Heavens, head so stuffy. Why do I have things to do? I want bed. Hours of bed.

Anyways, I have a new love in my life. I always swore I was finished with the trans-oceanic relationships, but I think the gingersnaps and I have a real chance of making it work. Lovely to see one of the Miss Cs yesterday (three of them in this blog at last count - I should get more creative with the pseudonyms, but my head hurts) and besides her bringing her lovely self she brought me into a whole new world of chocolate coated gingersnaps. Oh yes. I love presents but I especially love presents that the gifters know I'll love. Like the Esthero album. I love that.

Gahhhh. 2005 seems to be on its way to going out on a flood of tissues and groans.

Ahhhhh

Back to the pollutants, cat dander, drug addicts, and cult-shah. It's fucking ace. Last night I hotfooted to HMV to spend a gift certificate on that sale before the welcome wagon arrived. It may still be on today, but once I get through this fucking delectable goat-milk latté made with the fine espresso my brother gave me I have too much to do to check it out. I got a compilation of Marvin Gaye 60's hits since aside from that all I want of his are the Tammi Terrell duets and What's Going On. And yes, yes, I know he's dead, but sometimes I just want to come home, put some Marvin Gaye on the stereo and then just fucking listen to Marvin Gaye for awhile. So file-sharing won't do. Gosh, he was a fine-looking man. With a voice like that and a face like that, I'd have lost my mind too.

I also got Verve Remixed 2 and 3. Which are also fucking ace. Each of them are a two CD set with the unmixed version of the songs in question on the second CD, so all four CDs are fucking lovely. I've been 'sharing' so many Verve Remixed tracks for so long that I thought it was time to buy and I was so right.

Before I go, some prostletyzing since you're too far away to slap me. Look what I read on the excruciatingly slow train ride last night:

'The anima (woman in man) has an erotic, emotional character, the animus (man in woman) a rationalizing one. Hence most of what men say about feminine eroticism, and particularly about the emotional life of women, is derived from their own anima projections and distorted accordingly. On the other hand, the astonishing assumptions and fantasies that women make about men come from the activity of the animus, who produces an inexhaustible supply of illogical arguments and false explanations.' Carl Jung, 'Marriage as a Psychological Relationship', The Development of Personality - Collected Works, Vol. 17, as in The Portable Jung, page 174

I remember one awfully clever stoned post-coital conversation years ago about how men and women are fooling themselves equally with porn and modern notions of romance, and others about how the fashion among English poets of the 17th and 18th centuries of dictating the bondaries of woman-hood was awfully provoking, and how the View and that bloody industry of books instructing women how to ensnare appropriate men make me want to puke, but not until now does someone give some sort of explanation for all that. I'm rapidly losing the ability to suspend my disbelief - I wonder if I'm hitting the transference period of my analysis.

This site was started to document the exciting cultural whirlwind of my existence, forgoing details of my increasingly ridiculous sex life and variably naughty social life. I don't know how well I've kept to that, but have I got a cultural experience for you now.

Last night I worked at a local bingo hall to fundraise for my mum's symphony orchestra. This is a fucking pitfall for us children when we visit home - bloody fucking bingos. Selling tickets to people who can't afford them, dealing with weird Troll-y talisman-y finger-cross-y superstition, walking the fucking floor for HOURS waiting for people to break the silence by screaming out 'bingo!', and yelling confirmation numbers to the fucking mentalist bingo caller. Fuck, it sucks! The thing is the profits the symphony reaps from running bingos are huge, so they really have no choice but to do it, but nobody bloody wants to volunteer for it because it's motherfucking purgatorial, man. However, we all love our mum and our mum loves the symphony, so we do it. And it fucking sucks, fuck. THESE PEOPLE BLOW A FUCKING C-NOTE A NIGHT ON FUCKING BINGO CARDS. And think they're playing the odds, or something, and aren't even all that happy when they win because they just think of it as an overdue pay-off on an investment. Faaaaaack. If they spent the money they spend on bingo on drugs they'd be fucked up 24/7. I mean they could be carrying off a really great coke habit. And they're 75% franco-ontarien. What the fuck is bingo's fucking proportionately higher fascination for the franco-ontarien community about? That's some fucked up shit, man.

