{August} {October}

September 1997.

September 29, 1997.

Sister Sunshine just called. She was quite surprised that I was actually in. Yes, I do make cameo appearances in my room from time to time. Mostly to sleep, go online, and play Marilyn Manson with the door open while I'm curled up in the window, reading. My friends have gotten quite used to talking to the machine. In my paranoid moments, I suspect that they're in a conspiracy to keep me away from my room, so that they can converse uninterrupted with my machine. No, actually I just made that up. But Sister Sunshine was a trifle upset that she couldn't serenade my machine with a rousing chorus of "How Do You Solve A Problem Like Aleta?"

Two words for my darlings: lovable psychotics.


I seem to be attracting the interest of a few parents. Not that parents never visited my journal before (there's Al, for example.) What I mean is, parents of my actors are dropping in to watch the daily show. I'll be honest; it's a trifle unnerving. But neat, all the same.

Hello, Mrs. Tiger Lily. Hello, Mr. Trotski. Ummm...how did you like the kegger story? Don't worry, your kids are not being forced to partake of Marilyn Manson, or any of the other ugly little particulars of my life. They don't even have to hear me babble as much as the journal readers do.

Hope I didn't embarrass you by this little wave of recognition. Ok. Back to your regularly scheduled program.


Turned down Aaron's invitation to $2.50 drinks at the Dance Cave for the second consecutive Monday night. I've really got to cut back on the partying. I figure, 3 nights a week, absolute max. And that includes the occasional pint with Preacher, not just the times when I get senselessly hammered. Although there have only been a few of those this year.

It's a shame I have to give up heroic drinking, but there you go. I can't expect to work, write, and do well in my 3rd year unless I give up some sort of debauchery. And lechery seems to have been taken out the schedule for me, so all that's left is drinking.

Homer: "If I don't find a new bar, I'll have to stop drinking."
voice from stomach area: "Yay!"
Homer: "Shut up, liver!"
punches self in stomach
"Owww...my liver hurts..."
- the simpsons (of course)

September 28, 1997.

So I went out with my cousins last night. Interesting. I rode through the mild nausea that suburbia raises in me (I know that's a terribly stuck-up thing to say, but there you go. I associate my background with pain & judgment. And I can't change the past.) Which was pretty much the only pall over the evening. I like my cousins (that is, when they're not being bastards) and I had a chance to hang out with my brother, something I rarely, if ever, get to do anymore.

Another dubious good thing about last night, was that I heard the Barbie song for the first time. Yuk. My cousin Jamie & his girlfriend have a charming impartiality towards music - we shuttled between NIN "Perfect Drug," nameless techno big beat crap, and "Every day" by Buddy Holly with scarcely any change in their attitude.


Finnished "Courtney Love: the Real Story," a biography by Poppy Z. Brite yesterday. I'm not much on biographies, even of people I'm fascinated by, but I gobbled this one down like candy. Fuckin' brilliant. I'd urge Poppy to do this sort of shit full time, but her fiction is so shockingly amazing that I'd hate to steer her away from novels. If you've never read a Poppy Brite book before, I urge you to go out & get a copy of "Drawing Blood," a story about 2 gorgeous boys and the haunted house they fall in love in.

Perhaps I forgot to mention that if highly erotic homosexual encounters give you shivers of disgust, you won't like this book. Which is a shame, really. I've read so many heterosexual sex scenes that were drained of all eroticism...it's like watching a butterfly squirm on a pin. Any author who can make sexual behavior that is not your cup of tea so damn appealing (I'm not even equipped to participate, fer chrissake!), is a very special femme indeed.


Preacher & I had a rather interesting conversation over a pint last night. I've never had such an honest parlay with a guy before (that is, with a guy who isn't Mr. Blonde). It was kind of neat to openly discuss some taboo questions on sexuality that'd been tickling in the bottom of my mind for awhile now. Like: when 2 boys share a room, do they work out a masturbation schedule? I'm honestly curious, not being a boy & not ever having had a roommate.

"What's it like, not having a sense of shame?"
- King of the Hill

Oh, well. I do have a sense of shame, but it only kicks in at the oddest moments. I suppose that's the result of growing up in the oh-so-confused 80's - morality kept shifting during the important period of childhood when you're supposed to internalize concepts like shame.

It's an interesting window of time. The malleable years. I suppose that's when little girls are taught to hate their bodies. I can't believe the Body Shop could be so astute: "There are 3 billion women who don't look like supermodels, and only 8 who do."

September 27, 1997.

Last night was kind of an odd emotional descent.

It began well: Charity, Sister Sunshine & myself departed from work in high spirits, ready to celebrate Girls Night Out (so decreed by Cordelia). But nothing seemed to happen, and by 11 p.m., Sister Sunshine was too ill to stay out. They both departed, leaving me on the horns of a social dilemma: show up at Ein.stein's to meet a dinner party of my friends, or cut my losses and go home. Palaver showed up, also depressed, and we decided to go to Ein.stein's for a little while and delve deeply into our own corrupted psyches...or some such.

I was feeling pretty vulnerable at that point. Lately I've developed a fixation on being part of the group, and I hadn't been invited to this dinner party. I felt snubbed, in other words. Which sent me into that oh-so-familiar passive-aggressive spiral. They don't like me, fine. I'll just stay home & be miserable until they ask me out (never mind that acting miserable drastically lowers my chances of ever getting asked out.) Then I started beating myself up. Of course they don't want you. Why would they want to hang out with a whore like you, anyway? (But that was just the Judgment of Brampton being internalized.)

I dunno...I think I'm unhealthily fixated on my own sexuality. If the whole whore thing bothers me, I can stop wearing "the slinky red dress." I can stop flirting shamelessly. And I can save myself for marriage...and we'll all live lives of sunshine & bliss...sha la la laaaaaa...

Ok, fuck that shit.

I think that my main problem in the past year has been a loss of faith. Throughout my burgeoning adolescence, the only thing that made me stand out was my intelligence. Maharet was the pretty one. Akasha was the tough one. So when I fell in love with Mr. Blonde, and he with me, I came to the conclusion that he was a special case. He had somehow weathered the charms of my girlfriends, and wanted to be with the loud-mouthed brunette. So I took all of his declarations that I was beautiful, sexy, charming, etc. with a grain of salt. Obviously, I was dealing with a psychotic. A nice one, a sweet one, a funny one, but a psychotic, nonetheless.

