July 1997.

July 31, 1997.

Yesterday I planned out a very serious entry that I knew I would never get to write.

It was to be about restraint, old resolutions, new restrictions, and the irony of some situations which I am currently involved in.

But instead, I'm going to talk about Marilyn Manson.

Yesterday night, "Spawn" had it's premier showing in Toronto. Palaver had won tickets from CFNY (without even knowing why he was calling), but he'd bailed, as a money situation had come up. (Palaver is excused from all bailing that results from Acts of God, Acts of Finance, and Acts of Simone.) So I ventured into the city with Sister Sunshine, intent on using tickets to a movie that I wasn't even excited about. The key words you're to remember here are: comic book, Canadian, and FREE.

It being the premier and all, the director, producer, special effects manager, and Todd McFarlane, the creator were all allowed to make incredibly long-winded speeches and greet their relatives in the audience. And, as a weird coincidence, one of the major bands on the soundtrack just happened to be in town for a show tomorrow, and just happened to be in the audience.

Yup, you guessed it: Marilyn Manson actually sat through a cheesy comic movie in the same theatre as myself.

I have sort of odd feelings about the band. My opinion is rather strong concerning people who manipulate the media to create press (stand up and take a freakin' bow, Madonna) -- and the typical Marilyn Manson fan drives me batty. They tend to be 14 or 15 years old, extroverted, and as innocent of original thoughts as your average MP. They represent all the worst things about the latest wave of goth culture - membership in the subculture is entirely based on appearence, most don't realize that there was goth Before Reznor, and they embrace a lot of mushy-headed Satanistic/hedonistic/spiritualism without a good reason. I know there are a lot of fans who don't fit that description - Sister Sunshine, Dream, Aphrodite, Palaver and myself are varying distances form the stereotype. But still. There's only so many times I can accept cape-and-fishnet clad kids from the suburbs giving me scornful glances because I don't look like part of the Manson family (so to speak). I dunno.

Maybe it's just a reaction against the next generation of youth. That would mean that I'm just getting too old to appreciate blind devotion to rock n' roll...

But in any case, I've been listening to Aphrodite's copy of "Portrait of an American Family" a lot since Cake & Sodomy weekend, and I've gotten past my initial dislike. Mush like Sloan's feelings about Consolodated, "it's not the band I hate, it's their fans..." (I was even considering going to tonight's concert. But I'm too freaking tired, due to last night's festivities. I'll just watch Mr. Manson on "Politically Incorrect" tonight, play the album real loud, and mumble "next motherfucker's gonna get my metal," to myself every once in awhile. It's cheaper and much less annoying than listening to some bozo scream out "SWEET DREEEEEEMMS!!!" over and over beside me.)

"Isn't it a little early for Hallowe'en, [Spawn]?"
"Where you're going, every day is Hallowe'en..."
- clever dialogue between Spawn and the Evil Leather Bitch

So I was more than star-struck when we figured out what the guy in front of us was hollering about. Sister Sunshine & I immediately went over to surreptitiously gawk, & I was rewarded by raised eyebrows from Mr. Manson himself. I didn't know whether to be excited or pissed off that he gave me the exact same look all his fans do. Well, at least there was eye-contact. And we got to watch the band's reaction to the incredibly long-winded speeches of the creators. (Seeing all those freaks politely clapping as McFarlane's grandmother stood up was a unique experience, lemme tell you!)

After the movie, I tried to speak to the band, but I got the same "no autographs" announcement from Mr. Security, and I couldn't make eye-contact with anyone other than the bald one (I think his name's Madonna Wayne Gacy). The fact that they wouldn't even acknowledge that I was speaking...well, I could understand it. Like it or not, they're one of the most famous bands on the planet, and they're one of the few bands who's popularity is not entirely dependent upon their fan base. If every Marilyn Manson fan disappeared off the face of the earth this very second, they'd still have religious types on their backs, warning the grown-up masses of the new rock n' roll menace. So they can afford to ignore me. But I still felt embarrassed for them.

"Why does God get all the good recruits, and we get all the retards?"
- the Clown (Satan's lieutenant)

On the way home, Sister Sunshine & I amused ourselves by speculating on the interpersonal relationships within the band. Do you think that it'd be as good as your job as a musician if you made fun of Mr. Manson's lack of chin? The Clown is a short, bald fat character - much like Madonna Wayne Gacy - do you think that the other members were leaning over and teasing him? ("Hey man, look! It's you!" "Shut up, Twiggy.") We titled our speculations "Marilyn Manson Follies"...sounds like a great sitcom. I'd watch it...think Fox'll pick it up for the new season?

And on a non-Marilyn Manson note, for thine amusement, I have written a short & frothy fairy tale. Dig it, babies.

July 29, 1997.

The weirdest thing has been going on with my Big Sugar list server.

I've been lurking on it for a couple of months, and thus have become quite adept at skimming & trashing the infinite number of messages that read: "Just saw BS for the first time in [pick Canadian town]. Wow! They fuckin' rock! My ears are still ringing! Gordie's such a god/babe [depending on gender of writer]. Woo!"

Don't get me wrong...I'm sure they're all interesting and valuable people, God love 'em. But the amount of star-struck messages is just incredible. Maybe I'm just jaded. I've been a fan for years, and I've seen the band enough times for the novelty to wear off somewhat. Not that I don't want Gordie. But who doesn't? And I digress...

Lately, however, there have been a bunch of long, well-thought out messages to the server, messages which allude to concerts I've been to and ideas about Big Sugar that I've discussed with real life friends. So I get all excited, until I get to the signature line...

It's Poet, of course.

d'oh.

Well, I should've guessed. I knew he was on the list. And I recognize his style (how could I not?)...so why am I such a fuckin' idiot when the messages are filtered through the server???

I learned about the neatest-sounding Catholic event today:

First Reconciliation.

Apparently, it's a ceremony that takes place a year after First Communion, and it incorporates First Confession. First Reconciliation. I think that's where some Protestants miss the point of Confession...yes, it can represent a purchase of Grace, but, like Communion, it also represents a meeting with God, when He forgives you & renews your personal covenant...

It's a beautiful concept. I wish that it could be applied to certain aspects of my life. Like when I'm fighting with Preacher, or that Catholic School Boy, Poet, I'd really appreciate a neutral meeting where we could work through the issues & renew our friendship without either party losing face.

Hmmm...this was a rather mystical train of thought. Perhaps I should direct you to Nova Notes at this point, so the theological debate could continue...or not.

New poem! New poem! New...oh, forget it.

July 28, 1997.

Yes, my loves, I'm back. Thanks to everyone who offered me support and helpful suggestions when they found out I was nuking this thing. I just needed to cool off for awhile and set some boundaries for myself. I've decided that this project is a worthy one, but it can only survive with certain modifications:

1. I am not going to upload any more entries when I am not in my right mind. This includes intoxication & extreme surliness brought on by lack of sleep.
2. I'm not going to include any more statements like "you know who you are -- fuck you." It's not fair to the 95% of people in my life whom I am not feuding with. It makes them confused & pissed off -- and well they should be.
3. There will be no more entries about Catholic School Girls. Unless there are.

"Hello Daddy, hello Mom, I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!"- Joan Jett

It was a very good weekend. But they usually are in T.O. Perhaps it lacked the sheer drama of "Cake & Sodomy" weekend. There were no incidents of excessive drunkenness or mysterious appearances/disappearances. But there was home-made gnocchi. And that's pretty...um...dramatic...or...something...

