May 1998

May 13, 1998.

"All the little chix with the crimson lips say..."

Well, it's Wednesday night again, folks. What can I say...I've become addicted to Drew Carey in my brief time here. Teevee, thou art a foul beast.

Despite the sickness threatening in my sinuses, Mom & I went out for the annual Work Clothes Purchase. Usually she springs for a few dresses & lets everything else sort itself out. But this summer she seemed bent on making me look respectable instead of just passable. We ended up dropping about $300 on navy separates & a trippy green & blue dress. I don't know how it happened...I was pretty out of it most of the time.

I think that my mom's unused to shopping with the new kamikaze shopper model Tisiphone. It's all Sister Sunshine's fault, I tells ya. I'm so used to descending upon a store, trying on everything that catches my eye & then buying one thing, that I can't shop any other way. The difference is that Mom'll actually spring for the good-looking items that fall outside my normal operating budget. I'm not sure if I look professional, but I do look nice. Maybe not $300 worth of nice, but...I guess I can always use them for job interviews, not to mention the inevitable student teaching stretch in my future.

So today I wore some new stuff: navy & cream striped pajama pants and a little navy silk t-shirt. Overall, the outfit was very tattoo accessible in a good way (i.e. you could see the rose bloom if I bent over too far). It was almost too comfortable to wear to work. I can't believe that pj pants are acceptable formal wear now. It blows my mind.

And of course, I spent the day moving & setting up computers completely covered in a revolting layer of dirt & dust. I washed my hands so many times that I felt like an obsessive-compulsive. I don't think I have any fingerprints left...so I guess it's time to join Poet in a life of low-profile diplomatic espionage. Err, yeah.

But all of this PC shifting means that I have reception all to myself now. I tells ya...8 days flat & I'm running the place. Am I good or what?

One year ago, I was punishing an all-day bus pass & getting kicked out of several different London tourist attractions for closing time. Over our 3 days in London, Mom & were kicked out of 6 different places: the National Gallery, the National Portrait Gallery, Westminster Cathedral, the British Museum (twice), the Tate Gallery & St. Paul's Cathedral (although we didn't even get in, really). Today was the day when I figured out why Londoners are in such a terrible rush: everything opens at 10 a.m. & closes at 6 p.m. It's barely civilized in a very civilized country.

I think that today was also the day we went on the Beatles walk (very neat) & met a charming woman from Montreal who offered to set her daughter on showing me around the pubs. I was reeling at the thought of people my own age, although it had only been 3 days since we were all partying downtown, and Tiger Lily & I were offering our fair young bodies in a tequila body shot to celebrate Palaver's last shift at Spag. Erm...today was also the day we had take-away kebabs in Picadilly Circus - almost a Poppy Z. Brite experience, but not quite.

Tisember is all set to go for tomorrow, if everything holds. Today was pretty good, but I'm holding off because I'm still sick & tomorrow's Mike's birthday anyway. And I'm nothing if not a sucker for birthdays, even if they're not mine.

May 12, 1998.

"She's addicted to nicotine patches..."

Guess why I haven't started Tisember yet?

It's fabulous being me, I swear. Cause now I'm getting really sick.

I'm fading fast. I'm not sure if my sore throat of last week has gotten a few more symptom friends to join the Aleta party or if this is something completely separate, but either way I'm going down quick. All evening I've felt the dizzy head-rush that precedes a head cold. I almost welcome it now...at least I don't have to write an essay. In fact, I don't have to think for 3 1/2 months. But I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

Hey, it's been a year since I went to England with Mom. At this time last year, I was unconscious in a bad London hotel room, sandbagged by my first real experience of jet-lag. We'd underestimated the full effect of a transatlantic flight plus shooting 5 hours or so forward, and we'd optimistically (and masochistically) scheduled a full day of London sightseeing. Ha! We ended up in Greenwich, which was nice, because the sun was out, the air was fresh & there were lots of trees for me to sit down under & beg for a rest. We couldn't make it across the lawn, let alone up the hill to Newton's observatory. And then I fell asleep on a double-decker bus.

