August 1997.

August 31, 1997.

Last night was the night of Gus Brou-ha-ha. Both of 'em. Yee-ikes.

Second one first:

It seems that the Gus has just discovered me, and rather liked what he saw. He began to regret not contacting me when I first emailed him to tell him of the Gus convergence in my life.

Then he read the entry where I reveal that I was not to pleased with the entry that contains pregnant-woman-bottle-hurling in it. He thought that I was chastising him for his behavior by saying this in public, but didn't make a big deal out of it.

I feel I must explain myself at this point. There were many reasons that I stopped reading the Gus. That particular entry was the smallest, actually. And the biggest was not a judgment on his quality or morality or any such self-serving bullshit. It was time. I didn't have any at that point. After missing a week, I found it difficult to pick up the thread, so I made a mental note to come back the next day. Then I didn't. I just forgot. My mental note-taking system is chaotic, as anyone who knows me will attest.

So, let's recap: I say something stupid about somebody named Gus, and end up scrambling to say, "but that's not what I meant!!!" Patterns emerge. So does carelessness on my part. What a little brat I am, hmmm?

First ones last:

I received a very long general email from Poet last night, just before I left for coffee with Dirk. I have always enjoyed Poet's long general emails, in which he would muse on life, art, cartoons, love and whatever else crossed his fertile little mind. Every morning of the second semester, I'd wake up, roll out of bed, turn on the computer, and download the newest ramble. Sometimes I laughed. Sometimes I cried. Sometime I grit my teeth & swore. Often, I ignored Mr. Blonde, if he were there with me. I needed my fix, and come hell, high water, or icy stares, I was going to get it.

And over this summer, I lost my supplier. There was no email during the feud, obviously. I began to equate the general emails with the good feelings of the 2 weeks (January 27th to February 10th) right before my life exploded. Imploded. Whatever.

But when I got reinstated into that state of email grace, I began to get annoyed. It was the closest Poet had to a public journal...and I wasn't included. I took offense. We had a few dust-ups. He became increasingly hostile to everyone as the summer drew to a close, for reasons that I felt were beyond my control. I felt victimized. I became convinced that he had never really forgiven me, that he'd only apologized to make life easier for Preacher & Tiger Lily.

My self-esteem plummeted. How could I forgive someone so easily when he wouldn't even pretend that he liked me? I became convinced of my own weakness. But I also became an expert at giving myself breathing space. I would wait a few days before replying to something that I found despicable at first - and by that time, I had calmed down and gained perspective. I stopped believing that everything was pointed at me. I stopped believing that all the vague bad things were about me. I stopped the rage; stopped it cold. I learned to let go.

And then came last night's email, a long meditation on, well, everything of the past 3 years. And all I saw, was that I wasn't in them. I felt like I'd been surgically removed from his experiences. That I was so unimportant to him, so offensive to him, and so undesirable to him as to rate less mention than a former Don.

It was a long email. I laughed. I cried. And by the time I was done, I had gone outside to spit & curse.

And this morning, I realized how stupid I was being. Because I was all through it. "Dames," he kept saying, "dames." The word conjures up some bad luck vixen, a woman with problems who makes them yours; who drags you down to your death with a siren call of high heels, Chanel #5, and stockings with seams up the thighs.

"Dames."

He really hit me where I live.

"I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way."

I never stopped to think last night how much havoc I wreaked this year. Hearts were broken. I wasn't the only one using alcohol to stop the anguished wailing. We all got hurt. We all got fucked over. Including, and especially Poet.

And it's time I stopped expecting him to help me lick my wounds. It's time I stopped bleeding come to think. Cut the cords. Cut everyone some slack. Get on with life. And see what's in the other egg of the Phoenix.

It could be pieces of me you've never seen...

So I'd like to formally apologize. Second Gus, I'm sorry about the entry. I know not what I write, sometimes.

Poet, I'm sorry. About what I thought. About everything. Give me a call sometime. We'll hang & talk about dames. I promise not to be one this year.

August 30, 1997.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

All this for a picture of a kiss?

I should be in bed. But this is a flashbulb moment, and I feel a duty to write about this.

I just found out. Y'see, I went to town last night, hung out with Palaver & the Lawyer, stayed the night at Hooker's Haven (soi-dit because it is where I have been mistaken for a hooker twice, not because hookers find an easy buck within), went straight to work, came home, out for coffee & chat with Dirk, and now it's 1:30 in the morning, & Diana is dead.

My mother was waiting for me when I got home. I could tell that she'd been crying. She's a royalist & anglophile. The one who taught it to me, in fact. (Enlightened royalist, mind you. Not one who links the crown with the good old days, when men were men & women weren't, or one who staunchly stands by the "good" members while bemoaning the laviscious lifestyle of the younger ones. If you long for those particular good old days, then you're a fascist, plain & simple. And anyone who knows anything about British history can keep a proper perspective of modern royalty.)

I live in Canada. We take our UK heritage very seriously. Sometimes more so than those with more right. I don't know how many times I've toasted the Queen with Poet & Preacher. It's basic to my sense of civilization. The monarchy used to mean absolute power, or really big parties, or God's judgment on a sinful populace. Since Victoria, they've come to grips with democracy & become lovely ciphers. But ciphers or not, they have come to represent the backbone of anglophilac civilization. Archimedes said he could move the world with a lever & a place to stand. He could stand on Elizabeth II.

I remember her wedding. Mum woke me up to see it. I was 5, I think. I dimly knew something important was going on, but I didn't know what. I was too young to understand the context & consequences. I'm 21 now, and I still can't figure Diana out. So scorned, and yet so full of grace; able to continue her duties to the public with a reasonable amount of dignity and a full measure of charm.

Her poor lovely boys. Their father doesn't give a toss for them. Well, that's not fair. But she LOVED them, and made sure they knew it. I don't think Charles is able to show love.

Poor princess. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. You deserve a fairy tale glass coffin, but you shouldn't have had to live in a fishbowl.

August 29, 1997.

For those who are keeping track, today is Terminator 2 day. In that ficton, the war begins on August 29th, 1997 at 2 something in the morning. So yesterday, there was a ceremonial showing of the movie at Mr. Blonde's house.

I was not invited.

Well, I was, but by Maharet, not my ex. I went by the mall to pay my tuition & see if I could subtle an invite out of him, but it went really, really badly. He got obnoxious, I got pushy, and, well, I almost began to cry on my way out of Music World.

There's nothing behind his eyes. Well, there's higher consciousness (of a sort), but no affection, no desire, no warmth, nothing. Cold, dead eyes. They hurt me so badly. I felt like a pawn - in a chess Gaiman, to be exact. A pawn of the twins, Desire & Despair.

I walked through the mall & tried to hold my head up high. No good. The pain was too big. Words were crashing through my numb head, but they would've had to be written in blood or tears to do them justice. Wanted to make myself stop thinking. Mutilation works best, but I hadn't the heart.

