September 28, 1998.

"Do you love me?"

- nick cave & his bad seeds

I prolly shoulda got that tattooed on my back a year and a half ago. Some days I feel like it's all I ever ask, the only communication I have with my friends, although the words never leave my mouth. Like in the Princess Bride: "As you wish." "I love you."

"Are you going to be at tea today?" "Do you love me?"

"Hey, do you want to do something tonight?" "Do you love me?"

"I'm sorry I missed you then. We'll have to do that again sometime soon." "Do you love me?"

"Thanks for calling." "Do you love me?"

A silent commotion that drowns out more productive thoughts. Do you love do you love do you love do you love???

You'll have to excuse me. I'm suffering through a sinus headache right now, added to pre-menstrual tides of hormones, essay depression (I have one due on Thursday...on Pilgrim's Progress, as if it wasn't bad enough) & a general craving for something different. I've discovered that my lust for secrets & exclusiveness hasn't been thoroughly killed by the disastrous outcome of my second year. Sometimes I don't want to share my memories with 50 people...just one. Trevor helps somewhat by provisioning me with a steadily growing hoard of memories exclusive to us, but I fear that this has only reawakened my appetite for such things.

Do you want to hear something truly ridiculous? Of course you do...that's why you're here, after all. When I read about Stacy, Robi & Q, I felt lonely. Like I had some sort of claim to those memories, too. Silly, huh?

Trevor says that it's brave to admit to wanting another's memories. I think it's just fucking stupid.

My weekend would make a pretty crappy movie montage, all things considered. About 2 hours after I uploaded on Friday, my cold had developed to a critical point where I couldn't lift my head from a horizontal plane. Needless to say, I watched a lot of teevee. Went to bed feeling sorry for myself, desperately wanting to talk to someone, but too depressed to make a move in that direction. Later I found out that Sister Sunshine was also sick & looking for someone to talk to. Damn my eyes for fleeing to Brampton without telling anyone!

Felt marginally better on Saturday, but my mood became somewhat uncertain as I remembered that the night's entertainment was to be a birthday party for someone I didn't know. A Stabbing Westward concert (not terribly promising) in the company of 5 guys who did nothing but trade drinking stories & discuss their ex-girlfriends. It was like being in high-school, but without the interesting people I was friends with in actual high-school. I tried to be an interesting person for a good 4 hours, but eventually my cold & the general yuckiness of the evening got the better of me. Spent a lot of time clinging to Trevor, as if to hide. Moshed for an hour & got clipped in the head more than usual. The sole bright spot was a girl in a PVC Dorothy-of-Oz dress, with 2 long black braids down her back & immaculate fishnet stockings. It had to have been homemade, but who's got an imagination that demented? And where can I meet them??

After the concert, we went to the Velvet Underground, despite my apprehension that the murderer might still be waiting for me to return from the bathroom. Saw Gomer on the street in front of the Garden, but couldn't stay to chat (goddamn it). Wanted to be in bed more than anything, but the Garden was a close second. But Trevor reminded me of our social duty, and we entered the Velvet Underground...

...where my energy suddenly came back for one last salvo at my bad mood. Unfortunately for those of you who don't appreciate cheese, it was during "Space Lord (Motherfucker)" by Monster Magnet, a song that recalls the glory days of cockrock without the spandex. And true to form, on a night when I was wearing baggy ripped 501's avec wallet & keys (my koosh keychain hung out of my pocket in a most uncool manner), a too-tight York University baby-t & no makeup...Trevor almost had to step in to stop a guy behind me from doing...whatever such guys are wont to do to girls acting like crackhead metal-crazed cheerleaders. I didn't notice, myself.

Today I've been puttering around, putting off Pilgrim's Progress with housekeeping. I think I could've filmed the putting on of the futon cover with a quick cam & made tuition for next year...sure, there may be web babies & Jennicam, but how many films are there of women wrestling with mattresses & futon covers wearing jeans, a silver cross & a black bra? It took on the proportions of a fight to the death...kind of like those women in prison movies, but without the lesbian element. Well? Any takers?

one year ago today: not having a sense of shame