All in all, not a very quality experience for my first day in England. But it got way better. I suppose I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

May 10, 1998.

"She's convinced she could push back a glacier,
But she couldn't keep Baby alive..."

- tori

I really love the new Tori album. I'm positive that I did the right thing to buy it on Wednesday instead of the new Sloan album. She just has this insidious way of working into my mind, trailing weird instrumentation & bizarre phrasing as she goes. I love how she's as cold as ice in one song, singing lines like: "so you can make me cum, that doesn't make you Jesus." Then the next song, she sounds like a sex kitten in heat, purring words that shouldn't be erotic but somehow are.

I don't know why I'm going on about this. She's a reasonably famous singer. I'm sure you've heard of her, even if you don't own an album or two. I just can't get over her sometimes, the way she seems to be speaking right to whatever misery's currently twisting me up inside. It's an illusion, of course. Like horoscopes, her lyrics are tantalizingly vague enough to permit almost any interpretation. But I still feel like she wrote the album "Under the Pink" for me, to express last year's trouble. Especially "Borneo." I could never have written anything as direct as "You're already in me / I'll be wearing your tattoo" to sum up last February.

I still wince when I hear that song.

Two hours of deadly dull Due South watching has finally paid off...tonight was a season 3 episode, starring Callum Keith Rennie as Chicago detective Stanley Kowalski. Yes, I realize that I'm being weird, but I really have nothing to do on Sunday nights except watch TV & rest up for the week. I'm such a drone...

I think that May ended today, but I'm not going to get sucked into False Tisember a second time. I'm just going to let everything ride until Tuesday or so, and if it turns out that Tisember has really & truly started, we shall all adjust our records accordingly.

All of the fights are over for the time being. Such is the way with my family. We scream at each other & try to inflict as much damage as we can while we're still in a molten rage. But in a couple of hours, things are usually smoothed over. There are apologies if the blow up is serious enough, or friendly conversation if it isn't. The sulking rarely lasts longer than 3 or 4 hours, unless it takes place at night, in which case it doesn't end until the next morning. But then it's over. Conflicts are rarely brought up the next time - once we're done, we're done.

So that's fine. But the second part is that my mother has found me a potential roommate for next year in one of her co-workers. Somehow, it doesn't feel like in loco parentis...it just feels like an acknowledgement of the privileges of age. It excites me, too...it means that my roommate will be accountable as such, and that I have to give no leeway for temperament. I dunno...given the choice, I'd love to live with Judith, Veronica, or Aphrodite, but as it doesn't seem to be working out, I'm glad that I'm no longer on the bottom of the forming households totem pole. I certainly have no intention of living in a hallway next year, like Poet did at 89 Brunswick. So we'll see.

On a similar tip, it looks like I have to assign a new pseudonym, as one of my res friends has delurked as a follower of the Drama, and I feel it is impolite to leave her nameless in the shadows.

Ahem. Victoria is a science major at the University of Toronto. She used to live on the 3rd floor of Ferg, she likes in-line skating & tai chi, and as she's forming a house with him next year, she knows the meaning of the term Ceponkis Blonde, which is the hair colour all women crave.

Now I've probably given her unwelcome notoriety. I hope she'll stick around for the summer...things should get interesting.

May 8, 1998.

It looks like May isn't over after all. I think the last few days were Indian Tisember. It is hoped that the real Tisember will begin tomorrow.

If my parents don't lighten up, I'm killing them or myself or all of us. I cannot live with 2 screaming arguments a day about what a slut I am. Every day, I get one about what a target I'm making myself to stalkers & perverts and one about the outfits I choose to wear out at night. I'm supposed to be going out with Sister Sunshine tonight, and I'm almost in tears. No one wants to drive me anywhere that I want to be, everyone wants to scream at me about what an inconvenience I am to their lives, and I just think it would be better overall if I wasn't here. I don't know if that means death or desertion at this point. I have a chance at making just under seven grand this year if I can just survive for four months. But I can't do this every day. I just can't.

