you don't have time to read this
I don't have time to feel this way
but today, everywhere, I found omens of you
that song in a bad movie
your name
our themes.

i would still chuck it all for you.
its boring how i keep looking for these
omens.

I'm posting now with my eyes brimming with tears. I'm starting to lose control, that wonderful, terrifying experience when you start really caring for someone and realize that they have the ability to completely destroy you if they'd like. That unfortunately, your happiness now depends on them being around, liking you, and you'll jump through all the hoops you have to. Right now my heart hurts from this realization, which of course came couched in a moment of painful confrontation, but that's not why I'm posting. I'm posting because once, I used to be good at it, and I want to be good at it again.

On Monday I was renting a movie with a friend of mine and I endured the social equivalent of fingernails across a blackboard. We were renting The Day After Tomorrow, which despite having cast members who I usually like, was not a good movie, and the video clerk guy (one of the faceless masses employed at a chain, instead of the independent minded, honest employees of the Mom and Pop place I usually go to, who never would have let me rent it) told us it was due back on Wednesday. So I look at my companion and to the clerk and say loudly in a 'making a bad joke' voice 'oh, the Day After Tomorrow, Har. Har. Har.'

I made a bad joke. But I did it on PURPOSE and clearly highlighted that fact by making a stupid fake laugh and throwing my head back in an exagerrated manner. When I righted my head to look at the clerk and Jen to get there reaction, I was met with stone cold silence. Nothing. They didn't even grin. Both of them allowed my attempt at levity to fall flat and unacknowledged.

The humorless clerk gave me my receipt and we left, and then I quickly started berating Jen for being a horrible friend, and while her excuse, which was that she knew that by not laughing we'd get much more mileage out of the joke than had she sympathetically smiled or chuckled, was pretty good, I still am reeling by the fact that she left me twisting in the wind. Embarassed, in front of a ROGERS employee! The shame!

Now 'Mark' or 'Andrew' or whatever boring replaceable name this guy was saddled with since birth has only one impression of me, and that's that I make bad jokes. I DON'T! Well, I do, but I do it out of IRONY which makes me so much more complex than that! This event has drawn my attention to every time I fake laughed at a joke at the restaurant, only to walk away rolling my eyes. Maybe all those bad-joke tellers were doing it to test my resolve. To see if I'd pander to them and laugh at their unfunny jokes. Maybe I was the one who'd failed, by lowering my standards and laughing at sub-par humour. Maybe the joke's on ME!

Regardless, I'm going to be much more sensitive to lame parent humour from now on. And I'm never EVER telling a bad joke ever again. Even for effect. Lesson learned.

Thankfully its cold enough outside that I can wrap myself in my hermitude and not feel like I'm missing much. Sunday's MRI was a bit of an event and the following couple of days have left me in my bathrobe restoring my electrolytes. In an hour I have to cart myself to campus and talk about my vagina. Its safe to say that this week is the worst one of 2005, and its tuesday.

That being said, or 'whined' to maintain honesty, I've been laughing a lot lately. Saw a great play, spending time with my favorite people. Found out the words 'I don't want to be your friend' can be the most romantic phrase I've ever heard when said by the right person.

'You know how I remember your birthday?'
'How?'
'Dale Earnhardt's number was three.'
'Hm. You know how I remember your birthday?'
'Nope, how?'
' IT'S YOUR FUCKING BIRTHDAY!'
'Right'
...
'May he rest in peace.'

The problem with living the majority of my life inside my own head, acting out dialogues that never took place and envisioning meetings that are likewise fictitious is that the time between someone declaring their intentions to do something and that something actually happening feel like an eternity to me.

By the time we would have actually ran into each other I would have already played it out a million times, on the bus, during an MRI, at the dentists office, whenever my mind switches to screensaver. So when the encounter never really happens I'm left with a series of semi-fulfilled realities. I end up feeling as though I've been stood up a million times over. It is irrational and strange, and decidedly unfair. I can handle irrational and strange. I'm sorry for the unfair.

I heard Bill Cosby say 'scrotum' on Friday. Betcha can't beat that.

For whatever reasons, the phrase 'ethnic seasoning chart' is the most pleasant series of words to say outloud. Though I can't help but feel an inherent racism in it, which I associate with the word 'ethnic' in all of its uses.

So apparently you can order books ONLINE? For cheap? Why haven't I been involved in this for years now? Probably because my nouveau hippie education plagues me with guilt for supporting mega-corporations. But if someone's gonna save me 120$ for this semesters readings, I don't care who's Ma and Pa you sodomized. I'm game. And because I like rewarding myself for being a dick, I bought Bill Withers Greatest Hits and in ten songs he convinced me that its the best cd I've bought in recent memory.*


*competing with a french canadian artist and Alanis Morisette's last misguided attempt at music and

I just got out of the shower and had to sit down. Then I realized that the shower had marked the most consecutive time I've been on my feet in two and a half days.

I'm going to work in two hours.

This may end badly.

If I don't return avenge my death.

Well, I was going to post and complain about how I was stricken with the flu yesterday and consequently missed the entire New Years party that I so meticulously organized, the very party that for the first time would combine friends from three different spheres of my life and would inevitably result in the falling in love of several cross-sphere couples and maybe, just maybe a decent-to-superhot kiss with a certain person whom I've been illicitly crushing on for a while...