In the end, I just went home.

Ach, weel, it's best that I didn't go to the movies, anyway. There's so much tension floating around nowadays that I hear it's become a très surly gathering of folks. Personal problems have been building. The couple who assumed the mantle of Longest Running Couple after me & Mr. Blonde parted ways have also split. And there's an unfortunate tendency to make me a scapegoat. Edgar Allen (ooohhh, good pseudonym!) in particular thinks I'm the anti-Christ incarnate (or would, if he weren't an atheist.)

But it was nice of Maharet to invite me anyway. It's not her fault that no one else can stand me. (It's my fault. Shit happens, y'know?)

Hmmm...well, I'll be going to see "Hoodlum" with my ex on cheapo Tuesday, so perhaps I'll be able to catch some sort of closure with him at least, before I go.

Off to TO, drama, and the biggest steins this side of Mt. Olympus! And I should know...

August 28, 1997.

(Please don't expect too much of this entry. I know that a gap during the week usually means that I just had a life for a night, and will now relate the details of said night for your amusement. But last night I just didn't feel like writing, for some reason.

(I had plenty of opportunities. I was on the PC for hours yesterday, but it was all work-related. Basically, I just sat around, watched sitcoms, read my new Sandman comic (primo primo primo!!) and waited for God In An Alcove to call me. (He didn't, BTW.) It's not that I ever suffer from a lack of opinions, as you well know. I don't know what it was, but all my diary energy became incredibly focused last night, and it wasn't on this one.

(My dream diary entry for this morning reads:

"- lots of confused shit about [Preacher], [Poet], [Sister Sunshine], Mom, the Ex, swimming pools, Queen St. W.
- restlessness."

Pathetic, huh?

(But my paper journal - whew!! I had a series of brain-waves that pushed me forward a great deal in some important emotional issues which I'd been avoiding. Emotional reactions are the hardest to deal with sometimes, because you can't logic away a gut reaction. And it can get really hard to push past the first reaction, especially if it has a brutal simplicity. "He's a twat," is a lot easier to say than, "I would be able to love him if he let himself be lovable," you know.

(I suppose what I realized is that I have a responsibility to deal with the problems that come up between myself and those I love. Even if I don't want to. Even if I'm trying to convince myself not to care, not to love anymore.

(But the upshot of this is that I have no good reason for skipping yesterday. Or, more importantly, no good story to make up for it.

(Hmmph. It figures, the week I join OFTEN, I develop strange urges to skip days for no good reason. Good freaking God. But very typical.)

"Look, I'm standing naked before you,
don't you want something more than my sex?"

- ta

In other news, I got asked out at lunch today, for the first time since 1994. (I worked it out. Preacher & the Lawyer don't count, because we arranged to date while I was still with Mr. Blonde. It seemed an impossibility at that point. Hmm. What the hell do I know, anyway?)

In case you're keeping score, I turned him down. It was instinctual. Later I thought of plenty of good reasons to say no: I'm leaving town in 3 days, he's too old for me (weak reason, I know), I'm still not over Mr. Blonde...blah blah blah. But at the time, I gave him the line. The line that all self-respecting girls give when panicked. If deer could talk to the panther, they'd give the same one.

(What line, you ask? Well, forget it. It's worth more than my life. The Sisterhood doesn't look kindly on traitors, you know.)

Well, that's it for tonight. I may be going out with the high-school crowd. And oh, the gossip. But I'll save it all for later, I think.

August 26, 1997.

I had Robert A. Heinlein dreams last night. A trifle disconcerting. I was cast in the role of Friday, more or less...and there was an older, fatherly figure in the dream as well. If you've read RAH, you know what the "plot" called for - but not even in my subconscious will I submit to that sort of...um...activity with my dream co-star.

(If you don't read RAH, t.s. I'm not going into any more detail, thank you very much. This topic was mostly raised to amuse Palaver, & any other sf readers, anyway.)

I'm enjoying the pseudonym thing immensely. I think it's time to pull all the archives & replace proper names with fictional ones. Which means that there's no way to salvage the "new Gus" entry from June. Well, it was a pretty rotten entry, anyway.

And I've stopped reading the 2nd Gus. The entry where he threw a bottle at a pregnant lady turned me off completely.

Besides, It'd be a good idea to quit mentioning the first Gus (a.k.a. Poet) entirely for the time being, since he's under a lot of stress right now, and is a trifle high-strung. The unfortunate result is that I never know what he's going to find offensive any more. On the other hand, I find it hard to stop writing about him entirely, since he forms such a large part of my experience last year.

Oh well. I have to cut the guy some slack. His peaceful summer of academic hermitage is about to be shattered by the arrival of hundreds of under-grads, crazy-eyed from a summer with Mom & Pop, and just champing at the bit to be back together under the chilly wing of U of T. It's a bit heartbreaking.

I myself am a bit hesitant about the new year. I love everybody & miss 'em fiercely, but it took me 2 full months by myself to regain my sanity (relatively speaking). I don't know how much drama I'll be able to take at this point.

I guess that the best thing to do, would be to live for comedy, like Palaver. To nurse my feelings privately (hmmm...in an on-line journal? not a chance!) and remain open to the sarcastic joy that comes with being detached from the main action.

And drink a lot.

That should take care of the first week neatly!

Tried out the WordPad Dictaphone Thingie. Hmmm. I tried reciting my favorite Leonard Cohen poem, "As the Mist Leaves No Scar" To read the original & my results, please go here.

This new technology stuff is making it hard for us surrealists to be at all creative, I'll tell you that much.

Obligatory incestuous journal ref:

Looks like Archipelago is almost filled up. The list currently stands at 24 -- and the target is 25.

I covet that last spot mightily. I'm pretty fucking ambitious for someone who's been doing this for less than 3 months, eh? -- I don't even get paid for stat hols yet!!

And why do I feel such a need for this journal to be validated by the praise of others? I have corresponded & received encouragement from most, if not all of the on-line journallers whom I admire. Even my friends, who read the journal less for itself, than to check for their names (or pseudonyms), enjoy it for the most part.

Yes, I get into trouble a lot. But it's never been un-fixable. And it's usually my fault. If I confronted people directly instead of ranting here, I'd have fewer angry emails in the morning.

"Dear sir...Many of my friends are lumberjacks, and only a few of them are transvestites."

- monty python

August 25, 1997.

Today is:

1. my last Monday at work until next summer, and
2. my anti-anniversary.

So it's a conflicted day. Am I happy? Am I sad? Send me flowers & find out!

"So you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus..." - tori amos

We were talking about on-line porn this weekend (during Bring Your Own Food Night), and I used my standard comment on the subject -- what I can imagine is at least 10 x better than any porn I've ever come across (no pun intended). My friends' response to this was absolutely classic: "Then why aren't you writing it down for us?? Selfish bitch!!"

