December 1997.

December 30, 1997.

"Dallas? That place is crawling with crackheads & debutantes!"

- King of the Hill

December 29, 1997.

Hello, my sweets! I'm in an exceptional mood tonight. Guess what Little Miss Doom & Gloom did tonight.

No, I didn't write depressed poetry. No, I didn't listen to "Release the Bats!" by the Birthday Party over & over. No, I didn't rub a new coat of mink oil into my new 3-hole Docs-that was the day before yesterday. No, I didn't go out dancing with Sister Sunshine as planned. Instead, I embarked on the latest wacky project thought up by my mother & myself-rug hooking!!

And not even one with vampires & a lot of black yarn. No. A Winnie the Pooh rug. With Tigger, too.

We bought the kit at one of those mega-craft supply stores last week. It's was supposed to be done in time for tomorrow's visit to see my newest 2nd cousin. I dunno-we must have been smoking some serious crack that day. The damn thing is huge!! There's 76 rows-and it took me about 6 hours to finish just 5 rows. But, you know...he's only 2 1/2 weeks old. By the time the rug's done, he'll be a bit more appreciative. Probably.

God, I have the world's biggest weakness for all things Winnie the Pooh. Especially the Milne books with the Sheppard (sp?) drawings. I even go gooey for the Disney interpretations. It's a bit out of keeping with my tortured, vicious vamp pose, but there you go. I'm even thinking of getting the Sheppard "Piglet" tattooed on some discrete location-bizarre, huh?

Today I went to lunch with Dirk. It was awesome. Except for the driving part-for some strange reason, I've never been terribly comfortable with guys driving me places. Walking I'm great at. I can walk anywhere with anyone, drunk or sober, in as much or as little clothing as is applicable to the event, and not feel uncomfortable. Driving, though...it throws me. I don't know why.

You'd think that I'd have it down at my age. But no. I get all nervous & act like an idiot-which, admittedly, isn't that different from my normal social behavior (I tend to fill the often academically overlooked sociological category of "goofball" when in a group situation).

Perhaps I shouldn't have worn The Ugliest Shirt In the World to lunch. It's one of those pieces of clothing that most people draw away from in revulsion-brown & beige, with a horrid design that looks a lot like crayon on wax paper. It also fits me bizarrely-almost long enough to be a tunic, but too short in the sleeves. My theory is that it was the punishment of a particularly spiteful bride upon a particularly unruly bridal party.

I love it. I don't know why. I just do. I suppose that it's one of those "It's Christmas Charlie Brown" things...and somehow I've become convinced all it needs is a little love to be saved from a pathetically ugly existence. Well, it doesn't work. But I love it anyway.

Yet, perhaps it was a little much to spring on poor Dirk. Mental note: only wear tasteful things in Brampton from now on. Maybe they'll be fooled...

December 27, 1997.

I'm pissed, for the first time in a long while. Wow. Note to self: be careful who you offend with this entry...

It's all thanks to Maharet & Daniel (new vampire pseudonym!! Wowee.) They were nice enough to take me to that Brampton semi-goth club that I've been mentioning. Thumbs down for Chumbawumba, $3.50 domestic beer & lots of jock types doing interpretive dance to Bush. Thumbs up for playing the Cure's "Love Cats"-even though it's been released on one of those "retro" mixers.

I dunno. I had a pretty good time. Perhaps the beer had somethin' to do with it. Perhaps it was the intoxication of being with members of my peer group for the first time in ages. Or perhaps it was simply that I had something to do, all day long.

Went shopping for blue jeans, winter boots and shoes with me mum in the afternoon. Score: Us, 2; World of Capitalism, 1. No straight-leg tapered blue jeans to be found. God, I hate being forced to adopt wide-leg skater style. God, I miss 80's jeans with tapered zippers. God, God, God.

It's not like my hips can be camouflaged with tapered jeans...it's just that I feel better in pants that have just enough room for my legs, and not a family of nomads, besides. This means that, once again, I'm swimming against the tide of fashion. But this is a concept that I can live with, after seeing the fashionable lads & lasses who staff the fashionable boutiques of the local mall. Can you say vapid? No, I didn't think so.

December 26, 1997.

"Let's just kill everyone and let your god sort them out!!!" - Marilyn Manson

(Just cutting through the spoonfuls of sugar coating the season. If I have to listen to Nat King Cole wish me a Merry Christmas one more time...)