Speaking of food, it's positively obscene how much I eat when I'm in the city. All of my hosts are extremely un-neurotic about eating, which is a big change from high-school. The only reason I was able to slim down to my "ideal weight" when I was 17 (without the sheer madness of an exercise program) was that we never ate. No breakfast, a sandwich & Diet Coke for lunch, a cookie after school, and dinner. And one fuck of a lot of walking from place to place. This weekend I walked so much that my feet are all torn up, but the sheer amount of food consumed more than makes up for it. (There's a name for the way I feel when I experience this kind of lifestyle...starts with a 'c'...oh, yeah, contentment. Go fig.

The only bad thing about going up to the city (now that the feud's over) is that it reminds me of just how much happiness I'm giving up this summer by attempting to make that first tuition payment. Responsibility sure leaves a bitter taste sometimes. Or maybe that's all the caffeine I consume. Whatever.

"There's 3 effects of excessive drug use. One is reduced long-term memory. Another is reduced short-term memory. And I'll be damned if I can remember the third."- Timothy Leary

I had a transcendent caffeine experience this weekend. On Friday night, Tiger Lily & I decided to set out to the Green Room on a whim. We got all dressed up and called Palaver, who also made a stellar wardrobe effort (Palaver's the only guy I know who wears a bow-tie & carries a handkerchief - and isn't gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.) The Green Room is one of those cultured coffee shops that overly-pretentious suburbanites like me always wanted to frequent instead of the local Timmie's. At 1 am on Friday night (Saturday morning?), it's especially interesting. I saw my poet friend Tymothi J for the first time in months - how's that for intellectual serendipity? And it was there that I passed a milestone in my tea-drinking career...

I had a small pot of rosehip tea.

I highly recommend it to all fellow caffeine-addicts. Not only was it delicious, but it was so invigorating that I regressed (ascended?) to a Delirium-like 7-year-old persona. That is, until the effects wore off. Which is the problem with transcendent drug experiences. They're so...er...transient.

We played a really cool game on Saturday night. I'll explain it, but you'll think it's lame. So did I, when I had it explained to me.

It goes like this: you need 4 players in 2 teams. Each player has 8 slips of paper. On each slip of paper, the player writes down a name - it can be famous, fictional or personal. Then they're all thrown into a hat (or in our case, a fondue pot), and one player pulls out a name at random, then tries to make their partner guess it. Each team gets one minute per turn, and you accumulate points until all the slips are used up.

All right, I know that sounds real boring. But trust me, once you get into it, it's fucking hilarious. For instance, I pulled "Godot" out of the pot:

Me: you're waiting for him.
Palaver: Hitler?

Since you know your partner's identity beforehand, one strategy is to pick names specific to the two of you. Since Tiger Lily and her best friend Miranda were partners, they picked a lot of Classical composers. I was feeling particularly bloody-minded, and so wrote down a bunch of obscure Neil Gaiman characters. Tiger Lily wrote down "[Poet]," which made me laugh so hard that I almost lost the rest of my turn. It was mostly the clues: "That poet guy. The one you hate..."

(And just to clear up some confusion, I do not hate Poet. We have not begun fighting again. Well, I haven't checked my email tonight, so perhaps. But not right this second, at least.)

"So paint your face in black & white..."- the Cure

Finally, I had no less than three bogus God In An Alcove sightings over the last few days. The best one was some shirtless guy on a bicycle, riding down Bloor West in the middle of the night. Not enough artfully placed metal on his face, tho'...*sigh*

July 21, 1997.

I feel MUCH better today. I guess good-natured flirting will do the trick, every time.

"Laughing as the lies unfold...I've...lost...all..control..."- Tea Party

Last night, I became aware of a quality at work within my recent decisions which I had forgotten I possessed:

Restraint.

I find myself actually considering alternatives, instead of "deciding" to blindly rush into whatever feels best. It's weird. It's unexpected. And it's very, very welcome. Although my new resolve hasn't been tested yet, I think it'll do okay in the real world. And if not, I've made some complicated vows to help motivate me.

Things like: "If I become romantically involved with one of my friends, I must become romantically involved with ALL of my friends, within the week, without exception." That means you, too, Sister Sunshine.

Another is: "If I further muddy the settling state of affairs in my circle by going crazy, falling in love, or otherwise fucking up, I must switch my major to Accounting."

It's kind of like the Glossette/pellet reward system Tiger Lily devised during the Great Job Search. Except this time, it's conditioning through threats. I forget what that kind of conditioning is called - jeez, can you tell that I used to be a Psychology Major??

"You have the right to remain silent..."

"I choose to waive that right. BLLLAAAAHHHH!! BBBBBZNNAAAA!"

- the Simpsons

July 20, 1997.

What a weekend.

Last night was okay. I dunno...we were too tired to actually do anything, so Palaver & I talked about cynical dilettante stuff while Sister Sunshine crashed out on the couch. It was a good antidote to Friday's party, which was all hustle & emotion. I'm just feeling down.

I can't get at my mail. Which my subconscious equates with rejection. Server error or no server error, in my world, no mail = no mail. Thus rejection by my many email swains. Period.

My diary isn't doing anything useful. It's certainly not entertaining people. I'm on the low end of the Open Pages popularity scale. In fact, the only thing that attracts positive attention to these pages is the rubber dress picture. You know...the one where I look like a whore?

Speaking of looking like a whore, and I'm going to have to check this with someone who actually speaks Spanish, but the phrase "chiquita...quanto deniero?" can't be a positive statement about your dress sense, can it? Especially when it's yelled from a car full of men when you're standing on a street corner at midnight with your girlfriend in the heart of Toronto.

It's weird...I bandy the word "whore" around quite a bit, but when something like that happens, it catches me flat-footed. In my heart, I really don't consider myself a whore. Although some of my friends are pretty convinced of it.

Alright, that's enough angst-studded torpor for one night. I'm going to upload this, & then check on Squirrel Woman. Then I'm giving my mail server one more chance, and I'm going to bed.

Wish me luck.

July 19, 1997.

I just cannot sleep in this house.

Seven hours or so after the last entry, and here I am again. The bed is uncomfortable, I have to be conscious of my ear, everybody who's awake makes a lot of noise, and I'm usually either too hot or too cold under whatever coverings. Also, there's the fact that I can only make my parents happy through a state of alertness. I sleep very lightly in this house to avoid the kind of fall-out from my parents making me decide things when I'm half-asleep. If I'm awake, I can have some control. Hence, I can't get a good night's sleep.

Jesus, what a fucking awful night.

I can do just fine when I'm away from Mr. Blonde, but when we're together, I just wonder why we can't still be together. It doesn't help that every person there thinks they know how to run my life better than I do. And they are not polite about it. Well, to everyone who went out of their way to be mean to me last night (for my own good, of course), just fuck off. You're so self-righteous, and so gung-ho for me to move on, but if you really loved me, or cared about the happiness of me or Mr. Blonde, you'd let us work it out ourselves.

The comforting thing is that all those bitchy people have NOTHING to do with anything. If we get back together or stay apart, they only have as much relevance as we let them. And as Mr. Blonde himself said last night, "fuck 'em."

Kissed a boy last night. I tried to figure out what my running tally was to date, and was pretty comfortable with the number 5, but then I realized how many people I left out of that total. So, uhh...well...9. I'm not quite in double digits yet. (The boy was Steve, a very sweet 16 year-old friend of mine, who was trying to cheer me up the whole night. God, I'm so old.)

