'nother day with not much to say...

The font is different, and now I've got three, count 'em THREE links. Onwards and Upwards my pretty ones.
Bored. BORED. Bo-red. Booooooooored.
I made the mistake of reading instead of napping during my four hour break today, so now I have nothing to do. And yes, I've already showered today, thanks for reminding me.

For those of you in town (John) the lovely people behind our public transportation system may be striking as soon as Wednesday. This means that I have no way to or from school, as does roughly a bazillion students and other people with places to go. Now, luckily I've been able to rustle up some alternate modes of transportation (read: Daddy) but I think what I'll miss the most is the culture. In all honesty I spend most of my on-the-bus time listening to old tapes I found in the basement, but every once in a while I'll over hear a little gem of conversation that warms me right down to the cockles. Or makes me laugh, you know, whatever.

Case in point: Today, my batteries died, so I spent the hour long bus ride home attentively listening in to the conversation taking place between an Scottish man and a Canadian woman. I don't know how they know each other, but I picked up on their dialogue at the end of a story the woman was telling about how warm and wonderful Canada is in the summer. She was talking about Canada Day, and how much fun it is when the city floods the parliament hill.

"What's Canada Day?"
"It's Canada's birthday. The day we all celebrate the confederation. Don't you have a day when all of Scotland gets together to get drunk, party and celebrate what a wonderful country you live in?
"Yes. We call it Friday."

I've started leaving myself notes to remind me to shower.
This isn't a gross as it sounds.
I'm a very busy girl. And not only that, I tend to busy myself even when I'm not actually busy. Re-stringing necklaces, going for walks and the like, but for the most part I just have a ton of crap to do and not enough time to do it. So a few things get moved to the back burner. Unfortunately, personal hygene is one of them.
Don't worry, I make up for it by taking lots of baths. Because you can multitask in the bath, and it's more personal time. I can read Boethius and listen to some Nina Simone. Everyone wins. The shower not only requires my undivided attention, but also then I have to deal with my hair. By dealing with I mean tie it back, but still. It's also terribly cold, and nothing is more heart stopping then stepping out of a nice steamy shower into a freezing cold bathroom.
All of these reasons are why I haven't been showering with the frequency that I should. So I've started leaving myself notes.

It started with a post it in between the pages of a book. "Shower"
I've now been using that same post it for a bookmark for weeks.
So it became blatantly clear that I'm going to have to do something a little less avoidable.
So I wrote 'Shower' on my hand. That worked. So I took to writing shower on my hand every single day.
Until someone noticed.

"Shower?"
"Yup."
"As in, don't forget to shower?"
"Why? Is that strange?"
"Yeah, I mean, who needs to remind themselves to shower?"
"Maybe someone who's really busy."
"Well, personal hygene should be a priority, I mean, come on. Be clean."
"Of course, I know that....it's to remind me to buy a present for my sister's baby shower*"

So now I just draw a big star in the middle of my hand. It's code for "Shower". It still works, not only because it reminds me, but I have to wash the star off each day, and the shower's a great place to do it. And then I draw it on again the next morning.
But now, every time I see someone else with a simple little doodle like a square or a dot on their hands, I want to lean over and whisper "You don't shower either do you?"
I think I might. It could be a secret society.

*pregnant sister is indeed fictitious, figure if I'm gonna be lying, I might as well lie big.

Sometimes they just leak out of me...

So today, much like the past few days here in Ottawa, have been cold. Hair freezing, breath stealing cold. 'Cover what you want to keep' cold. Human flesh will freeze in a half hour cold. And I hate it. That's not what this post is about, I just wanted to keep you up to speed. Inhumanely cold.

My life as of late has been fairly void of anything too terribly exciting. So today, I vowed that during the course of my school day I was going to lie to someone. Anyone, and it was going to be a big lie. I do this everyone once in a while, as I assume most of us do. Just to spice things up, and make someone else's day a bit better. This may make me pathological, cause I do it all the time, specifically when travelling, but today I didn't even have to TRY. It just HAPPENED.