This conviction held until I entered U of T, and became just another brain. There was nothing to set me apart from all the other girls...and truly, some of them were gorgeous as well as brilliant. But that was ok. I had Mr. Blonde. I didn't need to stand out anymore...my bass had been boated, so to speak. But this weird thing started to happen last year:

People (other than Mr. Blonde) started to tell me that I was beautiful.

And not just tell me, but actually show me by paying attention. By flirting back. For the first time, I was playing dress-up with other girls, and not coming out the clear loser. And it went to my head. I started neglecting Mr. Blonde in favour of other, more exciting people. He began to withdraw. We squabbled all the time. And then I fell in love...

We all know the story at this point. My life unraveled to the point of madness, and I have spent the past summer knitting it back up again. But the central tenant of faith, the idea that I should be happy with what I had, is gone. Part of the reason is obvious: I'm not in love anymore. But I don't think I can ever be that easily satisfied again. The apple has been tasted, and there's no going back once you start making clothes out of fig leafs. Stylish, tho' it may be...

So, no, last night did not end very well. But at least I wasn't crying in public. And at least I can't blame my actions on alcohol. And at least somebody else feels as rotten as I do, although that's not really something to exult in. Still, misery loves company, and I'm one of the more miserable bitches you're likely to meet. *grin*

"I'm the bitch you hated / filth-infatuated."
- the prodigy

September 25, 1997.

What a long fucking day. I can't believe I actually got up at 6:30 this morning.

I find it amusing that my boss is attempting to schedule Sister Sunshine & I away from Aslan. It's pretty difficult, since he's practically full-time, and the two of us have to work at some point during the week. What do they think is going to happen? An illicit tryst in the tiny employees washroom? I can't figure out what would be more romantic, up against the lockers, sitting on the sink, or perched over the toilet. There's only about 1 square foot of elbow room, so any acts involving 2 or more people would have to be carefully choreographed around the fixtures.

I'm certainly dwelling on this, aren't I? You know it's time for a new relationship when you start examining these scenarios in depth - you know, just in case.

Palaver recommends that I begin to prey on the naïve frosh boys that wander past my door in res. This suggestion came out of a weird bout of afternoon paranoia yesterday, when I accused him of avoiding me since the Alpha Sigma Sigma kegger.

"And she guilt trips...just...like...a woman..." Sometimes I'm such a typical chick that I scare myself.


Went out shopping for low-priced lingerie with Sister Sunshine after a horrible fish dinner at Fung. Unfortunately, Super Sellers took all the fun out of our visit when they acted impossibly rude to us. So, if you're ever on Yonge street in Toronto, and you want service with a smile (panties with politeness?) don't go there.

We then proceeded to Allure, an underwear store on a somewhat lower level (no pun intended). Actually, it was more of a sexual novelty store. Sister Sunshine & I spent a good 10 minutes going through the store, our delighted laughter sparing nothing: from cock rings to nurse outfits to "the Accomadator" (a dildo that straps onto the chin), we made fun of it all.

And then, in the most embarrassing visit of the night, we spent an hour in Le Château.

Remember my $200 dress? Well, I found another similarly-priced outfit which I covet - but this one steers away from Siouxie Sioux to Agent Scully. If anyone wants to see me dressed almost in drag, this is the time to send in those contributions. Now all I need is a handsome partner with no social life.


I think that this is it for tonight. A bunch of my friends are going to Ein.stein's, but I think I'm actually going to do the responsible thing. As long as nobody asks too much - I bend like a reed in the wind. There's just something appealing about relinquishing all responsibility for doing something silly. How many times have I blamed my dissolute evenings on Preacher's opportune coaxing?

But tonight, I think, is a night to relax with my new Poppy Brite book (!), my new CD's, and my bone-weariness. Sure, I'm not actually getting any academic reading done, but I think that's inconsequential, don't you? At least I can get a good night's sleep for once.

September 24, 1997.

Final score: University 43, Aleta 0.

But that's okay. As long as I'm back, I care not for the petty late fees.

Man, there's nothing like the alleviation of large-scale threats to your entire post-secondary career. I finally feel like I've accomplished something. Not only have I re-instated myself in all my classes (there was some doubt), cleared up the mistake (wrong invoice forms) and learned how to prevent it in future (refuse to leave anything important to that bunch of incompetent low-life's), but I have acquired all of my texts & finished the first of many novels which lie strewn before my academic path this year. Yes, "Barchester Towers" has finally been wrestled into submission. You put up a great fight, Mr. Trollope. But I believe that high-pitched screeching is a rather stout woman practicing her scales.

God, it's good to be finished something. If only it was "Two Solitudes." Talk about having a cross to bear.


Poet has been a pillar of strength in my recent struggles with the registrar. He's been screwed over so many times by various levels of bureaucracy that it's almost de rigeur. I was pretty bratty to him the other night, tho'. Actually, I've been a brat to him pretty consistently for the past week.

I think, perhaps, that I am taking my role as über-bitch Tisiphone in "the adventures of Tisiphone's Angels" a little too seriously.


I went to the dentist this morning, and so I experienced one of those forced periods of contemplation that occur when I am unable to vocalize. It was neat, actually. I pondered the new plot developments in "The Kindly Ones," I pursued my paranoid fantasies that Palaver has been avoiding me since the Alpha Sigma Sigma keg party, and I wondered how much dirt & other things that I've inadvertently swallowed over the years.

I don't know why the dentist chair is so conducive to sexual fantasies, but I was thankfully able to refrain from this line of thought during my appointment. No matter how comfortable that chair is, it's hard to feel erotic when a woman is scraping the plaque off your teeth & quizzing you about your flossing habits.

Unless you're into that sort of thing.


I think it's time to go to bed. I have to get up at 6:30 tomorrow morning for work, which means that I will have to skip first regular drinking night of Tisiphone's Angels (soi-dit at the recent kegger). Drag.