In the Victorian language of courting through flowers, where does a Lola fit in? You know, those frozen things in the shape of icebergs? So sugary that your heart rate increases just lookin' at 'em?

Poet? Palaver? Tiger Lily? Preacher? Help me out here.

July 18, 1997.

Drunken & depressing entry. Looks like you waited this long for a buttload of angst. Sorry.

Tonight I had one of the worst nights of my life.

And I've been saying that a lot this year, so this is right up there in awfulness.

First, the Lawyer bailed on me. Hmmph. And he wonders why we haven't been out yet. Then Sister Sunshine decided to be sensible, although she would've come down if I really needed her. Which was a nice offer, but this is my own personal hell. There's no sense in involving a nice Armenian girl, now, is there?

From the moment I stepped in Edgar Allan's house, I felt bad. I immediately fell into a depression, looking at everybody on whom I'd staked my entire teenage happiness. I couldn't go into the same room with Mr. Blonde, ferchrissake. It was a good opportunity to hate myself, so I went at it with gusto.

You can only burst into tears in the kitchen for so long before someone tries to make you feel better. Ryan came through for me admirably. (We've always had a good bond since OAC English class...although we REALLY hated each other before then.) Anyway. He advised me to work out my problems with Mr. Blonde. To take a walk, or something.

Hmm. Good advice, bad time. Especially since Mr. Blonde was already pissed out of his mind.

You know how I said that the music store incident was a time of things understood, but left unsaid? This was the exact opposite. We screamed out our hearts in the middle of a park, and the other was too wrapped up in their own pain to notice. Their were multiple 'fuck you's and such. Not pleasant.

But it sure was a great stress reliever. I came back to the house ready to party. And Mr. Blonde, who had left in a good mood, was left as depressed as hell. Good. Break up with me over the phone, will he?

So, after a few beers and some light flirtation later, I got ready to go. I had realized at this point that I had utterly thrown away any chance at happiness. I had only confirmed what I thought months ago - that I can't live without him.

And y'know what?

I don't think this was because of the Poet thing.

I think that it was because I trusted him with the truth.

If I had lied to him, we'd still be dating. I'm sure of it. And all the people who are talking down to me, being bitchy, or giving me advice 'for my own good' (you know who you are) wouldn't even know about it.

If only I lived a private life, eh?

When I left, I kissed him goodbye. And I knew then, more than before. We were meant to be together. Forever. And I betrayed the only man who ever came through for me when I needed it, for someone who has NEVER come through for me when I needed him to.

I'm not sure about this Generation X thing...I'd like to give a neat finale to the mess I've made of my life, but I'm too fucking apathetic. Nobody would love me more, if I killed myself.

And I guess that's all the reason I need to keep on living for now.

"A lifetime of fucking up, fixed in one determined shot." - NIN

And, finally, I'd like to make an obligatory reference to Preacher. Heard "No Woman, No Cry" tonight. He'll understand that, so 'nuff said.

July 17, 1997.

It seems that I have something further to say about the CSG, after all.

Poet would like to officially deny an obsession with chicks in uniforms, having attended a private school in his not-so-distant youth. He also said something about pathetic single men and cavorting in uniform...I'm not sure if he's confessing something kinky or what. Draw your own conclusions.

I seem to have double-booked myself for tomorrow night.

About a week ago, I made plans with the Lawyer, my auxiliary Angel (mostly called into service when Poet is mysteriously absent, or when I'm really pissed at him.)

(Uh, perhaps I should explain about my Angels. It all started as complex joke of Palaver, while we were all out drinking at Ein.stein's. It's along the same lines as "Charlie's Angels," with the major differences being a) the theme music as they run down the beach in thongs is Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me to the End of Love" and b) the whole thing has an Anglophilac slant. Something along the lines of "The Book of Kells has been stolen, and it's in...JAMAICA." That sort of thing.)

Lawyer is slightly upset that we haven't gone out before now. After all, he was promised first dibs on me when I finished with Mr. Blonde (or when he finished with me). Now he's whining about my dinner with Preacher, sleeping over at Palaver's house, blah blah blah whine whine whine. Apparently, he feels that my life as chattel has not begun honourably...

No, Lawyer's a good guy. We're just taking this joke a little too far.

So anyway, two nights ago, Edgar Allan called me up to invite me to a massive Brampton party, the very same night as my dinner with the Lawyer. Although there's only a few people that I think I'm going to enjoy seeing, I think I'm duty-bound to make an appearance. I dunno...I've got a bad feeling about this. Whenever we have a massive party in my hometown, some violence is done. Usually that cheese-eating bastard Mr. Shoreleave is involved. And my ex is going to be there. Possibly with someone. I don't know if I'm ready for that. Maybe someday, but not now.

Unfortunately, I keep losing my boys to other women. It's a little depressing. Some of them started out attached to other girls (Cranly & the Lawyer) or I lost them to other women somewhere along the way. I dunno...I'm not a very nice person. Other qualities I have in abundance, but nice is not one of them. I don't know why I even wonder that my boys find other pursuits, so to speak.

Sorry, I'm in post-office depression.

sort-fold-file-stuff-separate-fax-photocopy-blah-blah-fuckin'-blah.

So I'll just quit while I'm ahead.

July 16, 1997.

"Tonight's the night..."- Rod Stewart

Boy, did I ever get a lot of (male) responses about yesterday's entry.

Palaver emailed me semi-indignantly, claiming that he isn't fixated on 15-year-olds, just 16-year-olds. Jay corrected my opinion of the male obsession with Catholic School Girls - he claims his fixation is blue silk underwear, not knee-high socks and a sensible tartan skirt. And Cranly, although not denying the CSG allegation, would like to point out that the PVC pic which garnered my first electronic proposition would not have been possible if he hadn't had his camera out that particular night.

I can't believe that with all the trash I've talked about certain people and the questionable philosophical digressions with which I often indulge myself, the most controversial thing in these diaries is my flat assertion that men prefer jailbait. Religious jailbait, that is. It's not like I haven't thought this through (for me). I've spent literally hours listening to my Angels pant over the CSG (dare I say it?) archetype. When our local drama group put an all-female, all-CSG production of "Henry V," you could actually hear their hearts beat faster, hear the drool generated, hear the...well, let's just leave it at that, shall we?

In any case, I'm pleased by the feedback, but puzzled.

It just goes to confirm the general perverseness of things, especially relating to my writing. When I expect comments about a particular entry, I never get them. When I think a poem is hot stuff, nobody else likes it. And the best piece of campus journalism I wrote this year ("How to bring men to their knees...") got me dumped post-haste from my college rag.

Oh well. At least somebody's listening. And that's my last word on the subject of CSG for now, I promise.

"Smoke a cigarette and lie some more, these conversations kill..."- STP

I had a mini-epiphany in the car yesterday.

A lot of pain in my life is caused by the simple fact that I can't let go. That's what the "je me souviens" part of my tattoo means. I'm trapped by memories. They amuse me in off moments, console me in lonely ones, and bug the hell out of me when I'm trying to get over someone or something.

I dunno...maybe it's just because I'm beginning to see the logic behind my breakup with Mr. Blonde or maybe it's because I didn't have to apologize to the Poet, but I've decided that from now on, retribution is not mine to exact.

I'm really starting to put my faith in kharma. If your account is due, there's no way in the universe you can avoid paying the bill. All the pain in the spheres will balance out eventually.