Sitting on the bus on the way in this morning I tucked my left leg under me, in an attempt to keep all my limbs as close to my core as possible to preserve heat. Sitting on your left leg for 15 minutes will undoubtedly make you lose all feeling in it. This means that when it comes time to haul your frozen carcass off the bus into school, you have two options. The first being fall down, the second, walk with a swagger until blood returns.

Swagger it is. Especially because in all honesty, walking with a limp is sometimes a fun alternative to my usual metronome-like beat of walking. It's true, try it. It throws your rhythm off. Very cool. Anyhow, so I was limping and wincing through the pins in needles when I ran into Lois (unfortunate name) of my old Italian class. Lois and I were pals for 8 months last year, so we walked together, catching up. My limp was just starting to wear off where she noticed it. "Hey--you're limping...did you hurt yourself?"
Innocent question asked by an innocent girl.
"Not really, it's just the cold..."
"Really?"
"Yeah, my prosthesis always acts up below 15 degrees"

I didn't even think. It just came out. All of a sudden I had a prosthetic leg. Not only that, but an ill-fitting prosthetic leg. Does lying about disabilities make you a bad person? This in no way was meant to offend anyone.
She didn't buy it at first, and so competitive Desiree kicked in. You will believe my lie. You will.
"No you don't. I've seen you in skirts before"
"I seriously doubt that, but even if you have, what kind of shoes do I always wear?"
"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you in heels. Sensible shoes."
"Sensible shoes."

The best way to get a lie believed is to leave it. Just let it ruminate. Let them fill in the blanks, they'll be much more creative than you could be. And they're more likely to believe themselves. So now she's thinking, 'Wow, I've known her for almost a year, she's never told me, must be a touchy subject.'
"So, if you don't mind me asking, how long have you had the prosthesis?"
"Since I was 15"
"Wow...so, what happened"
"They had to remove it"
"What for?"
"I got gangrene."
"My God! That sounds awful! From what?"
"From nothing. I just contracted gangrene."

I don't know anything about gangrene, except from what I"ve seen in war movies, so maybe it is possible to just up and get it, like the sniffles...but I"m hoping its not. Regardless, I just hung my head a bit and rattled it off like it was the millionth time I've told the story.

"Isn't that impossible? Isn't it a kind of infection that can only come from wounds and stuff? Like the war?"
"Well Lois, I wasn't in a war."
"I know that, it's just..."
"All I know is that it just had to come off. My knee was hurting for a while, and I got it looked at, and it was gangrenous, and then off it came. That was 5 years ago this May."
"That's incredible...(sympathetic pause)...what kind of hurt? Cause my right knee has really been bothering me...."

And the fun part is, she's off to see her doctor in a few days. Here's hoping she asks if its gangrene.
The things I can get done before 8:30. Like becoming an amputee.

No matter how hard you try, no matter how many ways you think it over before deciding on the best course of action, someone ALWAYS gets screwed over. Gets hurt, or confused, or misinterprets something. And then no one ever says anything because who wants to bring it up right? Who wants to deal with something, that for all intents and purposes, has already been dealt with. And then, 6 months later, you get a phone call in the middle of the night reminding you of how selfishly you acted half a year ago.

Everyone is selfish. Every fucking one of us. Why? Because we're human. That's how it's works. You have a self, and you try your best to survive. Someone else always gets caught up in it, and eventually, someone's going to lose. So you talk things out. Do whatever you can to maintain good PR with the world, put out some extra good karma for a few days to counterbalance the shit storm that is undoubtedly heading your way, and then hunker down and wait it out.

And the minute you've forgotten what a jerk you were, it calls you in the middle of the night.

Nice try. You're an asshole. Deal with it. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Best to stop acting in general.
My head hurts.

Sweet merciful crap. What an awful song. And it will be in my head for the rest of my life...

It gets so sticky down here
Better butter your cue-finger up
It's the start of another new year
Better call the newspaper up,

Now, let's not mince words. Today was kickass. It started out shitty and then evolved into a beautifull blueish-green hue of kickass.
At the risk of repeating myself, I Hate winter. Capital H. It seems that Ottawa's top product is wind. And with wind comes blowing, face chapping, eye watering snow. This morning arrived with promises of 28 degrees below freezing. Which is just what you want to hear when you have to walk twenty minutes and then wait for a bus only to walk another twenty minutes. However, today lady luck smile on me...

