Errands! Cheque for books sold at the magical bookstore, condescending sneers from the hacks at the computer store, grad gown rental (it will be black with green trim - my head is apparantly 21.5 inches around - seems freakishly large), passport documents signed, etc.
My inner monologue voice has been using the word "innit" lately, in place of "isn't it." Driving me crazy.
Had a picnic at Beacon Hill Park last night, an unplanned thing with Matt: I bought red potato salad, salted nuts, Pringles chips, and a bottle of water from the deli, then we sat down in the frigid wind to eat and fend off crows. A coffee at Moka House after. Deep into a poorly written biography of the Coen Brothers, also a short story collection by Fay Weldon. She is brilliant! An entire story so far is devoted to cheap shots at Miss Oslo 1970. In the street below the apartment in which this takes place, a gang of 20 childen who should be in school scratch coins along the side of a BMW.
I've been reading a trashy book I picked up for free on someone's front lawn, a family epic thing stretching from the late 40s to the early 90s. I'm partial to trashy books set in the 40s -- there's always a lot of pregnant mothers hanging out in someone's back yard, chain-smoking and drinking from pitchers of gin and tonics, even though they're pregnant, even though they're mothers.
The house is starting to look as though we may actually move out in time. I spent an hour cleaning the bathroom yesterday. An hour. The bathroom looked as though it appreciated it, like it finally got a good fuck in, the first good fuck in two and a half years. It gleams. Matt and I have been walking into it for no other reason than to stare at the pristine toilet bowl, the shiny sink, the glowing walls of the shower. Even the mirror has been wiped down, and reflects expressions of awe and satisfaction.
Tentative plans have been made for a PATIO PARTY, the last, for Tuesday night. The last night in the place. Might as well go out with a bang. Everyone's invited, by the way - bring gin! Hopefully everything will be packed by then except for cocktail glasses and toilet paper. The bare essentials, really ... When Lisa and I moved for the first time in Victoria, aged 18, that was seriously all we brought -- I have a photograph of her, grinning widely, holding a grocery bag of TP in one hand and a 26 of Smirnoff vodka in the other ...
I am in an Internet cafe right now! My first time. It's more of a gaming place I think, lots of explosions and death-rattles from the teenage boy contingent across the aisle.
Also right now: I am wearing baby blue sandals, a purple skirt, a pale green tank top, a violently turquoise over-sized handbag, a blood-red necklace, and a faded orange cap. I feel like a terrible flaw.
Work slogs on. I just can't get excited about it. Looking for something new (possibly temp work?).
Highlights of the last couple of days: an evening picnic with friends at the Stadacona Park, white wine mixed with fruit drinks and so on. Several excursions to Moka House. Sangria on the Bay Centre patio, followed by beers and pool at the Strath games room, American navy boys everywhere. Breakfast at the Polish Deli - marred by a CHUNK OF BACON right in the middle of my vegetarian order. I know it's dumb to be picky about shit like that, but I actually chewed it before I noticed - had thought it was a piece of tomato - and although I spit it out the taste of grease and death lingered on my tastebuds. Blech.
I have been doing crossword puzzles lately! On the Moka House patio with a coffee and a cigarette. Mint.
House is a disaster. Don't know how I'm going to get it cleaned up in time to move. The carpet can not be seen under the rubble of newspapers, clothes, and knick-knacks that were not bought at the garage sale. Sambuca is basically in hysterics. She knows something weird is going on.
I just got off my second shift at work ... It was pleasant in a boring sort of way. Does that make sense? It's a perfectly fine job, but I guess I'm feeling angsty because I just finished almost 2 years at a SPECTACULAR job, a veritable Empire Records of a bookstore, and now I'm doing something normal. Not that I'm complaining - two weeks of unemployment is a frightening thing, and I'm glad it's over - but, you know. Yeah?
Tonight will be rum and Withnaile and I and throwing things into boxes.
At least I can always look at the sky. I was thinking that yesterday, as I sat on the patio and brooded into the evening. The sky will always be there. Remembered that folk tale, or whatever it was, you know, "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" Thought this story was supposed to be a comedy when I was a child, but now realize that whoever wrote it had deep, dark, hopeless fears. Maybe they even had a pleasantly boring day job! I'm going to start writing urban fairy tales.
