I went into work today to avoid conflict. I was pretty sure I'd leave soonafter.
I left at about 11 because I felt like shit. Physical pain isn't unsual for me while working, but as long as the task doesn't invlove me delving too far into my mind, I can usually grin (or not even bother) and bare it. Today, when a delightful couple came in to ask me about hiatus hernia, hypertension and haircolour, I almost said I couldn't help them. I was at a loss for words. Evnetually, after hesitatingly showing them a couple of products, I offered to photocopy something, and the machine jammed.
I had to make like a tree and leave.
Not long after I came home, I began feeling better. My favourite (or at least most frequent_ pastime allowed me to relieve the painful mass in my lower abdomen. I considered returnign to work, and then I got real.
So I tried to go to sleep, but there was way too much comotion on our street-- so I had some toast with tahini and blackstrap molasses and watched The Big Chill, which I had borrowed from Chris's mom a week or so ago. S'okay.
And I checked my email and wrote a letter to Danko Jones (which I probably won't send).
I've started so many Canadian novels lately and not been able to finish them-- As For Me and My House, The Mountain and the Valley, Sunshine Sketches of a Small Town, the Manticore... I don't think it's the books themselves, but for some reason... ugh... So I, wanting to read something, and again, something specifically Canadian, grabbed an old favourite from my shelf-- Margafret Laurence's The Fire Dwellers. As I began, I realized I don't remember a thing about this book, other than that the protagonist has a dull marriage and seeks ways to cpice it up. I remember a scene of mutual masturbation. That's about it. So far, I've gotten further than the last few books I've opened lately. I'm hapy because I already know I like it, but can't remmeber that the hell happens.
And I went to sleep for a few hours this afternoon, and dremmpt a medley of dreams, which I didn't bother to record. But I do vaguely remember having a spotty lucid dream, but more that I was aware than me actually bothering to control it. I do remember rolling over, kind of somersault style on the couch, and me worrying I was going to fall off.
Supper-- some broccoli soup that I'd frozen for such lazy sick circumstances, and a piece of bread.
Tonight I checked the jobbank, which I chronically do, because I'm never truly satisfied with my work, read more of my book, and read some of the entertainment mags that Emly got from a friend. I mostly look at the pictures and captions, but for some reason I read about Mary-Kate Olsen's battle with anorexia. I thought that The Unorexics would be a great name for the band I feel like starting, but perhaps it's in terrible taste.
Speaking of terrible, I got an email from Greg that had an attatchment from the architecture school, announcing the sudden death of one of their students, as well as plans for the funeral, etc. He died of a brain aneurysm. Fuck. I don't think I'd met him, but Greg was a big fan of his. How sucky can it get? The students plan to build one of his designs this fall. And although I think Greg is in support of it, he has instructed me on two occasions (also when another classmate died last year) that if he died young, to not let the students build his designs. I'm pretty this is out of modesty.
And here it on a Saturday night, me wanting to see the Hold, but a) feeling crappy and b) no one's around to go with me. Nick's mom used to say "Saturday night is for couples-- Nick should be with you! I'll get him to give you a call," long before we were actually together. I want to just do something-- couple's night or Tall Ships Day or Pre-Acadie 400 celebration, whatever. I wanted to in spirit, but not in body.
So I didn't.
Just sat here.
I put the sat in Saturday.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
Friday, July 30, 2004
An Ant'sLife
I've had an "ant problem" for a week or so now. The worst part of the ant problem was how I anticipated Greg would react when he came home. Very surprising. He was cool as a November morning. Quite different from the jam, and dowel incidents (among others).
I thought I found where they were getting in, and blocked it with some grey gummy putty I should've put around my doors to make it warmer and cheaper in my flat last winter. I also poured Borax and cinnamon all over my kitchen, in small trails, high mountains (for an ant, ok?), small smatterings, and trails. They were pissed and scared at first. Initially, they really hated the cinnamon and wouldn't go anywhere near it. Then they became more resilient and didn't even care when I scoured the countertops with soap, apple cider vinegar and water.