I just now realized that today is Monday. It was such a good day I assumed it was Tuesday.

Anyhow, my darling father, taking pity on his only daughter, offered me a ride to school. Not only does this cut my hour long commute in half, but it means I get to ride in the comfort of a car with heated seats, instead of in a stinky bus with cracked vinyl seats. Things were looking up.
I get to class and sit through an hour long lecture of little to no importance before hitting a discussion group that was both informative and HILARIOUS. My T.A. actually rose out of his seat in order to flesh out his explanation of Plato, Augustine and Aquinas as beingon a volleyball team. In case you don't already know, Plato bumps, Augustine sets and Aquinas (all 350 pounds of him) delivers a flying overhand smash. It was animated. I loved it.

Then I ate a really delicious bagle. It's the little things. Bagle. Looks wrong. Bagle Baggle Beagle. That's for you Ned.

During the bagle-eating process I was visited by not one, not two, but THREE people who I used to do improv/theatre with. All three of them informed me of projects they were working on and all three wanted to know if I would be interested in roles. Information was exchanged and I felt like a working member of the theatre community again. It's been a while.

The long days of Shockley are gone
So is football Kennedy style
Famous last words taken all wrong
Wind up on the very same pile

I then spent three hours reading in the library, with a half hour of naptime spliced in there somewhere. (I can't help it) But not only reading, but UNDERSTANDING. Which is beautiful. Then I wandered over to our lounge to exchange weekend stories with some of my friends. First thing said was 'Have you checked your marks?' Bad news. Because regardless of what the answer is to this question, they want to know. I'm not ultra fond of divulging such information, as it either makes me feel bad, or on the off chance someone else might feel bad. No one wins. But no, I hadn't checked my marks, I didn't know they were posted. After much cajoling, out I went to the hall where they are posted. Found my student number and scanned the rows. The marks for my two papers were there. My participation mark was there. My exam mark wasn't. In a class of 60, 4 exam marks were missing. Mine was one of them.

This can't be good.

My hands started trembling. They either thought I cheated, or my mark is so low they want to talk to me about it. Crap. I started walking towards the lounge when MacIsaac emerged from his office, holding a long piece of paper.
"Ms Connors."
"Professor MacIsaac...."

I can cry, beg and whine
T'every Rebel I find
Just to give me a line
I could use to describe...

We greet each other like old arch enemies. I love it. Conversation always proceeds slowly. We size each other up.

"Are you curious as to why your exam mark is missing?"
"Quite."
"Well it was the last exam I corrected. I just finished it this morning."
"Lucky me."
"Indeed."
(This is a real conversation, I swear to you, he's this crazy)
Pause.
"Do you want to know how you did, Ms Connors?"
"You tell me, Professor MacIsaac."
"Well, it would appear that you're smarter than the average bear."
"I am."
"Is it killing you yet?"
"Quite."
"You got a 90. Well done."

And then there was some dancing. And some laughing. The dancing was me and the laughing was MacIsaac.
Who cares how the rest of the day went? My french class was all discussion and ended a half hour early, and I ran into an old friend on the bus ride home. Not only that, but I was listening to the radio on my walkman, and just as I was turning the block to my house, Little Bones came on. Bliss.

So regal and decadent here
Coffin cheaters dance on their graves
Music, all it's delicate fear
Is the only thing that don't change

How long do you have to wait before it stops making you cry? Really. Just tell me so I can set an alarm and sleep until then.

Mission: Successful.

There was some conflict 'round 8 o'clock when a good friend called to watch some movies. Lucky for me I don't think I've ever worn real pants to the movie rental place nearby, so no change of clothes was needed. Apparently I resembled some kind of extra baggy con-man, as todays jammies were pale blue doctor pants (with CW emblazoned on the seat, where I used to attend high school, although I tell people it stands for Canada Wrestling) and one of my dad's old dress shirts, in a similar pale blue colour. I could fit three of me in this outfit, which is what made it perfect. I think monochromatic clothes are highly overrated. I could blend in to an early morning sky really well. You know...to hide from predators.