Two Weird Movies Seen Lately:
The Scorpion King
Why? Why? I don't know. I haven't watched an action movie since high school, when my old man would rent them for us to spend "quality time" together, but we would spoil it all because every time someone said "Fuck!" my pa would yell and rage and lecture, to set a good example for me I think, and every time women were demeaned or mocked I would yell and rage and lecture, to set a good example for him I think ... Anyway, The Scorpion King was sort of lame. I had expected more gore.
Citizen Ruth
I had high hopes for this one, as it was directed by the same fellow who did Election and Sideways. But it became zany. I hate zany. Also there were solvent-huffing scenes where Ruth comes up from her paper bag with a ring of soot around her mouth, and while the realism was cool, it was horribly depressing. Had trouble sleeping after; woke up anxious.
Today I bundled off a garbage bag full of clothes to W.I.N. Warehouse, purchased coffee, had an egg-onion-tomato-cheese-avocado pita for breakfast, sold a bagful of books for $19, and tried in vain to sell my camera. It is a Pentax 35mm from the 70s, and I paid $300 (plus tax) for it used. Nobody would take it, not even the pawn shop. Well, one guy would, but he was condescending and said that IF it worked properly (it does) he MIGHT give me $70. Anyone interested? I'm asking $100.
First day at new job today, a workplace that shall remain nameless due to some sort of privacy policy they have -- not sure what it means exactly, but best to stay on the safe side ... Only a 3-hour shift, and looks like it'll be a hoot -- although, needless to say, there will be no flipping through Us Weekly whilst discussing yeast infections and sexual escapades and nodding at customers .... Ah, the good old days.
Garage sale on Saturday: what a weird scene. I loved it! The last five years of my life laid bare on makeshift tables, strangers touching everything and saying "How much" and me saying "Make an offer" and then the relentless haggling and suddenly, I don't have a Duke Ellington cd anymore. Why did I love this, you say? Maybe it was the fractured-personality drama of it all. Maybe I liked the attention. Had some beers and cigarettes; C dropped by for a bit, as did Colin and Morgan (separately), then off to the Oak Bay border to look at a suite. One week till the end of the month!
Off to look at a suite near the Inner Harbour today! It's on, you know, the *other* side of the Inner Harbour, but I'm putting my prejudices aside in favour of experiencing something new. I hope it works. A feasible location, a very cheap price ... All I ask is there's a full kitchen a lots of light. Fingers crossed.
Saw "Kinsey" the other night - bad acting - also an Ayn Rand documentary. She is the most intelligent public speaker I have ever heard, and the crazy thing was I disagreed with half her political and intellectual stances but loved her anyway. Is this possible? Am I finally becoming open-minded?
Three cheers for Rye-Dog! He rescued my page .... Much heartfelt gratitude. I'll fix the colours soon, I promise.
I don't even feel like updating right now becuase life is just an insane blur of job interviews, apartment viewings, and the like. Very high-stress. I had a panic attack yesterday at the mall, my first believe it or not, all terrified and shaking (couldn't stop for five minutes), eyes stuck wide open, unable to blink, filled with an awful sense of doom and looking over my shoulder, freaked out by the other people and, insanely, some manequins that seemed to be giving off a horrible, spooky energy. Not an experience I'd care to repeat. I've felt insane in the past, but that was weird.
I am actually reduced to updating AT THE DOWNTOWN LIBRARY, as M's computer is on the fritz yet again. Had to pay my fine ($21.90), but it was worth it because now I'll get to read again all day.
Yesterday I sold two shopping bags of my second-most precious books. Received $40. Felt so, so empty when I walked out of the shop. Goodbye, Aislinn Hunter and Hunter S. Thompson and Banana Yoshimoto and Sylvia Brown and Mavis Gallant and Joyce Carol Oates and others, so many others. I'm keeping all the Beat stuff (Burroughs, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Cassady, some anthologies and biographies), as well as the Anais Nin, 4 or 5 of my favourite Atwoods, the Bill Gaston, one Joyce Carol Oates, a few others. Am suddenly gripped by a need to get rid of all excess worldy goods.
Nearly forgot I'm supposed to vote today. Was reminded by a chance glance at a newspaper. Semi-Louise show tonight! Lucky Bar, the usual time. Everybody should come.
God! I've ruined the layout of my site. Why is this happening to me? I used to know HTML so well .... Will do some research and get it back to normal soon.