Bastards.
Then when I went away, Emily cleaned up one crazy colony in the cupboard. Blake annihilated a bunch of them as I turned away.
I pretty much forgot about the ants, and resigned to peaceful coexistence with them.
But then, right before I was about to retire last night, at 2:30 in the a.m, I saw the craziest trail of them-- jesus millions of them-- stretching from my recycling/garbo area to my basement door.
It was fascinating, really.
They weren't carrying anything that I could see-- just running under the door, really quite quickly. I haven't seen them carry anything. Is there an invisible delicious nothing in my kitchen that I'm missing? Could I be saving money on my groceries?
Anyway, I plugged up their pathway to the outside world.
And I felt like an asshole for doing it.
I won't kill them-- no, I wouldn't consider it. But I will, however, make it nearly impossible for these ants, who are only doing what ants do, to see any of their friends and family that didn't already make the trek from the crack under my door to the outdated cushion floor in my kitchen.
Screw you and your families.
Separated forever.
I might as well have killed them slowly by shaking them around in a bucket for an hour.
This is my battle, though, as I've chosen it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I thought I found where they were getting in, and blocked it with some grey gummy putty I should've put around my doors to make it warmer and cheaper in my flat last winter. I also poured Borax and cinnamon all over my kitchen, in small trails, high mountains (for an ant, ok?), small smatterings, and trails. They were pissed and scared at first. Initially, they really hated the cinnamon and wouldn't go anywhere near it. Then they became more resilient and didn't even care when I scoured the countertops with soap, apple cider vinegar and water.
Bastards.
Then when I went away, Emily cleaned up one crazy colony in the cupboard. Blake annihilated a bunch of them as I turned away.
I pretty much forgot about the ants, and resigned to peaceful coexistence with them.
But then, right before I was about to retire last night, at 2:30 in the a.m, I saw the craziest trail of them-- jesus millions of them-- stretching from my recycling/garbo area to my basement door.
It was fascinating, really.
They weren't carrying anything that I could see-- just running under the door, really quite quickly. I haven't seen them carry anything. Is there an invisible delicious nothing in my kitchen that I'm missing? Could I be saving money on my groceries?
Anyway, I plugged up their pathway to the outside world.
And I felt like an asshole for doing it.
I won't kill them-- no, I wouldn't consider it. But I will, however, make it nearly impossible for these ants, who are only doing what ants do, to see any of their friends and family that didn't already make the trek from the crack under my door to the outdated cushion floor in my kitchen.
Screw you and your families.
Separated forever.
I might as well have killed them slowly by shaking them around in a bucket for an hour.
This is my battle, though, as I've chosen it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Steamroller guts
No matter what I wanted to begin with, I can't help but be distracted by my belly. On the best of days, the slightest brush of the skin on my abdomen feels sharp, sensitive and red-- from the fucking mindless fucking chronic inflammation of my bowels.
Sometimes when I remember, I will lay on my belly and the pressure makes it feel better.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Today was one of those times.
I had to call this woman back, to tell her about nutrition school.
She's overly chatty, and I've at all times resisted calling her back in the past. I badmouthed my school in the most diplomatic of ways, all the while laying bellydown on my exercise ball. Maybe I should use it for exercising-- a better way to have a steamroller belly.
Utter pain is an overstatement, but severe discomfort is not. Feelin' it.
Rub my belly.
So I was writing in my journal (I started my 50tth-- yes 50th-- one yesterday) this morning, and for some reason, the fact that my new upstairs neighbours have a kickin' sex life (they haven't even officially moved in yet and the celings have been heaving at night quite a few times now) got me in a cheery mood and I was pumped while listening to Blood Sugar Sexx Majik before we left for work rather than Morrisey (besides making you want to do it with his androgenous sexy asexual self, he depresses you) as per usual. I was delighted that for once, on a Thursday (my Monday), I was excited and ready to face the work day...
until I saw my jesus shoe rack.