The worst thing is that they don't stop making me feel like shit even when I give in immediately. Tonight I asked my mom whether I should wear the fishnets or the solid stockings with my little black skirt, and she chose stockings. But when I came down the stairs, she exclaimed, "You're not wearing that out are you? You look like a slut." I knew that I couldn't win this one, not with every other fight we've had this week on the topic of my perceived whorishness. So I said, "No, I'll go change into solid tights. But you told me to wear them." And that was it. I said it politely, with no aggrieved tone, no anger, no resistance at all. And they still followed me up the stairs, calling me names & demanding that I take it off. After I agreed. On their very first try.

See, they're not just happy with crushing my independence, scarring my self-image and belligerently insisting on their way with no argument. No, the error of my ways must be pointed out to me. Repeatedly. Loudly. Insultingly.

The question of living elsewhere is laying heavily on my mind. If I can just find someone to live with for the next year, it takes care of the whole summer as well. A 12-month lease will give me the option of coming home or staying in the city. I can be free. It will be my choice.

The problem is that it's not unmixed penance to live here anymore. Last summer I was able to survive by channeling all my energy into the weekends in Toronto. I kind of like this job. It's easy for me to do & it's a quality way to waste 4 months making money. And I'm re-establishing my fragile ties with the scene here (interestingly enough, I've now been away from the scene just as many years as I once was a part of it). If my parents will lighten up, I might even enjoy the summer.

They don't want me to leave, of course. Most of their anger stems from me making adult choices that they don't understand, and they'd like to keep me as their kid for the indefinite future. As Adam says, "When it comes down to it, our parents still think of us, at least partially, as the little round pink creatures they carried everywhere, and would do anything to protect." They're threatening my brother with the boot unless he gets a job or helps out more. But they don't really want him to leave, and he knows it.

They want the kids that are dead & gone, the ones they understood & shaped. I really feel like I am an unwelcome presence here. They don't want me anymore. And that frustrates & saddens me. I cried all the way to Sister Sunshine's house last night. It was the first time I've cried since the night Dirk's dubbed Blue Monday Friday. It's hard to remember sometimes that I spent almost every day last year in tears. Now everything is worse, but I mostly just give it back in words.

May 7, 1998.

Note: It seems that this day was false Tisember. It is hoped that the real Tisember should start any day now.

Today was wonderful. I slept an extra half-hour, I wandered around the sunny blooming campus in the morning, and no one yelled at me. It was like a mini-vacation, or a 4 hour weekend. It was glorious.

I suppose that you're used to hearing my tales of battle with the university administration. Well, here's another one.

Last night I unpacked my course guides for next year, in the hopes of discovering when I had access to my final marks over the computerized phone system (it's the university's human touch that reassures my worth as a human being every day). At which point I discovered that I had 2 days to ballot for 4/5 of my courses. So I had to take a half day off to visit the department offices & fill out forms.

It was neat. I went back to res to eat my lunch & there saw Aegis for a few minutes, wearing the same shirt he was wearing the last time I saw him (and the day before that and the day before that...) Every tree was in bloom & everything smelled of flowers & hot sunshine. I felt the little wounds in my heart start to scab over.

I felt so good that I filled in my actual hours on this week's time sheet, instead of the 7 1/2 hours per day that I could claim without anyone batting an eye. I've decided to be moral from now on. (Yes, you heard it here first folks.) And that means that I can't do what I normally do when I leave work a little early...that is, wait to fill out my hours until the next day, when I won't feel so guilty about claiming an extra hour. I've become adept at manipulating myself into immorality, and that's a little repulsive.

I'm off to answer my email in alphabetical order, as I've accumulated a month's worth, and I have to organize them someway to save my sanity. If I owe you email, expect it this week. And if it doesn't appear, you can call me any nasty name you like.