How was my Christmas? Well, not bad...my sickness crested yesterday, making me the most miserable git on the planet...I accidentally spilled my mother's coffee all over my grandmother's microwave & myself, an event which drove me into the downstairs bathroom for a good 15 minutes of frustrated weeping...something about the otherwise-wonderful Christmas dinner didn't agree with me, making it impossible to keep the lovely food down (it's especially ironic when you consider the cafeteria crap à la Fung I shove down my throat 6 days a week, 28 weeks a year)...my brother kept slapping me in the forehead, for some reason...etc. etc. etc.

However, most of my negativity was brought on by my various illnesses. Every once in awhile, I'd bounce back to proper Christmas cheeriness. Seeing my grandparents was nice. All the clothing people gave me was black, so there's nothing wrong with that. My mom gave me a new black garter belt, apparently in the hopes that I'd discard the "sluttier" one that I've been using with the fishnets for the past year (it's trashier because it has a thong ...her theory is, that with the new belt, I'd be forced to wear sensible cotton Marks & Sparks undies, or something.) Personally, I don't think that anything can bring the fishnets back into respectability (or myself, for that matter), but if it makes her happy, I'm all for it.

Besides, it's a hell of a conversation starter: "Nice fishnets." "Yeah, they used to me my Mom's." "Really?!" "Yeah. And she got me the velvet garter belt last Christmas, too." "...!"

And now, a paragraph wherein I do not discuss my underwear:

I seem to be getting better. My strategy of moping around the house in 4 layers of clothing seems to have worked quite well. There are 2 possibilities. Either the virus has been deluded by the multiple flannel shirts into thinking that I'm bigger than I actually am, and has been therefore scared away by classic cat strategy...or my general hideousness in sweat pants has frightened away the sickness to more attractive hunting grounds. But either way, I don't need to carry a box a Kleenex around with me anymore, so I can't complain.

However, I still have nothing to do in this stinkin' town. Dirk & I are going for coffee on Monday. And I'm trying to convince Maharet to take me to that semi-goth night club tomorrow (can't take another listen to "10:15 on a Saturday Night" by the Cure without going mad). Other than that, there's just the big city: skating in Nathan Philips Square, or shopping through all the insane Boxing Day Sales, or visiting Sister Sunshine for a night of snack food & Russ Meyer movies, or dancing with Palaver to the 80's music he holds so dear.

9 days to go...

December 22, 1997.

A statistic for you, courtesy of Aphrodite: 85% of people who have mono don't know it.

I think I have mono.

Aphrodite had it, and I saw quite a bit of her in my last few days in res. Although, since we weren't kissing or sharing glassware or indulging in any other spit-related activity, I don't understand how I got it. As for kissing, I haven't kissed anyone since Fungtoberfest, and it was a peck, not a saliva-exchange session. So I'm stumped. It couldn't have hibernated since June-could it?

Oh, I probably just have a sore throat. A little Buckley's Mixture would fix me right up. But I think I need the drama right about now. There's so little going on in my life right now that isn't separated from me by a computer screen or a telephone wire.

Another statistic for you, courtesy of Tiger Lily: studies show that it takes half the length of your relationship again to get over it completely. So I don't even have to feel morbid until this time next year.

It was nice to speak to her about our various relationship problems. Especially since Tiger Lily & Sister Sunshine represent totally ends of the advice spectrum. SS is a big believer in moving on, while TL lets me dwell. It leaves me space to figure out which end of the spectrum is right for me. Not to mention the influence of higher education. The more time I spend in the humanities, the better I develop my critical faculties. And since my own problems are the movie that's always playing, I can use literature (other people's problems) to work through my own problems.

(At least, that's the idea. My personal weakness is for characters in huge dramas, who have problems a million times bigger than my own. Medea is not a good role model. Neither is Ophelia. And so forth.)

Saw God In An Alcove tonight, during the last minute shopping expedition of my brother and myself. I was caught totally off guard, reeking of 3 different kinds of men's cologne and poking the Hanson display at Sunrise. You see, my brother & I were looking for a pleasant men's cologne for my dad-and we had to sample about 3 or 4 scents each to find the right one. (Yuk. I hate artificial scents on men-and has anyone else noticed that all brands smell the same? And that they all smell like ass? Am I the only one who noticed this?)