September 22, 1997.

There's something really wrong with the world today.

Yeah, sure, on the surface it was a beautiful day. Crisp, sunny, windy, perfect autumn weather. But consider this: on the very day that Poet frees himself from debt (momentarily, that is), the University has sent me a rather blunt letter informing me that I have been withdrawn from all of my classes for a failure to pay fees.

I remember paying my fees very clearly. It was an evening well-within the deadline. I was at the mall. I made 2 other stops that night, to hunt out Sandman trade paperbacks & God In An Alcove respectively. Both of these side enterprises ended in failure. But I paid my goddamn fees. I can even remember the conversation with the freckled teller.

Me: Did you know that they make you say the alphabet backwards when you're pulled over for drunk driving?

Both of us in unison: I can't say the alphabet backwards when I'm sober!

(I can actually do this, by the way. That's what comes of 1 1/2 years in a library - an over-familiarity with the alphabet. But I digress.)

Don't ask me why I was talking about this. I just was, okay? And now they punted me out of the University. Fuckin' shit. *sigh*


Guess what I'm skipping now? You guessed it, 20th Century Canadian Fiction. I hate you, Hugh-freakin'-MacLennan. "Two Solitudes," my ass. How could I possibly like a novel with this printed on the cover: "THE BIG, POWERFUL NOVEL OF CANADA - AND OF MEN AND WOMEN DRIVEN BY A FIERCE PASSION FOR LIVING."

Hopefully next week shall be better. Margaret Atwood's "Surfacing," no less.


I think I'm discovered something about myself this week - I can only eat left-over Kraft Dinner when desperate. This includes "desperately hung-over," "desperately hungry," or just plain old "desperate." I think it's time to scrape out my pot & let go of the left-overs. Hmmm. Saying goodbye is soooo hard...

September 21, 1997.

I feel very husked out & hollow.

I awoke this morning with the mistaken idea that the quiet inside was peace. And it is, but it's more of an absence than a presence. Does that even make sense?

After 3 weeks of everyone & everything rushing at me, exhausting me & taxing my capacities to their utmost, the last couple of days have been a vacuum. No one has called. No one has written, except for some on-line friends.

Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.

Perhaps it was a mistake to spend yesterday & today alone. Well, inasmuch as res life will *let* you be alone. I've had innumerable conversations, smiles, & questions. But in a very real sense, I have been alone for a few days, alone with the Endless. Not a particularly good thing when you're as insecure as I am. How can I go on proving myself when there is no one around me whom I love enough to bother trying?


This is an awfully depressing line of thought from someone who has attended a family party tonight. Not to mention the almost ritualistic residence event that marks the 1st Simspons episode of the season. But solitude does that to me. I get restless. Eventually, I'm like a cat trying to bite her own back.

Perversely, I miss summer weekends. No homework, y'see. And endless palavers with Palaver.


Which reminds me. When the hell is King's "Wizard & Glass" coming out? It's not like I haven't been waiting 3 years for him to resolve the cliff-hanger or anything.


All right. That's it for tonight. Time to nurse my imaginary wounds & curl up with the first godammed 20th Century Canadian novel of the semester, "Two Solitudes." (Awful. Just awful.)

September 20, 1997.

I suppose you want to know about last night's party, huh? Well, it can best be summed up with the following phrase:

Welcome to hang-over country, may I take your coat?


Last night was the first big house party I've gone to as a single girl. Boy, did I ever carry on. I flirted with everyone. EVERYONE. (Everyone, that is, except my boys. But I digress.) I even danced with Beowulf in an obscene manner. Oh well, it was dark, maybe only 20 people noticed. Just to put this into perspective for you all, I danced obscenely with someone to satisfy my pride. I wanted there to be no gaps in my flirtatious resumé. And I was certainly dressed like a whore. The fishnets were in effect, along with the new, evil-looking skirt & Aphrodite's basic black tank-top.

Now that I think about it, I was blatantly trying to prove stuff to myself last night: trying to prove that I'm attractive, trying to prove that people like me, trying to prove that I'm witty & brazen. When you're the only girl playing in the round of Pyramid (a drinking game), there's something wrong.

Oh, well. I didn't disgrace myself anymore than I usually do when drunk. And considerably less than I've been known to on certain memorable occasions, come to think. I think that the nicest thing about my university social circle, is that they take care of me. At 3 am or thereabouts, Palaver suggested that it was time to go home, and I whole-heartedly agreed. I only vaguely know my limits, which is why I appreciate it when someone goes out of their way to watch over me.

Not that my high school friends didn't. I clearly remember Rose & Maharet busting into the bathroom during one party to stroke my hair while I purged. But parties with that crowd have soured of late, and not just because I broke up with Mr. Blonde. There's an undercurrent of tension & politics which spoils my enjoyment on most occasions, and makes me jaded. I think I was a trifle hasty in severing my ties with that crowd, but it's done, and I feel too awkward to rejoin the group.



Today, as I have said before, is my sojourn in hang-over land. So I spent it rather quietly, reading my new Sandman comics. The Beguiling was having an anniversary sale today - 40% off trade paperbacks, and I'm *such* an easy sell when I'm disoriented.

"Lady, I'm your worst nightmare -- a pumpkin with a gun!"
- Merv Pumkinhead


I take back every word of derision I have ever spoken about Marilyn Manson. No matter how much their fans annoy me, I can't deny that "Antichrist Superstar" is a brilliant, brilliant album. It's almost on par with "the downward spiral," in terms of raw, negative emoting power. I also enjoy the conceit of the album - that a bunch of rock stars could make such a successful album which trashes the whole mythos of the successful rock star.

Hey, does anyone else think it's odd that metal has become a bit of a zeitgeist in the diary community? Check out Meghan & Jay if you don't believe me...

"I know that I could turn you on, I wish I could just turn you off. I never wanted this..."
- "Mister Superstar"

September 19, 1997.

Tiny little mid-morning entry:

I have a really busy schedule today: 2 hours of class, a run-through Fung, 5 hours of work, and a housewarming for the Dump on Dupont. So I figured that now, as I am skipping my Victorian Fiction class, is the perfect time to sketch out a few thoughts for the journal.

