It's About That Time

Well, it's about that time again. Halloween pub night at the school last night, all good times, except that as far as memory serves, there's a chance I was a bit of an ass. So that's got me thinking, you know, that it's about that time.
Time to quit drinking, you say? Not on your life, I say. Don't be stupid, nothing is ever solved without a beer on hand. Point in case: I'm sitting here right now, completely beerless, and I'm deep in the throws of a wicked hangover, typing at a speed of about 10 wpm, and to lazy to hit the sack. You can't tell me a beer wouldn't improve this situation dramatically.
No, it's time for a bit of solitary confinement. See, beer doesn't make an ass of people, people make an ass of people. And in this situation, I make an ass of me. Lately I've just been angsty and difficult, can't focus, can't concentrate, and generally a bit of a bitch. A bit more than what's usually called for, that is. And although I have no qualms with being an asshole, I do like to have control over my assholishness.
So back to solitary. My last attempt at solitude was cut short at three days by my discovery that my friends decided I was a) suffering severe psychosis b) dying of an incurable disease c) in a suicidal depression or d) dead, and the fact that The Kid was being signed in to daycare everyday was solely the product of a government conspiracy to cover up my disappearance.
But I was none of the above. What I was, was motivated. I cleaned house, did laundry, caught up on my readings for class, bought a book, read said book rather than staring blankly at the tv, did the once annual watering of the half dead plants, did the once annual cleaning of the half dead fish tanks, and was generally a productive member of society. Sorry ya'll had to miss it, you're gonna have to trust me on this one.
Anyway, motivation waylays angst and success soothes stress, so when you're stresses and angsty for no known reason, best deal with the symptoms since you can't isolate the cause. And hell, sometimes the symptoms are their own cause.
So I'm thinking it's time for another bout of solitude. I'll try to make this one a more subtle version though. You know, none of that vanishing of the face of the planet shit, I'll leave my phone on, just politely request no conversation only phone calls, stop in for a coffee before class, but for five minutes rather than five hours, and keep blogging, just not commenting. Hell, maybe I'll even come up with something original, meaningful, and well written. Although that may be pushing it.
I might just stick with doing the laundry.

Joy

Joy.
As sung by a chorus of cherubic hallmark angels. Or maybe a chorus of Rufus the Naked Mole Rat, Kiki the poinging ferret, and that fucked up squirrel thing from that website. Whatever the fuck it is.
Joy.
Yeah, that's the sound I hear when I very conscientiously remember to buy beer on the way home, and, upon opening my fridge to stuff the beer in, find that there is something blocking me in my stuffing efforts, and that something is an unopened case of beer.
Joy.
And let me tell you, I need that beer after my somewhat lacking efforts on my midterms today. Yep, fucked those puppies right up the ass. But you already knew that was coming, didn't you? Or maybe you didn't. Maybe you didn't read my last post. Maybe you just didn't care. Or maybe, just maybe, you're actually a figment of my imagination......Deep.
See, my little imaginary playmates? This, right here, right now, is why you don't do drugs. But you already knew that, because you are wise in your fictitious existence.
Oh, wait, I'm not on drugs. Forgot about that. Old habits die hard, I guess. Unless, of course, you count my recent forays into the realms of daily hormone dosing. Don't believe everything that you read, kids. When those docs and those ads tell you that popping some legal pills will help solve that little zit problem you've got going on, what they mean is it will turn you into Giant Walking Acne Woman With The Neverending Period And The Freakishly Bad Attitude. I keep having to fight back tears when I can't beat the crap out of people. And fight back tears when I can't think of anyone I would like to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I find someone new that I am technically not allowed to beat the crap out of. And fight back tears when I remember that I'm actually a fucking pansy who would get my ass kicked should I finally decide to attempt to beat the crap out of someone.
Crap. Beating. Pansy. Zit.
Of course, you, my oh so wise, blemish free, smoothly bikini lined, toned and tanned fictitious friends, you already new that hormones will fuck you up, didn't you? And I'll bet you call your parents every week like clockwork, and find creative uses for leftovers too, don't you?
Sorry, didn't mean to snark. But you're so very understanding; Thank you.
Sure, I guess I knew that progestine isn't really all it's made out to be, but sometimes I just can't handle a little too much Okay in my life. Things were going so smoothly....kinda like a flatline, ya know? Had to find a way to shake things up a little.
And if a few too many zits gives me an excuse to get drunk and stoopid by myself on a Wednesday night, so be it. At least it's better than getting drunk and stoopid on a Wednesday night just to kill time until Thursday.
Speaking of killing time, what the fuck is it I'm waiting for, exactly? To get my finance diploma, get a job in an office, (no view/free coffee), get a manicure once a week to distract from my little acne problem? Make enough to pay the bills, maybe even the student loan bill, save some for The Kids education?
Maintain life. Just for shits and giggles. Get myself a breastlift for my fortieth birthday. Make my last payment on those loans, and start really focusing on that retirement fund. Move to Florida, complain about the tourists, and the heat. Move to Alaska, complain about the mosquitoes, and the short summer season.
What am I waiting for? Right now, I don't have a fucking clue. But I want it to be something. Anything, fuck, I'd take waiting for a blowjob, if I had a dick.
How do I justify all this waiting, if I can't come up with anything decent to wait for?
Oh yeah, that's it. I'm waiting for clear skin. That's the gold standard, motherfuckers, the dream of a lifetime.
Joy.