But I am greatly encouraged by the fact that he actually approached me, despite the foul cloud of artificial pheromones that my brother & I moved in. And he touched me on the arm-twice! I am also greatly encouraged by the fact that these contacts did not cause any weird autonomic responses, like my heart speeding up or my brain short-fusing. Whatever I may be, I remained myself.

Yeah yeah, small minds, easily amused, whatever. But it sure beats going to bed early, so that I can get a head start on the nightly dreams starring Mr. Blonde and a new girlfriend.

December 21, 1997.

I was talking to Maharet yesterday about the people we know, and you know what's strange? There are no real couples anymore in the Brampton scene. They've all split up-but only Mr. Blonde & myself have actually stayed apart. I think that distance has more than a little to do with it. Then again, we were in the same town for a whole 3 months, and we never even talked, except when I called him (yes, I am a great big loser. I cannot take the subtle hint of "breaking up" as a signifier that I should busy myself with other people.)

It wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't said that we could still be friends. Yuk. Note to dumpers: if you're going to lie kindly, at least make up a new phrase, huh? Sheesh.

Another thing that's weird: City-TV accosted me on the street last Tuesday, during the Latest Great Shopping Expedition, asking me silly questions about sharks...and they were actually impressed with my answers. My friends & relatives are asking me about it. I can barely remember the issue (such as it is). Something about should people be worried about a shark moving to a larger tank. I babbled something about consistent treatment of endangered species, and that people who were worried about sharks shouldn't go out to sea (while mentally, I was flashing on Gèricault's "Raft of the Medusa"-I spend too much time thinking about 19th century art lately).

30 seconds of my 15 minutes of fame, wasted on shark commentary. It's a crazy, crazy world.

December 20, 1997.

December 19, 1997.

Today I suffered from a heavy dollop of apathy, brought on by my sore throat. As of now, I have a low, uncertain voice, and a reduced will to stay awake (not that my will in that direction was ever particularly strong, but anyway...) I tried to make myself useful to my mom, as we prepared the house for the mad, horrible descend of the season, but was cursed with a heavy, angst-laden heart. (Ok, we flitted around happily, listened to "the Grinch that Stole Christmas" and experimented with new decorations-I was just a bit out of it, that's all. Not everything I do is depressing, and not every thought that I have is a bitter one, you know!)

("Methinks the lady doth protest too much...")

(Shaddup, you.)

In the course of said decorating, I became, for a short while, the Anal-Retentive Snow Stenciler. ("See! Her first attempts with chemical snow go horribly awry! Hear! Her decide to wipe the flawed Santa face off and try again-for the 3rd time! Feel! The black depression as an over-achiever grapples fruitlessly with a set of crappy & tasteless stencils! Laugh! As the fumes impair her pathetic artistic instinct EVEN MORE! A fine time to be had by all &c. &c.") My one window took about a half an hour. My mother, by far the more experience & sanguine of the 2 of us, stenciled up the 2 other windows in less than 5 minutes. Oh well. She's my mom. She's supposed to be better than me at most stuff. I just wonder when I get to catch up.

Finally, I went to one of my brother's punk shows tonight. It was fun, right up until the noisecore band came on. The only problems were that I knew almost nobody and that I got to sit right in the draft, as a ticket-taker. On the plus side, I read 50 more pages of "Vilette," the novel I was supposed to have finished about a month ago. *sigh* The problem is...I just can't apply myself to that book unless I'm somewhere where I have absolutely nothing else to do. It's SOOOO boring...stupid, bitter Charlotte Brontë. A curse on thy cynical spinster head. And you too, Psycho Victorian Lit Professor Who Shall Remain Nameless. You'd think we could read "Jane Eyre" like everyone else in the world. But nooooo.

Ok, I'm ranting. Ranting about scars that never felt a wound, so to speak. I think it's time for bed, don't you?

December 18, 1997.

Home, home, home...home for good. At least until next year. I'm kind of glad to be here, since I seem to be coming down with a bit of a cold, and nothing makes sickness worse than communal living. Sweet communal living...*sigh*...place of autonomy and cafeteria food. How I miss thee already.

December 16, 1997.

