april 24, 2000.

"So messed up! I want ya here!"

I had to work today. I'll have to check my records, but I'm pretty sure that this was the only Easter Monday of my entire life that required me to go do something productive. Think of it! From the age of 5, I've been conditioned to think of Easter as a 4-day weekend. So now they pull the rug from under me.

I ate salted cashews and Cadbury Mini Eggs for breakfast this morning as a sign of my reluctance to take this sort of thing lying down.

I miss St. Jack already. One of the nights that slipped through the fine mesh of recent journalling was Thursday, the night that he was in town. I arrived in town somewhat after my responsibilities of the night had been discharged (i.e. I attended the worst Maundy Thursday service of my entire life. When they project a clip from a Michael Keaton movie next to the altar and that's still not as bad as it gets...well, it's a pretty effing lame service is all I can say.) There was no-one to greet me at the Entropy Apartment, so I sat & read until I caught sight of the note St. Stephen had left. And I wouldn't have found it at all if the cat wasn't sitting on it.

The Boy being incapacitated by sleep, I trekked out to the Danforth by myself to see how the night would turn out. I was a bit apprehensive: I don't travel east of Yonge Street very often, you see, and here I was travelling in the dark and the rain to a bar that I'd never visited before in order to meet people that couldn't be found at the carefully-scrawled phone number. To make a long story short, I waited an hour and a half for them to show up, and was literally walking out the door in disgust when they finally arrived. It was a bit embarrassing for me; I wasn't expecting the exquisite timing of the moment, and I started yelling before I could get a lid on my emotions. Hardly the way I want to greet St. Jack after a long couple of months.

But the magic of pubs was in full effect, and we were soon comfortably seated near the band. I was put to work ferrying drinks from the bar...an extra penance, as that night was the 3rd last day of Lent and I was missing alcohol something fierce. Good thing for contact highs; soon we were erecting a veritable fortress of companionable silliness, each phase sillier than the last. It was on the bus ride home that the Monkey/Women/Pig idea became apparent, but by that time St.St was asleep and we had to content ourselves with snickering at his comically drooping head.

Ended up sleeping in my tights when I realized that it was just stupid to make St.Ja sleep in the cold front room while the Boy was gone. There is enough room on the bed for two people to sleep without worrying too much about touching each other, and I guess I was trying to prove how cool I am by being totally relaxed about things that could, in another age, lead directly to death at the stake. In any case, I slept in my tights. That alone should prove how willing I am to safeguard my virtue, because nothing's more uncomfortable than tights you've worn for 36 hours.