Yup. I Got Nothin.

Trying to maintain two posts a week, don't figure that's too much to ask, but I got nothin'. Well, maybe not nothin', I do have two midterms tomorrow, in two classes that I haven't been to in two weeks. Yeah, ya'll know I'm full of shit, but truth be known, it has actually only been three weeks since I've been to one of those classes. I think. Might have been five weeks for the other one, but lets not be negative here, it may have been less.
I've also got a face that's breaking out like a fourteen year old boy's. Which is fun, because it's been nearly fourteen years since I've been fourteen, and at least one past life since I've been a boy, if not more.
So anyway, that makes me cranky, and if there's anything that pisses me off, it's being cranky and not being able to subdue it with beer. But even I can't justify beer when I have a midterm at 8am.
Unsubdued pissedness stresses me out. Being stressed out makes my hair turn gray. And that infuriates me, cause who the fuck deals with breaking out by going gray?
Gark.
Lemme tell you, if I can't find a babysitter for Thursday night pub night, someone's gonna have to die. Because cheap, shitty beer is a great way to deal with the day after midterms and the day before a justified day off (class cancelled). Besides, I may not look good, but get me drunk enough, and I sure as hell think I do. Which is just about the same thing, right? Working facial cleanser be damned, a change of perspective is what's needed here.
Alright, I gotta go crack a textbook. Or a beer.... No. No, dammit, a textbook.
I can do this.
Again, gark.

Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll

Okay, so technically this ain't about rock & roll, so we're just gonna get that bit out of the way right off the bat, so I can't make a liar out of me. Here goes:
Armand Van Halen's 'Here My Name' kinda makes me laugh, cause I always wonder, at "say my name, baby..." if that might not be asking for a seriously inopportune time to find out that, nope, they don't know your name. (Don't get me wrong, I don't go around forgetting names that badly, but I could empathize, cause I'm just one of those people who are really, really bad with names. I mean, I was that kid in high school who accidentally called the principal "Mom." And fucked if I can remember which name goes with my kid, and which one goes with my cat.) It probably doesn't help that 'Hear My Name' has those 'Night at the Roxbury' headboppin' kinda beats, which sorta makes me think of things that can go seriously wrong, in ways that are very, very funny, as long as they're not happening to me.
So that's that.

Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. Drugs are good. Sex on drugs is gooder. (You're allowed to say 'gooder' when talking about sex on drugs. Trust me. I looked it up.) Do sex on drugs. Lots. Hell, multitask: take up shooting junk, move to East Hastings and get paid to have sex, money with which you can then by drugs, which you can do while having sex, to make money for more drugs.
No, wait, that wasn't where I was supposed to be going with this. Lemme give this another go, would ya? Bear with me here.

Now, on to Sex and Drugs:
Sex is good. But sex is like drugs, and that can be bad. No, not like acid, or shrooms, sex doesn't make me hallucinate (should it? am I missing something here?), or like weed, it doesn't give me the munchies (should it? am I missing something here?), but more like cocaine, or, presumably, heroin.
See, after The X, up until Adrien The Windsurfing Instructor From France (you know I just love saying that), was a 2 1/2 yr timespan that I didn't get laid. Sure, for the first 1/2 yr I was pregnant, and I just can't start something with someone while pregnant. The next year, I was breastfeeding, and I just can't start something with someone while leaking milk. And yeah, do the math, that does leave completely unjustified sex free year.
Problem is, I'm picky. *snort* *snicker* *weeze* *hack up a lung* Okay, make that: I have a short attention span. I don't find many guys that I can maintain an interest in for longer than a month. Hell, two weeks is pretty good. This worked back when I thought that sex was a great way to get to know someone. Now that I have The Kid, I figure it's probably good policy not to sleep with someone before I make sure that they are not a) a pedophile b) a pyro c) a klepto d) George Bush. This whole 'getting to know you' thang can take at least two weeks to a month (especially the George Bush part, he's a sneaky little fuck, that one), so by the time they pass muster, well, I'm bored of them. And what happens? No sex for Impulsive.
Anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah - big, big, bigassed sex free stretches. So I know the ins and outs of sex withdrawal better than you could even imagine. Sex withdrawal is a sneaky, sneaky thing. You spend six months tweaking out, biting heads off, and making a general ass of yourself by acting pissy to anyone who's actually getting laid. Then, after a while, you start to get over it. You still want sex, but you come to the realization that not getting laid hasn't killed you yet, and there's a chance it might not. And people can talk about sex around you without you stalking out of the room in a snit. Of course, this is all cyclical, but you learn to ride out the bad times, and wait out the good times.
Now here comes the subversive part of sex withdrawal: once you get back to sex, it had better be a lot of fucking sex. (hehe, fucking sex) Cause that's where sex and coke are like twins separated at birth; they both have that fucking addictive quality. That's right, you think that you can get laid once, and it'll tide you over, give you a bit of a fix, just enough to get through? Fuck no. You get laid, you need more. If it's bad, you're left needing satisfaction. If it's good, you're left wanting more.
So next thing you know, all you're thinking about is sex. Yeah, I hear all the men in the house going, hey, ain't that every day? But you just don't know. Cause the problem here isn't thinking about sex, it's the fact that I do not have a poker face. Au contraire, my friends, you can read my like a book. A book about sex. Probably this book. And I'm a day dreamer anyway. So I'll be sitting in the cafeteria, thinking I'm deciding wether to go to class or get another coffee and read the paper, when I suddenly realize that I've blanked out for the last couple of minutes. I look up, and conversation has stopped. Five people are at the table, staring at me, and they're convulsing with laughter. At the coffee bar, Kelly's eyeballing me, with a twisted grin on her face, and the line up of people waiting on their coffees don't even care, cause they're all laughing their asses off at me too. Yeah. Everyone in the room know's when I'm thinking about sex. Seriously, the other day I was contemplating a spot on the floor, and a woman I've never met ducked down to waist level, just so she could get into my line of sight and give me a big thumbs up grin.
I dunno what it is, maybe I think out loud? Shit, that would not be good.
Once again, where was I going with this? That's right, it's Story Time:
So today, I took the bus up to SFU with my friend C. I scored the last seat, and left C. standing in the aisle, cause I'm a self centered bitch like that. Anyway, C. was standing right next to my seat, and I, in a combined fit of bus induced hypnosis, pre-menstrual horniness, and post free-beer lassitude, caught myself just as I leaned back to snuggle my head comfortably into C.'s belly. C. is, of course, a married woman with two kids, who fortunately has enough of a sense of humor that, had I followed through, would have pissed her pants laughing at me. Public transit has got to be the worst place to accidentally make out with your friends. Gotta be. Even if it is just a nice little snuggle.
Anyway, moral of the story is...something. There's a moral in here somewhere.
There it is:
Be a winner. Don't do drugs.
Am I copping out? Hell yes I am. I've got no closer here, so deal. Hope the withdrawal doesn't suck to much.