Wow! Finished up Zana Muhsen's "Sold," then read the sequel, "A Promise To Nadia." Very frustrating, because in one sense it makes me want to hate Arab men, and the religion of Islam, and on the other hand, I recognize how easy it is for a few - in this case, many - corrupt people to completely bastardize a concept. Ie, most of the atrocities Muslim men commit under the banner of Islam have absolutely nothing to do with Islam, or the Koran, at all. The mixed feelings I have about Islam are similar to the mixed feelings many people have about Christianity. Whenever I hear people talk about how Christianity is a sexist, racist, and homophobic religion, I want to scream at them to open their minds, to realize that they're confusing Christianity - or more specifically the teachings of Jesus Christ - with the agendas of incredibly evil, stupid people who claim to follow teachings that don't even exist. I hope that's clear. My point is that fundamentalism is separate from the source of the fundamentalism. Fundamentalism is the act of twisting a good thing into a means for personal gain, usually relating to financial matters or "power." I hate the world.
I had coffee at Moka House today, and bumped into Bulford, whom I haven't really seen in over a year. He is one of those beautiful, energetic people with whom you can take up exactly where you left off. We had coffee and cigarettes toegther as the rain poured down outside the patio, then Matt joined us and we talked about the hideous beauty that is German cinema. Also how, now that we are in our cynical early-to-mid-20s, the pressure to become jaded is great. When we were younger all three of us had a lot of potential, and now that we're a little bit older it's quite a shock to realize that we have to actually make an effort to fulfill that potential. It seems we've been ripped off somehow. Glory and recognition were supposed to happen automatically. By the way - if I am ever given the Order of Canada (I mean when, ha ha), I am going to insist that they make me a Knight as opposed to a Dame, and also, that I am provided with a sword.
Ears Will Smith. There are not many male body parts that are actually better when they're tiny, but ears are one of them, and Smith has the market cornered.
Hands Liam Neeson. I've never seen Liam Neeson's hands - do we ever really see the hands of male celebrities? - but I like big hands - big hands, small ears, there's something that needs psychoanalysis here - but I imagine Liam's would be massive.
Eyes Jude Law. I always feel vaugely racist for admiring blue eyes, but I can't help it. They're the prettiest. (.... Wait ... Does Jude Law have green eyes? Shit ...)
Nose Owen Wilson! I love big noses! My nose is big. Owen's is broken, too. So is mine.
Shit-eating Smile Hugh Grant. Far too complicated to get into here. Goes along with my weird admiration-of-men-who-represent-everything-I-hate life-theme.
Ass I don't like asses. I don't. Most men don't even have asses, for starters (maybe I'm just jealous?), and those who do tend to swathe them in leather chaps. Really? I don't know.
Lips Uh, Jude Law again.
Hair Jake Gyllenthal. For one of my favourite mainstream actors, it's amazing to me that I still haven't bothered to look up the correct spelling of his name.
Forehead Roman Polanski. He is very intellectual, very disturbed. He thinks about things. You can see this in the creases of his temples.
Jaw Trey from Sex and the City, real name is Kyle Mc-I'm-Scottish-So-It's-One-Of-Those-Scottish-Names things. He was also in Twin Peaks. His jaw has nice lines, I want to paint them, except I can't paint, would wind up coating the jaw with latex paint instead of oil, something like that, totally ruin everything.
On a whim yesterday I bought a Jay Dunphy and the Religion t-shirt off Jay, who had stopped by to smoke cigarettes and drink coffee on the patio. It is tight, black-and-red, has mini-sleeves, and word on the street is it "makes my tits look great ..." Next - must find a tight t-shirt that makes my brain look great. ;)
Today: the Saturday edition of the Globe and Mail (my favourite edition) accompanied by four cups of coffee, each and every one of which were spilled on the patio, in both minute and large amounts. A freak-out over the lack of places available for rent come June. Tears, followed by a brisk two-hour (!) walk through the Cook Street Village and Rockland areas, with me peering at all the windows in search of 'for rent' signs. No luck - but I have my heart set on living on "Pendergast" Street, which I will amusingly mis-pronounce as "Pederast" whenever I get the opportunity. Wound up at the public library, where I still have a large fine and am unable to check out books, and curled up near a window to read a Woody Allen biography. The guy who wrote it, I forget his name, is a fuckhead. All the photos selected were of sexy, manufactured women that Allen had fucked or given "big breaks" to (same thing methinks), and every time he quoted Mia Farrow about something it was with the assumption - very time-consumingly written - that she was a lying whore who wanted a sugar daddy.