Then I read Sara's post about an ambulance ride on Christmas day. Dang. Upstaged.

Regardless, I too did some passing out, in what seems spookily the exact same place of my house, except instead of falling through the glass doors I fell through the closet doors which didn't break, and instead gave me a huge lump and a fantastically sore neck. My fancy-pants pants and hilariously un-Desiree like shirt are still all laid out on my chair where I left them several nights ago. What can i say, I'm a wallower. I wallow.

Today I'm much better, then again any day where you can stand up without 5 minutes of prep time and you're not genuinely concerned with your ability to control your gag reflex is a good day.

Christmas came and went, and compared to last year when I spent the majority of the day in my tiny room moping and waiting for my brother, it ranked pretty high. Loads of family, my mother maintaining the tradition of her not knowing me as a person at all expressed via presents (a bouret? She gets props for the Spongebob underroos though) and food like whoa.

The highschool ex has left the city again, and right on time as well, as any more intense talks about our pasts, both separate and as a unit would have resulted in some kind of furrowed-brow and serious 'I'm listening' frown-strain. How come no one listens to some people? How can someone make it into their twenties without really being heard? And how come once I accidentally unlock 22 years of ignored emotion I can't FOR THE LIFE OF ME get them to shake it long enough to go snowshoeing?

I found out that a mutual acquaintance of ours had been working to keep us apart for three years. Keep in mind this wasn't some HUGE ploy that you'd see in movies, but merely the repeated 'forgetting' of relaying messages between us that resulted in both he and I thinking that the other had no interest in maintaining a friendship. Neither him, nor I had any idea we both wanted to keep in touch...Which is strange, but also oddly flattering because I'd always kept contact with this acquaintance, so the obvious interpretation was he wanted to keep my attentions to himself. Or atleast this is what my 6th grade gossip filter has interpreted it as. Because I'm a pretty girl and people like me. In my bouret.

the reports keep flooding in, I've infected at least two people. This is almost as awesome as the time that I gave the chicken pox to my brother who then gave them to a busload of band kids. Yeah communicable diseases! It's like watching math work right before your eyes!

We were two of a group of eight, but since an invisible cone of silence descended down over us the minute we separated from the hug, we might as well have been at the bottom of the ocean.

His theory: All people can be divided into two groups. Tomatoes and Cucumbers. He and I are both Tomatos . All the successful relationships he knows are composed of one Cucumber and one Tomato. Ever since he presented this to me, which I immediately and whole-heartedly agreed with, I've been walking around food-coding the people I know. Its kind of refreshing. I just need to find me a Cucumber who is charmed by my Tomato qualities.

We started talking about our personal self-improvement lists. Its important to have one of these as it keeps you from falling into a mould of yourself. He went first, which is good because I had to make up all the things on my list. He wants to plant a grove of Black Walnut trees, with the understanding they will never tower in his lifetime. He wants his kids, or his sisters kids, or someone's kids to walk in a forest of towering trees and know that it was someone's idea first.

It kills me sometimes.

I just woke my cat up because she seemed to be caught deep in the clutches of a really frantic kitty-dream. There was twitching and chirping noises. It was stressing me out.

Maybe I should stop listening to angry rock songs while she's sleeping peacefully in the corner. I need more cat-friendly work music.

Please tell me that one of these days I will grow out of sending drunken emails to boys who sometimes spell 'rock' with a W and without a sense of irony. Please.

Sometime last year, while falling in 'best-friend' love with my across-the-hall neighbor, I was introduce to her ex-boyfriend's livejournal. He is nothing but a caricature to me now. All I've heard is all the horrible stories of infidelity and general jackassedness, and his journal is a hilarious angst and hate-laten series of three sentence tirades. He is a joke to me. I read his journal when I need return to a simple world of two-dimensional characters with predictable anger about exams, the weather, punk bands and people in general. He signs emails with 'hate' and talks about blacklisting people. Lots of people. He is that angry red emoticon. I know its impossible for someone to be this void of compassion and, well, other characteristics other than rage, but since he is obviously presenting himself thusly, I choose to judge him based on that. And I was sure I'd never find anyone so ridiculous in their caricatureness than him.

Til I found a link to his current girlfriend's livejournal. Lori. And let me tell you. Omigod. If I don't finish my takehome exam because I keep reading her archives for more examples of what I am horrified of one day waking up as, I . Might. DIE. Because that would be THE worst. WORST!!!!!! xoxL :)

Now, I abuse capitalization as much as the next guy, but come on, there's no need to be that emphatic about everything. Her life must be so dramatic. Two exclamation points is the most any one person needs. No more are required.

All this self-righteousness is to mask the fact that I am without a doubt in love with these two and their hate/excitement for everything. I'm jealous that they are reducible to one major emotion/characteristic, as I'm pretty sure if I were forced to determine mine, it'd be sass.

Whichever genius who decided blue for the 'save as draft' colour and orange as the 'thunderbirds are go! Publish Post' button is an idiot. Or atleast very insensitive to my unconscious colour coding of go vs hold. Blue is too close to green to NOT mean 'go ahead, you're ready for this to proceed to the next logical step in posting'. And orange is a scary, warning colour which redirects you instinctively towards the draft button. You think Blogger would want to encourage posting. Silly.