Yes, this is a weird attitude for a vengeance-addled character to assume, but there you go. (I guess I've just been listening to too much Beatles.)

July 15, 1997.

Since I don't do anything during the week except surf & work, we're going to talk about work again today. And my ongoing infatuation. Those looking for something meatier should...um...cook themselves a steak, or something. You've been warned.)

"Never made it past 17, man, what a scene."- Brendon Benson

Yesterday, George came in wearing a Guns n' Roses t-shirt (one that many of my high school friends had, actually). So I had lowered my age estimate to about 24. Chatted about age today with the office.

He's 30.

I don't know if I can maintain a crush on a thirty-year-old. Oh hell, why should it stop me now? Noel (my tour guide) is 33. It's just that I got sideswiped by the babyface (on George, I mean.) He thought I was 18, I thought he was 24. Go figure.

I guess it's not that bad. I'm pretty old (20, even!) It's not like Palaver's obsession with nubile young 15 year-old Catholic School Girls, which is much more illegal. As Sister Sunshine puts it, "15 will get you 20." I don't know why I'm singling out Palaver. Every guy I know has a Catholic School Girl fixation. Preacher has offered to buy me an outfit, if I'll wear it around. Found a very nice pleated tartan skirt this weekend. Perhaps I should alert him.

Any Catholic school girl get-up can't be anymore extreme than the PVC, tho', I'll tell you that. Received my first electronic proposition because of the picture I have on in the Mirror. And from someone in charge of determining how wonderful femme pages are. So I'm quite flattered. I suppose my mother was right about the men on the web, after all. Although I'm sure most think I'm about 18, as well.

But I can cope with my apparent age. Most days I actually feel more 17 than 20 (a crone! I'm a crone!!). Or, at least, I did before this year, when the stress aged me another year. Well, I aged 1 physical year, Poet aged about a dozen. At least this year didn't turn me gray, too. Still the teenager. Still play Bauhaus too loud in the car. Still sit down on the floor in stores when I'm tired.

Hopefully, I'll never catch up with calendar, and I can be a Little Protestant School Girl forever.

July 14, 1997.

Ahh, Monday. The day when everybody stumbles in tired, sunburnt, and very, very hung-over. Except me, of course: pale as snow, sober as a judge, yet tired as a worn-out metaphor. It's not my social maneuverings that exhaust me - it's everyone else's.

My monkey died today. It probably had something to do with the fact that I ignored it all of yesterday. That, and it was 14 freakin' years old. I'm re-thinking this mindless maternal urge of mine. If I can't even take care of a key-chain, what are my chances with my own helpless spawn???

That's it. I'm going to make an appointment to be neutered. That way I can stop obsessing about a lack of sex. And it means I can stop blaming my crazy manipulations on my biological clock. Leaving only one excuse, as I'm sure you know:

percodan...

I have a reason to get up in the morning again. This is to check my email for the musings of the Poet. Granted, it's not a very good reason. My name is almost never mentioned. And it could probably wait 'til after work. But it's a reason, gahdammit, and I don't have too many of those nowadays.

This summer I have gained most of my reason, but lost most of my reasons.

Can't win 'em all. The most you can hope for some days is getting your ball back at the end of the day. Or poetry compilation, as the case may be.

July 13, 1997.

I think this is going to be an über-long entry, because so many wonderful and interesting things happened to me this weekend that I can't trust myself to dole it out throughout the week. My brain is roughly akin to that of a squirrel. I know there's lot's of neat stuff hidden away for me to share with you, but I'll be damned if I can remember from day-to-day what the details are.

So take the opportunity now to go get a drink, walk around, ease out the carpel-tunnel from surfing, and let's begin, shall we?

I'm really glad "thou shall not speak of Poet" week is over. Because the first exciting thing from the past weekend was that we're no longer feuding.

He apologized electronically, if not loquaciously. We got drunk at the House of God on Friday night (actually, he was already drunk, & I had to catch up). Everything would have been perfect in our rarefied little social circle if I hadn't learn the next bit of news:

He and Tiger Lily were feuding

d'oh.

So perhaps his apology was prompted by a fit of despair. The person who spent a great deal of time raging and weeping two months ago would really like to believe that. Then I can continue to nurse my bitterness, distrust & low self-esteem.

But this weekend has made me too happy. I'll just take the most generous interpretation and leave it at that.

As for web page construction (the stated purpose of the weekend), there was none. I showed up at Palaver's house on Friday night with my bulging backpack (and towel), only to find Tiger Lily unreachable. As Preacher put it, she had returned to Strokeville without being able to get a hold of me. So I stayed with Palaver that night, and we bonded. It's more fun actually being with real friends than perfecting your online image, anyway. Not that Tiger Lily isn't a real friend. But web page construction, although it would've been done socially, is really not a social activity. And Palaver's very fun to be with. The only problem is that he's easily distracted by shiny objects. So when we went wandering down Queen West yesterday, he kept stopping to look at stuff without saying anything. And as I was talking (I usually am - the Chattering Order's got nothing on me, baby), I'd usually be too involved with the narrative to pick up on his sudden disappearance from my side.

Sister Sunshine contributed to my weekend of happiness by going dancing with us last night. As I was supposed to be at a wedding that night, I felt a) intoxicatingly rebellious, and b) smug satisfaction that I had chosen the right night out. Dressing up all fancy-like and a free meal versus making anchovy paste (don't ask) and writhing to Marilyn Manson's "Cake & Sodomy." Yes, we're all in agreement, I hope.

We had asked Tiger Lily to come dancing, but since she was deep in feud depression, she just wanted to stay home & drink like a fish. Well, she's got the genes for it. Scottish melancholia and all that, don't cha know. She had left instructions at the concierge to let me in at whatever hour, and we'd spend the rest of the night drinking and talking about that Costa Rican son of a bitch in the strongest possible terms. I showed up at about 1:45, exhausted from three solid hours of sweaty dancing, and let myself in.

No Tiger Lily.

No problem, I thought. She's just out with Preacher. Or walking with Poet. Or...dead in a ditch. So I decided to wait up for her.

By 3 am, I had passed out in the spare bed. At 9 am, I was woken up by the alarm on the stereo. Apparently, Gordie Johnson had his head in a haze, and really wanted to wake me up to tell me all about it. I looked over to the other bed.

No Tiger Lily.

Unable to sleep, I passed the time imagining what testimony I'd give at the inquiry. Yes, I knew the deceased well. Yes, I had thought it odd when she hadn't come home. Yes, I has called Metro's finest at such-and-such an hour. Then I imagined the testimony I'd give if Poet had killed her in a fit of passion.

Boy, he'd better hope they don't call me as a character witness. I just know too much. (Now the Costa Rican Mafia is probably going to give me a nice new pair of shoes for saying that. I always knew I'd run afoul of an organization someday. But I'd always assumed it'd be organized religion...)

At 9:45, there was a knock on the door. I got out of bed, and looked through the peephole. It was, of course, the owner & legal tenant of the apartment. Tiger Lily had returned.

Almost opened the door, but just in time I realized that the Poet was with her. On my list of people whom I don't want to open the door for while wearing a little black tank-top and skimpy red panties, he's definitely in the top five.

Tiger Lily got in eventually, announced that she'd drank a whole 40, gone to Brunswick to scream at the Poet, and was only returning home to throw up before going in to work. So, in total, I saw her five minutes this weekend. But she seems to be quite good at punishing herself, so I felt no need to add my own efforts to hers.