Book store, liquor store, grocery store, then home to read "Sold" by Zana Muhsen, a biography of a woman who had grown up in Great Britain, only to be sent to Yemen at age 15 on what her father told her was a "vacation," and was actually an enforced marriage for which said father was handsomely paid, followed by rape, unpaid physical labour, and 8 years in captivity before she managed to escape.
Damnable beers. For the amusement of all, here is an email I sent to a potential employer, when drunk:
"To whom it may concern,
I would love to work as a park interpreter for your company this summer. I realize the deadline for application has passed, but I hope you will consider me regardless.
I have a BFA in creative writing, which has no relevance to this position, but which has equipped me with communication, conflict resolution, and organizational skills. I have spent two summers working in a leadership capacity at an Interior summer camp, which proves my ability to "rough it in the woods" as well as respond with tact and patience to individuals who can sometimes be difficult. I will be honest with you: I have absolutely no background in forestry, biology, or conservation, but I am an incredibly quick learner have the gift of creativity and maturity on my side.
Attached is my resume, in Word format. Please feel free to contact me with any questions, or to arrange a time for an interview."
This was three days ago ... Haven't heard back yet.
Disaster! Received my final pay-cheque from the magical bookstore today, but unfortunately it seems the hours were tallied wrong, and I believe I'm owed an extra 90 bucks. This is a disaster because I loathe discussing money with people, especially people who are giving me money, people from whom I am asking more money, people who I like. Money's so useless. I wish we still had clams. Plus, it is entirely possible that I made the mathematical error, not the accountants, and the shame of this would be great. But, it's a possible 90 bucks, so I'll have to deal with it.
Drinking a gin and tonic with lime to cope. Sandwhich in a little bit.
From Matt, two seconds ago: "You know how there's a 'Wet Willy'? When you lick your finger and stick it in someone's ear? There has to be a term for when you squash a soft dick into someone's neck. Let's call it a 'Mellow Joseph.'"
(don't really know why this is on my blog - feel free to skip)
- pay phone bill
- pick up workstudy cheque
- arrange accomodations for my parents' visit
- arrange tomorrow's garage sale
- make calls re: apartment rentals
- mail in application for 2 jobs
- print out 3 stories; submit to lit-mags
- try to find free therapy somewhere
- pick up record of employment from the bookstore
- buy macaroni and paint to make necklaces
- watch "Waiting for Guffman"
- get at least two pages done on the new story
Today's entry will be brought to you in numbers, a formatting idea ripped from Amanda's blog.
1) I have just sprayed tonic water all over the kitchen. These are the things that got hit: my address book, several unopened bank statements, the phone, my discman, a tube of Pringles chips, my handbag, some coasters, the phone book, some vitamins, an antique coffee bean grinder and a lime. Could do nothing but laugh hysterically as Sambuca looked befuddled.
2) Wednesday night: beer at Swan's with some fabulous people. Got a little too drunk, it's true, but was smart enough to refuse an invitation to Evolution down the street at 1 a.m., even though it was the first time in 2 years I've actually wanted to go to Evolution, even though both Steph and her handsome man offered to buy me drinks. Cabbed home. Fretted about some half-remembered thing I had yelled earlier, about how blues should be BLACK, dammit, what was this white-boy band DOING, they weren't BLUES at all, they were like PRIVILEGED blues, what the hell did they know about true pain? Something like that.
3) Did some "writing" with Ben this afternoon. I got a whole title! "The Nightmare Factory in the Basement." Also four potential names for the main character: Pippa, Agatha, Lucy, and Camilla. Votes?
4) Visa pestering me via long-distance phone calls again. I don't get what the problem is. If your limit is $1000, and there is a $90 balance, and you miss one payment, does that give them the right to pester? Maybe. I just dislike the tone they take with me, that tough-assed you're in trouble NOW missy tone. No, I'm not in trouble. I've got my whole life ahead of me!
