September 19, 1998.

I'm backdating this entry because there's stuff I want to get out of the way before I deal with the gargantuan telling of the Wedding of Q & Pixie Stix. I try not to do this too often, but I figure that hey...you won't know the difference. Which made me feel guilty, so I'm drawing attention to it. Aleta Verité. Whatever.

I've been feeling very low energy about this whole project for the last couple of days. If you'll notice, there hasn't been an entry since Tuesday. I tried to update via the student terminals at Robarts, but I couldn't access a:/ drive. I'm sure someone a trifle more computer genius-y than myself could've found a way around it, but I'm a user on the macro level more than anything else. I know how to hook a computer together, but I don't know what's inside one or how to bake a cpu from scratch. Perhaps this is the most marvelous thing about the Internet: that it opens up computers to a subset of humanity that isn't necessarily versed in arcane computer rhetoric. I'm kinda proud of the fact that I do all coding by hand, but that's pretty much as far as it goes.

But I digress. This failure made me decide to take temporary measures, and I made arrangements to forward my main mailbox to my hotmail account, which is awfully handy for such things. But I couldn't figure out how to tackle the updating problem without hopping the streetcar to Palaver's & abusing his hospitality. So I let myself stagnate. But I was extremely gratified by the forlorn "where are you?" messages that had begun to trickle in. Although it's a trifle depressing that more online people worry about a 2-week absence when university peers aren't trying to find me after 4 months.

When I wondered aloud what was wrong with my life, The Boy offered to tell me. Careful what you wish for...but thank you, sweeties.

So, what's been going on with me, you ask. Well, not one hell of a lot. It's been the usual first week rush of books & people & scribbled phone numbers & bone-weariness compounded by my newborn commute (45 minutes on the hoof, 10 on the Rocket). My Tuesday evening class has been moved to Thursday, so I have Tuesdays off this year. Kind of like having a one-day week...until Wednesday, that is.

I like my professors a lot this year. I've already spoke of my Chinese Lit prof as one of the nicest profs I've ever had. My Greek Drama course should be interesting, as she wants us to "bring all the knowledge at your disposal to the table." That's the kind of atmosphere in which I work best, one unfettered by silly notions of "focus" and "direction." Thursdays are a bit heavy now, but I'm extremely happy to have Prof. Lindheim again for Renaissance Love Poetry. She utterly rocks my world. In the past 3 years, she's taught me Classics of the Western Tradition & Shakespeare, so a lot of my fundamental english majory knowledge was gleaned directly from her. She thinks I'm a bit frivolous, but to be fair, I am frivolous. As you well know.

And I've been hanging out with Trevor a lot, as you've probably predicted. Our almost constant companionship leads to ridiculously strong feelings of loneliness whenever he's absent. This is a very impressionable time for me, and he's strongly impressing himself on my new place...not in a bad way, but in an unmistakable fashion, so that it seems odd for me to be alone here, like it's some kind of dreary penance I'm going through. I would've made a terrible war bride.

Thursday night, however, was the gala dancing/drinking/kilt-wearing spectacular known only to a lucky few as Maharet's 22nd birthday celebration! Despite a few nagging annoyances (no puppy, too many college kids & a head cold having it's own party in 2 of the celebrants' sinuses), we managed to have a pretty good time. Maharet looked smashing...not because she was wearing anything over-the-top, but because she positively smouldered on the dance floor. She joked for a while about trying to pick up boys by introducing herself as addicted to a computer game (once you go geek, you'll never go back), and I'd offered to trade her outfit with mine, especially the little black Le Chateau skirt with the pimp fur on the bottom (which was re-dubbed "the fuck-me skirt"). But she didn't need it. Get a couple of shots of Jäger in'er, and she could've ignited the entire club. Made me briefly regret being straight. Damn.

one year ago today: not as tiny as I claim