doctor Hook, Joe Cocker, Slim Whitman , whatever was playing on AM radio-Donna Summer, Alan Parson's Project, Ian Thomas, whatever 45's I could buy from garage sales-Elvis Presley, Connie Francis, Jim Reeves, and whatever my sister was listening to- Bee Gees, Bay City Rollers.)
My consumption of music has never been as dedicated and feverish as this stage of life. I remember holding my 2 dollar microphone, plugged into the white cassette player, up to the mono speaker of my alarm clock on a sunny summer day when I should have been outside playing...but music was on the radio, and I loved it, and I needed to record it for later.
Age 10-13( a whole new world of 80's british pop and videos. Awesome, awesome videos. Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel, Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw, The Thompson Twins, basically the sound track to any John Hughes film. Eyes opened to the idea that certain music was "cool" while others, not so much.)
Age 14-17 (Hello Morrissey and the Smiths. You are my world. These three years were fully dedicated to the worship of Morrissey. Ok, there were also some REM, Billy Bragg and Echo and the Bunnymen in there, but the Smiths were my oxygen.)
Age 18-21 (The Smiths broke-up. I mourned and then tentatively stepped my foot outside of the protective circle of my Smiths world into some experimentation with other music. Decided I would give in and buy cds instead of vinyl- a painful transition. Decided I would give in and listen to music that might even go against my "scene". I grew up(or rather, reverted to childhood when I just didnt' give a shit what anyone thought) and realized I didn't need to worry about cool or ever sensor my own taste-Iron Maiden, Elvis Costello, Pixies(YEAH!), Cocteau Twins.)
Age 22-28 (Ah sweet renewal of music joy. Thy name is Halifax music scene. Sloan, Superfriendz, Thrush Hermit, Inbreds, Local Rabbits...so much good music. Out and about in my cords and converse one-stars. Good times. ) That's what the above mentioned podcast is all about. Happy, fuzzy warmth for me. This time is the closest I ever got to the frenzy of music buying and listening I did when I was a kid.
Of course, my music evolution hasn't stopped but it's been a while since I've had the excitement of some the above mentioned times.
I guess I'm getting olden.
I can plug in my earphones and suddenly, scanning shipping documents seems almost fun. As a big fan of my own country's music, I was particularly pleased to download their podcast #116:Rewind the 90s. Let me digress for a moment:
There are chunks of time that define my musical tastes.
Age 3-9 (whatever my dad's records were-Doctor Hook, Joe Cocker, Slim Whitman , whatever was playing on AM radio-Donna Summer, Alan Parson's Project, Ian Thomas, whatever 45's I could buy from garage sales-Elvis Presley, Connie Francis, Jim Reeves, and whatever my sister was listening to- Bee Gees, Bay City Rollers.)
My consumption of music has never been as dedicated and feverish as this stage of life. I remember holding my 2 dollar microphone, plugged into the white cassette player, up to the mono speaker of my alarm clock on a sunny summer day when I should have been outside playing...but music was on the radio, and I loved it, and I needed to record it for later.
Age 10-13( a whole new world of 80's british pop and videos. Awesome, awesome videos. Kate Bush, Peter Gabriel, Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw, The Thompson Twins, basically the sound track to any John Hughes film. Eyes opened to the idea that certain music was "cool" while others, not so much.)
Age 14-17 (Hello Morrissey and the Smiths. You are my world. These three years were fully dedicated to the worship of Morrissey. Ok, there were also some REM, Billy Bragg and Echo and the Bunnymen in there, but the Smiths were my oxygen.)
Age 18-21 (The Smiths broke-up. I mourned and then tentatively stepped my foot outside of the protective circle of my Smiths world into some experimentation with other music. Decided I would give in and buy cds instead of vinyl- a painful transition. Decided I would give in and listen to music that might even go against my "scene". I grew up(or rather, reverted to childhood when I just didnt' give a shit what anyone thought) and realized I didn't need to worry about cool or ever sensor my own taste-Iron Maiden, Elvis Costello, Pixies(YEAH!), Cocteau Twins.)