5) Went shopping for cat litter yesterday, and picked up a 30 lb bag on the condition that Matt would carry it home. He agreed, but needed doughnuts, so we went to the deli section as I was carrying this thing, which was not as heavy as it must have looked. I caused a stir! Everybody started offering me their buggies. I mean, everyone who saw me offered their buggy. I refused, as it would only be another minute, and you should have seen the way they openly glared at Matt. Very hostile women, but very cute. Next time I'm depressed and lonely I'm going to cart around a bag of cat litter at Wellburn's - a fool-proof way to get attention and sympathy. :)
I'm re-reading this absolutely fantastic book, "Virunga: The Passion of Dian Fossey" by Farley Mowat. Fossey is a hero to me. (Odd, considering that - IRRATIONALLY - my heroes seem to consist largely of sexist alcoholic men who are brilliant - Keoruac, Carver, Charles, others.) This book is a biography of her life, primarily the 18 years she spent doing gorilla research in the mountains of Rwanda. Among other things, Fossey used National Geographic grant money to form guerilla anti-poaching patrols (which did not make her popular with funding committees), shot guns at people she disagreed with, kidnapped a poacher's baby in retaliation for a trespass, and threatened to shoot one poacher's cow for every day her pet dog was captured (she actually gained access to the cows). An intense woman. What I like most about her is that, underneath the tough kick-ass element, she loved animals and was completely devoted to them. Thought for sure she'd be a Virgo, but turns out she was a Capricorn ...
Every once in a while I take a break from worrying about a job to worry about finding a place to live for June 1. All the ads are picky, which frustrates me, but which I respect cuz I'm a picky bitch too. I have tentative plans to place the following ad, somewhere (a telephone pole maybe?):
23-year-old non-student, unemployed but I'll get the money for rent somehow, trust me; I smoke but I'm trying to quit and I wouldn't dream of smoking indoors; I have a cat but she is more like a small, contemptuous dog; I don't mind a drink now and then but I will take the empties out after midnight so no one will know. I have flair. I can keep to myself. I can be tidy, although it's easier when I am provided with charts and instructions. Fuck you and your free cable; I don't need it. But Internet is essential. If you have a basement suite, I'm not interested. If you live anywhere other than Fernwood, Downtown, James Bay, or the Cook Street Village, I'm not interested. I have a spectacular collection of books. I don't hog washrooms. Please let me come and live with you.
I do believe there is a fly caught under my eyelid - for the past two days, maybe!
Yesterday I had to leave the house for an hour because the landlords were bringing in an interior decorator to discuss the future of the suite, so I nipped down to the pizza place for a pint and some writing.
"One pint of Race Rocks, please," I said, and expected to be ID-ed as I rarely show up there and the staff don't recognize me.
Instead, the server said, "Is this your first pint?"
"Yes," I said. And then got confused. "You mean today?"
She nodded.
"Yes, first pint..."
Weird. Did I look drunk? She gave me a discount on the second pint, however. It was like an alternate universe.
Job trauma: ie, "full-time" promises become "30 hours a week," which gets used to, then suddenly "30 hours a week" becomes "anywhere between 4 to 30; hard to say" which can also become "full-time" (30 hours or 40?) ammended to "full-time to start but part-time during slow periods - you're flexible, right?" GOD! I have BILLS to pay, a budget to adhere to. And if someone wants to offer me 4 hours, that's fine, I can get another job, but then I have to stay "flexible" in case they suddenly need me for 30? Fuck I hate numbers. It seems as though everyone I've spoken to thinks I have a rich husband who supports me financially and I'm just looking for a job as a fun distraction. Never in my life have I been through such bullshit, and I've been in the workforce for eight years. What's suddenly changed? When did everyone turn insane? This is not one company I'm talking about - it's five.
SO HUNGOVER.
I WILL NEVER DRINK AGAIN.
Yesterday was a beautiful dream of a day. A picnic at the highest point of Beacon Hill park, complete with the decadent bean dip, and sangria and cheap rye. Peeing in the bushes. Wandering about the bluffs that rise up at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The off-leash dog area! Just drunk enough to run up to all the owners and gush, "May I pet your dog?" So many beautiful, happy, joyous dogs! A discussion of the Single Transferable Vote. Taxis. The mall. A water taxi! Beautiful deep blue waves and warm sun. An apartment in Esquimalt, with old Nintendo. Chinese take-out: chow mein and deep-fried prawns and sweet and sour tofu. Rye, rye! A walk to another part of the Pacific Ocean. Then home, two buses. Quite drunk. Ranting. Completely dominating conversations with Matt, talking about things for ten solid minutes, then repeating myself for another ten solid minutes. Became anguished about the world's orphans, kept shouting, "BILLIONS! BILLIONS OF THEM MATT!" I was given water to drink.
