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september 6, 2000.11:00 a.m. My father has sent me a bunch of wedding pictures, and I have a new wallpaper as a direct result. Someone on the digital camera managed to catch an amazing moment in the wake of the bouquet throw: I'm laughing my head off in the foreground and Stacy is in the background, laughing just as hard. Whenever I look at it, I think about the amazing drama of that moment...the unexpectedly powerful toss...the look on Stacy's face as she surfaced with it...screaming and screaming as I saw what had happened...and then laughing. The picture itself is below. You know, I had an amazingly trite thought just now: what if I had known 3 years ago that the elusive girl with the wrist tattoo, the one I met over the evil internet, would catch my bouquet? Wouldn't that be strange? Well, that's not a profitable line of thought. Of course I couldn't know. But it's freaky all the same.
from a letter to stacy herself: "Things are going pretty well here. Orientation was more or less a waste of time, since a lot of the content was directed at 18 year olds away from mommy & daddy for the first time. Although, I can't sneer too much...since I lived commuting distance from U of T and travelled home quite frequently, I myself am more or less away from mommy & daddy for the first time. It reminds me of my other notable arrogance: being at Queen & Bathurst & sneering at the "goths driven in from the suburbs by their parents." Of course, I would always realize at that moment that I was one myself.
On a completely different note, Stacy has sent me a link to what will hereafter be known as The Best Chick Tract Ever: Dark Dungeons. It's all about how role playing games are the gateway to the occult. Although he only covers D&D, I don't suppose the organization looks too kindly upon those who pretend to be vampires. For those of you not in the know, Chick tracts are loony Christian pamphlets full of hilariously horrid stereotypes and mockable theology. He is the living embodiment of the ignorant Christian, memorable titles including "Allah had no son," and "This was your life." The mind cringes. Incedentally, the Boy is trying to get someone to issue a fatwah against Jack Chick. Leave that poor Salmaan Rushdie alone, already!
10 minutes later: Oh. My. God. Hotmail has just cleared out a year's worth of mail, thanks to my dad sending some huge files & overloading my mailbox. I've lost every piece of mail I've been saving for passwords and kind words, I've lost every piece of correspondence in the last 4 months that I've just now had enough time to respond to. Okay, I'm a lazy ass...who's got 4 months of backlog except arrogant bastards like me? Still. If you wrote me in the last little while, please let me know. I need to rebuild those vital communication links...I feel all exposed & horrible without my saved files. Especially to those who sent wedding congratulations - y'all deserve a long letter of thanks from me and I'm sorry.
8 p.m. This day has taken all the fight out of me. Maybe there wasn't that much to begin with. (I hate it when Morrissey tries to take over my brain.) All I know is that I wanted to stay in bed this morning and that feeling didn't change one bit throughout the 6 hours of class I attended today (I haven't done this since third year - and then I could skip a class if I wanted to.) So I'm tired. I think I'm coming down with the ubiquitous "first week of school" cold, so I feel sick all the time. And I'm bored. They warned me up front that this would be vastly less intellectually stimulating than my bachelor degree, I'll give them that much. But man. It doesn't help that I can't bitch about it in specific terms. I'm going to spell this out now so there are no misunderstandings, just like they spelled it out to me. In addition to my course workload, I'm expected to maintain professional standards at all time. Some of the more gossipy impacts to my life are listed above. But one of the most crucial things to me is that I'm expected to treat all dealings with the School of Education as confidential. Which means that if I wanted to gossip about someone I didn't like in class or if I wanted to bitch about how boring a class was in this format, I could be removed from the degree program if such a thing was discovered. I've paid too much money & invested too much effort in moving here to be kicked out for blathering about stupid shit in an online diary; therefore I'm imposing a publication ban on myself. If you catch me indulging in risky, self-destructive and unprofessional bitching, I entreat you to let me know. I'm already terrified that my terrible absentee record will get me into trouble; the last thing I need is to be kicked out for saying irresponsible things in this format. So we're all agreed then? Good. It probably wouldn't be very interesting anyway - what do you care if I disagree with someone you've never met? Oh wait. We've never met either. My mistake.
"Take me home tonight..." Reasons to love the Boy even more: he had dinner ready when I trudged wearily home from class. I had spent the entire 10 minute walk up the hill planning what to boil when I got in - to find a stir fry with improvised sauce awaiting was just like heaven. He makes a good wife, I tell ya. That reminds me: the hill. (I talked about this before, feel free to skip it if you'd rather.) I live on the south shore of the Bay of Fundy, to the south of campus. (Those of you who had a bit of geography in grade 8 know where this is heading...) The walk to class is great; I just trip on down the path, the cold Nova Scotia morning perking me up like God's own caffeine. But. The walk home, up a steep slope, when I'm hungry from class and usually not in a very good mood, is terrible. Granted, it's only ten minutes, but it's a terrible ten minutes. I've been praying - literally - that the clement weather we've been enjoying lately will last the month, since I need all the help I can get in getting used to the exercise. I've lived a very sedentary life this past year, and I keep reminding myself that every trip up the hill is equal to $15 in gym fees. It doesn't help much, but every little bit of cheer helps. Have to maintain that professional cheer, you know.
"Creatures can panic so much better when they don't have elbows." |
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