February 1998.

February 28, 1998.

"To most mortals there is a stupidity which is unendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable - else, indeed, what would become of social bonds?"

That quote has absolutely no bearing on the rest of the entry, other than the fact that I came across it today. Cuts like a double-bladed razor, don't it?

February 26, 1998.

"I wanna be a man, man-cub, and stroll right into town. And be just like the other men, I'm tired of monkeying around."

What a glorious sojourn in Brampton! (Boy, I never thought those words would come out of my keyboard any time soon...)

Today I had a contact lens fitting at The Mall, so I boogied on home yesterday afternoon in preparation. That was the responsible part of my actions. As for the irresponsible part, I called upon Dirk to come out & drink with me to celebrate the Wednesday. (Yesterday is a personal milestone anniversary for me, and I was loathe to spend it at home with my well-worn copy of Middlemarch) And it was awesome (not that I expected anything less).

I love getting together with him. Our nights out always follow the exact same pattern. We go someplace, order food or beer or coffee or whatever, then tell each other amusing anecdotes until they kick us out. Also, it's cool to talk to someone as dippy as I am (and I mean that in the best possible way, really I do!) There's nothing better than trading stories about falling asleep, forgetting about shampoo, or otherwise tuning out on life in mid-stream, as it were.

Today was another glorious sunny day...it really seems like spring is coming early to this part of the world. The combination of new contact lenses, a free afternoon, a car, a head-full of fresh air and Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" on the radio infected me with wanderlust. So instead of taking the turning towards home on my way back from The Mall, I just kept going...

I've always wanted to do that.

I went north on Dixie until I got past the suburban housing developments, into the farmland where well-to-do folks build ornate monstrosities that blend into the scenery as well as a wealthy dowager in a 3 Stooges flick. Past that was the real farms, the horse ranches and such...real trees, real animals, real everything. I drove until the road ended. Then I turned around & drove back, trying to discover if I could get the car past the maximum speed on the speedometer. (Evidence...inconclusive. I was too afraid of hitting playing children & horse riders to really crank it.)

Still haven't figured out what to give up for Lent, despite the powerful Ash Wednesday service I attended last night (wore my ashes into the bar, as well. Is that a sin? And if so, which part?) Dirk suggested that I give up the Internet. Can't even imagine.

February 24, 1998.

As today is Fat Tuesday, I felt it my duty to eat as many fatty foods as possible, to not exercise, and just generally to feel the fat working in me without trying to resist its' progress.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and I need to figure out something to give up. I'm already off the seeds. Potato chips don't comprise as much of my diet as they used to. And I could easily give up ice cream...too easily, I think. Maybe I should give up the company of boys. That would suck, though, and I don't think it would help my spiritual state.

Maybe I should just bite the bullet & give up drinking & partying. Or (gasp!) drinking diet coke. Do I have the heart to do that to the people around me, though? What a horrible person I'd be (yeah, yeah...compared to what, I know).

"Acid on the floor, so she walks on the ceiling. This place is death with walls!"

Just as I put on the Sisters song that I always borrowed off of Palaver this summer, he walks in the door wearing the jacket he bought at Good Will By the Pound 3 weeks ago...and after having the jacket cleaned & the lining sewn up, it looks fabulous. Makes him look like a Damon Runyan-esque gangster...which you must realize is the highest compliment I can pay at this point. (I looked for Damon Runyan links, but all I found were Ultra-Conservative American think-tanks which don't mention the man at all. It's just too creepy...and so you'll have to do your own homework for once!)

Well, I killed that midterm.

The only problem I see is that I'm going to bomb out on the subjective points, since I don't agree with my prof, and she hates me too much to give my views consideration. I'm serious...she fucking resents any breath she has to spend on me & my ideas...which is particularly frustrating in a class where we analyze poetry in the most superficial, high-school fashion, and my 3rd year English Specialist notions of poetry are ignored.

Anyway. I hope you don't think I'm having histrionics. I mean, I am, but no more than usual. I've never been one to use "the prof hates me" as an excuse...in fact, I'm not much on excuses in general. I have the potential to ace every single test, I just usually don't take the time. It's not like I'm taking intuitive courses that leave me in the cold. It's just...