By the way - and this is the only truly negative part of the day - I was ID-ed twice in one liquor store. Normally I don't mind getting carded - it's a little irritating, but I'm at the age now where I can start to take it as a compliment. Sort of. However, I was with a 31-year-old, who was also carded, which seemed to me unnecessary and a little insulting to him, PLUS, I was basically accused of having fake ID, because the cashier glared at me suspiciously and said, "What day in August?" She went too far, I think. No need to be a bitch about these things.
Last night: Just me, some glasses of Pilsner, popcorn, and the 4th season of Sex and the City. Wonderful and relaxing.
Today: So far, I have spent a stupid amount of time on the Internet, doing nothing. I hear stats all the time about people watching, what is it, five hours of TV a day, and I am so smug, because the only TV I watch is of the DVD variety, and yet there is all this stupid surfing, looking up pictures of Woody and Soon-Yi, taking quizzes like "What Gender Is Your Brain?" (male - sexist crap - it's because I have characteristics that are not flighty), reading enetertainment news ... A waste of time.
In twenty minutes I'm off to meet the gay-boys at the Bay Centre fountain, after which we will purchase bottles of cheap sangria and go on an adventure. Must remember my camera. Would like to buy some books, and meet interesting strangers. Stare at the ocean maybe.
1) What's the one movie you've seen more times than any other?
The Big Lebowski.
2) If you could turn one book, comic book or other print story into a feature-length movie, what story would you pick and why?
Lorrie Moore's Self Help. It's a short story collection so the film would be a series of shorts, like Robert Altman's Short Cuts ...
3) Whom would you cast?
My Polish friend CS as the adultress in "How to Be an Other Woman." Me in "How to Talk to Your Mother (Notes)." Mia Farrow for the mother in "What Is Seized." Steph and Jess as the neurotic and flamboyant women who twist and turn through every story. Sarah Polley should be in their somewhere. George Clooney as the adulterer in "How to Be an Other Woman." Jude Law and Jake Gyllenthal (sp?) as eye candy and window decoration.
4) What one movie would you like to see "updated for the year 2005"? (Ie, a remake)
Charlie Chaplin's City Lights. Although, no - I hate remakes. Why remake a movie?
5) What one movie are you most looking forward to this year?
The guy who directed Donnie Darko is supposed to have a movie coming out soon. I don't know what Wes Anderson and Sofia Coppola's plans are, but their films would be at the top of my list.
This afternoon at 4 o'clock, after one year and eight months, I worked my last shift at a job I loved. This job has provided me with growth, challenge, fun, music, and contemplation, and is one of my best experiences in the five years I spent at UVic. I left with sadness but a sense it was the right thing.
And it was a fabulous last day - my manager treated me to lunch, L took me out for a beer after we closed, and of course yesterday Steph and Kelly and I got wasted on the pub patio. I was allowed to control the cd player for almost the entire day (Pixies, White Stripes, The Lovin Spoonful, The Amps). My manager, who I shall not name here because I haven't asked his permission, is the most brilliant and honest employer I have ever had the pleasure to work with. His greatest skill was relating to employees as colleagues, not as "workers," and he made a point of discussing even the smallest details of the business with us in order to make sure everyone was on the same page. He was known to change his plans if someone offered an alternate idea, which I consider humble and smart in the extreme. On top of this, he is very much a leader, and made innovative and wise business decisions that transformed our humble little store.
I will miss everything: the manager, the psychotic staff who have become some of my dearest friends, the piss-fests at the pub after work, the smell of books, my union egg muffin and coffee in the morning, the laughter, the amazing cd collection, and the detailed discussions of sex and birth control and genital health while customers patiently waited for their change. Farewell.
Sudden insight: I've been caught up in trying to BE happy, instead of CULTIVATING happiness. The difference is mind-blowing, and hadn't occured to me until just now.
| You Are A Pine Tree |
Compassionate and friendly, you love to help others. A natural poet, you have a very active imagination. You are very soft on the inside - needing affection and reassurance. You can fall in love deeply, but you will leave if you feel betrayed. |
Yesterday I was drinking alone on the pub patio while filling out job applications, and a woman at the next table asked me a stock question, and I gave a stock answer, and she asked another, and before I knew it she was sitting at my table finishing off her beer while we both had cigarettes. It turned out we had three or four things in common (both of us had ordered the black bean quesidilla!), and we chatted for ten minutes before she had to leave. I marvel at this! I can NEVER get up the guts to start a conversation with someone who looks interesting. It's true, I'm a closet shy-girl -- I wish I had that kind of confidence, to just walk up to somebody and make friends. It reminds me of elementary school, when kids would go up to each other and say, "Wanna play?" or "Wanna be friends?" I remember being asked on "dates" in elementary school which consisted of a boy coming up to me, taking a deep breath, and saying, "Play with you at lunch?" The simplicity! And no hard feelings if the girl said no - the boy would just nod and then go ask someone else. Or the girl would ask someone else.