Atheism 101

If this isn't a sales pitch, I don't know what is. Yup, biased generalization on my part, I'm sure, buy hey, anything that justifies me staying out of the kitchen is good for me.
Shadow, feel free to rant in the comments, if you wish. I impose no time limits there. That's right, I said prove me wrong...I dare ya.

---

So now maybe I should relabel this post:
Night of the Drunken Feminist Ranting
Cause I just spent the last ten minutes standing in front of my computer goin'
"You wanna go, bitch? Common, take the firsht shwing, I dare ya! I'll fuck you up, I will. Fucking computer, wanna piece of me? Common!"
Yet ain't got bitch slapped by the keyboard or mouse yet.
So instead, I'm gonna quote some shit I've been skimming, cause when drinkin' alone, it's a good idea to do it while perusing "Ladies Against Feminism."
Fuck ya.
When a woman appears in public wearing soiled or wrinkled clothing, looking stressed and harried, she is promoting the wrongheaded idea that staying home with children is bondage to be avoided. Is it better to appear so before our husbands? What message would we be telling him?
Yeah? What message are we sending out with that shit? Here's a hint: We're stressed and harried. Ever think of that? Didn't think so.
So let me get this straight: The physical appearance of a mother is there to promote the greatness of motherhood. You's a walking billboard there to convince the lost and confused (you know, career women, women who aren't ready, women who actually have some standards, hence haven't found the right partner, women who simply don't want kids....) that they're missing the boat. Get on it ladies! Procreate like mofo's!
Okay, so here's a catch, who the fuck is stupid enough to think, hey, check out that momma's shoes. Them there's some funky shoes. I gotta get me knocked up so's I can get me some shoes like that?
And do we want someone that fucking stupid to reproduce?

---

Fuck this, I need more beer. I may be back. Later. I may not. I might go masturbate, but that'd be recreation, not procreation, and we all know that I'd have to burn in hell for that shit.
Hey, does already having a kid get me a "Get into masturbation free" card? Or do I need to meet my quota of twenty offspring first?

---

Okay, one last go first:
Tonight, The Kid talked to her auntie about the colour pink:
Auntie: So, The Kid, you like pink? paraphrased for lack of funtioning memory.
The Kid: Yeah. I like pink, but that's not because I'm a girl. Some girls like pink, some girls don't. Some boys like pink, some boys don't. I like pink because I'm The Kid, not because I'm a girl. That's pretty close to verbatim. Fuck, I love my daughter.

---

Damn, just shattered my masturbationmotivation. Need more beer and smokes, less thought of child. I know! Let's link to some feminist-friendly porn with a moral!

Of The Day

Word of the Day: Frenetic.
Definition pending me getting off my lazy ass and looking it up.

Epiphany of the Day: Parents for dinner.
Sipping my morning coffee, memory swims to the surface of Sunday night, "Sure, see ya Wednesday."
Here? Now? Why? Am I supposed to know this?
Please tell me I haven't forgotten a wedding or funeral.

Smell of the Day: Garlic.
Fuck, my apartment reeks. You'd think burning eighty candles last night would have solved that. Nope. No vampires here.

Good Deed of the Day: Gots me some shiny clean fish tanks.
And created hidey holes, so those babies can get around be being born, without being eaten. Except I suppose it's not 'born' if they're coming out of mom's mouth, is it.
Is it?