Yesterday I took a look at a few of the fan sites for the upcoming movie "Great Expectations" which have sprung up with depressing alacrity in the last few months. I say "depressing," because it seems that the people who run the sites are more concerned with the reappearance of Ethan Hawke than the reappearance of Charles Dickens. Typical comment: "Wow, this sure isn't the novel they made me read in high-school! J" (You're right, it's not, honey). But this means that your sole interest is in Ethan Hawke. This not only raises my natural ire as an English major, but it also makes me seriously wonder about these girls.

I mean, Ethan Hawke. Name a role that he was really good/likable in. Can't do it, can you? Oh, I'll admit that his novel was good, but that just makes it worse. How could the guy, as a writer, agree to this bastardization of one of the greatest novels of the Victorian Age, and certainly Dickens's best work?

And it is a bastardization, no doubt about it. For the moment, I'll leave aside the ridiculous "modern" changes they've made to the characters & situations (i.e. Pip is now Finn, a painter of medium talent. Mrs. Havisham is a woman who's had too much plastic surgery. Oh, please....) I'll ignore the new scenes of sex, even though I find it physically revolting that they've turned Estella into a cock-tease. I'll just point out that the guy who wrote the screenplay was the guy who wrote "Scrooged."

Did they want it to suck from the very beginning?

Yeah, I'm going to pony up the $4.50 on a likely Tuesday in the new year. I'm going to see it. And I'm going to hope against hope that someone in the cast will redeem it-De Niro as Magwich & Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Havisham can't be too bad. Or maybe a sliver of the novel's strength will fight its' way through the dreck. But you know what? I don't think it will.

December 14, 1997.

Wow. So this is what happens when you cut down on the Diet Coke. I'm sooo sleepy...I've been having trouble staying awake since 6 p.m. or so...which is about the time in my personal clock for my semi-regular nap on school days. That is, if I got up at 9, I'd want a nap by 3. Thus, with my new hours, I feel real sleepy after dinner, but don't feel like going to bed until 2 am.

My new hours have a refreshing sense of novelty to them. I haven't been this screwed up since the early summer, before I got a job. It's kind of nice, actually. But I really should have gotten more done today. Almost all of my notes are highlighted...I've read the extra stories...all that's left is the summary, to push the material deeper into my short term memory. I'd be more motivated, except that the exam is open book. And I can remember a lot of points if I'm cued by the text. Still...I should get a bit more done before I turn in. Hmmm. Doesn't seem likely, but you never know.

What else? Not very much. The sun shone. The food at Fung was mediocre. I talked to the small group of folks left in res at this point, many of whom I don't know very well, as most of my social energy during the term is taken up with those in res whom I wholeheartedly love: Cordelia, Aphrodite, Veronica, Judith, etc. All of whom are gone at this point, forcing me to emerge slightly from my shell.

Talked to Sister Sunshine on the phone for hours, as has become our habit. Procrastination doesn't grate so much when it's shared, as I'm sure you all know. And that's about it.

Hey, you think this is unexciting? Just wait 'til I'm at home & too afraid to call Maharet (who has kindly offered to take me to Brampton's only semi-goth club) or go anywhere or do anything. Then it'll get exciting. Hoo boy.

December 13, 1997.

Crib notes for the Slackerdyke
Bowling: Bowling is neither a spectator nor a participation sport, in fact it's not even a spot. It's just an excuse to get drunk and wear stupid shoes that don't belong to you. If you're a true slackerdyke, this is behavior which requires no practice, as it comes naturally.

Ah, what a glorious day of procrastination!

Sometimes days like this make me all fidgety & tense. Or I'll get really really anxious & berate myself for slacking mercilessly. But today was a glorious day of doing nothing and not giving a damn.

Of course, it would've been nice if I'd ventured out to get some sorely needed clothes while I'm still in the fashionable/bargain area of Ontario. Or gone to Hart House, to begin working on my body, as I am not only pathetically out of shape, but I'm gaining weight at a horrible rate. I'm not just unhappy with my present shape, I'm repulsed by it. Ergo, it's past time to do something about it. I'm considering spending a lot of time at the local rec centre during the upcoming vacation, to kind of catapult my slacker ass into a zone of slimness that I have not inhabited since the fabled days of high-school.

Then, all I have to work on is my abrasive/reclusive personality, and I'll be the femme of everyone's dreams...

