Argh. A heatwave. May. Toronto. Hey, everybody, how about 2006 is the year we admit the environment is completely fucked up? Because this is some fucked up shit. My brain is turning into mush, threatening to erupt out the ears and eyes, and my body just wants to lie still. I'm considering grabbing a kife and sawing off all my hair to get some relief. This better be the flu and not an inability to adapt to stinking hot weather, because, as pointed out, IT'S STILL GODDAMN MAY.
Toronto is gross. Last summer I didn't notice, probably because I was smoking yummy cigarettes which disabled my body's stupid defensive reactions to noxious environmental conditions that its stupid defensive reactions can't do anything about. Fucking – awesome – cigarettes. Why do they make me puke now? WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME??? Anyways, now that I'm living all clean and shit, the environmental pollution is rubbing down my throat like a cheese grater. It's ugly, too. The sunny sky is sepia. Maybe when I run away with Figaro we can live close to the sea, or somewhere windy, where the air doesn't turn into a thick gooey stew as it stagnates over a big fucking standing noisesome puddle elevn million people dump their poo into.
What the fuck are we doing to our planet anyways? Canada is supposed to be clean - what the hell is Mexico City like? Why do people still have cars? How the fuck did I survive in Paris? Oh, never mind that last question – I survived in Paris by floating around in the grip of a nauseous ennui, wishing I was dead and hence not noticing the discomforts of living in a rathole. Fucking Paris. Why are the beautiful ones always crazy? And I suppose it's worse here than most of Canada because we're in the lower Great Lakes region and get all the industrialized farting of our country and much of the United States pooling over the afore-mentioned poo-filled puddle. Still - 2006 - let this be remembered as the year we stop fucking pretending everything is alright, okay?
In other, fucking splendid news, Figaro has an interview for a school here on Friday. I'm pink with pleasurable tickles – it's a good school and I don't want him to have to wait tables while he waits for me to get a job that pays real money so we can run away together. Mostly I'm just pleased stupid he got an interview so fast – I was afraid over the permit issue but hadn't factored in that his qualifications are insane. Besides, if that man can handle my booty, he can handle the world. And he handles. He can practically juggle that jelly. In a sense it's good he's not here right now though. I'm so fucking hot, if anyone touched my skin I think I'd scream.
I don't think this is normal - I think I'm actually ill. Oh well, I'll show up to work anyways and if the air-conditioning doesn't make me feel better I'll come back here and try to get through the goddamn second season of goddamn Deadwood. Luckily the first two episodes of the second season seem to be quite shitty, noticeably more shitty than the first season. With luck, it'll keep being shitty and I won't have to watch the third season - I have no hope of it being so shitty I don't have to watch the rest of the second.Ah cahn't miss a minute of mah story. Fucking soap opera shit.