April 11, 1999.

I'm listening to glum Britpop right now. The Boy left some of his drippy stuff behind, and it seems eerily appropriate to the day. It's snowing buckets of soft wet snow out the window. In the window, a young lass is procrastinating on her last proper exam of her B.A. Hon.

Catherine Wheel...eases the pain.

Last night was rather fabulous, despite poor first-quarter projections. When we last spoke, I was deep in a sleep-induced headache, sick to my stomach and feeling crappy about my essay. So instead of doing what I was supposed to, I cleaned up my room. It's much easier to spend time in it, now that the reef of clothing has been broken up and all my essential book and papers located. I even put up some posters this afternoon, despite the fact that there will be no housing reprieve (the roommate already has a tenant after me, so I can't prolong my stay). If I had some furniture, the place would actually be rocking. But if I had furniture, that would mean that I'd be staying longer than a month, which would mean that I would be in the smaller room, which would mean that I would have no place for furniture.

So there. QED. I hope I'm satisfied.

In anycase, after I'd finished cleaning up, I decided to take advantage of my location and trip down to the Garden. This is the second time I've gone by myself, and like that time, I had lots of fun. Saw Gomer for the first time since January, along with Dav and two girls whose names I can't recall for the life of me. The rather poor dj'ing was compensated by the large & varied bag of candy that we shared out all night. By the time last call rolled around, I was wired on sugar and happy from the dancing.

For some reason, I had the good fortune to catch the eye of an absolutely adorable punk who looked like a bleached & elaborately tattooed version of Callum Keith Rennie. We managed to mildly flirt without saying anything untoward in body language and (even greater victory!) without raising the ire of his girlfriend. A victory for casual flirtation everywhere.

Another patron of note was a tall bearded man who looked so much like my 18th century literature professor that I actually started praying that it wasn't him. Not that I wouldn't've loved to chat in the Garden...I just didn't want the awkward man dancing badly to be the professor I like so much. I think I'll write Prof. McDayter a note tomorrow:

Dear sir, it was with great pleasure that I noted your absence from the Queen Street West goth club Savage Garden last Saturday night. I thought I saw you for a moment on the dance floor, but was greatly relieved when I realized it wasn't you. I'm sure you dance much more gracefully to "Smack my bitch up." yours truly, &c. &c.

Afterwards I bullied them into walking me home, and we drank water and talked trash about the other clubkids until 4 a.m. Learned some club anecdotes about Q (i.e. the Boy's brother-in-law) that don't bother me in a club context, but will prey on my mind at family functions. I'm just a worrier, I guess. I have to learn to resolve this disparity between Q: The Club Kid and Q: Pixie Stix's husband, otherwise this shit is going to keep surprising and bothering me. It's not like I have dirty secrets from Pixie Stix; this is all common gossip. And yet...it itches.

(Like a sweater knitted by a maiden aunt...like ants in the pants...like your neck right after a haircut...like a camp kid in late august. Like that.)