Maybe I could learn to be passively friendly. For example, I could make business cards that say "Creative and cynical indigo child, great for conversation and magic," then pass them out to all the fabulously interesting grown-up boys and girls who populate this city.
Woke in a cold sweat at 5:30 in the am today, fresh out of a dream in which some sort of fungus, plus a deformed nipple, had sprouted on my inner thigh. Also there was green mould on my left shin. Yes, I dream in colour ... Shook me up. No "good" connotations come from a dream like this.
It's been a merry week of applying for jobs, setting up interviews, filling up application forms with witty yet unsuitable answers just for the fun of it ("What would you consider your biggest frustration?" "My inability to do the dishes after every meal," etc.) and logging at ton of hours at everybody's favourite used bookstore. Drinking a little again. It's the weather, this damned depressing sunlight ... Overdosing on the second season of Kids in the Hall (best sketch by far is Buddy Cole's "Queen to Queen," in which Scott Thompson plays both Buddy AND a rather psychotic Queen E).
Highlight of the weekend: a picnic at Elk Lake! Picture the scene: three gay-male couples and moi. Moi innocently asks, "Does anybody know how to make a daisy chain?" Much fake-pained silence and smirks from the gay-boys. Different definitions of "daisy chain" were discussed, then Michael showed me how to make the one I was asking about, and I crowned myself with the white and pale-pink blossoms. "Who invited the fucking hippie?" someone said, and we feasted on homemade white wine and genetically altered strawberries and a baguette and brie cheese and chips with bean dip and grapes and cut-up vegetables.
The ol' Shots For Breakfast has been receiving a number of hits as of late via google searches for things like "how do I give a blow job?" etc. I feel a little bad that people actually come to this page and find no tips. I keep envisioning these terrified 14-yr-old girls, or closeted 20-something gay-man-in-a-straight-lifestyle types, desperately clicking this link and being confronted with mundane ramblings about food I like or movies I've seen, or kindly crazy gentlemen offering me chocolate sundaes. And of course, the first blow job I ever gave was not a notable success, which scarred me horribly, so here goes - some tips from a non-professional.
1) DON'T USE YOUR TEETH. Just thinking about teeth scraping up and down vulnerable flesh is enough to make me scream in agony, and I don't even have a penis. Make sure your lips curve around your teeth.
2) Start slow. Kissing and licking is perfectly fine for a first blow job.
3) When you're comfortable getting the whole thing in your mouth, don't feel a need to shove it down your throat. Some people have a gag reflex and some don't - find out what works for you and act accordingly. It is preferable to go halfway down and do a good job than go all the way down and vomit. NOTE: A partner pushing one's head down farther when one resists is BAD MANNERS. Have none of it.
4) Alternate sucking speeds. Go slow and go fast. Tease. Prolong.
5) Alternate sucking with handwork - preferably both at the same time.
6) DEMAND a condom if safety is an issue, or if you're not sure if safety is an issue or not. If somebody refuses this, they're not even worth a polite goodbye.
7) Slide up and down the shaft with your lips, but pay attention to the head too - try licking the tip while working the shaft with your hand - or sliding up and down with your lips while licking each time you reach the top.
8) Number one tip: Take the time to ask what your partner likes, and then think about what you're comfortable doing - or always wanted to try. Then blow away.
(Okay, my fabulously slutty friends - did I miss anything? Feel free to provide additional advice in the comments.)
I was browsing through the classified section of a prominent local newspaper when I happened across an ad for a roommate. Now, this might have just been me being tired, but I swear this person was looking for a roommate with POSITIVE GOATS!
Of course it turned out they were more interested in POSITIVE GOALS, but now I'm hooked on the idea of acquiring some POSITIVE GOATS, and does anyone know where I could get some?