I know, I shouldn't be skipping class to fuck around on the computer. But it's only through skipping that I'll be able to eat lunch today. My schedule is a bit too tight to permit a run-through Fung and a stop at my 3rd floor room within the 15 minutes allotted to me. And since I spent the last hour studying Rochester (a debauched poet of the 18th century), I feel that it's incumbent on me to live hedonistically. I'm too hungry to miss lunch & too tired to stay awake through Prof. Shaw's monotone lecture, so here I am, killing time until Fung opens for lunch.

I'm also feeling a touch of social awkwardness during the previous lectures of the class I'm presently missing. I share the class with both Poet & Tiger Lily, and this should logically result in a good time (they are, after all, two of my best friends). But there is a surprising amount of coolness between the two of them & myself. They're not inclined to be social during the lecture, and not willing to tarry after, and that's that. I suppose this has a lot to do with the whole Cranly & Tiger Lily situation. I really hope things settle down soon. I know it's a lot to hope for, but I worry about her & I want to see some stability in her life.

It all translates into a social situation that should not be vaguely uncomfortable, yet somehow is. But I don't want you to get the impression that this is a problem. Just a quiet uneasiness; a small chill, and an almost buried feeling that something is not right with the world. Not enough to drive me away from class, tho.' Today I bailed on a purely sensual basis, I swear.

September 18, 1997.

Having spent my entire day at work, I am not feeling very interesting right this minute. There are only a few things to comment on, really.


Number one, my celestial patronage. Having been spurned by Athene, Janus, Calliope, Bast, Cupid, and pretty much any pagan god that I cared to call upon in recent times, I have apparently been raised up in the eyes of one no less important - the God of Public Transit.

She's an odd sort of goddess - quick to anger, slow to reward virtue with comfort, and smelling faintly of wet dog. Nevertheless, I felt the full force of her love this morning, when all of my trains arrived on the platform 5 seconds after I set foot on them. Tomorrow she will look coldly upon me. But this morning I got to work on time.

A small thing, but worth a happy sort of shiver all the same.


Number two, today is Maharet's 21st birthday. While in years past, the occasion was marked by purple & black balloons, a sleepover & a home-made cake, traditions have fallen off of late. That's life for you, tho'.

Anyway, my love & party sentiments go to you, my pet. Have a great time. And drink one for me, as I'm spending my time with my required readings, for the first Thursday night since...well...forever, maybe.


Number three, Goshia (the book editor at the Varsity) has come through for me in a spectacular way. Due to her kind inquiries (and icy, elegant South African accent), I may be doing an interview with...wait for it...Poppy Z. Brite. Eeeeeee!

For those of you who don't know, Poppy is a writer of highly erotic horror fiction. While Anne Rice deals mostly with metaphor & Stephen King's sex scenes are very prosaic, Poppy has a gift of making her gay male characters explode with an utterly consuming sensuality.

And I love her. Of course.


September 17, 1997.

Tonight was my first scheduled short story class. In 3 action-packed hours, we were to go over Hawthorne, Poe & some other early American writer, reveling in the pleasures only a short story can convey. But I, of course, was not there. I was at Le Château with Sister Sunshine, picking out my birthday present.

3 hours in Le Château. Oh, how I have the urge to mock myself.

But some of the clothes were top notch. Once we sorted through the attractive clothes that were made for women of 5 inch circumferences, we found some pretty funky shit. Sister Sunshine snagged a floor-length, multi-coloured horizontally striped skirt that is the epitome of her style. I can't explain it better than that - but if you saw the Sister, with this long, rainbow-hued skirt, black 60's-style shirt with yellow embroidering & her immense masses of dark, thick Farah Fawcett hair, you, too, would have been struck dumb.

I managed to pick up another maroon velvet shirt & an evil-looking short black skirt overlain with stiff black lace & fringed with that horrible fake fur so popular in the 70's. Pimp fur. Although, as Aphrodite so kindly pointed out, the 2 don't exactly go together. But who wants to match? I just want to mix it up.


About Palaver's near death experience of a few days ago, it can be summed up as follows:

When Palaver's Medieval History Prof advised his flock to "experience nature as they did in the Middle Ages," Palaver decided to take him at his word. And so, armed with nothing more than a backpack & a copy of Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales," our boy set out to ford the Humber River.

Until the half-way point, he concentrated on keeping the bag dry. After that, he just concentrated on not drowning.

Needless to say, he made it to shore, and thus has another couple of days at least to continue his pursuit of fine scotch, witty banter & impressionable young girls. And no one is more relieved than I. Who else understands my bizarre love of Marilyn Manson? Who else shall provide me with the best muscles money can buy (if you don't have very much money)?

Who else, indeed.


I have only one more topic before I wrap up tonight's entry. Yes, it's my psyche. Ooooh, there's a big shock.

However, I'd merely like to report that I am very calm, content, serene, happy, joyous & satisfied with my place in the world right now. Even the added burden of work isn't that severe. And there are compensations: Sister Sunshine, Charity, Aslan & getting paid, to name 4.

I think I've finally pulled out from under the shadow of madness. Halle-fucking-luia - at last.

Just thought you'd like to know.

September 16, 1997.

Here's a little tip for those of you starting a new university year: don't ever tell yourself that you're just going out for "one pint." Last night Aaron dropped by, and cajoled me away from my stockpile of readings. Drawing upon the muscle of the Palaver, the 3 of us headed out to Ein.stein's for a quick one. And of course we met Preacher there. And of course I stayed out to 1 am. And of course I had early classes & 5 hours of work today.

Rrg. I'm soooo tired...but it was worth it, I suppose.


Yesterday I wandered around looking for texts with Veronica, a 2nd year English major. Since she's from Kingston, I asked her if the frosh question her about the Tragically Hip.

She said, "actually, I do know the Tragically Hip. They're friends of the family. Gord Downie called a while back for my dad, and we made small talk. He told me to leave a message for my father. I guess he expected me to go over the deep-end, because I didn't, and then he said 'Gord Downie...from the Tragically Hip?'"