Hmmm. I don't think so...factory-made fantasies will have to suffice for you guys. Although I would like to fake a letter to Penthouse Forum. "I never thought your letters were true, until the day I attended St. Bartholomew's for evensong one night. Right from the start, I knew that the redhead in the front row of the choir was looking for a saviour..."

Porn writers for Jesus. That'd be something indeed.

(Why do I feel that Preacher's gonna whup my ass for this? And I wonder why I'm always in the soup!)

My package hasn't arrived from the residence office yet. I'm beginning to fret. If I'm not admitted back into res, my options are as follows:

1. I can commute from Brampton (ugh.)
2. I can sleep on people's couches until I find a room of my own, or
3. I can live in a cardboard box. Me & Poet with adjoining alleys. Heya.

Seriously, the more I dream about res, the more I find the idea of returning to my tiny res room a comforting thing. And this year it's just me. I no longer have to trip over Mr. Blonde -- although I've fit 13 people into my room on more than 1 occasion (not to mention 3 people on a single mattress, but that's another story entirely), the two of us were always getting in each other's way. He's not a small guy, by any means, and I was very cranky for a lot of the 2nd semester, which made our semi-co-habitation intolerable sometimes.

And plus, I'm no longer obligated to share my meal plan. No more provisioning the nightly RPG sessions in the basement. No more runs to Fung after Anthro so that Mr. Blonde could get a greasy slice of pizza. No more extreme fruit juice expeditures to round out Girlie Drink Night (which reminds me -- where's my fucking fruit drawer??)

This doesn't mean that I'll never buy anyone food. Palaver has already booked lunch on Thursdays, I believe. And Preacher, having spent 3 full years in my res before his departure, misses the Fung feeling -- bloated, but hungry -- so I'm morally obligated to re-aquaint him with it periodically. I owe Tiger Lily big time for all the noodles I've scammed off her this summer. And finally, Jay is always welcome to ask -- but I wouldn't eat food air-mailed to Hawaii. Especially Fung food. Yecch.

August 24, 1997.

I'm part of OFTEN! Woo hoo! Woo hoo!

I've actually committed to frequency. Yikes.

Hmmm...

One of my friends is pissed off about something I wrote a few days ago. Yeah, like that's not the leit-motif of my whole freaking journal writing career. If I eliminated all the entries that consist exclusively of a) silly fluff that I or my friends made up, b) complimentary comments about people and c) bitching & moaning about life after Mr. Blonde, and then I counted up all the entries that DIDN'T get me in trouble, I'd be left with...um...about 3 entries.

I'm always in trouble. The only people I haven't upset & offended in real life who reads this are...Palaver & Sister Sunshine. Even the Preacher, lovely boy that he is, wants to know why Poet has been my idée fixé for most of these entries.

In other "somebody doesn't like me" news, I found out today that Beowulf, a friend of a friend, isn't too fond of me. It really bothered me for about an hour, but then something Preacher said sunk in: "you can't like everybody, and everybody can't like you." I suppose there's no point in living according to any sort of principles if you're not prepared to be disliked.

Still, tho'...I'm more prepared to accept matters if I know why someone doesn't like me. When it seems focus-less, I get paranoid. Then again, nobody is better acquainted with my worst qualities than me. I should know better by now, than to think that everybody's gonna love me. Why should they?

"When you lay down, do you hear sounds? Does the silence have a voice?- concrete blonde

The dream diary has been having a salutary experience, indeed (pretentious word usage!! Pretentious word usage!!). I've realized, for example, how much my subconscious loves to fuck with me. For instance, last night I had a dream about a girl who really loved her boyf, but then she played mind games & lost him...hmm...where have I heard THAT before?? And I didn't even twig until I had written it out.

Also, I find the dialogue in my dreams is primo. For example, last week I dreamed about Tiger Lily, who shouted, "you don't have a lesbian bone in your body!" I screamed back, "I have a few!" You can't pay for dialogue like that...and yes, there is a reason for that.

"And the Devil in a black dress..." - Sisters of Mercy

Went to mass with Preacher & Palaver this morning. A quality, quality experience. I highly recommend the Anglican church's treatment of St. Bartholomew's Day.

But I didn't know the signals. Apparently, when you want to dip, you hold the communion wafer up. I was quite shocked when the priest held the cup to my lips. Strong stuff, that Jesus-food.

I have such a good time at mass lately. I had really boring sermons preached to me throughout my childhood - now, any quality church experience fills me with delight. Not to mention the company - this whole weekend with Preacher & Palaver has been all good. We went out drinking last night for the first time since Cake & Sodomy weekend. Didn't get as drunk as is possible during the year, when we all live a few blocks from the bar. Besides, we had a newcomer among us - Aaron, one of Javina's most recent roomies before she left for Seattle. This meeting went much better than the chance collision of the Big Sugar list. Aaron's actually interesting to talk to, and a great deal less star-struck. I think we'll actually become friends in meatspace...do I dare??

Of course I do, silly...

Drinking on Saturday, church on Sunday - thus a weekend proves (once again) that all is right with my world when I stop worrying.

August 18, 1997.

I received the most annoying note on Friday from my ex.

Basically, it just confirmed my suspicion that he stopped listening to me sometime after February. The gist of the note was that, due to his perusal of this diary, he has decided that he was right all along about why we had to break up. That, obviously, I never really missed him, and fell into an idyllic relationship with the Poet almost the exact second we parted ways.

Hmmm.

Is anyone else getting this particular impression from my tale thus far? I'm always whining on about how I miss the past, and I've been taken up on more than one occasion by concerned friends of the Poet, who feel that I'm being more than a trifle vicious towards the lad. And besides, there's nothing I'd like more than to have back the Mr. Blonde that I so foolishly threw away this year.

Unfortunately, that's no longer possible. Not only have I changed irrevocably, so has he. He's no longer the sweet, trusting boy I once knew. And I often wonder how much of that is my fault. But given the option, I'd give up a lot to have him back even as he is now, although I know intellectually & emotionally that it's over.

But that's neither here nor there. What really worries me is the tendency of my flesh friends to interpret the diary as a confession to everything that they accuse me of in private. This is where I run into trouble -- because I'm so honest and direct (and often cruel) when dealing with certain issues, the diary gets interpreted as the whole of my feelings upon any topic. But in most cases, I only explore one side of any given personal issue, and it's usually the side which I think is the most interesting to my audience. But in no way do these entries explore every feeling I have. I tend to be a confused person. And that hasn't changed with the birth of this diary.

My options are the same now as they always were: I can give up and give in, or I can keep going. Intellectually, I know that there's nothing I can do about the way certain flesh friends perceive what I write and who I am now. But emotionally, I want everyone to like me, and thus the urge is strong to hide all my true thoughts & feelings.