So despite Tiger Lily's conspicuous absence, despite the stress of feuding that, for once, I wasn't involved in, despite not getting enough sleep and despite getting far too drunk in the House of God from only two glasses of wine, it was quite the superior weekend.

In any case, it beats working for a living.

July 11, 1997.

Two days to go. Two days and I'm free. Jesus, I can't wait.

I can actually feel myself falling for George. Sure, he's a bit homophobic, sure, he's a sheet metal monkey, sure, we have nothing really in common, but come on!! All the guys that fit all my standards are a) happily dating someone else, b) out of town 'til September, or c) friends of mine. I know that last one sounds like a cop-out, the kind of thing you just say to get someone off your back, but in my case, it's true. Dating my boys is fun. But actually being serious about them? It was too hard to win them back to my side after my prolonged period of insanity. I know I'm just now gaining back Preacher's trust. No, I'll just leave the romantic entanglements with my boys for when I'm drunk. So that pretty much rules out this summer. I'm living like a Mennonite, here.

But once school gets in again - well, there's no telling WHO I'll proposition. If I actually continue to lose weight, I might even join Aphrodite and Butler's proposed nudist club. They want to get funds for taking off their clothes. Well, they might as well get paid for it. They're always getting naked for free. But with their bodies, it's a lot easier to get funding, than if I approached the Lit.

Ah, Fireball...when they and Cranly decided to streak back campus. And we threw their clothes in the freezer. My education tripled that night, as a consequence.

And then there was Porno Night, to which I've made reference before. No, I didn't watch a porno. I saw one made.

So to speak.

As you can tell, I had very weird neighbors last year, God love 'em.

Wait, I was talking about George. He calls me Sunshine. Me, the sister of darkness. Maybe it's ironic, like. All I know is, he picked up a tattooed woman in a bar last weekend. And I have a very nice tattoo, thank you very much (and despite popular conjecture, it is NOT on my butt).

Boy, this entry has sure degenerated fast. My fantasy life -> drunkenness -> nudity -> porno -> tattoos -> my butt. It reads like a white trash party agenda.

I shall be with Her Worship this weekend. So there may or may not be an entry tomorrow.

July 10, 1997.

"When I call you beautiful, it's 'cause I can.
And when you think I'm suckin' up, I sorta am..." - Odds

Some guys at work were flirting with me today.

It was neat. I'm not really used to people telling me how pretty I am apropos of nothing (except for Brigit, who always pointed out how great my legs are every time I wore shorts or a skirt). One complemented me on my cross, which I wear, of course, to call attention to my lack of any cleavage whatsoever. The other was George, this really cute guy in the office.

Who thinks I'm a vampire. How did he know???

So my confidence has come flooding back, like the time I was making eyes at the drummer in Edinburgh. Wow, he was a babe, tho'. Rowwr. And look out world, I think I'm diggin' out the fishnet stockings & black lace garter belt. Rubber dress is in another city. Oh well.

(I think back now on all the times this year I wore my fishnets, and I now realize that I must have lost my mind every single night I thought they would be a good idea. The dead of fuckin' winter, and I'm parading about in a short skirt and fishnet stockings. I'm lucky I didn't get frostbite, fercrineoutloud!)

Yes, if you give me the chance, I'll talk your ear off about clothes & boys. (shudder). What have I become?????

Today at work was "play jokes on Aleta day." Of course, no one told me until it was well under way. Perhaps my office is a tad over friendly. But I got to be coffee boss today, which meant doing pricing on about 5 different coffee services in the area. It was fun with a capital 'java.' I find it quite ironic that the only person in the office who doesn't drink coffee is being trusted to set up the module to feed their addiction. The only interest I have in joe is Irish coffee. Mmmm. Baileys will be the death of me yet!!

Preacher's gotten ebola again. Okay, it's probably just the stomach flu, but he does feel pretty bad. He's a hard-drinkin' preacher-man, tho', so it's not like his God won't take care of him.

Eventually...

I'm going to brag a bit. Tiger Lily sent me these comments about my poetry last night:

My dear, I went to read the new poem, and while *it* didn't particularly grab me (nor the fact that it was written [Poet]-style), I had never visited the page where you smuggle away your poetry.

I was taken aback.

I re-read everything on the page, and I was thirsty for more. I must say, if you have nothing, nothing else to keep you happy, be content in the knowledge that your writing is powerfully evocative of your life as a whole. You write as though ignorant of fear of retribution or scorn, and you expose yourself to a nakedness that I have never been able to face. Your style is mature, your images are beautiful - you are strongly in command of what you want to say. I really love what you write, and having a rather intensely personal knowledge of what it is you are trying to capture with your words, I feel uniquely qualified to say all this.

*preen* *preen*

July 9, 1997.

Today it is exactly one month until my twenty-first birthday. And I don't think it's going to be very joyous. But more about this as the day approaches.

You know what I like best about my office?

Today Laverne walked up while I was hunched over a pad of paper:

"What are you doing?"

"Writing a poem."

"Ok. When you're done, I need you to do something for me."

That's it. No "we're not paying you to write poetry," comment. No implication that I was being weird. They just trust me not to goof around unnecessarily. So I don't need to take advantage of their mistrust, like I did with my previous job. I don't need to covertly play on the Internet all day to keep myself happy. I...just...work. And then go home.

It's so simple, but it's so very soothing.

Now all I have to worry about is keeping this one.

"I swore that I would die for you, but I never thought it would be like this."
- Stabbing Westward

Today my moods were ruled by the radio. And for awhile they were playing "fuck you, pal, it's over," songs, which worked marvelously. The Sneaker Pimps said it best: "Just because I'm talking to you, doesn't mean we're friends." Then they played "Creep" by Radiohead. If that song doesn't plunge you into despair, then you're just not listening hard enough.

So, I wrote a new poem, eh? And it's pretty good. Actually, I think it's one of the best I've written this year. So go read it, 'kay? 'Kay.

July 8, 1997.

"Nothing can stop me now, 'cause I don't care anymore."- NIN

Very non aggravated. I'm working with very pleasant, casual people, and I haven't had this much responsibility at work for YEARS...yes, they actually trust yrs truly to check on credit applications. Whee. Despite the fact that I haven't even touched a computer all day until now, thus my embryonic novel is languishing and all the on-line diaries I used to covertly read at work have to wait to I get home, it's probably better this way. Now I have a more legitimate excuse to not call the friends I have in town. The Net calls. It's a siren song I can't resist.

I guess it would surprise no one at this point to say that I'm really lonely. I don't want to impose on the friends here, too much - and it's kind of a drag to have to go home early, anyway. Of course, I could make more of an effort to see everyone. But I've begun to mistrust fun social activity. It makes the inevitable lows far more crushing. I already use the past tense to describe my relationship(s). When will my feelings follow suit? Jesus, that was a downer thing to say.

Oh well. Life is full of loose ends and imperfectly healed wounds. My life, at least. And besides...today was a very nice day at work, thank you very much. And I'm going to stop before I REALLY bring myself down.

"Wishing that maybe in a year or two, we could laugh and let it all out."
- Neil Young

"See that girl...catch that dream...[something] the dancing queeeennn..."

Just when you thought my Guest Room page couldn't get anymore bloated, well...it did! Tiger Lily just got a page. Causing an exodus of my neighborhood. However, I have been bound over to keep the secret until Her Worship lets me speak.

Sorry.