Anyways, there's talk the local reserve is going to put up a casino so that will shut the bingo right down. And if the casino is on the reserve it doesn't have to profit-share with local charities and non-profits, so that will probably shut down the orchestra and lots of other local groups unless they find another way to bring in the money or the government starts coughing funds up in a smarter way. That really sucks, even though it means I won't have to work at one of these fuckers again. But what really sucks is how fucking dumb people are. I know I have the fiscal discipline of a grasshopper so I shouldn't talk, but why in the name of sweet suffering fuck people sink their money into slots and motherfucking bingos is beyond me.

Back to the city, back to reality, in a couple hours. Thank goodness. Everything and everyone moves too slowly here. I have had a wonderful Christmas because of my fantastic family and the Bs, Cs, and Turtle Soup being in town, but this place gives me, what the fuck is that thing tigers in captivity get? Cage fatigue? Stir craziness? All I know is, I NEED TO SMOKE ME SOME FUCKING REEFER AND GO TO A MUSIC STORE. Fack.

2005 and its goodnesses

Usually I only mention movies to talk about how much they suck, but yesterday the Cs brought over the 40 Year Old Virgin on their way out of town and, unbaked, I nearly peed myself. Solid all around - solid supporting cast, solid plot, and Steve Carrell was awfully sympathetic. But I won't go on about it because this movie got on everybody's 2005 'Top Ten Something Good' lists so just breathe in and out a few times and you'll hear an ode to its praises.

Top 10 lists are an interesting way to take stock of the year. Here's my Top Ten Something Good list for 2005 - the order is subjective so I'll just use symbols:

!: The reefer from the man on the west side with the huge pitbull and the loft furnished only with a ping-pong table. That's some yummy fucking reefer. Definitely the top reefer of 2005, although

@: Lady's adoooooooorable dealer was another top something-good of 2005. That boy makes me want to make babies with him who look just like him. And then pinch his cheeks, and go 'awwwwwww!'. Which reminds me

#: Getting to know Lady and her circle better was a top something-good thing of 2005. She's smart, even when she pretends not to be, and funny as a 40 year old virgin. Her friends and family live up to the standard.

$: My cat, Galaxy. Yes, she has her own webpage. Yes, she write haikus. Fuck you. Ever since she moved in it's like my apartment has been haunted with cuteness.

%: My apartment. If I'm of the mental state to create a web page for my cat, it's probably time I lived alone, so I do, in my favourite apartment ever. As I write it's possible someone has broken in and stolen my stuff because that neighborhood has more than a touch of sketch. But if not I'm as happy as a clam in shit there.

^: My job. I complain about it a lot, but the money is fun and it gives me the mental liberty, shall we say, to maintain this blog and do alot of other fun stuff.

&: Toronto. I think it's taken this long for me to settle down into this city after the years abroad. France was a shit-storm in a lot of ways. Toronto and its people and charms have helped me get back to %100. It's a good city for entertaining, and has been good for the guests I've had who have really needed entertaining. It's also acting as a sort of seive, catching people I used to know who I'm getting to know again as they move there. I miss Toronto. Tomorrow, my precious, I'm back in your arms.

*: All the reconciliations: with the people whose exes I'd slept with, with FEB, with my advisor if he behaves his motherfucking self, and talking properly with highschool people. The only spot of negativity is the promise to kill me someday from the Swiss. But I probably need one nemesis to keep me on my toes, and he's Swiss, so I like my chances. As long as I don't have to face him in a chocolaterie, defensive nuclear conflict, or profiteering-from-a-global-descent-into-martial-chaos type situation. Joking. I still love the Swiss, as you can tell from the next top ten thing:

): Carl Jung and finding religion. I've found a belief system my intellect is permitting me to fall head over heels for, which is what a good Catholic girl searches for from the time she turns thirteen and realizes the Church is corrupt, conservative to the point of evil, and wants her to squeeze her brand new titties back into her chest.