Nothing. Never mind. I'll get over it in a few hours.

February 23, 1998.

"You run for cover in the Temple of Love, you run for another, it's all the same, but the black winds come & carry it all away..."

"Love is a vampire, drunk on your blood."

My experience in reading my young 17-year-old diary has made me realize something central to my character, which is that I'm entirely fueled by love. I only wish that it were the kind of grand all-encompassing love that moves the heaven & the earth, or that embraces every living thing with perfect equanimity, but it's not. No, my dears, I'm powered by a pettier love. A (gasp!) romantic, squishy sort of love that makes me write bad poetry and stay up all night talking to a boy when I really shouldn't. (The really interesting thing is that squishy love is a terrible muse for me. I've never written a good, happy love poem. But my betrayed, fuck-you poetry has always been surprisingly excellent).

I'm always in love, usually with more than one person at a time. Mostly, these "episodes" take the form of harmless crushes that live fast & die young, with only the occasional crush deepening into something distracting and serious. Even when I was deeply in love with Mr. Blonde, I still developed weird little infatuations with the guys around me. There are so many reasons to be in love, and it's how I keep interested in the world.

But the flip side of this is that when it goes badly, I get hurt very easily. And not only are my tender, budding emotions damaged, but my pride is also hurt, leading to anger, contempt, bitterness, and even hatred. If there are a million reasons to be in love, there are also a million reasons to be angry. Sometimes everything gets mixed up, and I feel an equal amount of bitterness & tenderness for the same person.

A prime example of this is Mr. Blonde. I still love him, and I always will. I miss his silly jokes, and I miss trusting him to always be there in the rough moments. I hate doing things by myself that I know he would enjoy. I want him to be happy. But at the same time, I resent that he won't ever call me if I don't call him first. I resent that he'll never give me the chance to make up for some of the horrible things I've done to him. I resent how quickly he moved on. I resent the lies he felt he had to tell me when we broke up. I resent that he'll never trust me again. And aside from all of this, I resent that he reads this diary, and that he lurks and takes all of what I have to say without offering anything in return. Above all, I resent that he makes me monologue, instead of dialogue.

But while the bitterness has won out for the last few months, I'm now realizing that I choose it, inasmuch as I can choose anything to do with emotions. I don't have to hate. I can just love & be done. And I think that's the only way I can hose down my soul, and free it from the tarry crap that's been gunking it up ever since last year. Maybe the Beatles were right, maybe all you need is love.

It's too bad this internal state isn't reflected in the real world. I mean, I feel like I've had a major attitude turn-around ever since this weekend, and it's very tiresome when some of my more contentious friends fail to see the truth deep in my eyes -- that I've magnanimously forgiven them their myriad faults. And they continue to act as tiresome as they did before I had this attitude readjustment. I just can't stand it, sometimes.

(That paragraph was heavily ironic, in case you're wondering. Well, mostly ironic.)

Well, I really should go now. I have a midterm in Middle Eastern lit tomorrow, and I haven't begun to study. But then again, it's only worth 10% (she cheerfully rationalized). To paraphrase Grampa Simpson, I cough up stuff worth more than 10%.

February 21, 1998.

Today a special day for 2 reasons; first, it's my brother's 20th birthday (hooray!), and secondly, it's the one year anniversary of my tattoo (yay!)

Of course, all this momentousness has made me maudlin (couldn't have predicted that one, hmmm?), so that I spent a good chunk of the evening going through the really personal stuff in my bureau. There's one drawer where I keep my old diaries, rolls of film, and various sentimental knick-knacks. I found some cool stuff...my favorites were the very adolescent poems that I wrote deep in the throes of puppy love, a letter that Poet wrote to me last year that I treasured inordinately for months, and a long list of things to do before I die which I wrote when I was seventeen. Sadly, I have only accomplished 4 of my 243 goals:

• to spend a week being perfect and a week being wildly irresponsible
• to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show at a midnight showing
• to sit at the grown-ups table for once
• to go into a pet store & cause a fish frenzy in every tank

February 20, 1998.

