Yesterday was a hard, vicious ass-pounding, and not in a fun way. By the end of it, I could have punched Kirk Douglas in the face even if he was dressed up as Spartacus. To shake it off I’m going to write my first journally entry.
I had a lousy bullshit dream about Paris - felt like I was walking through molasses outside of Marx Dormoy, everything was far apart and I knew the Swiss wasn’t far off. It made me wake up early, so I called Figaro, but he didn’t answer, which turned everything pigshitty. I made some yummy organic Fair Trade espresso and a delicious smoothie with carrots, bananas, ginger, orange, ice cubes and a touch of bourbon – that wasn’t pigshitty – but then I had to do lots of washing up, which was, and then I was running late, and had shit-all time at the gym, where the fucking rowing machine foot-straps kept going loose.
Sooooo . . . I went to work and realized I’d got fleeced for next season’s opera, uhm, abbonement, whatever you say in English, because Gigi and I are still under 29. I called to bitch, and it took them FOREVER to answer the phone and fix things. Lunch was late because I had to take care of the fucking phones, fielding calls from fucking pricks.
But then Figaro called and everything was great for the 20 minutes I was talking to him. Except he explained jet lag had kept him in bed until all hours, and not having done that with him was a kick in the nuts. BUT things kept being good when Gigi called and told me he’d got tickets for THE FIRST ORCHESTRA TUNING IN THE NEW OPERA HOUSE TONIGHT! There’ll be singers too! The first music played in the first opera house in the country, and Gigi and I will be there!
So then – who else fucked with me? That would be Mr. C, with whom I’d set a dinner date. I biked up to Davisville and realized I’m a fucking lungless shit because the hill I biked up every day when I was 21 was really hard to bike up. It was really hard then too, but I complained less. Anyways, when I arrived he hadn’t; over the phone it was apparent he was already well-lubricated on Bay, telling me he’d pay for a cab to join him. I said no - first, I was on my bike, and second, I didn’t want to. I’ve been so misanthropic that just having dinner at a friend’s house seemed like an experiment, and having a drink with the Bay clique, who have a serious addiction to ripping into each other behind each other’s back, was a re-introduction to socializing I had no inclination to participate in. Then he said he was acting like a jerk and waited for me to contradict him, but I couldn’t because he was, and then I went to a park and read a Muriel Spark book and thought about how I wanted to punch everybody in the world in the head.
Went home, smoked a bowl, roasted some spring potatoes and carrots, smoked another bowl, and finished the Muriel Spark book. You know, reading that over, the content really it wasn’t all that bad. The Red Dragon and sweetie-missing are wreaking havoc with my mood. I’m going to the fucking awards show now and put up with all the fucking marketing ‘creatives’, as commercial copywriters call themselves. The gross thing about those people is you can tell they really, really wish that instead of writing commercials they were writing sitcom scripts. Disgusting. But - then I’m going to make history at the new Opera House – eeeeeeeeeeeee! And then see my mum, back from England. Eeeeeeeeeeee! And then up north for the weekend. It will be pretty now – I’m looking forward to it, for once.