Recharged

Wow, chilling was everything I thought it would be. Back to work today. Ho-hum. When will I get to chill again? Probably not until my vacation after my defence. Oh well. I figure I can make it until then.

So Freakonomics was good enough to swallow in three hours. The sort of book you can lie in bed and guzzle. When it came out it caused a little furore because it talked up a correlation between the Roe vs. Wade decision from the United States Supreme Court and the dramatic drop in violent crime there in the mid-90's. That was sort of interesting; I found the discussion of crack's impact rather more interesting, and most interesting of all the crooked sumo wrestlers. One got a CSI-y feeling with this book - that it was designed to make economics seem as fascinating as possible to persuade people to go into it, like CSI wildly romanticizes crime scene investigation. But maybe I'm full of shit because I'd already found economics fascinating. If I don't go to Jung school, maybe I'll get an economics degree instead.

Fuck, Spliffe, one degree at a time, please.

Anyways, Jean de Florette wasn't as great as I remembered. That having been said, I'll need to watch Manon des Sources soon to see Emmanuelle Beart wreak her revenge on all those smug French bastards. And March of the Penguins was cute - the birds were, anyways, but thier lifestyle seemed like a vision of hell. One must suffer to be beautiful, I suppose.

Otherwise, the day was spectacular. Just spectacular. Lung-coughing notwithstanding. I braved the 'elements' - whatevs, it was fucking lovely and warm and sunny - and took my revolting lungs for a walk. I love Toronto. Today's entry on DDOI sums up some of our sweet-ass urban decay - thumbing our noses at every pretty-boy city that's been turned into an amusement park for grown-ups. That we aren't. Things grow and fill up and empty out and fall down here. Like a proper jungle. And then we have the Riverdale Farm a three minutes' walk from the roughest downtown projects. And my apartment. Fucking sweet.

I need a job with a three day weekend. My actual weekend was very nice and the people filling it were among the world's best, but it was all running around, you know? Even with the thesis handed in, at any given point I had somewhere else I needed to be as soon as what I was doing was done. It didn't help that I had to spend some time at work. I'd really like to have a Fuck-Everyone-But-Me Day like yesterday at least once a fortnight. In the context of a relationship, such days always seemed like the clearest indicator of love (being able to have such a day with M. Whoever that was even more satisfying than an alone one) as well as the clearest symptom of something fundamental being fucked (NEEDING that alone-day and seperation from M. Whoever because he was a net contributor to your stress and misanthropy). Not to re-hash old shit, but I'm still confused when I remember the unhappiness and bitterness I seemed quite content to be feeling for long periods in the context of some relationships. You know, Lady, like that thing Margaret Cho said - it's morning, the sun is shining on the angelic, sleeping face of your lover, you lift yourself onto your elbow, gaze on him, and scream inside,

"I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I WISH YOU'D NEVER WAKE UP!"

Or something like that. No more of that, please and thank you.

UPDATE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! SCHOOL JUST CALLED! DEFENCE TENTATIVELY SCHEDULED!

Maybe I can see Stéphane Rousseau and then double back for the Go! Team on the 9th . . . Fuck, I'm nervous now, I have to get my defence ready.

UPDATE BIS

I've hated the Oscars as much as any institution for as long as I can remember. Every year they do something totally fucking retarded that makes me think if the Academy had one head, I'd kick it in. And I just can't seem to get used to it! It's like an older brother who always manages to find a way to make you go apoplectic, no matter who cool you think you are. They manage to find a new way to piss me off every year. This time, it's the near shut-out of Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Dear Oscars:

Fuck you, fuck your shitty costume design award, and fuck Memoirs of a Fucking Geisha and its fucking six nominations. The night you air I'm getting royally snaked, watching three Johnny Depp movies in a row, and then boycotting every product that advertises during your broadcast. And if that covers every feminine hygiene product on the North American market, I'll start ordering them from abroad.

Until next year,

Fuck you.