Tonight I went dancing with Sister Sunshine. So once again, the night was filled with beautiful fey boys and girls with washboard stomachs. I, on the other hand, looked strung out, if a trifle chubby - a plump tweeker, if you will - and the Sister just looked exasperated. She didn't want to do goth tonight, as neither of us were really dressed for it (besides the fact that we're getting into a goth rut), but our only other option was the Dance Cave. So we spent 2 hours at the Cave, trying to convince ourselves that it didn't suck, before we gave up & went to Savage Garden (just like we always do). Actually, our pissed off headache expressions probably made us fit in a lot better than a happy grin would've. So it's just as well.

February 19, 1998.

"Do you think that girls are...y'know...thinking something?" - dance me outside

I can't believe that today is Thursday, and that it's practically over already. Where did the freaking week go? And I'm only 50 pages into Middlemarch, the one book I absolutely had to read this week. Sigh.

Spent yesterday night & most of today in Sister Sunshine's basement, watching Swingers and the Frank Sinatra-Marlon Brando-Stubby Kaye version of Guys & Dolls. It was a pretty neat 20 hours, all told. The great thing about being in Sister Sunshine's basement, is that we're allowed to lie about for hours, watch stupid music videos, dance to inappropriate songs and talk about boys ad nauseum. It's so...girlie. I love it.

I know that I go on & on about girlie-ness, but you must understand how much I defined myself with male friendships before last year. It's not that I never had great girlfriends before university, because I did...but girlie-ness just wasn't our schtick. Maybe it was out of deference to Mr. Shoreleave...if you're around a another girl's guy 24-7, you can't act girlie without looking like you're making a play for him. Which is not the best course of action is you want to remain friends with the girl...

February 17, 1998.

February 16, 1998.

"Just how much I've embarrassed myself, well, I haven't got a clue. Did I throw a drink in your face or tell you how much I love you?"

This morning I loaded up the CD player with all of the CD's I brought home & set the thing on "random" to avoid the tedium of full albums. Keeping in mind that I have very little use for people who go on & on about how diverse their record collections are, I must say nonetheless that I was uncharacteristically proud of my eclecticism. (Good for me. Pat on the back, there.) L7's latest album is jostled in with the classic Tom Waits disc "Small Change," which is next to Tori Amos' "Under the Pink" (an album I always associate with Aphrodite and Cordelia dancing in the halls and my raging madness of last year). Tori's making friendly overtures to the Lost Highway soundtrack, and a purloined copy of the Talking Heads greatest hits finished out the circuit.

Wow. How cool is that? It's a conglomeration of Taste that's risen up from years of weird friends & unstinting devotion to the local "alternative" radio station, and is relatively unique to me...all of my friends like at least one artist currently revolving in my CD player, but no one to whole-heartedly enjoys them all.

February 15, 1998.

I've only been home for 7 hours, and I'm already close to going postal. Can't concentrate on my favorite diaries when my father's snoring is competing with dumb-ass American sitcom for noise dominance. I'm this close to developing a nervous tick.

I actually watched the X-Files tonight, but only because it was written by William Gibson. Sure, I wasn't too fond of Neuromancer, but I had hoped that sf's wunderkind could inject some intelligence into what has been an incredibly lame season. Sure enough, it was an uncharacteristically watchable episode. But my favorite part was the frequent use of the song "Twilight Time" for no apparent reason. I've been in love with that song ever since it became the background to the sexiest scene in movie history - that is, the bathtub scene in Blood & Donuts. Rowr.

Decided to map out my required reading for this week, to figure out how much I had to get done per day. And since I only brought home texts for Victorian Fiction, I figured it would be a pretty easy week for me. We'll ignore for the time being that I'm 5 weeks behind in Islamic readings for 'the Eastern Tradition,' and I have a midterm in the course the Tuesday I get back-not to mention that I never finished the chapter on Picasso for my modern art history class (i.e. the chapter on "Mr. Modern Art").