Last night was the Varsity Christmas party (read: free beer and a lot of intellectual types morosely discussing failed relationships). Ok, I'm exaggerating. The beer was free, but the folks were quite nice, and I had a good time dancing to the 5 disco songs they kept repeating (note to DJ's with limited CD collection: we can only do the Hustle so many times before it loses it's flavour). I mean, it was a perfectly good party on all the levels you could ask for. My best girl (Sister Sunshine) was there, there was dancing, the booze was priced right, and there were plenty of guys & gals to seriously converse/shamelessly flirt with. Also, there was emotional drama, and the added dimension of comforting the host (who broke up with his girlfriend of 2 1/2 years yesterday). Lots of hand holding & hugging & soothing advice of little practical worth...I suspect that it helped us more than it did him.

But of course, I've been spoiled by exceptional parties in the last little while, so this is just the 4th or so best party that I've been to this year (out of 5, actually-I don't get out very much, hmmm?) I'm such a brat, don't you think?

December 11, 1997.

Well, I'm home, although not yet for good. Mum & I did a tolerable job of amusing ourselves, what with getting haircuts and continuing the latest global search to find new blue jeans. I have a big urge to find the ones with zippers on the ankles, although I'll be mercilessly mocked by my peers. Oh well. It's not like the Marilyn Manson thing gets me a lot of respect anyway.

Almost lost my latest ankh today. The freaking knot on the necklace came undone as I was searching the supermarket for vegetarian soup. Thank god somebody turned it in.

December 10, 1997.

Ugh.

I had nothing to do today. Absolutely nothing. I slept until the noon chimes rang at 12:15 (I think it's a charming inaccuracy, don't you?) and then made desultory preparations for a big fat day of nothin'. No homework. All my girls & boys have stuff to study for, so I can't spend extended periods of time doing nothing with someone else. My next exam isn't until the 15th, so no urgency there. Yesterday was my big day of wandering around the many altars of commerce in my fair city, so I couldn't go out & spend gobs of money so soon afterwards.

So I watched way too much TV. But eventually, I got so bored, that for the last hour or so, I've finally sunk to my lowest.

Yes, I've been cleaning my room.

Not that it didn't need it. My room has several stages of mess before I hit bottom (i.e. Black Hole of Calcutta stage), but I was nowhere close to this critical stage-not enough clothes strewn about the floor. As of this writing, I'm still only up to stage 3 (small amounts of clutter on every surface, dishes unwashed, clothes in a heap in the closet, and floor unvacuumed), but I've, perhaps predictably, lost interest in finishing up.

And just think, when I finally move out of res, I'll have a bath, kitchen & living room to tend as well. Hoo ha.

The other thing that's visibly messy is my bronze cocktail dress, currently lying in a heap next to the blue admiral's chair (exacting and largely unnecessary description solely intended for the few among you who've actually been to my "real life" abode. Visualize away...)

And I'm not cleaning it up. Not until I can write a poem about it lying there. And why?

Hmmm. Okay: the last Fireball I attended, there were several prominent elements to my experience. I attended the dance with Mr. Blonde, although I spent most of the night chasing after Poet. I was wearing the bronze dress. I was also really really tanked. Apres the ball (i.e. after we were kicked out at about 3-4 in the morning) we relocated to the basement common room, where we proceeded to smoke, drink, and eat purloined ice cream until dawn.

Now, Mr. Blonde had faded from the scene a good deal earlier than myself, and by the time the rest of us were kicked out, he was asleep. He woke up the next morning with a powerful hangover, no cigarettes (which I had "borrowed" on behalf of someone else), and alone. He said later that the first thing he saw, was the dress, abandoned when I had changed into pjs several hours earlier.

He then used the image as the central metaphor for a poem expressing his feelings of abandonment and anger.

I will admit that every shot he took was a fair one. I deserved it all. But now I want to write a poem of my own, damn it, in honour of Aphrodite's bash last Friday. It was a night which re-affirmed my self-confidence in many ways, just as the Fireball destroyed Mr. Blonde's, and just as he, in turn, demolished my own when we parted ways. It's such a perfect vehicle.

But I just can't do it. Inspiration will not come. And in the meantime, I've got a partydress on my floor, in the midst of my relatively clean room. A metaphor looking for a place to happen, and making stops along the way...

December 9, 1997.

I actually feel good right now. Sssshhhh! Don't tell any of my regular readers!