So not the friend of the family. The Rock Star. It's all part of the Canadian Celebrity Outreach program, ma'am. Have a nice day, eh?



My Eastern Classics professor is such a good guy.

Not only is he nice & approachable & coherent & interesting, but he brings in snacks. Tonight being not only the full moon, but the Harvest Moon (or Zhong Qiu), he brought in traditional "Moon Cakes" for the class. I was so impressed that I made notes, in order to relay accurate info to you all. Yes, I am a wiener.

I felt like I was in kindergarten...only without the fights about who gets to play with the toy iron. And, like kindergarten, there is a cute boy that I have my eye on. I can only pray that this one can tie his shoes.

(Yes, I started down the road to heterosexuality pretty godamned early.)


"I'm the firestarter..." - the Prodigy

I don't know what happened...

I went into a second-hand record store to buy "Fat of the Land" (i.e. the Prodigy album), but I walked out with "Antichrist Superstar," by Marilyn Manson.

Yes, I am the victim...

September 15, 1997.

It's quarter to one on a Monday night (Tuesday morning?), and I'm drunk again. My ambition is to make one shift this week where I'm not hung-over. Yes, I believe it can be done...but I am so weak-willed...


In other drunkard news, Poet has burst forth with an extraordinary effort to further crown my Angels in glory. Through daily installments, Poet is weaving a tale of intrigue, danger, and heinous amounts of alcohol set in the 30's. Why the 30's? Well, no other time has 3 easily identifiable bad guys: Nazis, Commies, & American Imperialists. It is indeed a ripe time for 3 dissolute superheros to unite & half-heartedly take a swipe at evil.

The problem is that the stories are too good. I fear the inevitable rip-off. I urge Poet to secure his copyright before the tales are launched upon an unsuspecting Internet audience.


Okay, I'm too exhausted & tipsy to continue. Tomorrow I shall tell thee of Palaver's near-death experience, Veronica's brush with Gord Downie (yes, THAT Gord Downie) & perhaps even tonight's brief tale of coincidence, slack & beer.

September 14, 1997.

Never before has that 3-storey climb to my res room seemed so daunting. I'm exhausted. Just totally wiped out. But the sustenance (if you can call it that) which I just received from Fung has filled me with it's particular brand of greasy well-being. I actually feel able to write, and not to just curl up on my inviting bed & sleep 'til the not-so-wee hours.

I get really wordy & rococo when I'm tired, huh?


Yesterday was Sister Sunshine's birthday celebration. All the elements were there for a good time, but for some reason, the night just refused to click. Sister Sunshine, Destiny & I were all dressed up and Dream & Death were there, not to mention Palaver & Preacher (for a few hours at least). We piled out to the Phoenix, a popular "alternative" dance club, intent on black-clad birthday debauchery.

But it didn't work. Dream concentrated on getting drunk, I was really annoyed by Dream's friend Steele, Sister Sunshine didn't feel like dancing, and even when we went out onto the floor, it was ass. The one thing you can say for dancing goths is that they respect your personal space. Not so with jocks & their goils. They looked annoyed when I refused to accept my feet being stepped on - in my world, that rates at least an elbow in retaliation. Just keep your bottles of Canadian & du Maurier cigarettes & beefy boyfs the fuck out of my personal space, and we won't mix it up, 'kay honey? 'Kay.


At 1am I hopped a cab to the Lawyer's housewarming party. Primo primo primo. Although I love Queen West, I'm no-one there. Within my U of T friends, I'm a goddess, plain & simple. Well, at least a pampered house cat who styles herself as Bast, okay?


Today I worked the afternoon shift. Yes, it was very hard to get up hung-over after getting to bed at about 5am, but I did it anyway. I'm quite proud of myself. This job seems designed to test my physical limitations, much the way my OAC year in high school did. The only difference is that I'm eating much less this time around.

Well, there's no point in paying for a meal plan if you're not going to use it, now is there? And I still have my massive store of KD waiting for me at my swinging 3 floor walk up. It's there if I have the energy to cook it, in other words.

And speaking of energy, I'm just about out. I have enough to get me to the common room for tonight's "Simpson's", but I think anymore is pushing it. Goodnight all.

September 11, 1997.

Worked all day long today...bleh...life sux.


New revelation: Aslan is 24. This only makes him tastier, however. He got off end-of-work duties to go meet friends from the Rock...to go drink with 'em, actually. This disclosure made me ponder how long it's been since I drank. Almost a week. Jesus. I can't believe someone is living a more dissolute life than I am.

And my comment about age only goes double for the boy's drinking habits.


Preacher informed me that I committed a heresy yesterday by grabbing some of the left-over communion wafer from his hands & taking a bite before returning it to him. Now I understand the horrified expression on his face. In his own words, I "snatched the body of our Lord Jesus Christ out of the hands of a Sacred Minister of the Church whose duty it was to 'consume the remaining particles in a speedy fashion' (Book of Common Prayer)."

Hmm. I'm not doing too well with this whole God reconciliation thing, am I?


In another example of the perverseness of the universe, a phrase in a past entry that I pulled out of the air has inspired Buck of the Mayhem Project. Go figure.

September 10, 1997.

Today was rather tiring. It began with 2 sleepy hours of class (in 2 different locations), then mass at Trinity College, then an exhausting & frustrating tour of the wildly geographically diverse bookstores where my cruel cruel professors have deigned to order insufficient quantities of text.

I really hate the system sometimes...they know they have us by the genetalia, and between the arrogance of the teaching staff & the arrogance of the bookstores, we students often have to scramble after texts in every free moment for the first couple of weeks. The fortunate can find all their texts by the end of the first week. The less fortunate have to watch the readings pile up as the days grind on. I'll be lucky if I get all my books by the 20th. Rrrg.

Okay. End of rant.


Mass was quite nice this morning. I kind of tagged along with Poet & Tiger Lily after class. They'd made a date to see Preacher officiate the service, and I really enjoy this sort of thing. I have also felt the need to approach God overtly, ever since my recent bout of Devil worship.



"Give me life, give me pain, give me myself again."
- tori amos

I was talking to Tiger Lily today about her tendency in the last few days to forgo eating almost entirely. I understand that she's in mourning for the death of her relationship with Cranly, but it's really worrying all the same. No matter how helpful she thinks this behavior is towards purging, it's still flat-out nuts.