You know what I just realized? This debate is Meghan and her Spock vs. the 5-year-old, all over again (a reference which will make no sense unless you, too, were in on Cthulu Pancakes. She has since erased all mention of this metaphor for her mind, which was employed about a month ago in her own diary). We diarists tend to be a bit incestuous, but this is flat-out ridiculous. Can't I call my emotions my own any more?? (she flings a hand against her forehead & wails piteously)

But other than that, my mind is pretty much untroubled. Spent another Saturday night sleeping with Tiger Lily. Actually, it was a slumber party in all but food, since Miranda was also in attendance, and we, of course, giggled & talked about boys. The one thing we did not do, as Miranda pointed out, was eat & eat & eat & eat & eat and then say "I can't believe we ate so much..." -- and then order pizza.

It's been a long time since I was at a slumber party. I think Maharet's annual birthday get-togethers were the last, as a matter of fact -- and I haven't been to one since she turned 18. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to be with femmes when you're too interested in gabbing to sleep.

Besides, there's a special magic involved when 3 femmes get bonded. I've often felt it when I play dress-up with Aphrodite & Tiger Lily -- a sort of wild, primal, crackling power that makes us even more sex-goddess-y than usual. It's hard to describe to those who've never been in such a grouping -- and instinctual to those who have. It's very Judgment of Paris, if you know what I mean.

Speaking of kid stuff, two things happened to me this weekend that I assumed would never happen to me again (I'M SO OLD!!!)

1. I fell down the stairs, slightly pulling my left knee, and
2. I seem to have grown another inch from the last time I measured.

Weird, huh? I'm now 5'5" (I hope I did the quotation marks in the right order (but even if I didn't, would it matter?)), and less than a foot shorter than my ex. Well, insanity'll do that to you (make you grow, I mean).

No.

No it won't.

Tiger Lily also presented me with my birthday gifts this weekend, as we never met up last weekend. She is amazing...I've never had such thoughtful gifts, not even from my ex. The theme was blue & silver, and the gifts were tiny, but many. My personal faves were the dream diary and the Seventeen mag...because, as we all know, I am permanently fixated upon that year in my life. Maybe it's because I hit my ideal weight (120 pounds - but I'm taller now, see...) Or maybe it's because I had my first kiss that year. It was also, incidentally, the year I met Mr. Blonde, although that'll be less and less significant as the weeks wear on.

It's not an affectation. I honestly think of myself as perpetually teenaged. The Lawyer calls me "twenteen-one." I don't know why I feel so young. I certainly don't think that the best years of my life are over. I guess that when I'm Aleta (as opposed to Tisiphone or Ophelia or Pandora or Thessaly or Delirium), than it just makes sense for Aleta to be 17.

(Did that sound like psychotica to you? Because it sure does to me...and I AM me...)

Oh, and don't get the idea that my dreams are going to become a focus for future entries. I love using the diary, but my dreams are quite banal from day to day. It's only once in awhile that I'll dream something REALLY good...or bad...depending.

Does anyone else think that I should start using pseudonyms? I think that it'll be fun for awhile, but to make it really work, I'll have to go back and edit all the past entries, and that's no good.

But in the meantime, I can talk about Sister Sunshine, Tiger Lily, God in an Alcove, Mr. Blonde, Aphrodite, the Lawyer, and of course, Poet, Preacher & Palaver without worrying that their grandmothers will find out the real story. *giggle*.

Hmmm. Thoughts, anyone? Perhaps my flesh friends will take this opportunity to request anonymity, finally.

August 15, 1997.

So I went back to the Sunrise today to pick up those Paul Weller tickets, and I felt like a real geek, because God In An Alcove was there again, and it must have looked like I was making excuses to see him. Which I might've, a couple of years ago. I'm certainly going to check the store whenever I'm in the mall in the next couple o' weeks to see if he's working. But one thing I hate, is looking desperate. I've had my fill of looking like an idiot in the name of love (speaking of which, I had a dream last night about the 89 Brunswick boys, which reminded me how nice Wallace was to us on That Tuesday. What a sweet guy. Anyway.) And the point is that, although being a giggling idiot is certainly part of my behavior repertoire (so to speak), it was not intentional today, contrary to popular opinion. Which made me feel SOOO self-conscious...

The clerks were making fun of the current CD being played in the store, which was put out by the Backstreet Boys. Shudder. So I asked why they were playing it at all.

She said: "It's on our list. And sales are down. We need to move more copies."

To which I replied: "So you're a tool of evil."

And she couldn't deny it.

There was actually condensation on the windshield this morning.

Woo Hoo!! Summer's almost over!!!

Don't get me wrong. I love summer. I love the heat and the sunshine and walking around in sandals and sleeveless shirts and so forth. And I love the birthday attention. But summer also means that I'm separated from most of my university friends. And I miss 'em fiercely.

I'm sitting in the office of a sheet metal manufacturer 5 days out of 7, and I've become so hungry for a bit of obscure, effete, literary conversation with my loved ones that it aches. I miss talking about Shakespeare characters as if they lived down the hall. I miss trying to figure out how many people LBJ might've killed with his bare hands in his youth. I miss all the cool, obscure Bible tidbits Preacher entertains me with.

Damn.

I miss Preacher.

And Cranly and Aphrodite and Cordelia and Butler and Trotski and Snag Boy and Braveheart and Brit-boy and Kimiko and Lynn and Rebecca and Sven and Brigit and Wallace and Fly.

I miss the look on Rocco's face when he thinks he's catching me in obscene behavior (like the night Tiger Lily & Poet crashed on my floor. Oh, the shocked expression when he saw Poet leaving the room for a cigarette, and me and Tiger Lily sitting on the bed. He he he!) I miss Preacher dropping by without warning at 11 p.m. to drag me out to Ein.stein's for a beer. I miss wandering the res halls in my wine-coloured pj's. I miss casual nudity. I miss playing dress-up with the Posse. I miss Shakespeare class. I miss Kraft Dinner with vodka. I miss impromptu parties in Cranly's room. I miss the smell of Tiger Lily's basement room. I miss talking to Poet the whole night long. I miss tea at the Union.

Jesus. You're all lucky I'm going back in a couple of weeks, or I'd be driveling like this forever.

August 14, 1997.

"Just what God needs - one more victim."
- tori

Wow, did my evening ever yang out!!!

After work I dropped by the mall to pick up Paul Weller/Johnette Napolitano concert tickets. As soon as I walked through the doors, I began to feel uncomfortable. It's not a bad mall, as they go. It's pretty & well-designed & useful. But it's still the local mall. I'm more likely to see my high-school acquaintances there than anywhere else. Mr. Blonde works there. Edgar Allan works there. And since the party, my former friends have declared me socially off-limits. So being there tends to be all bad.