(: Opera. Opera lessons, opera recordings, opera performances, three motherfucking cheers for opera. That shit makes me physically happier than all the sex I've had over the last two years put together.

Is that ten? There were alot of others - discoveries of older things, like Denys Arcand movies; ongoing enjoyments of old things, like whacking off; renaissances of old dormant passions, like Blundstones after a couple of years of Docs (laces are for suckers, fuck); and things that first came out this year, like Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 2005 had its moments, for sure. Here's to it.

So sick. How could someone consuming as many nutrients as I have lately be sick? Fuck. So now that my body has said 'Ha! Stay still for a bit, bitch!' my brain has time to think about New Year's Resolutions.

1. Learn how to read sheet music properly. God, I'm dumb. How could I have studied music for so long as a child, albeit with a huge amount of resistance, and not learnt how to read music properly? Fucking hell. Which reminds me of resolution 2.

2. Cease to beat myself up over all the dumb, dumb things I've done. They're done and I have to deal with them, like some sort of natural disaster. A retardanami. A volcanic retarduption. Also me beating myself up over the dumb, dumb things is probably a psychological cause of the necessity for resolution 3.

3. Stop imagining all the men I think about in a naked way will turn out crazy. It's statistically likely they won't, right? I doubt I'll ever slip my sunny slut shoes back on (without moving back to Italy and re-thinking my attitude to cocaine) but I should really be less, what's the word? Frigid? Misandrist? Cowardly? Think of them as real people with their own hopes and dreams and all that instead of the mindless agents of entropy and disequilibrium. And then nail them.

All other resolutions like murderizing France, dropping weight, bleaching my teeth, learning Arabic, and becoming a professional crimefighter will have to wait for a resolution-making season when I'm feeling less realistic and more physically fit.

Fox hunting might be fun, mightn't it? I wouldn't know. When I ride horses I like them to sort of amble, eat flowers, sniff things, maybe have a healthful little trot on the beach, and essentially not give my ass the vicious pounding of a good stiff gallop. But I imagine that if you were used to it, it could be a good time. Going really fast, super cute hounds baying, an animal getting ripped to peices, yelling gibberish, the sweet dangerous possiblity of braining yourself on a low-hanging tree branch and all. You could say it's quite bacchanalial, really. Which is retarded. If you're going to go all bacchanalial you should have some wild open-air orgies of sex instead of just violence. Your ass is already getting a vicious pounding anyways.

Anyhoo. I'd be all for the hunt if there was a Godiva-esque wager on it: every year that the hunters ride naked, the tax burden on the English that ends up supporting the household of the royal family should be cut. At a blow, poor people get to laugh at the sagginesses of the apparently idiotic hunting class (and I do mean idiotic) and the hunting class gets to have their brainless ass-pounding fun, simultaneously pulling the fangs of class conflict and impoverishing a backwards institution. Which hopefully means we in Canada can start having more attractive figures on our money (like him). As for the fox himself - I've just spent three days eating baby cow and swollen goose liver. So you know what I've got to say? Dick.

Shall I say that in the last 24 hours I've eaten more than in the whole preceding week and that I've eaten more meat than in the whole preceding month? Shall I describe the torpid glassiness of my eyes as I contemplate the upcoming trip to church with more lethargy than spirituality? Shall I list the delicacies, each more delicious than the last, that have been presenting themselves before me?

I think the easiest way of communicating the sheer fucking oral debauchery is in haiku form:

the olives are hot
fresh veal soothes my burning mouth
bread is for the birds

Merry Christmas, everyone.