But she's putting a rather bizarre spin on the whole thing - she's taken to writing, almost in self-defense. By chronicalling her descent into starvation, she feels that she's breaking new ground in journalism. No matter how much we as a society talk about eating disorder, we don't actually know much about it first hand. Not many people take the time to write out their experience as they purge & purge & purge.

And as Tiger Lily so rightly points out, as humans, we are at the same time totally obsessed with our carnality & totally oblivious of it's affect on our behavior. Totally obsessed, because it occupies such a large portion of our waking concerns, and toatally oblivious because we don't question the bulk of activities associated with the upkeep of the flesh.

Nobody decides to forgo elimination for a week. But at the same time, everyone is obsessed with looking "right." It's a weird duality that I'd never thought about before.

She's very pleased with the writing she's produced during the last couple of days - to the point of considering its' submission to the university's creative writing department. In a way, I admire her for experimenting on her own consciousness, if not for art's sake, then with art as a side-effect. But I'm still really worried about her. We all are. She's lost a stunning amount of weight.

When do you replace love with responsibility? When do you stop trusting your loved ones? Does the answer change when they are engaged in behavior likely to terminate their life & therefore your friendship?

Is there ever an answer to that?

September 9, 1997.

Last night I worshipped Satan. And just when I thought my life couldn't get any weirder...

Let me explain.

In my residence, there are 4 houses. Each house has a designated area in the dining hall. You don't HAVE to sit there, but it promotes house solidarity & friendship. As ours is the biggest house, tradition dictates that we seat ourselves at the high table, the one on the dais. It is the longest, as befits our size.

And every year, some punk house makes a play for the table.

Now, in past years, we would've paid them no mind. They soon grow bored & sit with their own. But these punks are a bit more persistent, aggressive & determined than we're comfortable with. So we called a house meeting last night to discuss table solidarity & resistance strategy. In a weird coincidence, the frosh were asked to create a totem animal out of paper products, and led by proud Ferguson upper years, our frosh created....

A goat.

But not just any goat. The legendary goat. The mythical goat that was reputed to live in Poet's closet in his first year, the animal which was rented out for sexual purposes to support the drinking habits of its' owners. The capital-g Goat. (And BTW, they had no idea why they did this. You know. They're frosh. They do what you tell them. Anyway.)

So we had a meeting tonight. We began to chant. We got up en masse. The Goat was ceremoniously raised upon shoulders. We formed double lines. And we marched through the halls of our rival, banging on doors, chanting "You're never gonna win."

Periodically, we would form a corridor & bow to the goat as it was paraded through our ranks.

Finally, we spewed into the quad. The Goat was respectfully lowered. We formed a circle. We bowed to the Goat. Then we chanted one more time...

I mean, we worshipped the Goat, for crying out loud. Us upper-years have made the frosh into Satanists, just to keep our table. I hope that all the alumni are proud of us:

"What did you do in university this week, son?"
"We bowed down to the Goat, father. Hail Satan. Well, goodnight, send money..."

warped young minds for the honour of the high table & our house. Preacher, although an alumni of the house, has already dropped by tonight to condemn me for my heresy. The kind of condemnation that involves very little discussion of the topic...okay, none at all...okay, there was no condemnation. I'm only trying to protect his reputation here.

If only Poet had kept a neat room, I could look forward to a lot less questioning by St. Peter. But there it is. Hail Mephistopholes. Goodnight, kids.

September 8, 1997.

One of the best things about res is the dress code. Whenever I get home, I change back into a tank top & my brother's green boxers...mmm...lounging around in my underwear. You wouldn't believe the relief I feel when I can finally cast off the evil uniform of my job. Apparently I remind Palaver of Sigourney Weaver in "Alien"...every time he comes to my door, he makes a point of saying, "Okay, we have to fight the aliens now. Ripley, start taking off your clothes..."

Besides, there's nothing better than looking like white trash in the middle of a crowd of uptight intellectuals fresh from high-school. It's even better than the authentic dominatrix ads on my door from London.


Speaking of dominatrices, I went out to the Film Festival yesterday to see "Didn't Do It For Love," a movie about a Scandinavian girl who found fame as an actress in Mexico, came to New York on a university scholarship, became a high-priced dominatrix, finished her degree in criminal psychology & worked with the late Mother Teresa a few years back.

But get this: it's a documentary...

And people tell me MY life in interesting. Holy J. O'Barr.


I've actually been feeling pretty dominant today. Perhaps it's the fact that I haven't had a decent night's sleep since...forever. I've had house guests every night but one, and on that night I was up until 3:30 with Tiger Lily, talking & trying to keep her amused. Every day, I've worked or gone to school a minimum of 5 hours. I haven't even hung my posters yet, fer pete's.

But whether it's because of the lack of sleep, of the stress of moving in, or the need to see people that I've missed terribly over the summer, or going to my first classes this year while all my notetaking equipment is in Brampton, or my transformation into a minimum wage slave, I've been using the word "bitch" a lot.

As in, "Are you going to sit across from me, or am I going to have to slap yo' bitch ass?!" or "Tell that bitch you're living with to give me a call!" and so on...

I feel like that little girl in the Exorcist. I have absolutely no idea what fresh obscenity is going to pop out of my mouth from moment to moment. I've become unfit for human company for the next little while. I need a vacation...or a break...or at least long enough to get 8 hours of sleep & de-zombify myself. And maybe decorate this pit a little...


I guess the biggest news I have right now is the death of the relationship between Cranly & Tiger Lily. They had the conversation a few nights ago. Oddly enough, I had had some hint of this soon-to-fall axe that night, when I was out having dinner with Cranly. The conversation in general was pretty light. Happy, even. But when I asked how things were going between the 2 of them, he just got an odd look in his eye. "We're going to have a talk tonight," he said. And I knew from his tone that is was THE talk. The talk that ends all talking between 2 people for awhile.