But then I walked into Sunrise, and the yin lost ascendancy to the yang...

God In An Alcove's got a job in the mall again.

Woo hoo!

I've made covert references to God In An Alcove in previous entries. To sum up my emotions concerning him, let's just say that he was the coolest guy I knew in high-school...and he's gotten progressively cooler since. He represented everything rockin' that I could never be, and he's so damn cute. He's got this sort of spaced-out intelligence that makes him just fascinating to talk to...smart, but deep...and you don't usually meet thinkers in high-school who aren't pot philosophers.

So I've always been pleased to run into him and chat for awhile. When he was clerking at Backstage Pass, I'd bring in my friends to say hi: Sister Sunshine, Baby Jenks, Mr. Blonde, whoever I happened to be in the mall with. It made me less nervous, less high-school giggly.

When I ran into him today, it was the first time since February. I'd written him email the day after I went crazy - which he never received, BTW - but I'd pretty much assumed afterwards that I'd scared him away. I was in the height of Poet-induced madness, and he was just some guy who chatted with me once in awhile. Not enough of a bond existed between the two of us for me to tell him exactly why I couldn't go out for coffee, but I did anyway. (Have I mentioned that I was yammering insane?)

He's so damn happy now. I've never seen him so bubbly. And it made me exceedingly glad just to see his ecstatic mood. We basically grinned at each other & crammed as many words as possible into the short amount of slacking time allowed by the management. Words just tumbled out of our mouths without pause...I couldn't believe it. THIS was the guy who had occupied one of the more constant pedestals in my world? THIS God In An Alcove, who seemed as happy to see me as I was to see him? G'wan...

We exchanged phone numbers, which means that one of us will actually have to pick up the phone in the next few weeks (he's going to Trent in September). Do I play it cool, wait for next weekend and arrange to meet at the Green Room? Or do I just call him up next week and hang out at Hurry n' Donuts all night? Questions, questions.

You're right, Palaver, I do love it when a plan comes together...or is that my life? Whatever.

August 13, 1997.

This will be a very short entry, because I'm treating myself to a life of lying around off-line. My periods of sleep have been getting shorter and shorter for the past couple of weeks...I'm down to 6 now, and life's getting pretty crappy. Last night I spent an hour writing replies to everyone I've been neglecting for 2 days...and that totaled about 18 separate people. And I didn't get to bed 'till after midnight.

No, Kymm, I'm not bitching about updating. I love writing this journal. I love the care and upkeep of my little corner of the web. And I'm certainly not complaining about email. I love email. It's just shocking to me in my run-down state that I can neglect the box for only two days, and end up with about 20 interesting messages from people I love to talk to. 20. OB-scene, baby.

That's 'kay. It distracts me from the email absence of el presidente...sigh...

Today my biorhythm read:

"It's not a good time to argue. Avoid confrontations with loved ones."

Well, duh.

Haven't the biorhythm guys been paying attention? I am LADY Forgiveness, here. I haven't even told you the full story of Poet's absence on Saturday night...and I'm not going to, either. But trust me...I rock.

Okay, smartguy, place this quote:

"Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children..."

Did you say "The Crow"?

Snuh uh. It's from that rocking William Makepeace Thackeray book, "Vanity Fair." So, there ya go. I knew this Victorian fiction class would come in handy SOME day...

August 12, 1997.

Maybe I AM getting old...

I just saw the video for "Parents Just Don't Understand." I remember when that video first came out. I remember the effect it had on my peers. Today I found myself sympathizing with his parents...he picked up some jailbait piece of ass driving a really expensive car with NO license. I mean, come on...(shudder)

Jesus. I'm soooo responsible now. It sickens me.

I've noticed that the wind tends to pick up suddenly when I'm outside wearing a dress. It's like God wants to see up my skirt. But then you think; "why would God need to see up my skirt?"

Ah, well. I guess even omnipotent deities like a little flirtation now and again. A little tease. A little...oh, forget it. I think that I'm in enough trouble with the Preacher for this paragraph already.

I do love to shock him, though. It's SOOO much fun...and I miss him now that he's in Boston.

Hurry home, Preacher. The Angels just aren't the same without cha.

Today I was called upon in my capacity as Technology Goddess at work to load up some new invoice forms into the printer.

Hmm...

I don't feel that my godhead is being fully appreciated...

And I've begun to worry about the time following my inevitable departure. What will my worshippers do when their claw patterns just can't do the job? When the printer runs out of paper? Or when they need to design a new spreadsheet?

Will they put another onto my pedestal? Will my temple fall into ruin?

Or will they learn how to do those crappy little things themselves?? Questions, questions.

On a considerably more somber note, the long email empire once presided over by Poet has lost it's emperor.

Yup.

MSN has cut off Poet without heeding his desperate pleas for just a little more free time...(okay, there were no real pleas. Dramatic license, here.)

Honestly, though, if they knew the impact of Poet's email upon the social fabric of our rarefied little circle, the various Internet providers who have been supplying him with "introductory free hours" would not be so cavalier about cutting off his access. As Palaver pointed out yesterday, Poet with no access is like a junkie with no needle. He's got the crack - that's his own twisted musings - and he's got the willing veins - that's the small but dedicate cadre of listeners, of whom I am a proud member - but without access, he might as well flush the horse down the john.

I'll be okay, tho'. I had to go cold-turkey in June, when we began feuding. I've already built up quite a supply of email swains and such.

But the fact remains that his writings were the reason that I fell in love with the medium.

Farewell, sweet electronic prince. May flights of applets sing thee to thy typewriter.

And finally, the Nursery is done (link removed), and it is supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Go visit my critters.

August 11, 1997.

Hmmm. So this is what it's like to be 21.

Not that much different from being 17, actually.

Unsurprisingly (or surprisingly, depending on your birthday philosophy) I had a really great day on Saturday. My grandparents took me & my mom out to lunch, and they were less bitter & eccentric than usual. Preacher called me from Boston, and sounded relaxed and happy - which is the best present I could've gotten from him. Maharet & her boyf broke the silence that they had been maintaining since the party to send me an electronic birthday card. And I found my bracelet.

Let me explain about the bracelet. Maharet & Mr. Shoreleave gave me a necklace & matching bracelet when I turned 19. I tend to have an extremely transient relationship with jewelry. The first item to go missing was the bracelet. The necklace hung on for another year or so, but it has since passed out of my life without a mark. I had thought that that was it for the set, but yesterday (as you have heard already) I found it - 2 years to the day that it was first given to me. A little bit of magic from St. Christopher, to add sparkle to my day.

Spent a horrendous amount of birthday money on a gorgeous black velvet dress from Siren - but any Christian'll tell you that your birthday suit shouldn't come cheap...(I'm allowed to make stupid jokes. It's one of my autocratic rights of birthday).