Came up with a scrap of clever dialogue the other day whilst in the shower (I do my best creative thinking in the shower, 'kay?), and since it doesn't fit into any of my current projects, I might as well throw it out for your amusement(?):

a man and a woman who have just finished a brutal fight that has torpedo'd their embryonic relationship...

man: Wait a minute. You were going to have sex with me, weren't you?
woman: (nods) You were on my short list.

pause

No pun intended.

July 7, 1997.

"Fung Spice is PEOPLE!!! WE'RE EATING PEOPLE!!!!"

My situation has changed. I can no longer listen to Tricky and covertly upload diary entries while pretending to work. Oh well. It was too good to last, really. But it means that you all are going to have to wait until 5 pm or so, when I get home from the office, before I can compose & upload that day's entry. Sorry, kittens.

I'm going to complain about my day. What a change.

Started my new job today. Actually, it's the same kind of office work, for the same parent company, just a different division. Terrified. Absolutely terrified. I've had the same job for almost 1 1/2 years, and I'm not much on change from known quantities. (Which may explain a lot.) I'm also working under the stigma of being "D.J.'s Daughter" - it's received as daddy pullin' strings for his not-so-bright offspring. As my Uncle Greg puts it, I'm working through "good, old-fashioned know-who."

Which sucks. Not only because my dad treats me in a less-than-professional manner, but I could've gotten this job through my own qualifications. I have quite a bit of experience as a paper ape. Granted, I got the experience through string-pulling. But still. By now, this cuckoo can fly the nest.

Unfortunately, I can't find a job at any other place. I've tried. At the end of the last school year, Tiger Lily and I went on a massive job-hunt all through the GTA. We spent days plotting routes, writing up cover letters, handing in resumes, and mailing around. We kept up a running tally - "[Tiger Lily] & Aleta vs. The Real World." When the number of rejections (or RW points) got up past 50, it was just too crushing to keep track afterwards. I don't know how unemployed people maintain their spirits, I really don't. Tiger Lily and I kept happy through the judicious use of chocolates. Get rejected, get a Glossette. Simple cause & effect, baby.

And there were no takers. Not a single publishing house or bookstore wanted to take a chance on two bright, highly motivated, and vixeny women. Not one.

So here I am, entering in long columns of tiny numbers into a computer with so little memory that its' processing speed is a joke. It's so slow that there's not even a point in getting frustrated. Did I mention that I had to do all the data entry standing up? No chairs high enough, y'see. Weirdly enough, that was the most relaxing part of the day. My dad told me on the drive home that the computer used to be ours - so it was kinda like working with a childhood friend. I suppose that's why I was so uncharacteristically un-tense.

But still...I'm tired, I'm shy, my eyes are starting out of my head and I'm at the mercy of my father. How enviable.

Well, at least no one is giving me the death stare yet. They're actually nice here - some cute guys in the warehouse - and with the level of computer knowledge around here, I feel like a technology goddess. And there's nothing bad about that.

"For the love of God, give us more Fung Spice!!!"
"Fung Spice is people!! WE'RE EATING PEOPLE!!!"
- "anonymous" comments from my first year.

A casual reader of my diary (and one that I don't know in real life, even) has turned out to be a U.C. alumni. My university is very old, but you can network much better through Fung than through the entire university. It's just unsettling (both the fact and Fung cuisine.)

If you are not a part of the Fung set, the name refers to our residence cafeteria. Jack-o has uploaded satiric Fung menus written in the 80's, and they're eerily accurate to the present menus. It's not just crappy food, tho' - it's a way of life. Actually, it's a necessary way of life for my res. We have no choice. But other past alumni actually request dinner at Fung, so there's something that lingers (and it's not just the metabolic effects of the elusive Fung Spice). Kind of like the Mafia. It keeps sucking you back in. And once you get to know the servers and the cashiers, you develop a special sort of love. They know what to put on your sandwich. They call you by name. They can recognize your significant other. They remember past diners, and sometimes will not charge them to your meal card.

It may make you greasy & bloated, the amounts of starch may be dangerously unhealthy, the vegetarian and kosher options may be pathetic to nonexistent and the Spice may give you psychic powers similar to those in "Dune," but it's the common bond that holds all the wayward souls in res together.

Yes, we are all united in Fung. Halleluia. Praise the crusty old Dean. Amen.

July 6, 1997.

Boy, has my aggravation level gone down in the last few days. Except for that horrible dream where everybody did their level best to make me feel like dirt in tried and tested ways, not one person has stepped on my psyche's toes this weekend.

Now that I'm feeling better about myself, I don't quite know what to say.

So I'm going to stop while the going's good. Cheers!

Oh yeah, you are free to visit Cranly's abode, the Tank now. Go with my blessing.

later...

I have found something to aggravate me, albeit only a little. It is my epidermis. My skin & hair are far too hardy & healthy.

(Yes, I am reaching.)

But it's little frustrating when you can lay in the hot hot sun for hours and think you're getting colour, only to wake up the next day and your skin has completely recovered. I'm as pale as snow. I have to keep warning people not to look directly into the legs.

And my hair. Sure, it's not that great looking, but it's really healthy & soft. But it also throws off permanent hair dye with amazing speed. I dyed my hair red just before Mr. Blonde & I broke up for good. It was a fabulous flame red colour, like a comic book character. Now, three weeks later, no one can even tell that I dyed my hair. It's back to the same old brown. Ugh.

I suppose I shouldn't complain. I could have delicate skin like Maharet - she once got a horrible case of sunstroke at an outdoor concert we were at. This is why she has no interest in hallucinogens - the scene is old news to her. I could have splintery, straw-like hair that's been totally ruined by chemicals. But I'm almost boring in my healthy skin & hair.

Come to think, my nails are disgustingly healthy as well. They are, in fact, veritable claws. Perfect for back scratches. That is, if I make an effort to see my flesh friends.

Oh, if I only had a life...

Narced (narked?) on my neighbor today. Won't tell you why. I'm not usually a tattle-tale, but I find it annoying that I'm the only one on my Geocities block making an effort. No wonder the link exchange thing isn't working - my neighbors don't even pretend to be interesting to anybody but their own friends.

Hey, shut up, Sister Sunshine! I try my best...(sniff)

still later

Jesus Christ, that was a trite piece of writing. Epidermis indeed!

I had the weirdest conversation yesterday.

My cousin Nick got engaged when I was in England last May. So we were discussing wedding plans. After the dinner, the dress, the bridesmaids, yadda yadda yadda, we started discussing mass. They're both RC, so I figured we'd do mass. Now, I've NEVER been to a good Catholic mass. Not one (and I've been to more than you'd expect for a Protestant.) Lately I've been much more enthusiastic about church than I have been in years. It's probably because every time I go out with Preacher, we end up talking about religion. He IS in preacher school. And we go out fairly often. With the result that I know a lot about alternate Bible traditions, and can sing Blake's "Jerusalem" at will. Don't ask me, because it'll happen.

Wait, I had a point.

So we're discussing mass, and they start to tell me horror stories about priests. Just evil, money-grubbing, horrible anecdotes. My cousin became increasingly hostile every time I tried to defend organized religion. Finally I asked him why he was even getting married in a church when he's incredibly hostile to every aspect of it.

And Nick looked at me like I was crazy, and said:

"Because I'm Catholic. You can't change what you are just because you don't like it."

Uh...can't you?

Does that mean I'm condemned to be an evil, castrating, fucked up harpy for the rest of my life? I hope not.