May 6, 1998.

I attempted to drown my sorrows last night in some shitty margaritas with some nice people (Maharet, Daniel & Brandy), but it mostly just tired me out. We had a good time overall, and decided to start hugging & kissing each other hello and goodbye. I'm awfully glad...one of the best influences that Poet ever had on our friends was the introduction of the human contact custom. It's a pretty significant marker in my friendship with Maharet, as she used to be very uncomfortable with the friendly hugs we all exchanged on birthdays & Christmas. Now she's much looser (I mean in body language, not morality).

Dirk & Mr. Blonde showed up about halfway through the night, just as "Blue Monday" came on over the sound system. Veronica's right, my life is a sitcom most days.

My goodness, some of you are really sorry to see me go. I'm cheered (as much as is possible for me now) as messages trickle in consoling me & proposing solutions. I feel like I staged my own funeral, and I get a certain grim satisfaction out of seeing all the mourners who showed up.

Today was a marginally better day, in that nothing expressly shitty happened, just the normal stuff. But this emotional snowball hasn't stopped rolling yet, and by 3:00 this afternoon I was positively snarling at one of our vendors after holding patiently through 3 entire eazyrock songs & then getting hung up upon. After that, I just put my head down on the desk & prayed for it to all be over. Laverne (the other secretary & one of my nominal bosses) noticed & sent me home to nurse my developing cold & rest.

But I couldn't go home. I wasn't relaxed enough to treat my mother & brother civilly and not like the selfish bastards they've been this week (there's only one "I" in "selfish bastard," don't cha know...) So I went to The Mall.

And as soon as I walked into that air-conditioned palace of consumerism, the tight, ugly fist around my heart eased a little. No one can be unhappy in the Mall...and if they can, then the designers have failed somewhere. I tried on some nice old-men hats that made me look a lot like Tim (the lead singer in Rancid) from the "Ruby Soho" video, interestingly enough. I tried on dresses in the local Le Château, one white & one black. I checked out the local comic outlet for Sandman collections that I don't already own. And I price-checked "Pretty Hate Machine" by Nine Inch Nails, with the vague object of cheering myself up with Trent's exquisitely engineered agony (instead I bought the new Tori album at half the price...where exactly are they importing "Pretty Hate Machine" from, anyway? Cambodia? Kurachi? Sheesh.)

"Don't think you're having all the fun
You know me, I hate everyone."

But my mood couldn't last. In 40 minutes I'd spiraled back down to sullen resentment at all the high-school kids killing time with their friends in the exact same way I used to. I guess that when teenagers seem vapid it means you're feeling old. Normally it just amuses me. But today I had so much dull rage inside that I was idly wondering what it would be like to climb up a bell tower with a recoilless rifle & blast away at the adolescent fashion victims until some blessed soul put a bullet through my head.

So I went home.

And my mother's speaking to me tonight, so at least I don't live in The House of Sulk anymore. And like I said, there were some very nice messages of condolence waiting for me, so the evening has been more mellow than most.

If all goes well tomorrow, I think we can thankfully close the books on May. I've decided to make up a new month to represent the end of the Era of Ass (it is hoped). And since all the other months are named after deities, it's past time to inaugurate...

(drumroll............)

Tisember.

I kicked around Smarch (already used brilliantly by the Simpsons), DisMay (too hacker-esque), Tistober (too many t's), Tisuary (sounds too much like tissues & tears) or Tisgust (sounds too much like disgust or Tis-Gus and I don't want to form those kinds of associations anyway). But Tisember rolls off the tongue & sounds just right...with a whiff of the word 'dismember' for seasoning.

I think Kymm's got the attitude I need right now:

"So, yesterday, not only was I still deaf, but I had cramps, I had to fight on the phone with my bank for an hour, and it was raining.

What am I, Job?"

I laughed & laughed.

May 5, 1998.