Poor Tiger Lily. She had nowhere she wished to stay with that night. My location (residence) was too thickly overlain with bittersweet memories. So, as has happened increasingly since Mr. Blonde dumped me, Palaver was called in to watch over the lady. (He finds it odd that he has become the moral center in our universe. But we find it even odder...)

Poor Cranly. At least when you're the dumped, you're absolved of any moral responsibility. But he's left with the guilt of the dumper.

Poor kids. And they don't even LIKE Nine Inch Nails...I'm afraid that if they don't get all the bitterness & resentment out now, I'll have 2 more misanthropes in my social circle.


"How can you be putting me through this?
You promised, you swore, these chains are yours.
You can't revoke all the history
All the moments, all the money
You can't deny, though you'll try
That in fact you said love.
- the gus

September 6, 1997.

I think that the major difference between the Royal wedding and the Royal funeral, was that I didn't drink copious amounts of alcohol before the wedding. Also, I didn't have to get up the next day for work when I was 5.


Couldn't make it past 10 procession-packed minutes before heading back to bed. I suck. But that's what comes from drinking a full mug of Bailey's and a few pints in the company of 6 billion of my nearest & dearest. (Ok, I'm exaggerating about the #, but you wouldn't believe how many sweethearts I've been reunited with this week. Un-fucking-believable. The hermit gets a social life indeed.)

But. We were speaking of the Princess. I think that the most tasteless display of schmaltz in this whole affair has been the "Elton John tribute song." If we ever needed proof that the man has lost all appreciable talent, we need go no farther. Come on, for fuck's sake. In the memory of someone who raised millions for AIDS, he could've done better than a lame-ass "Candle in the Wind" rewrite. The idea that the song is heartfelt & a fitting tribute is almost offensive.

Oh, if you'd like to read what others in the online diary community thought of Lady Di, this page is a neat-o listing of such entries.


Ohhhh, my poor, poor feet...

Every night I come in from work, grab some dinner, catch up on my email & go to sleep.

Well, that's what I'd like to do...and put up my posters & grab my shit from Tiger Lily's and have a chance to sit down and talk to the girl & have a heart-to-heart with Cranly and so forth. But what I end up doing is hanging with whoever shows up, staying up far too late, and drinking far too much. It means that I haven't had any time to see some very special friends who are a bit less insistent in their presence. I should be making up the persistence, but I'm too tired...which is why I suck, I suppose.

(Well, one of the reasons, anyway.)

My life is ass. Plain & simple. I've had to change my schedule around just to work on Thursdays...which means that I have 7 hours of class on Monday. I hate the lame excuses that have been popping out of my mouth & I hate the whiny little bitch that I've become. But I feel like God is fucking me up the ass with insufficient lubricant.


Oh well. At least I have no romantic strife to speak of at the moment. Sometimes celibacy is a good thing. It lowers the complication level, for one thing. The only drawback (besides the obvious) is that the only good relationship stories in my life for the next little while will be un-tellable, because they're not mine.

Lowering my readership back to 3, I suppose...*giggle*

September 5, 1997

This is my first official morning hanging out in res. As such, I began the day by eating the last of 3 Lion bars (a decadent British creation involving lots of everything good, bringing you just to the point of chocolate orgasm without delivering), cracking open one of my store of Diet Cokes & making a big-ass pot of KD. Even my friends were revolted. In fact, they got positively queasy at the sight of yours truly in sweat pants & yesterday's black t, chowing down on God's gift to pasta.

Boy, is it ever good to be back.


Sorry it's taken me so long to write, but I've had house guests 2 days running. When last I wrote, I was getting ready to drink with 2/3 of my Angels. Eventually, Poet finished up whatever he was doing & joined us at Ein.stein's. Let me just say that the evening was fan-fucking-TASTIC. It'll be really hard to top the beer consumption of that night...I decided to go home when the bar refused to stop spinning, yet I wasn't the worst one...Palaver knocked on my door a full 1/2 hour after I'd gotten in, mumbled something really incoherently, and passed out fully clothed on top of my sleeping bag, which had just been laid out on the floor. And when I say fully clothed, I mean a 3-piece suit. Complete with shoes. I kept waking up, seeing him on the floor, and suggesting that he take off the jacket & vest, then perhaps get in the sleeping bag. It was, however, no use. He staggered off the next morning, having never even unbuttoned his jacket.

But, boy oh boy, did we have fun. I can't remember a single thing we talked about, but we kept laughing & laughing. At one point Palaver flicked a lighted match at me (by accident. Or so he says...) The 18-song extravaganza was in effect, complete with my choice..."How Soon is Now." If nothing else sums up the summer, that song does, as you've gathered by now. It was the first time I've been out anywhere with just the 3 of them, despite our mythology. Weird, huh?

Oops! I gotta go, I'm gonna be late for work (groan...) Later!


I've finally got a few minutes to go through my email & be alone, and I want to do is go down to Cordelia's room, where a bunch of my friends are hanging. *Sigh*. Very very ironic. But no, I need this time to regroup, to write, to rest my feet, to think & process all the errant thoughts of a very rushed couple of days.


Okay, I've now had 4 shifts to ponder this, and I now present my updated job lists.

Best things about my job:

  1. Sister Sunshine
  2. Charity
  3. Aslan
  4. do-it-yourself business card stock
  5. getting paid.

Worst things about my job:

  1. My feet are throbbing pieces of meat
  2. Snatching 15 minutes of much needed break
  3. geeky uniform
  4. fucking indecisive customers
  5. spazzing supervisors
  6. facing (keeping stock straight on the shelves)

By the 2nd hour today, I was deriving an absolutely shocking amount of pleasure from taking off my shoes for a few seconds while behind the counter. On the scale of carnal experiences (as in, those of the body), the feeling is very, well, carnal. I've been informed in the past that my foot massages are top-notch; now I only wish that I could meet someone with similar skills to rub my feet after 9 hours on the floor.

I'm pretty sure I could seduce Aslan with a foot rub alone. That's how ragged we get. Aslan is the sweet-faced boy from Newfoundland who started the week after me. He's about 18, & wants to be a fireman...swoon...yes, I've found a new boy at work to drool over. (Sister Sunshine, Charity & I went out to dinner last night, and we positively cooed over the boy. Oh well. If it keeps us happy...it keeps us happy, thass all.)