I'm starting to like not flying off the handle.

Okay, that's it. I'm too tired to do anything but go into my pit of a room (I was supposed to muck it out today) and descend into the land of the Dream King.

Guess who bought a new comic book this weekend? Mm hmm.

July 5, 1997.

Went out last night for the first time in frickin' WEEKS! I've been such a slug. I never realized how much I rely on Mr. Blonde to provide me with a social life during the summer, until there be no more Mr. Blonde. It's sad, actually. Considering how many of my stories from last year begin, "okay, now I don't remember that much because I was drunk," I have been a Mennonite this summer. A pint here with Jenn, a girly drink with the Freeeks, open bar at my cousin's wedding - that's nothing. The week we came back for second semester, I drank every single night. Monday was a pint with Preacher & Poet, Tuesday was with Mr. Blonde, Wednesday was "Porno Night" in the basement, Thursday was Debbie's party, when Poet hugged me for the first time, and Friday I went home. To rest.

I had a really good time last night. I was really happy going into the city, but I got briefly depressed when I got to Tiger Lily's. One thing about Brampton is that I don't have to force people to plan around the feud. But I regained my um...effervescence by the time I met Preacher. Perhaps it was because I managed to answer her phone when the Poet called. He he he! I love doing that. He doesn't know WHAT to do!!!

I really think that I'm mostly better now. I fell apart in February, and kept telling myself "I'm sane now, I'm sane now," but I wasn't. But now I am. It really did take distance to make things better. I can talk about people from campus now without thinking "I wonder who's side they're on, I wonder if they hate me." I was happy & relaxed & giggling. In fact, nothing went wrong the entire frickin' evening, which must be some sort of record for me.

But my dream last night was like the evening in Bizarro-land. Everything was reversed. We were at a party. Preacher & Palaver were nowhere to be found. Mr. Blonde was playing guitar and ignoring me in the basement. Although Tiger Lily and the Poet were there, they soon ditched me, & walked off holding hands. I was not relaxed & giggly. I was hurt & murderous & jealous.

And I still feel bad.

Stupid subconscious!!!! Leave me the fuck alone!!!

You may have noticed that today's entry is rather full of references to the Poet. There are two reasons for that:

1. It's hard to be with my university friends without his name coming up. Ditto when I talk about last year.
2. I'm getting it out of my system. Preacher made a very good point last night - for someone I purport to dislike, why is he mentioned so often?

That is why I am declaring this week "Thou shalt not speak of the Poet" week. Not because I need other people to spare my feelings. But because I do it too much. And people just aren't interested anymore. Purge purge purge. Vent vent vent. There.

I found Cranly's web page!! I found Cranly's web page!! I found Cranly's web page!!

But I'll respect his feelings & I won't tell you all.

Sorry.

July 4, 1997.

Last night I dreamed that Goshia (the book editor at the Varsity) was very very pregnant. Sweet Goshia, with her melodious South African accent and total confidence, pregnant. I don't know WHAT my subconscious is trying to say this time. I think it has something to do with the fact that the only things the pregnant women around the office seem to do is fight about chocolate bars and discuss how big their breasts are getting.

And they still get more done than me.

Every day I drive myself to work, I get lost. Every time. Sometimes it's just going the wrong way down the final street, but one morning I spent almost two hours trying to backtrack and get to Dixie Road. I thought that I had found every variation of the theme. But this morning I got lost in a totally original way.

Good for me. I think that should cheer me up - I'm a screw-up, but I'm an original screw-up.

"Promised myself I wouldn't weep / One more promise I couldn't keep."
- Soul Asylum

Cried myself to sleep last night. The letter must have broken this week's seal or something.

I'm evil. Nobody loves me. I'm alienating the few friends I have with these diary entries. My boss is going to find out what I really think of her and fire me in a fit of spite. Whine whine whine. Moan moan moan. Bitch bitch bitch.

Called Sister Sunshine to get sympathy, but she's getting frustrated with my emotional instability. This was how the conversation was supposed to go:

Me: Don't you think it's weird that after three years of devotion, Mr. Blonde doesn't care about me in the slightest?
SS: I don't understand that either. But look, I've found you a date to smooch with when we go see Dream in High Park! A better boyfriend!
Me: Thank you for solving all my problems, darling!
SS: No problem, doll!

We hug. Curtain.

This is what really happened:

Me: Don't you think it's weird that after three years of devotion, Mr. Blonde doesn't care about me in the slightest?
SS: Well, you did everything you could to push him away this year.
Me: Oh...

I feel even worse knowing she is right. Curtain.

"Yeah that's awful close, but that's not why / I'm so hard done by..."
- The Hip

Go read Squirrel Woman's Diary for yesterday. Not only does she mention me, but she seems to be concerned with the exact same things. Love. Choices. Frustration. Friends reading entries. Y'know.

later

La la la laaaaa...

I have very little to do right now. I'm waiting for my boss to get back to me on my updated newsletter design. She's notorious for loudly requesting that I show her my work...and when I stand up with the disk in hand, she says "Not now. I'll call you when I'm ready." And then she goes back to her office. I feel like a B.F. Skinner exercise in futility.

Ding a ling!!! No, hold on. I'm not ready to feed you yet. Keep drooling...

And Cerberus is driving me crazy. He keeps shouting at me for some attention, which comes out as shrill beeping. I've had a low-grade head-ache for three days. Now I'm trying to teach him that I'm not on-call, so I have to let him yell...arrrgh. I'd put the little bastard down, except that he's too cute. Every time we play ball, he gives me the sweetest little monkey-smile. I guess that's how all children trap you...

"What do you want a baby for, anyway? Just try to get a straight answer out of them! With them, it's either a cute little giggle, or they start that annoying crying." - the Poet, after my scare last spring.

Poet was the only one rooting for positive when I got tested last spring. It was really endearing, actually. He began to jockey for the position of godfather, or if I didn't want that, there was always the option of namesake. Very weird, but heart-warming that he was so concerned. Look, I actually said something nice about Poet without qualifying it...maybe there's hope for me yet.

Speaking of Poet as the godfather, Tiger Lily once tried to convince me that a picture of Al Pachino in the movie looked like Poet. And that's just weird. Especially if you've met the Poet. And since most people who read this seem to know me in real life, I guess a large percentage of you have. If you haven't, the first picture on the photo page is a not-very-good likeness of him. You should never publicize pictures you take at parties. Especially that party. The only time I drank more than I did that night, I blacked out for a few hours.

Okay, have to go. I have a date tonight. It's my first in 3 years. I had to get a new date outfit - I no longer fit into my black stretch denim pants. Curse you, Fung! Curse you, chocolate bars in the supply cabinet!!! And curse my own weak self most of all.

July 3, 1997.

"It's cold inside when your baby don't want you no more..."
- Big Sugar

This morning I cried for the first time in weeks. Yes, that is an achievement for me. Got an email from Tiger Lily last night in defense of the Poet - no, that didn't make me cry. My friends can hold loyalty to either side without becoming involved in my wrath. Tiger Lily, for example, hasn't taken sides. But the whole tone of the letter seemed to imply that she is getting ready to come down on his side. Because I am bitter & twisted & evil.

Perhaps it is not a good idea for my friends in "real" life to read this diary. Sure, it's a cheap voyeuristic thrill, but I'm not really writing about stuff that I don't talk about in normal conversation. There are no details about my sex life. Okay, right now I don't have one, but at least I'm not reminiscing. (eewwww.) Maybe those who know me should keep up by email, and feelings won't get trampled on.