If I read 300 pages a day, I should be done this week. 300 pages a day of prose that's so dry, so boring that hours of forced exposure to it should be prohibited by the Geneva convention. But I'm currently 3 books behind in this course, and if I don't get them read, I might as well drop out now. Not to mention that my Victorian Lit professor actively has it in for me, and seems to be determined to have me fail the next essay. Snarl. I'm just doomed.

If only I'd done some work between Christmas vacation and now.

If only I'd bought Lavengro.

If only I had my handcuffs to cheer me up.

If only we were among friends...or sane persons.

Argh.

February 14, 1998.

Today was an awesome day to be in residence.

It's Saturday & most everybody's gone home for reading week, so we can feel free to crank the music to an unrespectable & unsociable level, just like we did in September. Across the hall, Ben was making a mixed tape, so we listened to Beatles, Talking Heads, the Verve, the Cardigans, etc...while Aegis blasted my Björk album, and I chimed in with Tom Waits...it was so cool. Spent the whole afternoon just hanging out, talking on the phone, & answering email in the cold sunlight creeping in from my window.

Took my $4 handcuffs out of the box today. Sister Sunshine & I bought them with her father's money back on Fireball day...and they're an awful lot of fun. I spent a long time playing with the release function, and seeing if I could cuff my hands behind my back and still get out myself...keeping the door open, of course, so that if I got into trouble I could call Ben over to rescue me. I'd never live that one down, I can tell you... And then I took them down to the common room to play with Judith, Aegis & Jenn. They cuffed me to the chandelier & took pictures. It was cool, although I was wearing long-sleeved chaste collegiate wear. Maybe that's the most twisted thing about it, hmmm?

February 13, 1998.

"Put some pants on so I can kick your butt."

This is the first episode of Greek Drama written on the road, as it were. Yes, kidlings, today's drama comes to you straight from the swinging pad of Tiger Lily & Cranly (who are trying to concentrate on Charlton Heston's speech in Branagh's Hamlet as I type this). Tiger Lily has been awfully disappointed in my writing gap for the last couple of days, especially since we've been spending a lot of time together lately, and she loves to appear here. It makes me laugh when she & Palaver upbraid me for not providing a thorough account of their own parts in my life. As if this diary was the local society page, or something.

Actually, this is the society pages among a certain percentage of my readers, most notably Tiger Lily, Palaver & Poet. Then there's the parental demographic, to which I've made mention of before, namely Tiger Lily's mother and Trotski's father. There's the percentage who are keeping me under covert surveillance, like Mr. Blonde (just admit it, you goober.) And then there's Anluan, a U of T friend who knows enough about me for our rare face-to-face meetings to be ever-so-slightly creepy in their depth.

"It's a madhouse! A MADHOUSE!!!!"

Tonight was my first viewing of that infamous B-movie classic "Planet of the Apes." I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to bring away from the movie...maybe that those with blindingly white teeth are inevitably headed for a fall. And that the most attractive female traits in the future will be big pouty eyes and no speech whatsoever.

Wow. I'm being so crusty, I guess that my comments are influenced by the fact that I fell asleep during the trial scene, and only woke up in time for the Statue of Liberty climax. Apparently, they did make a monkey out of him...he he he. But I'm not the only one. We all seem to be yelling at each other for no particular reason -- I suppose that we're stressed by the inevitable downfall of our ape future.

Wow. We really need some sleep.

February 9, 1998.

*sniff* *coff* *sniff* *hack* *sniff-sniff-SNIFFFFF* *blow* *caff-caff* *sigh*

I'm getting worse. It sucks. Tiger Lily took one look at me when I stumbled into Victorian Fiction class this morning, armed with a rapidly-diminishing kleenex box and a second-hand copy of George Eliot's Adam Bede, and declared something along the lines of, "you should be in bed. Go back home, silly girl." Unfortunately, I had a modern art test at 4 p.m. this afternoon, so I was required to be upright & thinking relatively clearly for an insane portion of the day. How much does this suck? Answer: a great deal, thank you very much.

"The fundamental things apply...as time...goes by..."