New Trick of the Day: Html code all by myself.
Look, Ma! I can underline!

And the Happy Ending: Parents came by. I did not, in fact, forget any funerals or weddings (off the hook is a good place to be). They did not drop off a semi-retarded obese cat on dialysis, but they did drop off:
One lasagna
One forty of Kahlua
Twenty cigarettes
Six beer
One loaf of garlic bread
Lettuce.
Life is good.

Frenetic /fre-ne-tic/ (adjective) frenzied and frantic
characterized by feverish activity, confusion, and hurry

On Cooking and Chaos

So after having realized that my bank account is hyperventilating, and my wallet is rapidly running dry, I came to that most hated conclusion of the semester: I'm gonna have to start eating at home. And cooking up that shit myself. Did a quick inventory of the food supply, which consisted of one lonely piece of decomposing Chilean chicken and cornbread pie (courtesy of the parents), random inexplicable tupperware containers filled with green fluff, and eight odd, lettuce-shaped objects which insist on singing "Mr. Sandman" to me every time I open the fridge.
Figured if I gotta cook it, and eat it, I should first buy it, then get this home cooking thing started with a bang. Cook up the one cheap and edible thing I can make, other than turkey dinner (not cheap), and cheesecake (not edible-I fucking hate cheesecake). Yup, it's time to rock it with some enchiladas con calabasitas. Fuckin' a, I make a great veggie enchilada. Got the grocs, hit the stove, started frying up the onion and garlic, tossed in the spices, went to cut up the veggies....went to cut up the veggies....went to cut up the veggies....fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck. Who the hell forgets to buy veggies when making veggie enchiladas?

This is why I don't cook. I am cursed. Seriously. The only one I know who's ever one upped me in the cooking fiasco department is my old roommate, who once set fire to the kitchen, boiling water for tea.

So....we improvise. Figure I'll make the enchiladas tomorrow, and toss some rotini on to boil. Mix it up with the previously fried onion and garlic, throw in some corn, add as much of the jack cheese as I can spare, and serve it up.
The Kid takes one look at it, and is suddenly giddy with excitement. "Mommy! This is good! Can I have some for daycare tomorrow? Please, please, please?"
So it is proven: I can successfully feed my own child.

Course, on tasting it, I realized it was pretty much half-fried onion and garlic held together with half cooked starch, but hey, we can't win 'em all, now can we?
Nope.
Besides, who ever said food had to be edible?