Let's see, what else...we went to Savage Garden, a local goth bar, to celebrate my birthday in pitch black, lace-up, dog collar style, so THAT was fun... It's actually a pretty cool place. I've been to a few different goth bars around Toronto during the past year, and this one was a lot less, um, self-involved than they usually are.

Not at the beginning, of course. When the dancing started, it was four or five people, doing that stupid-lookin' goth dance - which looks a lot like a combination of shadow boxing and speeded up tai chi, for those who don't frequent the scene. One member of my party pointed out the tao whole that a room full of gothic dancers make up: everyone is throwing kicks & punches, yet no one ever gets hit, let alone hurt. The reason why, is that although each dancer gives the impression that they are in their own little world, and couldn't care less about the way they look, they're actually compulsively monitoring how other people are watching them. Which means that they're hyper-aware of who's around them at any given time.

(Goth watching: fun for the whole family...)

But once the floor started to fill up, people started dancing less elaborately, and much less self-consciously. The music was pretty good, too - a lot of old-school goth, like Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus covering Bowie, Siouxie & the Banshees, the Cure, and of course, the "Stairway to Heaven" of goth clubs everywhere - "How Soon Is Now." Because you shut your mouth, how can you say I go about things the wrong way? I am human and I need to be loved... (Holy J. O'Barr. The only thing redeemable about that song is that there is nothing redeemable about that song. Pure, unadulterated self-fucking-pity. But SO much fun...)

I think the best thing about going to a goth club, tho' was that Palaver took the opportunity to dress up in his white seersucker suit, complete avec bowtie. As the Lawyer put it, he made the goths feel good about themselves. Or, as Sister Sunshine put it, he made her only the SECOND geekiest person in the place. Whatever. I thought he looked simply swellegant.

The weirdest meeting took place in Savage Garden. I was out on the floor, dancing to something-or-other, when I became aware of this guy who looked awfully familiar. Turns out that he was actually friend of mine from a long time ago. The last time we met, he had a light green mohawk, and I had only been going out with Mr. Blonde for a week. We flirted shamelessly that long-ago night, and pretty much continued the tradition on Saturday night. Lovely boy.

There's something about me & dancing. Most of my time, I feel about as sensual as a lint trap. But dancing for me is a release of all my sexual hang-ups, and I usually end up looking like a cat in heat on the dance floor (or a really inept exotic dancer). That, coupled with the gorgeous new dress, made me the target of much hitting upon -- which was nice.

(This may be a surprise to some people who visit the Aerie, but I am not terribly sexy. I think that some people who've met me electronically get the impression that I'm a PVC-clad sex-pot dominatrix, only pausing occasionally from my ongoing abuse of Poet to read aloud from a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. I don't mean to say that it's not a great lifestyle, it's just not mine. (It's actually my neighbor, Aphrodite's -- just kidding, Aphrodite! I mean, my Mistress. I mean...oh, hell))

However, I DID get mistaken for a hooker again. Same neighborhood (near Palaver's house). This time, the guy in the car spoke English. And he took "no" pretty philosophically -- he even complimented Palaver's suit.

I guess it was an understandable mistake. A car with two guys & a girl pulls over on Bathurst at 3 am. The girl -- who's wearing a tight black dress with a slightly open lace-up bodice and fishnet stockings -- gets out, and just stands on the sidewalk, looking disoriented. Palaver was waiting for a break in traffic before opening the door, giving these strangers enough time to come to the conclusion that I was a working girl who'd just become available to "party" with them. I realized at that moment how scary life is for prostitutes. I was a bit freaked, and I not only had two male friends close by, but also a house to run into and call the cops. But as I said, it never became necessary. They were pretty nice about it, and took no for an answer.

(You know that the weekend went exceptionally well when I start making excuses for johns...)

All that's left to tell are various little bits of info...Dream, Death & Destiny showed up to dance, and that was neat-o...I kept a recent and rather important promise to myself...Tiger Lily & Poet were no-shows, but they have good excuses. Tiger Lily had been working till 9, and was just too tired to make the scene. And Morrissey saved Poet from my righteous anger. Because Poet, as we all know, is human & needs to be loved. (Make that cash. He needs cash.) Then there was the Lawyer getting dumped by a squeegie girl...

But I think I'll leave that one to your own imagination.

So, yeah. I'm 21 now. Which means that I expect all my American Net friends to offer buy me a drink if I ever get in the neighborhood. Because I'm legal now.

Of course, I live in a civilized country, where you're legally allowed to imbibe when you're still a teenager -- and before that, there's years of house parties and Molson's Canadian...because I AM...(oh, forget it.) (Cranly makes me laugh...most of his stories about high-school begin, "we were drinking Coors Light out of cans..." and the rest doesn't even need to be told. That, by itself, is funny enough.)

Let's see...I've mentioned dancing, beer, punks, the Smiths, sex, money...yeah, I think that's enough for one entry. Feels good to be 17. Still. Cheers!

Christ, I almost forgot...the Photo Album has been re-tooled yet again...but you MUST go there to view the newest page, one devoted to that lesser-known super-hero Dirk Nightshade and his cronies. He is a hero unafraid of apathy, fine scotch and 15-year-old girls. He is every villain's worst nightmare.

Kinda.

August 9, 1997.

"Well, outside in the hall, there's a cat fight, it's just after midnight, I guess I'll be all right.
Layin' out on the floor, drunk & poor, how much longer, how much more?
Oh, rock me to sleep, strong & deep, screamin' cats, they give me the creeps,
But aside from all that, I feel no pain, staring up at the ceiling stain..."
- Concrete Blonde

Hey, guess what today is?

That's right...

Last night I had a dream where I was driving with Jay. It was probably inspired by the entry where he talks about how fast he drives...half his friends think he's a bad driver because he goes so fast, and the other half think he's a GOOD driver, because anyone who can drive that fast and not hit anything must be doing something right. I'd find the entry & link it here, but I'm too lazy. So you can just find it yourselves...

You know somebody on the Net has become more real to you than characters in your own life when you begin dreaming about them, that's for sure. Ah, well. I dream about the "real" people in my life...the ones that still talk to me, that is. The others have quite disappeared from my subconscious. Less aggravation that way.

"I gave my love a chicken, it had no bones. Mmmm...chicken. (smack smack)"
- Homer Simpson

Poet has once again granted me a provisional license to mention him in these entries. I totally understand when my friends request to maintain their anonymity...they're private citizens, and I have no right to drag them into the limelight just because I'm an exhibitionist. I did, however feel that he came down a little hard on me that last time...but so what, really. I'd rather give in than push the issue. My moral right to write this journal is tenuous at best.

But I do appreciate it when he plays nice.

And I feel that the liberal use of emoticons is helping our correspondence IMMENSELY. It softens my often harsh comments. Perhaps it's 'coz I've never taken part in chat rooms, but I like emoticons, damn it. So sue me. ;)

I'm going out now to celebrate my 21st in style. See all you cats later!!