Age 22-28 (Ah sweet renewal of music joy. Thy name is Halifax music scene. Sloan, Superfriendz, Thrush Hermit, Inbreds, Local Rabbits...so much good music. Out and about in my cords and converse one-stars. Good times. ) That's what the above mentioned podcast is all about. Happy, fuzzy warmth for me. This time is the closest I ever got to the frenzy of music buying and listening I did when I was a kid.
Of course, my music evolution hasn't stopped but it's been a while since I've had the excitement of some the above mentioned times.
I guess I'm getting olden.
The future is written.
I saw a couple on the train this morning. They must have been 19 or 20 years old. They had the interaction of a flirty brother and sister (like all barely-past-their-teens couples do), laughing and having sword fights and talking about Harry Potter. She wanted to buy the newest book. He told her, "It was going to be part of your gift but it's not out in french yet." She reached to where he was sitting across from her and stroked just above his knee while leaning forward a bit, hesitantly, wondering if a kiss was in order. He only watched her and she leant back defeated. Right away, with fresh resolve she gave his leg another stroke and leaning forward again, he met her and they kissed.
She was a super cute little french girl with a studded belt and thick dark-rimmed, nerd-chic glasses. He was an anglo and must have been a little older. You could tell he was in charge. He talked loud and sent pictures from his cellphone to hers. The "doodle doo" of her phone went off every 20 seconds as he chose a new photo of himself to grace her with. "Time to call my brother and wake him up.", he said. "Why?" she said. "Because I'm up so he should be too."
He had a metallica shirt, full lips and long flowing locks. To say she was smitten would be an understatement for sure and to say that he wasn't aware of her smitten state would also be a blatant error in fact reporting.
Can I get back to his hair for a second? Only men manage to have this kind of hair. Shiny, soft, ringlety tendrils with no split ends. It's because they don't wash, brush, style or even touch their hair. It just grows and looks like they burst forth from the bosom of nature's bounty. I want 20 year old, Metalica man hair! I wouldn't mind some of the blind arrogance also.
Thing is, she'll eventually break up with him when she realizes she's smarter and will go on to become an oceanographer or something of the sort. He will still be wearing his hair long even when he starts to bald and he'll forget about her, but she will remember him. She'll just be sitting around drinking coffee in her kitchen when she's 43 years old and something will make her think of the long ago boyfriend, the one who thought he was king, the one with the blue eyes, full lips and beautiful hair.
She was a super cute little french girl with a studded belt and thick dark-rimmed, nerd-chic glasses. He was an anglo and must have been a little older. You could tell he was in charge. He talked loud and sent pictures from his cellphone to hers. The "doodle doo" of her phone went off every 20 seconds as he chose a new photo of himself to grace her with. "Time to call my brother and wake him up.", he said. "Why?" she said. "Because I'm up so he should be too."
He had a metallica shirt, full lips and long flowing locks. To say she was smitten would be an understatement for sure and to say that he wasn't aware of her smitten state would also be a blatant error in fact reporting.
Can I get back to his hair for a second? Only men manage to have this kind of hair. Shiny, soft, ringlety tendrils with no split ends. It's because they don't wash, brush, style or even touch their hair. It just grows and looks like they burst forth from the bosom of nature's bounty. I want 20 year old, Metalica man hair! I wouldn't mind some of the blind arrogance also.
Thing is, she'll eventually break up with him when she realizes she's smarter and will go on to become an oceanographer or something of the sort. He will still be wearing his hair long even when he starts to bald and he'll forget about her, but she will remember him. She'll just be sitting around drinking coffee in her kitchen when she's 43 years old and something will make her think of the long ago boyfriend, the one who thought he was king, the one with the blue eyes, full lips and beautiful hair.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
So many people hate Morrissey but he understands. So does Virginia Woolf.