On Music and Parenting

Music was easy, back in the day. In Banff, you listened to Banff music. It wasn't cool, (or whatever the fuck the word is for cool these days), it was more like a code language. Everyone knows every word to every Sublime song ever written. Pennywise, Jane's Addiction, Ween, that one song by Diesel Boy, these were anthems, a means of communication.
Then parenthood ensued. Satan's Cat loves her upbeat tunes, but The Kid went through a two year phase where she would only listen to blues or classical, (and Dire Straights, of course. We all need a little Dire Straights in our lives.)
She grew out of that, and I started to reclaim music. Now, I'm not a music person. I don't know who plays in what band, I can't classify music for the life of me, hell, I don't even know what the fuck Emoh is. What the fuck is Emoh?
Break for one: Who the fuck keeps calling me and hanging up? Seriously, if you can't even commit to four rings, you're gonna have problems in life. That's like the fifth time in a week. Maybe fourth. What ev. It's driving me nuts. It's all about the follow through, here people.
So back to the topic at hand. I like what I like. I'm a music sponge, I hear a song, I find it, I listen to it twenty times in a row, I hunt down the lyrics just to get it in my head and good. Then, if I feel like it, I might find another song by the same artist. Or, I might get distracted and not hunt down another song by the same artist. The second is far more likely.
Don't get me wrong, I love my music. I come from a music loving family, fights ensue over who gets to pick the dinner music at family gatherings. But I love to love my music, simply because I love a song. Beyond that, I don't want to know.
Lately though, there's been too much music talk around me.
Who's this by? Good tune.
Dunno, The New Amsterdams or The Natural History, I think.
Nope, it's The Fiery Furnaces.
Oh yeah, great band. So and so saw them play at such and such, with who's its, and then they're opening for who the fucks at whatchamacallitz.
Well, fuck you too. I don't want to know if what I like is a great band or not. I don't want to know who they opened for, or what concert I should have been at, or who's better than them. Play me a tune. Burn me a cd. Quote me some lyrics. Most of the best tunes are given out over beers. But don't expect me to have 'good taste', just cause I know the words to that song by that band.
Don't know why this annoys me so much, I guess I just want to like whatever I want on any given day. You like a tune, and think I'll like it? Share the wealth, I love new music. And hell, your probably right. But don't tell me if they're cool or not. (What the fuck is the new word for cool? Does anybody know?) Don't tell me that if I like a, I must know b, cause anyone who know's a knows b. Tell me that if I like a, I gotta listen to b, cause I'll love it. That, I can work with.
It was a long, slow hunt, regaining music after The Kid. The X stole my old stereo, got a new one, traded that for a bed for The Kid, blew the speakers on the computer, got new speakers, Satan's Cat ate them for breakfast, got new speakers, slowly began the music hunt, computer crashed and I lost everything on it, got a new computer, had access to noise, but no tunes to access. It was a long, slow hunt, and I enjoyed it. I don't want to know if what I've found has already been found, I like walking by an open window, hearing a tune I like, and spending days trying to track it down with nothing but the chorus to work with.

Yeah.....starting to think I can be a little possessive here. That's about what this boils down too, know isn't it? Well, how would you feel, it's like trudging through sandstorms and blazing heat to find the Lost City, only to get there, just as a tour bus shows up.

Make that possessive and chagrined.

Damn, I suck.

No no! That's not it. I've figured it out: I don't want to know that what I've been listening to is what I should be listening too. I don't want to live up to my stereotype of a twenty something art student. Wait, am I an art student? What the heck am I? I'm not business, am I? That can't be right. Note to self, find out what I'm studying. So yeah, now I don't know if that means I suck or not.
Come to think of it, suck is out, isn't it? What the hell is the new suck?

Shit, straight back to the gutter for me.

On How Things Have Changed

Since this morning, that is.

1) My head hurts less

2) My body hurts more

3) My balcony is no longer on fire

4) That fucking cat is gone

5) My Kahlua did not show up

I guess I'm running about even. And now, I sleep.

So I checked my bank account, and apparently, it's empty. Why does this make me suddenly feel like I need to buy an iPod?

Must. Live. Without. iPod. Must.

On Chillin'

Just hangin' with the girls right now. Che dropped off her daughter, and I have bought the silence and passivity of her and The Kid with a jumbo sized bag of chips.

The Kid: Hey, Mommy.
Me: Yeah?
The Kid: Boys are dogs, but boys can be girls.
Me: So true, Kid, so very true.
The Kid: And Mommy?
Me: Yeah?
The Kid: You're sexy.

My job here is done. I have taught her all I know.
Oh yeah.

On Another Note

My balcony seems to be on fire. Maybe I should have emptied the ashtray at some point in my life.
I should probably do something about that. But I'm a little hungover right now, so let's just see where this goes instead.
Okay? Okay.

On Affection

There's nothing more obnoxious than when someone tells you something about yourself that's true. The Spiritualist has a bad habit of doing this to me.