August 8, 1997.

"I need a man, a man, a man, a man, a - Blues Explosion man!! (thank yuh!)"
- Jon Spencer Blues Explosion

Al of Nova Notes made a really interesting point to me about yesterday's entry. He said that women tend to be socialized to accept long-term relationships as the norm, and to feel guilt when contemplating a fling. While men, on the other hand, are socialized in exactly the opposite way.

The slogan to "Chasing Amy" was: "Sex is easy. Love is hard." That fits pretty neatly into the male socialization pattern (if I can be allowed to lapse back into my 1st year psychology jargon). For me personally, love is incredibly easy. I find it much easier to love someone in a platonic, yet intense way than to imagine a sexual liaison between the two of us. And love always comes first for me, way before sex. I guess that's why I'm really not cut out for the singles scene.

I realized today, and not for the first time, that I take myself far too seriously most, if not all of the time. So with that in mind, I present some fluff that just occurred to me in the last few minutes, and which I usually wouldn't bother to write down, let alone post.

Does anyone else think that "Barq's has Bite" commercial is fucking hilarious? I finally recognized the actor...he's the guy who acts in those FANTASTIC Much Music shorts...the one about the jelly donuts, the door-to-door poll one, and the "how to be a guitarist" one. Warped warped warped.

I find myself getting quite attached to commercial actors. I'm especially fond of the young man who does the Blue Light ads. If there's ever a biopic made about Spider Robinson, he's my candidate for the role. Sure, he's a great deal more attractive. But you wouldn't want someone who actually LOOKED like Spider, if you wanted to market the movie to a slick Demi Moore-stunned mainstream audience. Trust me.

(My apologies to all those who a) live outside of Canada b) think themselves too old to pay close attention to the programs produced in the House that Moses built (a.k.a City TV, Bravo, etc....) c) don't read science fiction. You appear confused at this moment. Hey, move to Canada, pick up some Heinlein, and lighten the hell up!!!)

just kidding!! ;)

Looks like "Spawn" has sunk like a stone.

Oh, well. How 'bout writing a story with heart next time, Todd? Yeah, I freakin' thought so...

August 7, 1997.

This morning I had to make two separate trips to Head Office, for a variety of hair-tearing reasons, which I won't go into. So I spent a little under two hours first thing this morning sucking back other people's exhaust & fighting morning rush hour... You know it's going to be a bad day when your first caffeinated beverage of the day is done before you even sit down to your desk. Ahhh, Diet Coke, my most faithful lover...giver of life, smoother of rough edges - how I long for thee in my time of need...um, perhaps you'd better ignore that.

So I had a lot of time to mull over things.

I found myself pondering the question of long-term relationships...more specifically, I wondered whether certain HYPOTHETICAL asocial qualities would become more irritating the longer I dated this HYPOTHETICAL person. (Key word is HYPOTHETICAL. I don't want anyone who knows me in real life to become afraid. To become very, very afraid...) Anyway, my response to this HYPOTHETICAL proposition was, "It doesn't matter. I don't want a long-term relationship. Just transitional sex." Then I realized what had just come out of my cerebellum.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

What in hell have I become??

I've certainly drifted away from the nice little 17-year-old girl who wanted to save herself for marriage. Perhaps I haven't yet succumbed to a Robert A. Heinlein model of femininity (I'm not at all attracted to my father, for one thing) but still.

I have a feeling that the little voice I was talking about yesterday has taken off for good. Well, at least there's only a few people to hurt with my stupidity this year...and they'll most likely just wait for me to get over whatever passion has consumed me at that particular moment, like they did last year. Sometimes the best friends are the one who just leave you the fuck alone - but are willing to forgive you and take you back when it's over.

Love you, Sister Sunshine...

On a lighter note, I had a rather surreal exchange with the Sister a few nights ago:

SS: (sounds of eating) I could really go for some cereal.
Me: What're you eating now?
SS: (pause) Cereal.

She later insisted that she was referring to cereal with milk, and not straight cereal...but still, pretty weird, n'est pas?

(by the way, the Diet Coke bit was largely constructed from certain comments made by the Poet earlier this year about the Goat. Let it not be said that I fail to acknowledge those from whom I steal...)

August 6, 1997

"You can say what you want...please don't say goodbye..."
- Big Rude Jake

I miss being in love.

Sister Sunshine asked me last night if I ever could be friends with Mr. Blonde again. While we were together, I always thought that I had the courage to be his friend. Of course, I realize now that I had always had the buried conviction that if anyone ended it, it would be me. I was more than confident of his enduring love - I simply took it for granted. And now it's over. And I didn't have hand, like I thought. And thus I am too desperate to be his friend.

I miss him at the weirdest times now...not when I feel socially awkward as a single girl, but when something silly happens, or a situation reminds me of the Simpsons. I miss his silly voices, and the way we laughed at the same dorky jokes...I miss paying good money at the theatre for B-movies like Bordello of Blood, and renting classics like Citizen Kane, only to ignore them the entire night.

I wonder how much of his change this year is my fault; how much of it was a reaction to my incredibly foolhardy decisions, and how much of it would've happened anyway as a result of his first year in university. During the last year, I began to think of myself as perhaps a little too independent. Certain drunken nights probably wouldn't have ended so...um...guiltily if I had only listened to that little voice. The sensible voice. The one that reminded me that I had a boyfriend already.

The little voice that seemed to go out for a long lunch break whenever certain friends came around...

I keep looking around the world with my love-less eyes...sure, I'm still filled with joy and love of existence and people, but life's different without a focus to love. This bitter-sweet planet's lost her sun again...and when I hear songs like "Everlong" by the Foo Fighters, I'm hit over the head with this lack. "Breathe out, so I can breathe you in..." I wish I felt that way about someone. *sigh*

"Lost my good intentions, Lord, I wish I could get 'em back. Left me when my head bust open, they musta slipped out through the crack...."
- Big Sugar, "Rolling Pin"

August 5, 1997.

Jesus H. Christ...mornings tend to be bad every work day, but I am especially nuked this morning...holy J. O'Barr...and I know I say this every time, but...

What a weekend.

Sunday we had my dad's half of the family over for a pool party/poker game. It was okay, I guess...the cleaning up part wasn't fun, and neither was the incessant talking about business. It's something we can't avoid, since my cousin Paul owns the company that currently employs me...and my father...and my brother...and my cousin Maurice...and my other cousin Nick...well, you get the picture. The male conversation tended to revolve around home improvement, golf, and the business, so that was really fascinating. Then there was the female conversation...hmm... Sometimes I try to be normal, but it doesn't work every time. I just can't get involved in a friendly exchange about bingo, child-rearing, or gossip. I try, but, well...I'm too much of a self-involved geek. The biting-heads-off-chickens kind. And I'm a bit of a rabble-rouser, especially when my relatives are in attendance. (No, Puck is not my middle name, but some days, it might as well be.)