I just retired my most comfortable pair on the weekend. They're ugly and far beyond driven.
I really wanted to wear them with my Shediac concrete forms shrt, but I promised myself I wouldn't. My silver Mary Jane's with a tshirt? I didn't even wanna. But I did. Because I hated all my other shoes more.
I went to work all pissed off, although I did snag three 99cent loaves of kamut bread on my way in.
I was, according to Emilar, "seeping with anger" (because two many vitamin pushers spoil the broth behind that tiny desk, especially with 300 boxes in my face) and was snappy at her when she made fun of a girl's fake Louis Vuitton (whoever) bag.
"Oh, I hate girls who have that fake bag," or something to that effect.
"Yeah. Well, maybe we can just make enough money to buy them all an original," or something bitchy like that.
"I'm just joking."
"No you're not," She'd said it once before. I didn't care that she felt that way. She likes fashion. Whatever. (So she is sad, holds it inside all night, we talk about it later, c'est cool. I am a jerk)
And work was whatever. at least Chris visited, to bring Emily coffee 3of 3.
Emily's pal Andrew came over at say 9. She was outside on her cellphone, so I let him in (altho I had no idea he was coming) and he flipped thru Leonard Maltin's movie guide 1999 while I stupidly fucking stgeamrolled my stomach. Remember when?
So I discovered after all this time that he has a similar music taste to myself and Luke Penny (90s alt+metal) . Wicked.
When I said I liked Tool he asked me to marry him.
I like when guys ask he to marry them, even when they don't mean it, and even tho I don't really want to get married. He rolled us a perfect conical j (we don't know how), but didn't smoke it because he wants to work for the government. So disciplined.
Greg called while we were outside. He left a cute message, as usual.
Em and I chatted and reminisced about when life was fun for a couple of hours.
And I'm stuffy and sour because my belly hurts, and mad be cause I didn't even get to eat anything cool to make it happen. Again, at two and a half in the a.m., sleep is the only thing that could sweeten the pot.
Sometimes when I remember, I will lay on my belly and the pressure makes it feel better.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Today was one of those times.
I had to call this woman back, to tell her about nutrition school.
She's overly chatty, and I've at all times resisted calling her back in the past. I badmouthed my school in the most diplomatic of ways, all the while laying bellydown on my exercise ball. Maybe I should use it for exercising-- a better way to have a steamroller belly.
Utter pain is an overstatement, but severe discomfort is not. Feelin' it.
Rub my belly.
So I was writing in my journal (I started my 50tth-- yes 50th-- one yesterday) this morning, and for some reason, the fact that my new upstairs neighbours have a kickin' sex life (they haven't even officially moved in yet and the celings have been heaving at night quite a few times now) got me in a cheery mood and I was pumped while listening to Blood Sugar Sexx Majik before we left for work rather than Morrisey (besides making you want to do it with his androgenous sexy asexual self, he depresses you) as per usual. I was delighted that for once, on a Thursday (my Monday), I was excited and ready to face the work day...
until I saw my jesus shoe rack.
I just retired my most comfortable pair on the weekend. They're ugly and far beyond driven.
I really wanted to wear them with my Shediac concrete forms shrt, but I promised myself I wouldn't. My silver Mary Jane's with a tshirt? I didn't even wanna. But I did. Because I hated all my other shoes more.
I went to work all pissed off, although I did snag three 99cent loaves of kamut bread on my way in.
I was, according to Emilar, "seeping with anger" (because two many vitamin pushers spoil the broth behind that tiny desk, especially with 300 boxes in my face) and was snappy at her when she made fun of a girl's fake Louis Vuitton (whoever) bag.
"Oh, I hate girls who have that fake bag," or something to that effect.
"Yeah. Well, maybe we can just make enough money to buy them all an original," or something bitchy like that.
"I'm just joking."