Okay, that's it. Who's ever in charge, you win. This month has served me shit every single day, and I want it over with. I'm either making up a new month starting tomorrow, or this one will be changed to DisMay 1998. I have spoken.

Today was relatively fine all day. I don't enjoy the hours I'm keeping, as I'm not getting any sleep and I never get anything done, but that's okay. I fight traffic and ignorance and annoyance and fatigue every single minute of every day, but that's okay. I'm catching a cold, but that's okay. I had to say goodbye to almost all of my friends for the summer, but that's okay. Every adult life is full of this kind of shit. And I can deal with it in 5-day increments, as long as I have 2 days when people like me for me and I get to be me.

But things got spectacularly shitty when I got home today. After spending countless hours today haranguing my brother to find a job, my mother paused for breath & immediately lit in on me. I forgot to delete last month's diary file from her email box, and she wanted to know why I was acting like a perverted whore & encouraging stalkers. And etc. etc. etc., in the screaming tones of aggrieved paranoid hysteria.

You may have noticed that my page does not exist anymore, apart from the diary pages. This is why. 5 days of shit and an impending cold has taken all the fight out of me. At this point, Tisiphone doesn't exist...just a tired out blonde chick who used to like being alive from time to time.

"Why do I feel like there's no me inside of me?"

- jeffrey

I want a new month. I want a new family. I want a new life. I want an ex-boyfriend whom I can look back on fondly, and instead I have one who's a drug dealer and one who's a "writer" who turns magically into a skanky slut every time he drinks. I want to live somewhere, really live somewhere instead of waiting to get out or dreading the inevitable return to the nest after the res pipe dream ends.

It's Cinco de Mayo, God fuck it, and I want to drink margaritas the size of my head in a little patio with people who amuse and respect me. I want to eat beer-marinated burgers fresh from the barbecue. I want some hope left, some self-respect, some shred of personal dignity.

Instead, I have a hard-drive filled with a defunct web page and a splitting headache.

May 4, 1998.

Today is Luke Skywalker Day...

...May the Fourth be with you...

(damn, I love that joke. It's courtesy of 16-year-old Maharet & Mr. Shoreleave)

I just saw my tattoo parlor on local cable access. The young reporter did a piece on the local body modification shop (they also do piercing), and got a little butterfly on the base of her spine, done by the same guy who did my rose. It really is a clean, well-run place...not somewhere you'd bring your maiden aunt if she was in town for a visit, but somewhere you'd have no qualms sending someone you love.

And speaking of body modification, I'm finally able to give blood again. They require a 1 year wait after a piercing or tattoo, and with one thing & another, I haven't given blood since before I began seeing Mr. Blonde. It is way past time.

So, I suppose you want to know how my first day at work went. Well, I'm exhausted, as you could probably predict. Most of the people I used to work with were fired at one point or another in the last year, and the one's who're still there are really happy to have me back. It's nice to feel wanted, you know? Even if I do have to get up at 7:30 a.m. to be appreciated.

One very interesting thing to come out of today concerns George, the 30 year old that I had a bit of a crush on last summer. He was fired around February after his license was suspended (drunk driving), but before he left, he told everyone that the two of us we seeing each other until my dad put a stop to it, and that I prolly wouldn't come back to work because he wasn't there. So everybody's asking me how he is, as if I've seen him since August. And some people don't believe me when I deny the story.

I feel so fucking used...which I was, really. What a fucking child he is...I mean, what kind of person spreads lies like that in a company that my dad supervises? Did he think it would never catch up to him?

My god, what a long weekend I've had. Between moving out of res, falling victim to Mr. Blonde the drunken lothario, finding out that Judith & Veronica refuse to commit to living with me, staying up till dawn 2 nights running, starting my day job & finding out that I've become the putana of the sheet metal company, I'm looking to kick some ass. And if I see George, there'll be size 6 Docs repeatedly planted on his head. We'll see if 3 years without practice has hurt my percussion skills.