Unfortunately, all the access sleeping I did today has left me wider-than-wide awake. Even watching 'Jesus Christ Vampire Slayer' coupled with 'The Good Girl' has done nothing to phase me. I guess this is where the catch to the experiment comes in. Now I can do nothing BUT read. Blast.

Today's Mission: Remain in pajamas all day
Objective: Get as much reading done as possible while maintaining a relaxed, comfortableness so that if the urge to fall asleep comes upon me, I can just indulge instead of fighting it as I usually do.
Results so far: 31 pages of Galileo's Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems , 48 pages of Augustine's City of God, plus 2 hours of naptime in between.

Ever since school began back in September, I've developped a kind of reading-induced narcolepsy. This, of course only applies to school related books, and was first observed upon starting the New Testament for my religion class. Last year, with the Old Testament, I could read until my eyes went out of focus, but now merely a few chapters in and I'm fighting to keep the old girls open. So, I started cutting my Bible with Porno, (the Irvine Welsh novel) and cracked the pattern. But now, every single thing that I read that has any kind of educative value gets me nodding off in record speed. It's awful, especially now that I've atleast 140 pages to read every two days. So today I hosted an experiment, hoping that I was just over tired, and once I'd had enough sleep I'd be able to read a full freaking page without drinking water or squeezing my eyes shut then opening them as wide as possible to keep it together.
It seems to be working, so to celebrate I'm allowing a break to document the results of my experiment.

The fun thing about the Bible/Porno combo was the look on everyone on the bus's face. Classic. For a while it almost became a game...wait until several people notice that the big red book resting on my lap was indeed an Annotated Bible, then put it in my bag and whip out a bright pink book with a blow-up doll's face on the cover, with PORNO emblazoned on the cover. I'm hoping my co-commuters interpreted me as 'that dirty seminary student' or 'Bible-thumping nympho'. What's disturbing is the winks that I recieved. I'm trying to find a book combination to top it, any suggestions?

A few days ago, my humanities professor presented our class with an article he'd found (which I haven't been able to track down myself, sadly) in which several 'specialists' had discovered the formula to achieve the state of happiness. The reason why he brought attention to it was mainly educational, seeing that last semester one of the points that they'd beaten into our heads was Aristotle's 'happiness is an activity'. So we in our elitist states of mind were all invited to laugh at these silly 'specialists'.

The article itself was phenomenal. It seems that two 'professionals', a psychologist and a self styled 'life coach' (so many quotation marks, so many laughable ideas), had conducted a survey of 1000 men and women in which they'd presented each person with 5 scenarios, and the guinea pigs were asked to respond to them.

From this 'scientific testing' they came up with a formula that went something like this:

H(happiness)=5E(existence)+3(I forget, something like personality traits or characteristics).

The existence, aside from beginning with E, comes into play by means of positive states of existence. For instance, if you are healthy, own a dog, haven't been caught in a thresher, have some kind of faith in something and aren't itchy, then I guess that's 5/8ths of happiness. The way I understood it, the variable involving personal characteristics essentially meant that if you're a positive person who's not depressed, you're more likely to be happy. Genius. Someone award these people a Noble Prize.

Not only did they deduce a simple mathmatical equation for happiness, but they also found out what three things makes each sex happiest. For women, those three magic things are:
1) Being with family
2) Pleasant weather (I think the focus group was British, if that sheds any light)
3) Losing weight.

Now, these ingredients to happiness beg the obvious question of 'What the hell kind of scenarios are they giving these people'. I assume it's something like 'You're fat. It's raining and you're daughter is dying from the flesh-eating disease. Happy or Sad?'

The three things in life which fill men with happiness, which makes them smile and gives them a reason for living are:
1) 'Romance'. Now, at first I assumed that this meant sex, but that's number two, so I'm left to assume that Romance is code for masterbation.
2) Sex.
3) The winning of one's favorite sports team.

So in an ideal world, women would always be surrounded by their intimates, perpetually losing weight and basking in sun (kind of reminds me of a group of sea-cows sunning themselves on the rocks, surrounded by their family) and men would be getting off in one way or another, with the Celtics pummeling the Jazz in the background. We're all so enlightened.

