Still waters

So last night at some fake Mex restaurant I discovered among other things that I believe without question in the Immaculate Conception and the Holy Trinity. Could be because I'd got my tax return and some other good news that morning. What was it? Something nice . . . ah, who knows. Such is the ephemeral quality of joy and BLAH BLAH BLAH.

FUCK EVERYONE TODAY.

4 star pisser, people. Last weekend Luke Duke and I were discussing the gap between most people's public personas - the face or role they create because they feel it's the most acceptable way to approach the world, in terms of their jobs, their visible interactions, their clothes, et cetera - and their actual selves. How this gap could create or facilitate a neurotic state. He sorta giggled - you know, in a manly way, giggling isn't the word, let's say he chortled - and said he doubted I was making much of an effort to give myself a neurosis by creating a widely acceptable public persona. He's probably right. I will say this though: sometimes I get really, really tired of considering other people at all. I know that sounds awful, but I get tired of them considering me too.

I have a feeling there were two types of prehistoric men - the sort who ran around in flanges like baboons, chattering and sticking their fingers up each other's asses to say hello, and the sort who sat in caves by themselves banging rocks together and humming with no-one but a pet tiger, a sexual partner, and occasional offspring to interrupt their solitude and repertoire. And the second one may have been more dominant in the incredibly unlikely combination of genetic factors that eventually produced me. Because honestly, I'm not even riding the dragon and I could still head-butt a nun this morning. I'd feel bad afterwards, though.

YURGH

Lessons learnt:

1. Making your own sugar wax and doing yourself is possible, but it’s one of those things where paying someone else is worth it. Like baking bread or cooking crystal meth. There has to be an affordable non-Oriental esthetician in the city who isn’t a total fuckwit. Maybe I should try the Greek neighborhood. Fuck it, I’ll just bite the bullet and see that expensive Russian again.
2. It always takes longer to hide your diaries than you planned, because they’re so interesting. I can’t believe I did some of the shit written there. I can’t believe I wrote some of the shit I did there. Naughty me! Naughty, silly me! It was a good time, though. Doing it, not reading it. Though reading it was interesting.

I think I’ve decided against the haircut, possibly because I’d rather spend the money paying the Russian to tear out my fur out by the roots. More likely because I’ve realized my hair looks crappy lately because of my bike, not because Alex fucked up the last cut, and getting it cut again won’t fix that. Silly of me to have doubted Alex. That’s like doubting Wonder Woman.

So I've been keeping this blog as a sort of replacement for a diary, which was a time-effective but not really perfect idea, since in a diary I can write explicitly about booty and emotions and lots of other things that'd make you all puke, gentle readers. I mean it's been a good exercise to concentrate on writing something every day that everybody can read, except maybe Mummy and Daddy, but I should really still be keeping a diary. Or should I? A quick glance through them last night demonstrated to me there are at least three people whose little hearts would break if they ever saw the contents. But then comes a monstrous sort of selfishness, I suppose, because I'd rather be able to write whatever I want then never break anybody's heart.

Gahhhhhhh.

I want McDonald's hashbrowns.

Called his uncle in Jamaica, left a message with the baker

You know, if coffee was any better, I reckon I'd marry it. 9 to 5, or in my case 9 to 5:30, is too much bloody time at work. There are far, far too many things to do in a day to be spending all that time growing like a cancer on a roll-y chair. Before next Thursday, I have to

1. Go to Ottawa for two days
2. Wax - which is more involved than a half-hour appointment, as my disgust with the lack of sugar waxing facilities in Toronto has made me look up a recipe and decide to do it myself - we're talking drugs and tears here
3. Get a haircut
4. Clean my apartment, besides the fridge. My fridge is lovely but everything else is a stinking pile
5. Buy two more bike locks
6. Have lunch with Mummy
7. Make some more weed butter
8. Finish reading about Ghengis Khan, who, as it turns out, is just FANTASTIC - I'd FAR rather make babies with him than Alexander, my old favourite.
9. A soirée with Mr. C
10. Call all the fucking people I haven't been calling because I've been too FUCKING BUSY

Because next Thursday, things get Tantric, and all I'll be good for is making lots of noise. So what I'm saying is, work is for the fucking birds. Being Mistress La Spliffe is a full-time job already. Faaaack. What to do, what to do. I've already tried the rich husband thing - that was even more work than work. Faaaaaaaaack. Now I know why people buy lottery tickets. Anybody need a grifting partner? I'm no Angelica Huston but at least I'm too lazy to murder you and abscond with our ill-gotten booty.

Hee hee hee . . . booty.

This town full of men with big mouths and no guts

I don’t feel cranky or bitchy these days, quite the opposite – honestly I feel like I’m radiating goodwill - but I know people are getting that impression. To me it just feels like I’ve finally given up suffering fools, and I swear I’m being polite about it, but people get so pissy when you call them on their shit. You know? Even when it’s things a reasonable person just can’t ignore. Anyways, onwards and upwards.

It’s a bit odd, but I’m now physically incapable of smoking cigarettes, even one or two at Italian class. I can still smoke grass, though. Even nasty old grass. Finally, my psychomology is being utilitarian, instead of just convincing me the Rat King is lurking under my bed to punish me if I stray from the tenets of my Catholic forefathers. It’s just as well though. My emotional situation is one that would have had me reaching for cigarettes a year ago, if only so I could take lots of breaks at work, and go outside, and dream, and dream, and dream . . . now I just sit at my desk and dream.

Anyways, I’m happy and all but so fucking tired of wanting time to pass. I want to savour time. I want every minute to feel absolutely fucking desirable. The gym helps. Honestly. If you do hard enough things, your muscles squeeze thinking right out of your brain. I’m going right now.

And I'll never be paroled

Ho hum. Spent the weekend in London with my cousin's family because she's great and I was neglecting family even worse than friends during the thesis. Pleasant. She has a fantastic baby that has figured out how to snap its fingers at the age of nine months; according to the parents this is exceptional behaviour and I see no reason to disbelieve them.

Otherwise, little enough to say. The problem with a situation like mine is that living in anticipation means not living all that efficiently in the present, which is one of the same drawbacks as living in recrimination, which I've also tried. I believe my plan when all this started again was to ignore it and concentrate on other things, which is not a bad strategy most of the time, but a lousy strategy when the clocks go forward and I lie awake for an extra hour. One thing is undeniable though: it's working wonders creatively . . . I never took the idea seriously before but I suppose some people, one way or another, really can be inspiring muse-y types.

I'm going to the gym and working all those pesky 'thought' things right out of my hair.