Tonight I saw Casablanca for the first time. I understand modern culture so much better now. Yes, I know it's shameful for me to have lived this long without seeing Casablanca. What can I say? There are some eccentric gaps in my media experience. For example, I've never read Dracula, despite my rabid vampire phase during high-school. But I digress.

I must say, I was surprised at the amount of wit in the script, as the movie is generally sold as romance. (Pardon me, I mean Romance. The capitalization is very important.) I think my surprise has something to do with the general lack of dialogue quality in most modern movies. This is why all my friends & I freaked out over Clerks. Frightfully clever dialogue is my passion.

But back to capital-r-Romance. I remember seeing The English Patient last year, and thinking that it was the epitome of the swooning Romance that I wanted in my life (I had not yet argued with Poet or become disillusioned with the idea of Romance). I guess I'm pretty burned out on the idea of Romance all together, so that I ended up cringing during some of the most beautiful Bogart/Bergman scenes. I was actually much more affected by the Marseilles scene than any other...the sight of that silly French chorus girl crying & shouting "Vive la France!" brought tears to my eyes.

Yeah, yeah. My defenses are low, okay? Watching Casablanca in a roomful of people is a lot like a funeral, actually...you're all worked up & ready to cry, but you don't want to cry, but you kind of feel like you should... It's a silly metaphor, but it works for me (and that's all that matters in this crazy old world...)

February 8, 1998.

I'm deeply sunk in post-Fireball depression.

I know it could be worse. Last year at this time, I was ranting at Preacher, then bursting into tears due to a deadly emotional combination of an awesome Fireball, too many love interests, a paralyzing hang-over and no sleep for the previous 36 1/2 hours. At least this year I'm reasonably well-rested and blessedly serene about who I should be in love with. I guess my expectations were a bit too high, that's all. Besides the fact that residence on Fireball eve is a very depressing place to be, as 90% of my fellows were assuredly getting it on with either a significant other up for the weekend or a drunken date. The halls were eerily quiet at 4 a.m. How considerate.

The party was pretty good, as these things go. Sister Sunshine & I took off for Kensington Market in the late afternoon, ostensibly to find her a dress to justify the large amount of cash her father had trusted her with. But we ended up getting our hair done with the money, at this super-cool joint called "the Poison Ivy." There's something really neat about walking into a hairdresser late in the day, and requesting "cocktail hair." It confirmed that I have well & truly begun to live my life in the service of kitsch. Where's John Waters when you really need a date, I ask you.

But we came out real cool. SS had a bunch of wild curls, and I had a little blonde helmet. It was awesome. My mom is going to laugh so hard when she sees the pictures...and so will you people, come to think.

The best thing about the clothing worn to Fireball is that it is almost impossible to out-shine every other guest there. Prom gowns, nice as they may be, just don't cut it at this level. By the same token, kitschy dresses make a moderate, but noticeable splash. Sequins were definitely on the cutting edge this year, but boas didn't have the impact they usually do. I didn't bring mine, which I think made me stand out all the more (8 chix in Ferg alone had boas of differing shades). Palaver cut a dashing figure in his father-of-the-bride tux ensemble, as did Aegis. I am extremely gratified that I helped them to shop for it all. As for the good-looking chix...I won't even get started. All of my friends looked divine, and there's not enough space to map out the intricacies of dress which each one would have been granted in these pages on a lesser occasion.

I never quite made it to the roof this year, as the security force was called in just before I had a chance to climb the first ladder. So that was a great big drag. But I had fun schmoozing with my UC friends, and generally dancing up a storm with SS & Palaver all night long. Dancing with Tiger Lily was also fun, as we had to be constantly on the lookout for certain gentlemen who insistently macked on her, despite her efforts to avoid them. Well, maybe fun is the wrong word. But it certainly was interesting, she has to give me that.

Saw Trotski & the Lawyer at various points during the night, and was taken aback by the realization that I didn't have a thing to say to either of them. Maybe it's because we see each other so often lately. But whatever the reason, it was a depressing thing to realize in the middle of the swinging-est party UC has to offer my set.