Okay, granted. That was cheap. Almost as cheap as those 'I have no time to post'-posts, so in order for you kids to get your money's worth (think about that one) I'm gonna toss in some quality Mexico journal. This one from the plane on the way out of Canada into the murky depths of the Mexico City atmosphere.

July 8th 2002. Plane.
Welcome to the sketchiest plane in the world! God Damn! I've ridden in cars bigger than this! First things first, the 3 of us are strategically placed all over the plane, at least 3 seats apart in each direction. Other passengers include 4 small children with saccharine sweet little pixie voices. I am sure they will start grating on my nerves before long. I've already been forewarned that this is the shittiest plane that heads out of the country, so I'm not expecting much, but I do have my fingers crossed for no mid air collisions, or getting sucked into the turbines of other, bigger planes.
The drive to the airport was very poetic, leaving before sunrise adds the element of sneaking out of the city, which is pretty stellar. The path we took passed all the major buildings in my life, home, work and school, it felt much like the flashback sequence at the end of a bad coming of age movie. Which is the complet opposite of how I fell. The opening credits would be rolling, the plot hasn't started yet.
My nearest exit is diagonally to my left, and my neighbour is a very soft spoken asian man, who I'm sure won't mind my climbing over him at the first mention of any kind of turbulence.
So now I sit, locked and loaded as they test the engines on our little toy plane. Twin turbines. Fucking PROPELLERS. My mother would have passed out from fear by now. I assumed the 8 hour bus ride from Mexico City to Guadalajara would be the roughest portion of the trip, but based on the way this thing is puttering on acceleration, I may have jumped the gun.
I'm right on one of the wings. Here's hoping it doesn't fall off. Or at least waits til I'm sleeping.
The P.A. system is so crackly, I can't tell whether the pilot is telling us to put our trays in the upright position, or if he's telling us to kiss our asses goodbye.
Oh well, and we're off.

<--------------LOOK! COINS!!! Isn't it incredible. I think I might have to marry Mitch.

EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA EXTRA

THIS JUST IN->
Report on the goings on in Desiree's life on this Thursday eve, January 9th.

Nothing.

That is all.

I watched Brotherhood of the Wolf today. Well, half last night and half today. 'Twas a long movie.
It was alright. It suffered from multiple personality disorder though, couldn't decide if it was a period drama or a movie about a computer animated beast, so it settled nicely in it's own subgenre. Renaissance Monster Movie. Rock.

I love the fact that I don't have full creative control of this page. You see my dear precious reader, the blogger formerly known as Ned Danson who will from now on referred to as Mitch (the swarthy senior lifeguard on Baywatch) is the brains behind the operation.
Well, the technical brains, because I do most of the rambling...but that doesn't really qualify me as brains. That makes me more like the talent. Ha. Talent. I like that. But I digress.

I'm a blog junkie. Not unlike every one of you. So, on an almost daily basis, I peruse the innermost thoughts and outermost stories of a whole host of strangers. There's nothing more disappointing than hopping online hoping to escape your own life for a moment, only to find out that your voyeuristic cravings can't be fulfilled as SOMEONE forgot to update. Now, we all have lives, so this happens alot. And I'm understanding, but this mindset has envelopped me to such a degree that sometimes when I check my OWN PAGE, I get disappointed. Now, with a readership that reached its all time high of 5 people back in early December, I don't get a lot of comments. So if I want any change, the ball is in my court.

Fortunately for me, I'm one of a team. Well, a duo. And Mitch is my co-pilot, pretty much doing all the geek work necessary in keeping this page up and running. So every now and then he leaves me nice little nuggets to satisfy my need to be surprised. On your left are two such nuggets. One being a link to him. The other, to my apparent Mexican coffee magnate/lover.

One's a fantastic writer and all around good person. The other hangs out with a donkey. You figure out which one's which.

PS. Coffee is awful. It tastes like ashes and looks like what people who chew tobacco expel into tin cans. It's gross, and bad for you and addictive and expensive and then gross some more. I have yet to jump on the caffeine bandwagon, so I have the luxury of laughing at all you who worship at the alter of freshly ground beans. Read that again. Freshly, ground BEANS. You're drinking that, soaked in water, then filtered. Yuckers. Silly addicts.