Grrr.

May 3, 1998.

Had a rather interesting night last night. I wanted to go goth dancing on my last night in town, and I'd convinced Palaver, Sister Sunshine & Cody to accompany me. Unfortunately, everything got all screwed up. Palaver (or, as he has characterized himself by way of apology, "The Duke of Suck-ingham") stood me up by refusing to wake (he does this on a semi-regular basis, so it's not as annoying as it could be). Unfortunately, I found out about Rip van Winkle after I'd spent an hour getting ready, so I felt a bit ridiculous staying home in a strapless black dress, sheer black shawl, fishnets, basic black pumps & full goth makeup. This plus the skater sunglasses in my platinum blonde hair made me look more than a little like Miriam Blaylock in The Hunger. I looked too nice to spend the evening with a never-ending game of Minesweeper and my few remaining possessions. So I did something that I've never done before...I went to a club by myself.

I fully expected Sister Sunshine to meet me there, so I didn't think it would be that bad. I figured, worst case scenario, I'd be dodging sleazy guys offering me drinks full of rohipnol all night and cabbing home by myself after the DJ quit. Sister Sunshine didn't end up showing, but I had a pretty good time anyway. I made friends with some Scottish people, and we took turns watching coats & purses while the others danced. I realize that it's extremely stupid to trust strangers with your stuff, but since they trusted me, I couldn't help going with the vibe. Cody showed up, so I had the pleasure of chaperoning someone during their first goth club experience (I kept encouraging him to dance without me, as there's nothing quite like dancing by yourself in a group of equally alone goths).

It was kind of weird to be at the Savage Garden without Palaver and/or Sister Sunshine. I kept hearing songs that we always dance to, and missing them. I'm far too sentimental when I dance, I think. I soon found that the 2" pumps were a bad idea - they're ok to dance in if you're in a normal place, but it is impossible to goth dance on little heels. I had to shuck them & dance in my fishnetted feet, just like a prom girl. (And take it from me, the floor at the Savage Garden is disgusting. I had to soak my feet for a long time before I even considered putting them between my sheets. Not that I'm complaining, mind you...it's what I deserve for taking off my shoes in the first place.)

I think my favorite moment was when they played "Let's Dance." I always think about the Stevie Ray Vaughan solo in that song whenever it comes on, and this was the first time that I could dance in an uninhibited way to his guitar. It made me laugh, because SRV worship belongs to the rock-on phase of my life - not the goth. And I was willing to bet on the fact that at least half the kids in the club have no idea who SRV is, let alone that he's the greatest guitar player who ever lived.

Another good time was during that "all I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms" song that I can't quite place now. At this point I was dancing with Cody, and he was puzzled when I kept grinning. See, the last time I danced to that song was at the Fireball, and a very drunk Brian grabbed me to dance - and since he's gay, I'm certainly not all he ever wanted/all he ever needed. I have to laugh, sometimes...

My only real disappointment was that I couldn't find Stacy. I know now that she was too busy to go clubbing, but I didn't know that then...and I had failed to recognize the logistical problem of finding a girl with purple hair in a dark goth club. Oh well...next time.

If you're at all interested in multiple P.O.V.'s, here's Cody's account of the May Day festivities, and his perspective on yesterday's goth-o-rama, subtitled "Tisiphone is a cheap bastard (but only because she says so)".

May 2, 1998.

"Pray, baby, pray your life was just a dream..."

- marilyn manson, "man that you fear"

What a May Day. I almost wish it were a dream, so I could get over the strangeness of it all. I woke up this morning & just shook my head in disbelief. What a May Day. But it's a hell of an anecdote.