All right, I'm going downstairs now. I hope to see the funeral tonight, to bring closure to my experience of Princess Diana. Again, I'll have to be woken up. But perhaps my huge-ass bottle of duty free Bailey's will keep me awake until then.

September 3, 1997.

A few days ago, I was talking to Al of Nova Notes about my fascination with the phrase "the other egg." I realize that I've been bandying it around rather loosely lately, without the courtesy of an explanation, so here goes. It's something I recently came across in the "Fables & Reflections" collection of the Sandman series. In the story "Ramadan," the main character is walking through the lower rooms of his Arabian palace. Some rooms are full of women, some of jewels, some of captives. One room is entirely filled with eggs. Among these eggs are the legendary eggs of the pheonix, for before a pheonix will die & burn up, it will lay two eggs, one white & one black. Out of the white one comes another pheonix. But what will come out of the other egg is a mystery.

For awhile, I played around with the idea of changing the name of this diary to "the other egg," as a way of describing my new life: a life post-madness, a life post-Brampton, and a life post-Mr. Blonde. But through my correspondance with Al, I realized that if I used this title, then the diary would become about me too much.

Understand that I hold no illusions about the main character of the diary. I'm the one writing it, it just happens to be truth. But the appeal of the label "drama", is that I can tell stories about mes amours without warning. My story is their story. Mostly.

Which means that I'm going to recap a very recent experience of Poet's for the remainder of today's entry. (Because I can, that's why!!)


The bare facts are this: a stranger was on the point of death, and Poet brought him back. He saved a man's life. But here's the weird part: he couldn't do it again if, pardon the expression, my life depended on it.

In keeping with the strange stars which mark his destiny, he found himself performing CPR after coming across a man having a heart attack, a talent which had totally receded into the musty back rooms of his consciousness. If asked to repeat the feat, he flat-out would not be able to. Which makes it another classic Poet story. But such a fantastic one that my mouth is agape.

The boy positively sweats both miracles & disasters in great quantity. Which means that his life is even more interesting than mine. I have never lost consciousness on my birthday & come to the next morning, fully clothed in the suit from the night before, whist lying in the bathtub. He's like the Jack Kerouac of 89 Brunswick. I think that if he weren't so articulate & creative, he would go crazy from the weight of the wacked-out experience which dog his heels like so many impressionable frosh girls.

He saved a man's life. What an unlikely boyscout. But what an amazing boy.


Okay, I should go now. I have Palaver here right now, flipping through my birthday copy of "Seventeen," and Preacher should be showing up any minute. I'm goin' out drinkin', and I don't expect to come back sober enough to upload properly.

Maybe I should put sheets on the bed now, then. I don't think my patience or co-ordination will improve much with the added weight of a few ninesteins. Hmmm...

September 2, 1997.

I'm trying real hard to use hyperlinks in this entry. I've gotten real lazy about it, I know. It's almost a brand-new technique for me, since the only linking I've done in previous entries was to home pages. But that defeats the purpose of pseudonyms. Onward.



Last night I became a journal madwoman. (Or, a madwoman avec journal. Take your pick.) names were changed, the design was tightened (literally!), and the navigation links were improved muchly. I hadn't counted on how many words there are to go through. By the time I was done what began as a simple exercise in time-killage, my brain was sizzled.

And when I was ready to upload the new files, I first deleted the old versions, in case I went over my Geocities limit. But I'd forgotten about one set of entries that hadn't needed pseudonyms.

Upshot being: I lost 3 entries.

They were there. I wrote them. Some of you read them. But I was too careless to back them up, and now they're unrecoverable. Gone. Phhzt.

It really bothers me. I tend to write these entries in a helter-skelter manner. No notes. No short-term memory, for that matter, so I can't recreate them. *sigh* Oh well. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bytes to bytes. Amen.




One of the threads on the Open Pages mailing list recently has been sex, as in, why you do (or don't) write about it.

Well, I do, but only in the abstract. Any carnal notions are purposefully left out. There are 3 main reasons:

  1. many readers of this diary are real life friends, and I don't want to make them uncomfortable (or give away too much).
  2. I have no present-tense sex life.
  3. most times, it's better off not knowing how a stranger's libido works. (Jain, of course, is an exception.)

But, you know, now that I think about it, it's the perfect time to begin the Greek Drama Sex Files. There are no egos to bruise at present (or, at least, none that don't deserve a little bruising). And I'm 21. Whatever that means.

It's time for you to take me home...I think you know me well enough by now, that you won't expect more on this date. Little flashes of fishnets are as far as I'll go, as of yet. I am drawn that way...



Moved back into res yesterday. Holy J. O'Barr, I was only in town this week for a couple of hours, and already strange rumours are beginning to circulate. On Sunday night, Poet called Cranly & Tiger Lily, looking for me & Preacher. When asked if I was in town, Poet was postive.


My conclusion is that some other bitch (a real-life one, of course) is impersoning me to my Angels. Or everybody's gone snake. Or Poet has. Or something.

But I'm back in res!!! My stuff is back in my tiny room! Hey, they did a first-rate job of cleaning the big red wine stain from my carpet. You can't even see it now. I suspect sorcery. It was huge! It was a whole bottle of French wine! On my indoor/outdoor carpet! I breathed foreign alcoholic fumes for WEEKS! And now it's gone. Unbelievable.

Aphrodite is just down the hall. Cordelia is a floor away. Tiger Lily & Cranly are mere blocks north. Poet & Preacher's living spaces are currently unknown, but I suspect that'll change soon. Ironically, I'm now farthest away from Palaver, one of my homes away from home this summer.

It feels so good to have them within walking distance (or lurching distance, depending on level of intoxication). The only one missing from the perfect poker hand I've just been dealt is Sister Sunshine, who has yet to leave the nest. Soon enough, tho', soon enough...

Cracks have begun to appear in the other egg. I'm finally home.


Confused? Go visit my new pseudonym list. Relationships charted, origins explained, real names eliminated. Mostly.

meet the players
what has gone before
go back to the index, punk

All original material is copyright Tisiphone. That's right! Me!