This page in no way supports the consumption of coffee. I just think Juan has a mysterious air about him. Grrrrr.

Things that I'm good at.

1. Making an ass out of myself

It's 8:15 in the morning, and I'm walking to my History of Science class in the grey, cement and steel bowels of Carelton University. The Carleton tunnels are renowned for their creepiness and this early in the morning, they are very very empty. As I walk, I jangle the change in my coat pocket, which has accumulated to such a level that in order to fit my hand in my pocket, I must be cupping some of the change. Otherwise entry is denied. The reason behind me having so much change in the pockets of my coat is because I hate counting out coins. It bothers me. It takes too much time and I dislike counting in public, so I pay with bills and amass a ridiculous amount of change. It's part of my charm.

So I walk, enjoying the fact that the tunnels are empty, and I imagine that I'm the last person on earth, having survived some kind of apocalypse because, oh I don't know....I use the right toothpaste...When I turn the corner and see my good friend Maria at her locker. I haven't seen Maria in three weeks. She's one of my greatest friends, as we share a lot of little quirks in common. For instance we both like being scared, are known to explode in fits of laughter for no reason, and can be really crazy at times. Maria however, does not see me. She's ingrossed in the contents of her locker. Now, the average person would shout to her, or sneak up on her and scare her....but not me. I'm above average.

I proceed (with very little forethought) to whip the change in my hand at her. Not meaning to hit her, merely to land in her direction. Unfortunately, the fact that I was moving forward at the time (still walking) and the fact that I've got a good arm resulted in me pelting her with pennies, nickels and dimes. Plus, the sound of a fistful of coins boucing off of lockers sounds alot like (what I assume) a gattling gun. Maria jumps and whips around to find out who this crazy assailant is, only in time for me to notice that it's not Maria. It's some other blond girl with short hair who has a locker 4 spots down from Maria's.

Of course it wasn't Maria. It's so obvious that it wasn't going to be Maria that the fact that I didn't assume it wasn't her makes me mad. But still, there I stand, frozen in my tracks, looking at the girl who I just threw change at. No place to hide. No one else to blame. Just me.

So what do I say? This scared and angry girl glares at me accusingly, awaiting an explanation. The average person would apologize for frightening her at so early in the morning, would draw attention to the mix-up, would apologize again, and hopefully get her laughing at the confusion. The average person would address the situation like an adult and would maybe even make a friend in the process...

I'm above average.
"You can keep that."


2. Figuring out which washed-up celebrity Ned resembles.

That last post was brought to you by the incredibly sarcastic and wonderful british wit of one Michael Kelly. Read everything he's written. I recommend "The Lost Art of Seduction"

"When I was a child, my father's paper party-hat slipped down over his eyes while he was carving the turkey with an electric carver and he sawed my fingers off by mistake. They sewed them back on, of course, but the ambulancemen made a mistake at first and took sausages to the hospital instead of my fingers, and the doctors sewed them on, and for an hour I had sausages for fingers."

Don't ask why. Just laugh.

...my heart is drenched in wine...

I'm putting off going to sleep because I know that when I wake up it'll be 6:30 and I'll have to go to school. I could use another week off, but considering the circumstances things could be worse. I could have the Norwalk Virus. Ewwww.
Lately I've been featuring alot of bathtub music. Norah Jones, David Grey, Diana Krall. Music that feels like a warm bathrobe. I'm in a contemplative mood. All of my friends who were back in town for the holidays have now left, leaving me here. There's no other feeling quite like abandonment. It's not just loneliness, it's much more acute.

Nostalgia is good for abandonment.

Looking back at hundreds of pictures from my well-documented past, reminding me of all the dangerously good times we had in the past make it easier to focus on the times to come. It also highlights the fact that the at-school Desiree is very different from the holiday and long-weekend Desiree who goes out partying. The easiest distinction would be that Desiree at school is a boy. A baseball cap wearing, beer swilling, lazy boy. Party Desiree is a chick. Quite the chick at that...tight pants and shirts that fit and sometimes, if I have alot of time on my hands....makeup. And she dances. Like crazy.

Try as I might I have nothing exciting to say. I'm in a very french cuisine type of mood.