Due to some recent conversations about books, in particular, character studies, I've been thinking alot about extroverts/introverts and interaction between people. I have been recommending Night and Day by Virginia Woolf and trying hard to explain why. Now, I think I know why I love it so much. It's about 4 introverts who try really hard to live a truth but fear their truths are unacceptable to others. They struggle to hide or bend it but in the end, realize that it's just a matter of being honest and accepting the consequences. Sometimes the consequence is that many turn away but sometimes, it's the only way to find someone to really understand or at the very least accept.
I'm really unskilled in the art of setting people at ease. I have a tiny handful of long standing friends and a very compatible boyfriend all of whom, by some miracle, find me tolerable. I try, try, try to get along with the world, but it seems no matter how hard I strain to be inoffensive to others, I never get it right. I've been thinking and thinking, why is this? Am I too introverted to be comfortable with others? Am I a misanthrope who can't hide the strain of interaction? Is my personal unhappiness too great to conceal? Am I just an abrasive, negative, annoying jerk? I think it may be all of the above but I wonder how others feel about themselves.
Since adulthood, I've really valued honesty or rather, openess in interaction. A small bit of conversation yesterday touched on the idea that there is an art to knowing when to be honest and knowing the difference between truth and honesty (or the distance from truth to honesty as Superfriendz Matt Murphy sings it). I think this refers to interacting with others. The idea that people aren't really looking to be "outed" about hidden truths nor do most people want honesty if it hurts. That, I understand and try to respect, but I have been wondering what effect it has on others to be honest about oneself. Is it as repulsive as plunging someone else's depths? Actually forget honesty, what it really comes down to is a need to express myself and I like to do that honestly. I don't like to hold back my own feelings. I don't think I could deal with life if I had to hide more than I do. As an introvert, I'm isolated already. As an unhappy person, I'm disenfranchised already. If I can't tell the truth about myself to others, I can't see what could be gained from being out in the world at all. Yet, rather tragically, I think it might be the biggest barrier I have between myself and others. Maybe I've got it all wrong, but I think not.
I don't think it's the expression itself that's offputting. It's when the honesty is about unhappiness. Truth is, I conceal more than I let out. A watered down honesty of sorts. Maybe I'm less successful than I believe at filtering the truth. You ask me how I am, I say "Eh. Alright." Honest. Not feeling great. No point lying. I can't hide it anyway. Sometimes, the real answer is; "Awful. I feel Awful. Terrible. I am wildly unhappy with myself, fellow human. To spend time with me is to spend time with a broken, broken person."
I know many people feel this way. Maybe, many even conceal it succesfully or find ways to combat it and give something to others that I can't. I don't for one second claim that unhappiness lends itself to one way of being only. Perhaps it's the half honesty that could be the worst barrier. The people that are able to hear the full-truth answer and stick around after, are the only ones with whom I can let the unhappiness fall away. The freedom to express without fear is the only thing that allows the better parts of me to see the light of day. With everyone else, it's nothing but strained negativity and resentment at having to shield them from myself. How do others do it? What do others want from themselves? What do they push for and what do they hide and why? I suppose I read books in part to try to understand - How do others get by?
I guess, in the end, what most people see in me, is the strain of "filtered" honesty. They don't see the whole truth, which is actually more palatable than the watered down version. Strain is not fun to be around. It's not fun to be under either and yet, with most, I cannot reveal. I don't think they want me to. So the great cycle of social reaching and retreating continues. Trying, failing and retreating. Trying, failing and retreating. To those of you that have stuck it out and remained, allow me to express my honest appreciation of you. Perhaps I will get it right one day. I will find a method of honesty that is comfortable to me and palatable to others. Perhaps I will lessen the unhappiness some day. Maybe then, honesty and truth will be welcome.