"No you're not," She'd said it once before. I didn't care that she felt that way. She likes fashion. Whatever. (So she is sad, holds it inside all night, we talk about it later, c'est cool. I am a jerk)
And work was whatever. at least Chris visited, to bring Emily coffee 3of 3.
Emily's pal Andrew came over at say 9. She was outside on her cellphone, so I let him in (altho I had no idea he was coming) and he flipped thru Leonard Maltin's movie guide 1999 while I stupidly fucking stgeamrolled my stomach. Remember when?
So I discovered after all this time that he has a similar music taste to myself and Luke Penny (90s alt+metal) . Wicked.
When I said I liked Tool he asked me to marry him.
I like when guys ask he to marry them, even when they don't mean it, and even tho I don't really want to get married. He rolled us a perfect conical j (we don't know how), but didn't smoke it because he wants to work for the government. So disciplined.
Greg called while we were outside. He left a cute message, as usual.
Em and I chatted and reminisced about when life was fun for a couple of hours.
And I'm stuffy and sour because my belly hurts, and mad be cause I didn't even get to eat anything cool to make it happen. Again, at two and a half in the a.m., sleep is the only thing that could sweeten the pot.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Numero 3: Third Time's a Charm
my third blog.
fuck knows where the hell the other 2 are. i don't even know what they were about.
i figure i've been keeping paper journals for more than 11 years, I guess I could peck something out here every few days.
altho I am pretty lazy avec computer.
paper's more romantic.
or something.
i had to return from mason's beach today. it hurt so much. it's so rad to just be there and not have to repond to anything. just hung out with my family (including puppy) and altered my consciousness with my cool bro. for three days straight. tide. rain. raisin bread. wicked. i can't believe i didn't even bother to go swimming.
now i'm back to 'fax (remember mc j and cool g?-- i, barely). all's ok here.
after taking acadian lines for three hours (and talking to a guy the WHOLE WAY HOME even tho he said he'd be quiet-- he's the guy whose girlfriend's brother was the guy who was killed by those three doughholes in a bedford bar on the weekend. rick-- a fundraising coordinator for opportinuites new brunswick. we shot the shit and did 2 crosswaord puzzles together. i was gonna read CanLit and he a novel from the vampire's perspective but put them away and basked in the beauty of human experience instead ) and with nothing in my fridge or gut, i went for sushi at andy's. it was exactly that i needed in my maw. emily was there, which was amazing. altho i was prepared to eat alone, it was cool to see my roomie there. but it was best that she had alrerady finished eating her eel when i sat down.
we got shitty carob desserts from heartwood. we are so boycotting that place until it ceases to bore us.
fuck.
we could bake better with our tits.
lots of stories because i'd been gone since sunday, and the weekend went quickly with greg being home and me working and us going to liverpool, and chris's birthday and him being too pooped to stay up. i was in liverpool on saturday. a good time. lingley was pretty pumped for me to be there with him. i saw joe whitty in his doorway telling a sports team to fuck off, that he didn't want to buy their jesus chocolate bars. magical. emily made chris a cool cake and he came over at 2 to eat it. it was smart for my blood sygar levels to eat cake at 2 am. nice sugar hangover for work the next morn. should've mad miso soup. didn't.
i saw my first webcam tonight.-- an ex boyfriend on a webcam even. wacky. i was at his wedding. with my then boyfriend, now ex. yikes. when will i go to his wedding to his friend's ex with my current boyfriend? when he go to our weddding with his wife....? .. never. cause we won't damn have one.
tonight em and i went thru our bounty of expired homeopathics, deefed, drank tea (fennel for her, chamomile for me) and watched Return to Me-- another attempt by my beloved David Duchovny to prove that he shouldn't be typecast as geeky and sexy Mulder. Guess what? He is Mulder and sucks at everything else I've seen him do. Emily (predicatably) fell asleep. We were brushing our teeth when Marzipan came a knockin'. He was tired and laid his head down on my table and mumbled, but then came alive when showing me Alden, his shiny new ipod. it takes me 40 minutes to download a song, so I haven't bothered since Lars Ulrich kicked me off Napster 4 years ago. then he left and i was gonna go to bed and i haven't yet. and it's been two and a half hours.