Well, you know me...always looking for reasons to get depressed. But right now I'm in a period of leisure (and I don't feel obligated to go home to the family yet!), so I'm a trifle more relaxed. Spent all day wandering around with my best girl, Sister Sunshine. Bought a new ankh. And had the most fabulous dinner of fried rice & "chicken stickers." I guess I'm on an MSG high...but I'm so content right now that I can't be bothered worrying about the inevitable come-down.

As for my biggest source of self-pity, Mr. Blonde, I think I 'm reaching some sort of equilibrium...a "click" moment, if you will. I believe it was Jerry Seinfeld (and more locally, Palaver) who said: "Breaking up is like tipping over a pop machine. You've gotta rock it back and forth, back and forth for awhile before it actually tips over to the ground." Everyday reality gets a little kinder. I don't dream about us much anymore. And I actually have other things to think about--now that my mind is no longer consumed with a big, pulsing "ESSAY!! EXAM!!" neon sign, there's a lot less free-floating anxiety to deal with. Which is all to the good. Besides, I feel a trifle churlish moping about my long-dead relationship when my girlfriends are going through much worse situations with their men/boys.

"It's like something out of Dickens...or Melrose Place" - lisa simpson

I've been answering a lot of email tonight. Some days I think that I'm the web's biggest sympathy sucker. I've made everybody feel sorry for poor little me...the sad sad girl of Open Pages. Who's living in her favorite city, in a room in the most vulgar and interesting house in the college, in the prime of life & health, following a course of study that she's genuinely enamored with, and surrounded by quirky, loving people in "real" life and cyber life. Poor, poor me. *sigh*

Not to mention, I have a reasonable amount of money, lots of black socks, a half-full bottle of Bailey's Irish cream, a comfortable bed, the largest closet in residence and a bronze cocktail dress.

Yeah, I think I'm in pretty good shape for a depressive single whiner, don't you?

Wow, I feel soooo good. nothing like a good hit of MSG to do the trick, huh? Pan-Asian cuisine gets the big thumbs up from Tisiphone & Sister Sunshine, that's for sure. I've never wanted to try everything on the menu of any restaurant in my life. Unbelievable.

Oh, do you Toronto denizens want the name of the place? Well, with giddy appropriateness, the name of the restaurant is Tiger Lily, on Queen West. Go there to your great joy.

December 7, 1997.

I'm awfully sorry about the large gaps that have been appearing in the drama lately. It just seems that lately I've lost the will to do anything beyond sleeping a full 9 hours. No, I'm not a zombie. I've written tests and visited people and studied and laughed and danced and all that. But for some reason, I don't feel like making it public. Too much effort.

Yes, I am being really frokkin lazy.

And my ultra-super-slow computer doesn't help. I get so frustrated some nights, waiting for the damn thing to load up, that I want to chew nails. I'll be on a better machine when I go home in a few days-but then I won't have as much to talk about. Unless I emerge from my shell. Maharet called me a couple nights ago, so it could happen. It's not like I enjoy watching TV and going to bed early on my vacation, anyway.

"You can say what you want...please don't say...goodbye..."

Quick synopsis of the last few days:

Friday: the day started out with 2 end of term tests. Both in 3rd level English. One after another, at 10 and 11 am. Absolut brutality.

The res-wide Secret Santa finished up in the afternoon. Various gift highlights included nerd glasses, a jar of pickles, fringed thong underwear, socks, and a 6' inflatable penis/punching bag named Captain Pecker presented to Judith (an interesting sidebar is that the phallus is not as tall as her boyfriend, my neighbor Aegis-who's the second 6'7" guy I've ever met). Captain Pecker's the new mascot of Ferguson House, as you could probably guess.

Well, co-mascot. Nothing replaces the Goat. (Poet has a deep-seated fear that if he was to win the Nobel Prize for literature, the King of Sweden will force Poet to forgo his brilliant acceptance speech, and tell the King & the World about the Goat.)

Then there was Aphrodite's surprise party on the roof of Cranly & Tiger Lily's place. In the words of one guest, "the high-stepping event of the year," and I won't argue. Or, as Tiger Lily and I agreed, it's the closest you can come-I mean, it's the closest you get to Lady Sally's House with no whorehouse above you. (If you haven't been doing the remedial reading in Spider Robinson I assigned, this won't make much sense-but a few fen will enjoy the reference).