I'm really unskilled in the art of setting people at ease. I have a tiny handful of long standing friends and a very compatible boyfriend all of whom, by some miracle, find me tolerable. I try, try, try to get along with the world, but it seems no matter how hard I strain to be inoffensive to others, I never get it right. I've been thinking and thinking, why is this? Am I too introverted to be comfortable with others? Am I a misanthrope who can't hide the strain of interaction? Is my personal unhappiness too great to conceal? Am I just an abrasive, negative, annoying jerk? I think it may be all of the above but I wonder how others feel about themselves.
Since adulthood, I've really valued honesty or rather, openess in interaction. A small bit of conversation yesterday touched on the idea that there is an art to knowing when to be honest and knowing the difference between truth and honesty (or the distance from truth to honesty as Superfriendz Matt Murphy sings it). I think this refers to interacting with others. The idea that people aren't really looking to be "outed" about hidden truths nor do most people want honesty if it hurts. That, I understand and try to respect, but I have been wondering what effect it has on others to be honest about oneself. Is it as repulsive as plunging someone else's depths? Actually forget honesty, what it really comes down to is a need to express myself and I like to do that honestly. I don't like to hold back my own feelings. I don't think I could deal with life if I had to hide more than I do. As an introvert, I'm isolated already. As an unhappy person, I'm disenfranchised already. If I can't tell the truth about myself to others, I can't see what could be gained from being out in the world at all. Yet, rather tragically, I think it might be the biggest barrier I have between myself and others. Maybe I've got it all wrong, but I think not.
I don't think it's the expression itself that's offputting. It's when the honesty is about unhappiness. Truth is, I conceal more than I let out. A watered down honesty of sorts. Maybe I'm less successful than I believe at filtering the truth. You ask me how I am, I say "Eh. Alright." Honest. Not feeling great. No point lying. I can't hide it anyway. Sometimes, the real answer is; "Awful. I feel Awful. Terrible. I am wildly unhappy with myself, fellow human. To spend time with me is to spend time with a broken, broken person."
I know many people feel this way. Maybe, many even conceal it succesfully or find ways to combat it and give something to others that I can't. I don't for one second claim that unhappiness lends itself to one way of being only. Perhaps it's the half honesty that could be the worst barrier. The people that are able to hear the full-truth answer and stick around after, are the only ones with whom I can let the unhappiness fall away. The freedom to express without fear is the only thing that allows the better parts of me to see the light of day. With everyone else, it's nothing but strained negativity and resentment at having to shield them from myself. How do others do it? What do others want from themselves? What do they push for and what do they hide and why? I suppose I read books in part to try to understand - How do others get by?
I guess, in the end, what most people see in me, is the strain of "filtered" honesty. They don't see the whole truth, which is actually more palatable than the watered down version. Strain is not fun to be around. It's not fun to be under either and yet, with most, I cannot reveal. I don't think they want me to. So the great cycle of social reaching and retreating continues. Trying, failing and retreating. Trying, failing and retreating. To those of you that have stuck it out and remained, allow me to express my honest appreciation of you. Perhaps I will get it right one day. I will find a method of honesty that is comfortable to me and palatable to others. Perhaps I will lessen the unhappiness some day. Maybe then, honesty and truth will be welcome.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Real fruit candy shells, and Bulgarian transvestites.
Why is Autumn the only season with a nickname?
So bored. Here's what I get up to at work.
Can you BELIEVE that shit? Wow. So modest. Modesty. Modestness. Baaaaarrrrffffffff.
I am back at work after having had a long weekend off to entertain my visiting parents and I am not happy to be back. Today feels like the longest, most excruciating day on record. T is in Washington this week so it'll be just me and some overpriced "natural" m and m type candy tonight. Actually, they are really superior. The coating is made from fruit dyes and flavours so it tastes like orange and cherry and the chocolate is just real chocolate. No car wax coating or petro chemical lubricants or whatever the hell. I'm sorry, they just are really good little candies. ANYWAY.
I went to the beach this weekend for the first time in years and years. It was great! Big long sandy beach, lots of trees for shade, all the crowd at the other damned end of the place and warm, shallow waters that extended way out into the lake. Hurrah! I used to live in the water from morning till evening when I was a kid and discovered I could still happily do the same. No pictures because I suck.