As a nation of students heaves a collective sigh, acknowledging the beginning of another semester of stress, our heroine cracks open another kitkat...As long as I don't go to sleep, tomorrow can't happen.

My friend Jenna was supposed to come pick me up, and we were going to go out shrimp-eating. Jenna is notorious for just showing up, sometimes hours before her planned arrival time, just because she has nothing to do around her house.
So, when the doorbell rang right as I was stepping out of the shower, there was no doubt in my mind that it was her.
…here comes little naked me…
Well, I wasn’t naked. I was wearing a robe. But I was very wet, and was sporting the stylish towel-turban, so I might as well have been naked. Not only that, but seeing as I never think before I act, I swung the door open announcing ‘Right on time, the orgy’s just getting started.’ With a lavish arm movement.

If only it’d been my neighbor, my uncle, a boy scout collecting bottles.
It was him. Bastard. It was as if he’d calculated the amount of time it would take for me to get over him, and to re-discover the happy person that I am and move on. He’s nothing if not an impeccably on-time person. Bastard.

He was dropping off a Christmas gift. Grrrrrrrrr. I didn’t want to let him in the house. But I was wet and it was cold and so in he came. I’ve never felt more out of sorts in my life. I had literally nothing to say. So I sat there in moist silence, nodding and cursing in my head. He’s doing well. He’s back in school. He’s working too. His life is coming under control. He’s been thinking about me. Dramatic pause. This is when I should say something similar, along the lines of ‘Good, I’m happy for you, and I’ve been thinking of you as well…’

Fuck that. I stayed quiet. The gift sat on the coffee table. Unopened, as I knew that odds are the gift would represent one of the many aspects of our life, and would undoubtedly send me spiraling. My heart hurt enough as is. Like an old injury, it just started throbbing. He tried to outstare me. Nice try. I’m a fantastic starer. He then heaved one of his big dramatic sighs and stood to leave. I don’t think I spoke more than 15 words throughout the entire exchange.

The gift is still sitting on my coffee table. I think I’ll return it to him in a while. He looked good. I’ll have to time it right though…I hate how peace is so easily shattered. I wish I’d said something biting and witty. Maybe commented on how I was on my way out, didn’t really have time…or teased him with nonchalance …or maybe just kicked him in the balls. Just to ensure my heart wasn’t the only thing throbbing this afternoon.

I've been thinking about sex a lot. In a weird way. Not a weird-sex kind of way, but a plain weird way. There are various reasons why, one being that I'm not getting any although that's not the big reason. You see, once upon a time I read a book (a bad book, but a book nontheless) that took place in the 'future'.
I say 'future' because it was written in the early 70's to take place in 1999. According to Lawrence Saunders, 1999 was going to be quite the scene. Some of my favorite things in 99 is that we were all going to live in domes and people would be graded on aptitudes, and only the upper grades could reproduce. But the one thing that sticks in my mind was that the word 'money', in Saunders' futuristic land, was replaced by 'love'.
"I feel like going to the movies, Do you have any love?"
"I ran out of love this morning, I must hit a bank before lunch."
"Darling, lend me some love so I can get those new shoes."

Now, I'm no dunce and the book wasn't subtle in any way so the fact that Saunders was warning people of the direction the world might get if people lose track of their priorities...but still. If money turns into love, then where does sex fit in? I think in the book sex was something like tennis or shopping. Just something that people did together. It had no relation to emotion...but I think Saunders got it wrong. Sex should be money. It's obviously some kind of transaction, which could be manipulated for one person to gain more than the other... Problem with that though is that it's a renewable resource...So there'd have to be a way to limit the amount of sex one could have. That wouldn't be much of a stretch because in the book (the Tomorrow File, if you're at all interested, although you shouldn't read it. It's dumb) everyone is implanted with a microchip, and when someone succeeds in whatever field they are assigned to, it releases a chemical in their brains. A good, happy, orgasm-like chemical for good work, and I don't know...a hangnail-like chemical if you screwed up. So since they were tweaking brains, limiting sex would be nothing.

I mean really, sex has been currency in between men and women for years. It's not much of a stretch at all...But it'd make going to the hairdresser's pretty awkward
That's what I mean when I say I've been thinking about sex alot.