august 10, 2001.

ed. note - although this entry is excessively hormonal, i'm feeling much better now.

To borrow a phrase from Mike Myers, my birthday blew chunks.

No, I didn't have terribly high expectations. But, unbeknownst to me, there was buried in my subconscious a little template of how birthdays-with-a-mate are supposed to go. The Boy shot through the door late but happy, and we spent a few minutes bouncing around the house before leaving for Dharma Sushi. He gave me my present at the house: a paper bag from Strange Adventures that held a remaindered copy of Love & Rockets and a Milk & Cheese trade paperback, the very book I'd passed the time with during last Sunday's trip to the comic book store. I mistakenly thought that this was the opening salvo of birthday attention. It was not - it was the totality.

Okay, I'm a fucking unrealistic materialistic bitch or something, but for chirst's sake...don't I get a card? a cake? flowers? a fucking personalized inscription on the comic book even? I mean, maybe he didn't have any time or opportunity to send away for those really cool goth witch shoes in Vancouver...or maybe he didn't hear me say 3 dozen times that I'd like subscriptions to Bust and East Villiage Inky...or maybe he didn't realize that I fell in love with that one song "Sexy Boy" from 10 Things I Hate About You so he didn't know that I wanted the French Air Band CD...and maybe I was around too much for him to record a tape of songs...but...hell...oh god, I'm crying again, and I'm at work; the person who never says a word to me is sitting behind me and if he looks around I'm going to have to explain this...and oh fuck it, who cares. Nobody talks to me anyway in this [expletive deleted]hole; if I'd been the least bit suicidal yesterday, I think I would've gone home after work and blown my brains out, it was my birthday and people said not 2 fucking words on any subject at all to me.

I just don't know who to be mad at: the Boy for not meeting my obsessive agenda or myself for having this stupid material agenda in the first place. But...I just keep thinking that if I were single, I wouldn't be this hurt because then there wouldn't be anyone to let me down. I mean, buying me the book that I just put down must have taken him approximately 2 seconds of thought. Last year he gave me a portable CD player that he almost immediately put in his work van...this was after I lent him my heavy duty walkman and he found a way to kill it...

Oh, and I haven't mentioned the best part: on the way to and from Halifax last night, he picked 2 different fights with me, based on the premise that his sloppy driving is perfectly safe. Two, one on the way to the restaurant and one on the way back. I got so mad during the second that I stopped talking to him altogether and nearly made him sleep in the living room. I tried to memorize the midnight skies on my birthday night, but I was too sad. I was also too sad to fake composure when Miri & then Stacy & Dirk called. After I hung up the phone, we fought for another hour or so...we were up very late before everything was squared away.

I got pinkeye on my 19th birthday and that wasn't even as can't blame pinkeye for lacking the requisite manners to hold off the attack until the day after your birthday. I am so fucking bitter. If my anniversary turns out this way, I'm lighting out for parts unknown.

The only thing I'm clinging to at this point is that we declared yesterday a dress rehearsal for my real birthday, which shall be today. You know what they say: bad rehearsal, good performance. I'm hoping for at least a fruit flan and a call from my mother.



Okay, I feel better now. At 1 o'clock I went down the hill for another monster slide scanning session in Mr. WashYourHands' office...only to find that he was not about. So instead of a) freaking out and killing everyone or b) bursting into tears, I stowed the slide carousels in another part of the building and left for the day. I'm glad that I could come home early...the weather in the Valley today is absolutely punishing. I arrived home drenched in sweat, my entire lower body one big clench.

I took a shower & walked around my apartment naked and dripping wet until I was dry enough to put on the smallest possible item that can legally be considered bathing suit. So now I'm hot, sweaty, itchy, clenched aaaaaannnnd racked by low self-esteem at the sight of my damp, chubby body! Yay!

I am so fucking punk rock.

And then I talked to my mom, who was very soothing and helpful when I told her about last night, which is a welcome change from her usual overprotective fury. Her advice was good as well: she told me that she used to stew about birthdays every year until she just gave up & trained dad to do the minimum required to make her happy. She's right, there's absolutely no point in being le grande bitch every year when I can just have a serious, honest talk with the Boy in which I lay everything out for his consideration. This would include last entry's list, since I'm trying to get Poet to send me a slave boy from Manilla.

And yes, I realize how serious child prostitution is. I'm just kidding. Well, I'm not kidding about asking Poet for a slave boy, that was in the last email I sent, but I don't expect to get one - nor would I know what to do with one should a boy arrive. And if I did get a slave boy by return post, it'd probably turn out like the Simpsons episode where Homer gets a helper monkey: 2 weeks after the mail arrives, the slave boy will be wearing a diaper and we'll both be lying on the ground with enormous bellies and empty liquor bottles everywhere.

"Isn't he toilet trained??" "Meh."


Somewhere among the dozens of happy little minutes from last night (you know, in between the incessant quarrelling), I decided that I want to start taking pictures of me each year on my birthday, so my children can see what a freak I was and how long it took me to grow up.

As a kind of introduction to this idea, here's pictures from (approximately) every birthday I've had since this diary began, pictures that show what I looked like with each passing year:

This is the only picture in this set that was actually taken on my birthday. I'm turning 21 with my fire-engine red hair, my new black velvet vampire dress and my companion, Atticus Finch. That year we went to the Garden to dance like fools, and then the next day the Lawyer took me to a Jewish deli in North York. Note the big silver cross. Yes, this is the night I was mistaken for a prostitute. Again.

This picture of Little Spider and I was taken on the night of Dirk's pastry party, a full 22 days before I turned 22. The two of us were in a goth Betty & Veronic phase that month, which kind of explains the style. This was the summer of medium-length honey-gold hair and falling in love with the Boy. Thus, it was a very special time.

A full 3 months after I turned 23, a bunch of us went to Edmonton to watch Preacher be ordained. This picture was taken during the reception following the ordination, and shows both my sensible winter velour dress with the leopard-print cuffs & collars...and little baby Emily chewing mightily on the Pink Bag of Justice with mingled disgust and hunger. Although I had to cut off all my hair that summer thanks to too many bleachings, I apparently hadn't learned the lesson about peroxide.

Shortly before I turned 24, Preacher's father passed away. Tymothi:J, Palaver and I went to the funeral in Southern Ontario, stopping on the way to check out a deserted Lithuanian shrine and to meet Bobby Orr. I was trying to grow my hair out. I have no excuse for the overall shorts.