Har.
1 hour and 12 minutes left of work.
I also saw the penis of a Bulgarian transvestite singing star, but I didn't go looking for that. Honestly! Seriously and for real. Blame perez hilton.
1 hour and 8 minutes.
Let's see, I have to pee, that should take a good 2 minutes. I could stroll around for my 15 minute break- 17 minutes killed. Maybe make a cup of tea...I don't suppose I'll get up to anything actually proactive like looking for a new job or begining a masterpiece or doing bicep curls holding staplers as weights. I could stare out at the St. Laurent for a while and reflect on all the crap from people's toilets on Nun's Island being flushed directly into the river. The plumbers made a mistake and 8 years later, they realize it.
Scene: finishing touches on plumbing in condo, 1999:
"Hey man, I am baked like a ham. I know I got to connect these pipes somehow but I can't read the plans without all the lines coming off the page and climbing up my arm and trying to get into my brain through my nose holes."
"It's pipes for peoples shit? What can happen? Just connect it somewhere and it'll go there. Who cares!"
" What if I connect it, like, right back to where it came from into some kind of eternal loop, like the snake eating its tail and then like, there's this rift in the fabric of reality created by infinite shit and like, it totally rearranges the universe?"
"Lets go get some tacos!"
So they hooked it up and all the people's shit went directly into the river and we all lived happily ever after.
How in the christ, did somebody not notice this sooner?
Oh ya! 55 minutes and I haven't even taken my bathroom break of leisure yet. My life is rad.
So bored. Here's what I get up to at work.
Can you BELIEVE that shit? Wow. So modest. Modesty. Modestness. Baaaaarrrrffffffff.
I am back at work after having had a long weekend off to entertain my visiting parents and I am not happy to be back. Today feels like the longest, most excruciating day on record. T is in Washington this week so it'll be just me and some overpriced "natural" m and m type candy tonight. Actually, they are really superior. The coating is made from fruit dyes and flavours so it tastes like orange and cherry and the chocolate is just real chocolate. No car wax coating or petro chemical lubricants or whatever the hell. I'm sorry, they just are really good little candies. ANYWAY.
I went to the beach this weekend for the first time in years and years. It was great! Big long sandy beach, lots of trees for shade, all the crowd at the other damned end of the place and warm, shallow waters that extended way out into the lake. Hurrah! I used to live in the water from morning till evening when I was a kid and discovered I could still happily do the same. No pictures because I suck.
Har.
1 hour and 12 minutes left of work.
I also saw the penis of a Bulgarian transvestite singing star, but I didn't go looking for that. Honestly! Seriously and for real. Blame perez hilton.
1 hour and 8 minutes.
Let's see, I have to pee, that should take a good 2 minutes. I could stroll around for my 15 minute break- 17 minutes killed. Maybe make a cup of tea...I don't suppose I'll get up to anything actually proactive like looking for a new job or begining a masterpiece or doing bicep curls holding staplers as weights. I could stare out at the St. Laurent for a while and reflect on all the crap from people's toilets on Nun's Island being flushed directly into the river. The plumbers made a mistake and 8 years later, they realize it.
Scene: finishing touches on plumbing in condo, 1999:
"Hey man, I am baked like a ham. I know I got to connect these pipes somehow but I can't read the plans without all the lines coming off the page and climbing up my arm and trying to get into my brain through my nose holes."
"It's pipes for peoples shit? What can happen? Just connect it somewhere and it'll go there. Who cares!"
" What if I connect it, like, right back to where it came from into some kind of eternal loop, like the snake eating its tail and then like, there's this rift in the fabric of reality created by infinite shit and like, it totally rearranges the universe?"
"Lets go get some tacos!"
So they hooked it up and all the people's shit went directly into the river and we all lived happily ever after.
How in the christ, did somebody not notice this sooner?
Oh ya! 55 minutes and I haven't even taken my bathroom break of leisure yet. My life is rad.
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