And today I've been trying half-heartedly to study modern art for tomorrow's test, while pondering the cause of my depression. Maybe it's because I didn't see anyone naked. Maybe it's because I wasn't drunk enough to achieve last year's plateau of mindless enjoyment. Or maybe it's just because I'm lonely, dammit, and I miss loving & being loved.

February 6, 1998.

I had a really good day today. Maybe because the sun was shining, maybe because I got to sleep an extra hour, maybe because I spent most of it with Tiger Lily, or maybe because I remembered all my dreams well into the morning.

This is not usual for me. I tend to forget my dreams in the stress of awakening & figuring out why exactly I have to be awake at this time. Last night I had a dream about the Cure and a bunch of goths. I love dreaming about goths...in my subconscious, they're all hyper-realistic, like comic book characters in shades of pure black & white. And they have the greatest shoes...

I was actually writing poetry in this dream, but it sucked. I really can't write verse without conscious control. I wish that something like "Kubla Khan" could happen to me, but it can't. Rats.

Fireball approaches...

And right on cue, I'm getting sick. Rats. This sucks. I'm going to have to carry a purse stuffed with soggy kleenex on the most glamorous night of the year. But this doesn't mean that I will forgo this year's trip to the tower roof, despite any toll taken on my health, my reputation, or my clothing (which got totally trashed last year. 'Never wear stockings and no shoes when you walk through a dusty attic,' shall be this year's motto, I believe.)

Just went to the second floor to test out Judith's mascara (I become more & more girlie the closer I get to Fireball, don't cha know...) She wasn't in, or she was getting it on & not answering her door, which is a constant subtext of res life. So I went to talk to Brian instead.

He's such a cool guy...athletic, funny, flirtatious & a good dancer. In fact he's more or less the perfect boy, his perfection only somewhat marred by the fact that he's gay. Rats. Actually, in some ways, this improves our conversation, since boyfs are boyfs no matter which way you slice 'em, and we have a lot more common ground in that respect than I do with heterosexual boys like Aegis.

Miscellany:

February 5, 1998.

"Sun, don't rise. Sun, don't shine. Don't bring tomorrow to justify tonight!"

Well, I'm officially a blonde now.

I had to even out my roots in preparation for Saturday's Fireball, and my cousin's fiancée did a first-class job in matching my roots to the length. This is a lot harder than it sounds, because the length isn't precisely any colour at all...it's the result of the "permanent" red dye-job of my birthday washing into a sort of strawberry blonde colour. Now I'm all one colour, and I've begun to wonder if blondes really do have more fun...have to do some research into it.

I discussed my hair plans last night with some res folk last night, including Alex, who's a tall, skinny blonde engineer. He's an adorable kid. When I told them I was dying it blonde, he chirped, "so then you'll look like me!" Just to tease him, I specifically asked my cousin's fiancée for "Alex Ceponkus blonde." Unfortunately, everybody wants to look like Alex for Fireball, so she was all out of that colour (or so I told him when I got back...)

Well, enough about my hair. I haven't even begun to talk about the last couple of days, and they were pretty cool...

On Tuesday, I took Aegis to Courage My Love to outfit him for the Fireball. We ended up with a pleated tux shirt, gray tails, and a cummerbund/bowtie combination in purple lurex!!! He looks awesome and his girlfriend (Judith) approves, which is always a worry when you shop with another woman's man. The best thing about the outfit is that it doesn't futilely try to disguise his lanky 6'7" frame...it actually elongates it. The total effect is stunning.

Tiger Lily met us there, and since it was her first time in Courage, we stayed there until closing trying on dresses & such. Then we went to visit Palaver (who lives about 5 minutes away from Kensington), and as a group ventured to the Good Will Buy the Pound. It was, of course, awesome. I found a black lace-trimmed camisole and purple velvet blazer; and having just washed them, I'm wearing them as I type this. It's pretty shagadelic.

