March 9, 1999.

I think I saw Art Bergman getting off the Bathurst streetcar this afternoon. And the Canadian Celebrity Sightings continue.

Boy, I was doing real good with the entries until yesterday, hmm? I think seven at a stretch is my best yet. But Monday I was just too freaking tired to run interference and write under my parents' noses. They don't know about this...my mother hated it when she found out a year ago, and I had to go underground.

The really scary & seductive thing about lying to the people you love is that sometimes it's easier. When you have to chose between the person they want you to be and the person you know you are, is it ever easy? Sometimes you have to choose between loving them and loving yourself in all of your deviance.

Man, I sound like I'm lobbying for a divorce here.

I missed my step class today. I really like my Tuesday instructor...she's not one of those skinny little dominoes, but living proof that you don't have to be a broomstick to be energetic and superfit.

In perhaps related news, there's now 3 1/2 pounds less of me to love. (I suppose as a Canadian I should put it in metric, but it's even more pathetically tiny in kilos.) It's probably just an aberration in the scale, but I still feel better about myself. 11 1/2 pounds to go before I can wear my beloved stretch denim again. 11 1/2 pounds to go before I can stop cringing at photos that include my head. What bliss. What bliss.

Argh. My stupid cousin has moved the date of his stupid wedding to July, i.e. the month I'm booked to be a camp counselor. The wedding has been in June for a year and a half, but when they decided to move it nobody told my brother or me. He's supposed to start a tour in Winnipeg that day. I'm supposed to be wrangling proto-nerds. In consequence, we're both going to miss the reception.

I was really looking forward to this wedding, but it's turning into a bloated exercise in vanity, just like all the other ones. I wanted to show the Boy middle-class Italian decadence at it's finest, not to mention my white trash relatives from Windsor. (Stories can only convey so much, you know?) But it's all converted into a big pile of crap. They throw money away on too many different things (like repaving the driveway of the groom's house), scatter their energy, and provide a thousand tiger traps of annoyance to trip them up on the big day. Who needs all this crap, anyway?

Strip it to its' essentials. Two rings. A marryin' official. Two witnesses. Five minutes. Now let's get pissed.

But no one listens to me anyway.