I can't be too hard on them, tho'. They've taught me a lot by example. Since their relentless drive to be normal doesn't seem to have made them happy, I decided fairly early on that I didn't need to bother. Wow, that was a harsh thing to say...

Yesterday was Road Trip day.

My mother had recently learned of a traveling Renoir exhibit that is currently being shown in the National Gallery. Having come to the conclusion that this was our only free day until the end of the exhibit, and hardened by our marathon art viewings in London, we decided to make the 10-hour round-trip to our nation's capital to view the paintings.

Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous.

I could try to find new words to describe Renoir's work, or employ a vocabulary which doesn't involve cussin', but what can I possibly say that hasn't been said by a thousand better writers who are a million times better qualified? It's just breath-taking, that's all.

The only problem with such an exhibit is that genius is best displayed sparingly. Renoir's works are so powerful that the first room dazzles, the second room stuns, the third room overwhelms, the fourth room numbs...by the time you get to the "Two Sisters", all you can say is "Wow. Pretty." - which is very much NOT the right word for the "Two Sisters"!

The National Gallery also has a few really good Impressionistic works in their free permanent collection, so it was neat to compare styles. (I'm going to go out on a limb here, and say a lot of pretentious things without the benefit of formal education, so just bear with me...) What sets the Impressionists apart from other painters is their sense of light & colour, and each artist has his or her own way of bringing out the luminescence of any particular object. Monet's work glows serenely, Renoir's dazzles with the vivacity of colour, and Van Gogh sparks and fizzes like a neon sign. The other thing I love about Impressionism is the texture of their paint layers. Unlike da Vinci, who's canvases are smooth as glass, without a single evident brushstroke, the Impressionists bring so much quickness and passion to the canvass that they can't help leaving little pools & valleys of paint. Especially Van Gogh. The violence of his technique is apparent on every canvas. Who said madness was a bad thing, anyway? Certainly not James Taylor...

Dyed my hair a shocking shade of red this weekend. It's marvelous...it's such a disturbingly vivid colour that it looks like one of the dominatrix wigs they sell at Siren (and the fact that I cut my hair to chin length again only heightens the 14-year-old fledgling goth look that I try so desperately to achieve...*sigh*...shall I NEVER look my age??) The only problem is that my hair tends to shed hair dye with alacrity (no, I did not just buy a thesaurus!), so I can't wash my hair until we pick up a bottle of red-dyed-hair-sensitive shampoo (or some such). This time I am not letting such a fabulous color run down the drain!

I'll have to pick up a new bottle of dye for September anyway, 'coz I want to begin my year in res by shocking the frosh cock-eyed. I figure that I'll parade around in Tiger Lily's PVC dress, the fishnets, and my dominatrix hair...it'll only be a matter of time before all of the naive young boys away from home for the first time fall at my Doc Marten-clad feet and worship me...okay, a girl can dream, can't she??

Driving through Northern Ontario is such an aesthetically satisfying experience(you can tell I've recently been to an art gallery, hmm?), even if you're just whizzing by at 120 klicks on the highway. All the hills, fields & impenetrable scrub...it makes me want to go camping. I guess that's what passes for racial memory among Canadian teenagers. We see some relatively raw patch of nature and think; "wow. that's beautiful. I'd really like to drink a 2-4 there..."

The whole hair thing has almost been like camping (only without the need for bug-spray, of course). I've never let my hair go for this long...and it's looking the way you'd expect after two full summer days & nights. My mom suggests that I shape it with curling iron, but I'd rather not expose my hair to certain temperatures...altho' my hair is flame-coloured, I'd rather not let it compare with the real thing.

I'm so naive...

I had always thought that that ubiquitous Third Eye Blind song was just some poppy radio-friendly crap. Then I listened to the words:

"I wanna get back to the place where I fell asleep inside of you."

At first, I thought that there was no way he was being literal. It must be a metaphor...and not a bad one, at that. And then I heard the part about the little red panties, and face-down on the mattress...

I'm so goddamn naive...

August 2, 1997.

I tried really hard to be doing something other than the web site today. If all had gone as planned, there would be about half a million people in my backyard right now, mixing it up, fighting over the stereo, shleppling around in the pool, and, of course, drinking. Instead, there was opt-out after opt-out, coldness, avoidance, and sometimes outright hostility. I had wanted to unite my shifting mass of friends into one mega-affair...but I hadn't counted on the constant drama of each set leaving me so decidedly out in the cold. (Well, it's been a pretty hot day. But still...)

Most of my highschool friends have taken to uniformly despising me since the party. Others, who care less about my former relationship, are pissed off at me for reasons that I promised I wouldn't get into in the Diary. As for my U of T friends...well, the ones who are in town are less-than-enthused about going to the suburbs for a day. A few have been known to shudder uncontrollably when taken within certain distances from a mall. And we have a few personality clashes here, as well, none of which I am free to discuss. Hell, I don't even understand some of the disputes I'm in.

I guess some days are like that...you wake up, carry on as usual, and inexplicably (to you), you end up on everybody's shit list. (Perhaps YOUR days aren't like that. But mine have been like that a lot lately.) It would get me down, if I didn't carry the firm conviction that most (if not all) of my intimates are raving psychos (not excluding myself, of course). It makes life interesting, but it's only an acceptable lifestyle if you stop wondering why, and just accept.

Which ties in nicely with the feelings of serenity and forgiveness that I discussed in yesterday's entry.

(Hmmm...structure? In my diary? In my LIFE? There must be some mistake...)

August 1, 1997.

I've been very proud of my behavior lately. Finally, I feel that I am doing right by the people in my life. And it's mostly due to this self-confidence that I have suddenly become able to let little things go, in order to keep the general peace. I'm not going to say that the days are over where I'll freak out over some tiny, imagined slight, but they seem to be over for the time being. It honestly amuses me now when people will write that they held back the truth to avoid pitching me into a screaming fit. (Who, me? Never...)

And it also means that my breaking point, (the point where I tell people to shove it) has been receding over the nearest horizon.

Think I'm a slut? Okay. Think I'm a psycho? Whatever. Think I'm out to get you? If you say so. It's easier to just take some time to calm down, remind myself that their reality is not my reality, and sweetly apologize. I've become quite good at it, actually. My technique is 9 parts obsequiousness and 1 part remorse. It seems to get results that way. Here's an example from my practice with Tiger Lily last night:

TL: You left your clothes at my house, you stupid whore.
Me: I'm sooo sorry...

(The only problem is that I'm right. Of course. But I guess that out of security comes patience. And out of peanut butter and chocolate comes Reese's peanut butter cups. And out of the fires of hell, comes Spawn...

(Or something like that.)