For the rest of the night, we camped out at Tiger Lily & Cranly's place, cooking, watching The Hunger and reading children's stories to one another. Next morning I went straight to class, as has become my weekly custom (although, unlike last Friday, I wasn't hung-over enough to actively seek my own death) But I think I upstaged even myself this week, as Wednesday morning I was carried Lilith, my big teddy bear, around with me. My 18th century English literature professor actually stopped the lecture when I came in, waited till Lilith & I had found a seat, remarked "we have a guest today," and only then continued to teach.

I like my 18th century English lit professor so much, for reasons I find hard to describe. Maybe it's because he accepts every comment I make as if I was an intellectual peer. Maybe it's because he knows all about St. Agnes Day. Maybe it's because he's got a good, deep poetry reading voice. Maybe it's because I passed him one Friday night on Queen Street West, pushing a baby carriage. Or maybe it's because he finds it more surprising when I waltz into class with a stuffed animal than when I walk in wearing full lace-up goth regalia.

February 2, 1998.

"I put a spell on you because you're mine.
I can't stand the things that you do when you're fooling around
I don't care if you don't want me, 'cause I'm yours yours yours anyhow.
I love you, I love you.
I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you...yeah yeah yeah!!!

God. He's so right...

I haven't felt this way about a song since last spring when I first heard Tori Amos' "Cloud On My Tongue" ("Leave me the way I was before...I don't need much to keep me warm...you're already in me...I'll be wearing your tattoo..."). There's a special frission when a song perfectly expresses your state of mind. Of course, it's nice when the song is a lovely Tori track, but sometimes my mood is perfectly expressed by an ugly Marilyn Manson scream-fest. They're both about obsessive love, after all.

Is it love when you feel it like a fist in your chest? Is it love when you can barely keep from bursting into tears every second you're with him? Or is it just my old friend hysteria?

I'm getting goddamn tired of the Lawyer jokingly trying to convince me to have sex with inappropriate people. First it was Sister Sunshine. He remained unmoved by my reply that the two of us are heterosexual, responding, "see how much you two have in common?" That was kind of funny. But now he's trying Preacher.

It's not fucking funny. I don't appreciate it when he's getting his friends at tea to try to bribe me with sub cards and items of similar value. I don't appreciate the fact that I seem to have become an item of sexual bartering. I don't appreciate the fact that my character is trampled upon in casual conversation.

And if I say anything, he'll just act all exasperated, and ask why I can't take a joke. It's THE MOST FRUSTRATING THING IN THE WORLD!!!!

(Wow. Talk about your venting.)

I can feel all my nasty emotions building to a fever pitch. Jealousy, anger, bitterness...wow, it's gonna be a real fun Fireball if this keeps up. Just found out that Sister Sunshine's new girl is going, which makes me rather upset. Can't I have one fucking social event alone with SS? For fuck's sake...

Rrrrrr. I'm so fucking jealous. The only other people who could possibly show up to the Fireball to make it worse for me would be Mr. Blonde & Mr. Shoreleave. I think I would flee in screaming horror if such a thing happened, no matter how much free wine I'd consumed. I simply can't carry around that much emotional baggage while I'm wearing high-heeled shoes.

February 1, 1998.

Fuckin' Geocities.

I am not pleased. First they eat my webpage, then it comes back without most of the graphics! I picked up some of them from websites that no longer exist, so I'm quite glad that they showed up like tardy luggage. I'm really sorry if this was your first visit to my page, and all the broken images frustrated you. I didn't mean it to look so crappy...

In other news, there was another res party at Fung last night. This one was called the Groove. It was like going to a dance club that I would never go to, with music I wouldn't put on my stereo to test out my speakers...but in Fung, which makes all the difference, I suppose. Got all dressed up like beatnik and pretended to be Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle in my new LBD and a stray beret that I grabbed from home.

It was fun dancing with Aphrodite & Tiger Lily, but at the same time, it kind of wasn't, because they can dance so much better than I can, and I'm in one of my egocentric "admire me!" phases right now. And they often dance in a provocatively sapphic manner, which gets all the attention of the surrounding boys (as well it should). Sigh. My girlfriends are the queens of provocative dancing. Men, women, whatever...if you catch their eye, they'll be all over you. I especially enjoyed watching Tiger Lily dance with Rocco to that ultra-sex Usher song.