Tons of people from res, past & present. Fine, fine jazz all night long, as Trotski was our DJ. Formal dress, which subsumes 2 second-hand plaid dinner jackets, a kilt, an ascot, several black evening gowns, 1 military uniform and a number of bowties (oddly enough, I was one of the few girls in the room not wearing black). Free-flowing wine. Cute couples, including Palaver and his new girl, Palliative (it means, "to alleviate suffering," which she does. A sweetheart.) Dancing dancing dancing-even Poet and I danced together, an event probably rated about 50-1 on the Vegas board. *grin* Lots of cheerful flirting. The first time I've taken a drink since Preacher's birthday. Candy canes. Good cheer. You know...

And for the rest of the time, I've been studying art history. As of now, I've learned about Courbet's pretentious to the bourgeois, Rosetti's opium-addled wife, Cézanne's repressed sexuality, and the Impressionist anti-industry ethic. Don't you just love scholarly criticism? Sigh.

I guess the upshot is that I can identify a Whistler at 30 paces. (Yuck. Like I'd want to, or something.)

December 3, 1997.

I think Mr. Blonde has a new girl. No, I have not received real strong hints in this direction by anyone in the Brampton scene, but I can't write off my feeling to pure paranoia. But isn't that what all paranoiacs say? Sure.

Just think how crappy it would be to have an indissoluble psychic bond with someone who no longer wants anything to do with you. Blechh.

Anyway, on to slightly cheerier things.

I attended my morning 18th century literature class this morning against my body's STRONG objections...gah. I can't sleep through the night anymore. It's like I'm regressing to an infantile state. (Whaddaya mean, so what else is new?! Quiet, you.) But you don't skip the last class before the end-of-term-test.

So I dragged myself into class for our lively (at 10 am? Don't make me laugh) discussion on Pope's "Essay on Criticism." And my prof was actually feeling quite chatty on the way out, so that I was able to regain some of the social ground I lost a few weeks ago. Here I'm refering to the book fetching incedent, when I had every opportunity to be an interesting person & failed miserably.

I found myself talking about my summer of literature-how my personal home page had severely limited the amount of time I was able to spent reading the syllabus in advance. And how I had read Wuthering Heights at the worst possible time in my personal history. It is not productive to read perhaps the greatest example of frustrated romance in English literary history when you've just been dumped. Although Palaver thought it was amusing at the time.

My professor's advice was, "Think of yourself as Becky Sharp, rather than Catherine Earnshaw." (English major jokes. Is there anything they can't do?) And that, since I'd made it to his lecture, that I could feel free to skip every other class.

So I did. There's nothing like officially sanctioned slackerdom to make you feel...um...whatever. Yeah.

December 2, 1997.

Wow. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

I've never missed 4 consecutive days before. Hissy fits not included. Wow. I've almost forgotten what it's like to be hopelessly self-indulgent in an extremely public forum. Well, not quite...

Quite simply, I've been in hell. Make that Hell...I can't let a chance at a classical/literary/bullshit refrence go by, can I? Friday night I was in Brampton, dog-sitting and trying to study. Saturday night Sister Sunshine and I went dancing at the Savage Garden and had an amazing time, despite our late arrival (we usually get to clubs by 10 or so...but we didn't make the Garden until a little past midnight. Had to make it up by dancing past 2 am. You know how it is...) Tried to get the DJ Lord Pale (it's a goth club, ok?! Jeez...) to play some really early Nick Cave, but no dice. (I'm taken aback by the brilliance of the Birthday Party, his band in the 80's. If you like punk/goth/deconstructed noise, go get it RIGHT NOW.) Almost got picked up. Now there's a thrill and a half. The really cool-looking goths are too cool to talk to me, anyway. (Somehow they pick up the suggestion of my pink sundress that lurks in my black velvet lace-up ensemble. Don't ask me how.) I'm going to stop the parenthetical asides any time now...

Long story short (too late!), I've spent the last whack of days trying to study, cursing my schedule (not to mention humanity-so much for stopping the parenthetical asides, huh?) and writing end-of-term tests. I am in (let's pick a level at random now) the 8th level of Hell. Let me get out my Inferno...where does that place me...Fraud. The only cool people on this level are the diviners, astrologers & magicians, who have their heads turned around backwards, with tears running down to the crack of their ass. No, I'm not being crude. Dante is. I think I'd rather go back a bit and hang out with the sodomites. Bum rap, if you ask me...

Heh. That's what happens when you're cooped up in your room for days and the most interesting book is by Spider Robinson. You start to pun.