Yesterday I had 3 distinct social obligations to juggle: The Commie May Day Party at the Alpha Sigma Sigma Frat Haus, Maharet & Daniel coming in for a concert at Lee's Palace, and a bunch of Ferg at the Dance Cave celebrating a birthday. I had it all worked out so that I could spend a maximum amount of time with everyone, and then my dad reminded me that he was coming to pick up my furniture at 9 a.m. the next morning. This effectively fucked up spending any time at the first item on the agenda, the May Day Party, as I had to spend 3 hours packing my remaining meager possessions in laundry baskets for the next day's mass exodus. I didn't get to the Party until 11 p.m. And guess who was out in the back?

Mr. Blonde.

Fine. Okay. I'm good at being civil in a party situation, and last night was no exception. And since Maharet, Daniel & Brandy were also in the backyard, I had other Brampton people to talk to until the Bif concert (which they ended up dragging me to). After the concert, we trekked upstairs to the Cave. In short order, I found Ben (my across the hall neighbor) or rather, he found me, as he followed me up to the DJ platform & grabbed me from behind. So that was obligation #3 taken care of. And when the entire Commie Party (including Dot (a first-year friend that I don't see for ages at a time, and one of the stars in my anxiety dream) and a very tardy Palaver) showed up to dance, all social obligations were united under the banner of cheap beer & heavy beats.

The problem started when I went up to the platform again to ask why they hadn't played "Blue Monday" yet. There, sitting between the DJ & me was Mr. Blonde. He blocked my passage in a teasing way, and started encouraging me to push past him. Then he started kissing me. And I let him, even though it was obvious he was totaled, and I was no where near drunk enough to have an excuse.

My God, the improbable hopes that were born in that 5 minutes!! I actually started believing that a reconciliation was possible, as the sunglasses holding my hair back fell to the floor. And then I realized what was going on, and my heart twisted & twisted. I started crying & Mr. Blonde kept saying stupid drunken things like "just live in the moment" until the DJ got sick of us & kicked us off the platform. At this point, I fled down the ladder & back into our booth, refusing to talk to Mr. Blonde.

It was then that the comedy kicked in. I went over to the bar to get medicated, and some guy started chatting me up. Picture it: I'm a little chick in ox-blood docs & overalls in the middle of a downtown Toronto club on a Friday night. On my frighteningly pale face was a healing zit and no make up and very fresh tear tracks. And I almost got picked up. Not only that, but guys were watching me for the rest of the night. I couldn't believe it. When I burst out crying, suddenly I surpassed all the clubby bitches to become the hottest chick in the Cave.

And then the bigger piece of comedy occurred. I bid goodbye to my black-clad paramour and sauntered back to the booth, beer-less & somewhat off-kilter from everything that had happened. Ben came up to visit & we stood with our arms around each other for awhile. Then I got a semi-brilliant idea: I should introduce Ben & Mr. Blonde, since everyone in res has to here about my past relationship just as much as you do, and none of the first years had ever met him. I mentioned that to Ben and he glanced over my shoulder & laughed. "Oh, I think he's kind of busy right now."

So I look over, and see him making out with Dot's older sister. And I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, how perfect is that? My ex-boyf...Dot's older sister...it was too perfect. And then Dot's older sister's friend started chatting up Mr. Blonde, as the two women have an intense rivalry going on...soooo funny. It made me smile for the rest of the night. Although I'm sure that everyone thought that I was upset about the Dot's sister thing, and over the edge into hysteria. It does seem like me to freak out. But really, nothing could be farther from the truth. The weirder everything got, the more distance I got from my pain, and I was able to look on everything as the drunken comedy of errors it was.

One of the up shots was that although I was not drunk, I was extremely comfortable on the dance floor. I had nothing more to lose, I had no more pretenses at coolness, so I could just dance. And so I danced my little melodramatic heart out.

After about an hour of this, we all headed back to the Frat Haus for the remaining beer. It was at this point that I got tanked, and I spent the next 3 hours laughing uproariously at everything. Cody walked me home and although we got a little lost, it was awesome to be walking around in still, pre-dawn Toronto with birds singing & the sun seriously considering rising. I went to bed at 5 a.m., still chuckling, and dreading the moving out to come in a short 4 hours.