September 22, 1998.

I'm thinking of changing my tattoo. If you'll recall, it's a red rose with the phrase "je me souviens" underneath. One of the reasons I chose that wording was to suggest the French elements in Canadian identity, but I'm bloody sick & tired of everyone (and I mean everyone) saying, "that's on the license plate of Quebec, you know." As if I didn't.

The other day I saw an ice cream truck with the slogan "nothing but the best." In French it reads, "rien de mieux." As I picked up the original tattoo idea from a Much Music special, it seems fitting that I should use a mobile ice cream ad to alter the meaning & incorporate a little performative power into my body art.

"Je me souviens rien de mieux."

"I remember nothing but the best."

I hope it'll work.

Last night (finally!) I slept the clock around, and today I felt well-rested for the first time in ages. So I spent the day far too relaxed to accomplish much homework. Smell that, kids? That's the smell of unfettered web-design. I've been wallowing in my connection to make up for lost time.

But I also had to take time out of my busy schedule of Blake to get groceries. There's been a mysterious shortage of Diet Coke in my general vicinity, including cans I could've sworn were in the cupboard & others missing from my emergency stash in the bookshelf. (Dear Tisiphone, I.O.U. one emergency Diet Coke. Signed, Tisiphone) Now, I'm willing to believe that our mice are after any food they can lay their little paws on...but Diet Coke? I suppose it's within the realm of possibility...they could roll it, or something, but why? The mere imagining of such a thing gives far more credit to Disney-esque notions of anthropomorphism that I'm comfortable with. Fuck that, man. Noooo way.

Overall, it was a great shopping experience. The chill in the air improved my posture, set my skin to tightening & my blood to thumping. All of the Mediterranean faces in the neighborhood (I live in the overlap between Little Italy & Little Portugal) seemed impossibly domestic & tranquil...impossibly safe. My energy (always an infrequent participant in my day) bubbled up. I felt really good. Glad to be here...on such an autumn's day.

And then the day lost some of its' sparkle. At about 7 or so, I was quietly requested to change a recent entry to reflect the wishes of one of the parties involved. Although my teeth were put on edge by the request (not to mention the fact that it was made through a proxy), a phone call to Stacy made my mind up. I had never considered the legal ramifications of what I write, preferring to concentrate on illicit experiences in the past tense if at all. But I'm not here to narc on the people involved (I won't say friends, because I don't think it applies. A friend would have called me personally.) It was enough that I could've alienated the proxy, whom I care about very deeply...although this person's feelings towards me have been rather vaguely expressed of late.

And I want nothing to threaten my cushy academic status. So...long live the new dictatorship of expression. And there was little rejoicing.

I apologize for the circuitous grammar of the preceding paragraph, but surely you realize that identifying the parties involved would invalidate taking out the segment in the first place. For those who know the situation, then you don't need anything more. For those who don't...sorry?

Just finished watching "Sex with Cindy Crawford." Apparently only heterosexual couples experience problems in communication, while gay couples merely face prejudice & (for men) an increased risk of AIDS. Talk about your marginalization. Very fluffy stuff, and not much that was new to me, except for some very interesting stuff about chemicals. Apparently the urge to commit is based in a hormone that activates when couples spend the night together frequently, even if they aren't having sex. Do you think that the chemical proves or disproves the radical feminist hypothesis that commitment is the work of a non-rational, non-intrinsic force trying to keep females powerless?

The whole thing reminded me of a recent Cosmo article in which 7 male erogenous zones were "revealed." Areas like ears, scrotum, inner thighs, nipples, butt... This is news to the housewives of America?

I weep for our world.

one year ago today: the universe flip-flops