And I am NOT evil. I babysit. I sing showtunes. I lie out in the sun. I still (occasionally) enjoy life.

My boss. Now, THAT'S evil. She's started giving me the death stare again. Wow. I'd forgotten what mindless anxiety felt like. It ain't fun, I'll tell you that.

But, fear not, Tiger Lily. I shall not be twisted much longer. For you see, I have become trendy. And unless TV has lied to me all these years, social acceptance at any cost brings boundless happiness.

I didn't even realize that I was trendy until yesterday. Which was when I found out that my harmless little Micro Chimp gift from Sister Sunshine was part of the Tamaguchi craze that is sweeping Japan, Hong Kong, and to a lesser extent, North America. My little 5 year old monkey Cerberus is a knock-off of a huge craze - and here Sister Sunshine just thought I needed love. The first owners were staying up all night before they figured out the sleep function. Me, I babysit. I well know the value of the "you're taking a nap 'cause I need a rest" phenomenon. They say that every 14 year old girl in Japan has one. They can't keep 'em in stock at Toys R Us. Crrrazy.

The second trendy thing I have been indulging in without knowing it is covertly surfing the net at work. Like Monday. I did jack the whole day (small 'j'). Read diaries, looked at backgrounds, improved my page. I think that I take it a step beyond trendy by actually working on my page while I'm supposed to be writing this stupid newsletter. Sure, there are lots of people who do that. But I'm willing to bet that most covert surfers haven't yet contributed to the maelstrom that is the Internet.

So I'm fashionable am I? Sha la la laaaa.

"I feel more popular already." - Lisa Simpson.

later...

I...am...so...MAD!!!!!!!

My cud-sucking boss, is not only giving me the death stare for NO PARTICULAR REASON, threatening to fire me, and dumping over my design ideas, but she wants me to take out all mention of me.

That's right. I get no credit. For running around after suits who think they're too busy & important to talk to me, I get no credit. For researching, composing, and fact-checking (which makes me want to tear out my hair in patches), I get no credit. For laying out the entire thing, jam-packed with the special insights of the executive fucks, I get nada.

There is some professional pride on the line, here. I have 5 years of journalism experience, writing, photography, and lay-out. Even though a lot of the university stuff has been abortive (the misspent years at the Gargoyle, the article at the Strand that got me buried in shit to my neck, and, of course, the romantically-challenged (R)evolution), most of the high-school stuff still stands up.

*grind* *grind* *grind*

She puts me into a murderous rage. No one else on earth does that at all. And she can do it on an hourly basis.

argh.

Shit. Fuck. What a goddamn waste of three weeks.

*sigh*

July 2, 1997.

"I mean we'll take it slow
I really don't know
When you talk
You make me cringe." - Tricky

It has come to my attention that Gus (aka Poet) has been reading these entries. Not the second Gus, which I can expect, since he himself is an on-line diarist. But the first Gus. The one at which most of my confusion and bitterness is aimed lately. Yikes.

My first response was to begin censoring these entries. I'd rather keep stuff from people and work it out for myself than confront what I think are their faults. Then I thought 'wait a minute...that's what I'm trying to do here.' Work stuff out for myself. Entertain the Internet community with my musings and angst. Not mindlessly slam people.

Maybe I have been a mite hard on the Poet. It's hard to think straight when you're feuding. I dunno...if I really wanted to be mean, I could call in noise complaints on his house. Or crank call his parents' house. But I'm as likely to do those things as I am to mess with his web page - I still have the password, you know.

And why is someone who vowed never to speak to me over a month ago is visiting the page to help bring the counter up? Am I the only one who thinks that's weird?

Yesterday was both Canada Day and my grandmother's 72nd birthday. Saw three of my uncles over at the house, including Greg (someone who's getting more unbalanced the longer he stays in therapy), Donald (the "black sheep" of the family) and Bruce (the youngest, whom I had been feuding with for years.) Decided to stop feuding with Bruce - this Poet thing is taking up all my excess feud energy. Besides, he's moving away from his long-time partner shortly, and I figure we're both due for a "men suck" bonding-type conversation any day now. And there's nothing bad about that, baby.

"She hasn't been to bed in a week, she'll be dead soon and then she'll sleep." - U2

Tiger Lily had a nightmare a couple nights ago that I played a starring role in. Apparently, "I" was dressed in black, with a silver ankh and shoulder-length black hair, holding a silver-and-black dagger and standing poised to strike over her bed as she lay there. "I" said "mumblemumblemumble It is time." Then "I" disappeared. (I think Tiger Lily sees me as an evil force in her life. Sometimes it seems that no matter what I say, she interprets it as bitter and twisted.)

Speaking of dreams, I think I proved Freud right last night. Right before the dream where I was slamming back a shot-glass of barbeque sauce in a 102.1-sponsored event, I dreamt that the Poet said "I'm sorry about everything. I love you." Shocking me awake. Even the dream me, which accepts drinking barbecue sauce as a matter of course, knew that it was only a dream. My subconscious is going to have to be a little more subtle about my buried desire for reconciliation, or I'm going to have a lot of troubled nights.

July 1, 1997.

Happy Canada Day, Kids. Let's make it one those Yanks'll never forget...anyone up for a re-enactment of the War of 1812?

I got a rather cryptic email from my friend Preacher last night. He thinks I'm not making an effort to maintain our friendship. He's probably right. (He usually is). Which really upsets me. I hate it when I let people I care about drift away. Like Tom. Or Mick. (C'mon, there must be a girl here...) Oh yeah - Brigit. But that wasn't me. One of the coolest chicks I know, and she disappeared off the face of the earth once she got a boyfriend. Sigh.

But, today we're going to talk about Preacher. And why this is upsetting me so much.

History: Preacher & I were neighbors last year. Through a series of conversations at Fung, in front of the Simpsons, and in Brigit's room, we kinda got to know each other. I say kinda, because it's usually hard to tell with Preacher whether he likes you or not. Two words: withering scorn. Once you get used to it, it's very very funny. But until then - yow! (See whore clothes comment). So eventually Preacher would say incredibly sarcastic things, and I would just laugh. 'That's just [Preacher].' And my goober ex-boyfriend totally understood where I was coming from, which made me feel like an insider, rather than a punching bag (which I obviously wasn't.)

See, this is the way Preacher shows affection. Which makes it hard to explain to other people why I like him so much.
'But he's a jerk!'
'No, he's not...he's just [Preacher]. You'll see..'
And sometimes they would and sometimes they wouldn't.

It was through Preacher that I began hanging out with the Poet. Which, not only ended badly, but really upset Preacher, as the feud does to this day, because he's in the middle. Every time I come in contact with 'that crazy Mexican,' Preacher suffers. It pains me to admit it, but when it was going well with Poet, we just kinda threw up our hands at Preacher's concern and left him to deal with it. Hell, we were happy (?) And now that we're fighting, Preacher gets the stress of planning around us. I miss not having to work at being happy. I miss Preacher phoning me up from Ein.stein's to get me to come out & drink. I miss Life Before Feud. I miss not making Preacher choose between me and the Poet.

I wish that I could do this year over again. I'd like to have a chance to lower the suffering rate around campus.

I hate causing people pain, and I do it so much. Poor hearts are suffering while the guilty ones writhe in pseudo-literary ecstasy.

"In the beginning, there was the Word."

Sometimes I hate that.