i ate all my chocolate discs (70% cocoa-- which is too strong for my bowels, but I was excited so i ate them all anyway.. will pay). there is like a teaspoon of reverse osmosis water in the house. the morning will suck because we'll have to get up and get more for our mouth-deserts.
well, i guess i'm off to dream about more composites of friends with their hands down my pants (like I drempt last night).
hotness squared.
fuck knows where the hell the other 2 are. i don't even know what they were about.
i figure i've been keeping paper journals for more than 11 years, I guess I could peck something out here every few days.
altho I am pretty lazy avec computer.
paper's more romantic.
or something.
i had to return from mason's beach today. it hurt so much. it's so rad to just be there and not have to repond to anything. just hung out with my family (including puppy) and altered my consciousness with my cool bro. for three days straight. tide. rain. raisin bread. wicked. i can't believe i didn't even bother to go swimming.
now i'm back to 'fax (remember mc j and cool g?-- i, barely). all's ok here.
after taking acadian lines for three hours (and talking to a guy the WHOLE WAY HOME even tho he said he'd be quiet-- he's the guy whose girlfriend's brother was the guy who was killed by those three doughholes in a bedford bar on the weekend. rick-- a fundraising coordinator for opportinuites new brunswick. we shot the shit and did 2 crosswaord puzzles together. i was gonna read CanLit and he a novel from the vampire's perspective but put them away and basked in the beauty of human experience instead ) and with nothing in my fridge or gut, i went for sushi at andy's. it was exactly that i needed in my maw. emily was there, which was amazing. altho i was prepared to eat alone, it was cool to see my roomie there. but it was best that she had alrerady finished eating her eel when i sat down.
we got shitty carob desserts from heartwood. we are so boycotting that place until it ceases to bore us.
fuck.
we could bake better with our tits.
lots of stories because i'd been gone since sunday, and the weekend went quickly with greg being home and me working and us going to liverpool, and chris's birthday and him being too pooped to stay up. i was in liverpool on saturday. a good time. lingley was pretty pumped for me to be there with him. i saw joe whitty in his doorway telling a sports team to fuck off, that he didn't want to buy their jesus chocolate bars. magical. emily made chris a cool cake and he came over at 2 to eat it. it was smart for my blood sygar levels to eat cake at 2 am. nice sugar hangover for work the next morn. should've mad miso soup. didn't.
i saw my first webcam tonight.-- an ex boyfriend on a webcam even. wacky. i was at his wedding. with my then boyfriend, now ex. yikes. when will i go to his wedding to his friend's ex with my current boyfriend? when he go to our weddding with his wife....? .. never. cause we won't damn have one.
tonight em and i went thru our bounty of expired homeopathics, deefed, drank tea (fennel for her, chamomile for me) and watched Return to Me-- another attempt by my beloved David Duchovny to prove that he shouldn't be typecast as geeky and sexy Mulder. Guess what? He is Mulder and sucks at everything else I've seen him do. Emily (predicatably) fell asleep. We were brushing our teeth when Marzipan came a knockin'. He was tired and laid his head down on my table and mumbled, but then came alive when showing me Alden, his shiny new ipod. it takes me 40 minutes to download a song, so I haven't bothered since Lars Ulrich kicked me off Napster 4 years ago. then he left and i was gonna go to bed and i haven't yet. and it's been two and a half hours.
i ate all my chocolate discs (70% cocoa-- which is too strong for my bowels, but I was excited so i ate them all anyway.. will pay). there is like a teaspoon of reverse osmosis water in the house. the morning will suck because we'll have to get up and get more for our mouth-deserts.
well, i guess i'm off to dream about more composites of friends with their hands down my pants (like I drempt last night).
hotness squared.
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