So, yes, I don't really show affection. It just doesn't happen. I just don't think of it. I don't tell people I love them, I don't offer random hugs to anyone who might happen to cross my path, I don't do whatever it is that affectionate people do.
That came out badly. Just because I don't show affection doesn't mean I'm not affectionate, I just don't follow through on the physical gestures that are supposed to go with being affectionate.
I care about the people I'm around. If I don't care about them, I just don't stay around them. That should be clear for anyone who knows me. So why should I try to force a personality trait that I never developed to prove that I care about people? Shouldn't those who know me know me well enough to know that if I didn't feel affection for them, I would just unknow them?
I can't learn how to be openly affectionate. I'm not young anymore. I have a four year old daughter, I'm in school, I'm too tired to force myself to act in ways that make me feel akward, I've never been a good actress. And it's not like I draw back from those who are physically or verbally affectionate, I'm just not much of an instigator. I'm pretty sure I don't draw back from affection.
Why does it have to be my problem, anyway? I'm tired. Why am I the one who's supposed to be reaching out to everyone else?

I suppose this is bothering me because it's one of those things that I keep hearing over and over again, five years ago, ten years ago, The Spiritualist is bad for bringing up these types of things.
I suppose this is bothering me because it's one of those things that kept coming up in my relationships, and I'm feeling horribly alone right now. Being on house arrest as of seven (The Kid's bedtime) every night makes it difficult for me to avoid myself, I seem to be the only one there.
Don't know why I'm posting about this. Doesn't really matter anyway, this is the pointless, meaningless post from hell.
At least it's fairly short.

Where I Want To Be Right Now

Khan Al-Kalili Market. The cafe. No rain, turkish coffee, endless tabacco of all forms. Green apple's the best.

I was going to post the sunrise over the pyramids, but right now, I just want a coffee, and cigarette, somewhere hot and dry.

On Ruling My Domain

So in the summer, I take the duvets out of the duvet covers, and just put the covers on the bed. Well, now, it ain't summer. Sure, it faked it pretty damn well today, but night time's a dead give away. It's cold.
So tonight, I put the duvets back in their covers, and, get ready for this, did it.....Without Unmaking The Beds. Oh yeah, I am the goddess of housekeepery, the glory hole of grimebusting, the, wait, I got nothin'....what ever.
Alls I gotta say, is damn, I'm good. If that's not a get out of cooking free card, I don't know what is. Oh yeah. You say you cook a grilled cheese sandwich from scratch? Well fuck that byatch, I can get a duvet into the duvet cover without unmaking the bed. Check, and mate.

On The Dropping of Hearts and Loosening of Bowels

When you're pregnant there's some things they don't explain very clearly. For one, this whole "nine month" concept is complete bullshit. Anyone who can add can figure out that, at four weeks per month, forty weeks of pregnancy equals ten months. And even that's a lie. Cause pregnancy, in real time, actually lasts forever. You just keep on getting heftier, and revel in any passing phases, while hoping the next one will end sometime soon. You know the drill: Score! My esophagus isn't made of pure battery acid any more. But I haven't found a comfortable enough position to be able to sleep for the past three weeks, and I'm either getting a little delusional, or I really am being stalked by a herd of carnivorous purple marmots.
And you kinda forget that at some point, your actually gonna have a child. I remember the exact second when that whole part of the deal came crashing back down on me....
Dr. : So, you may be induced, you may not. Either way, they're not going to let you out of the hospital until you give birth.
Me : ..........
Okay.
Holy shit, you mean I'm going to have a baby? What kind of fucking moron would let me have a child?
And the heart stops, and the bowels drop.

That fun and funky sensation came back to me tonight, when I found my sister reading my blog. Parents came down to drop off dialysis cat, and had a good ol' family dinner. Of course, I had completely forgotten about the fact that, in a moment of complete and utter conceit, I had set my homepage as this here blog. I went for a smoke, she used the computer, the rest is history.
Suddenly, my comfort zone is so fucking shattered.
I suppose she probably didn't memorize the address, and maybe she'll have enough respect for my privacy not to read on even if she does know the address, (what with me having shit my pants when I found her and all), but still.....

I do have my secret-secret-blog-blog, but I was gonna save that for emergency purposes only. Damn. Do I now use my secret-secret-blog-blog as my slightly anonymous blog, use this blog as a family blog, and start a new blog as my super-secret-blog-blog? Somehow, that sounds like a lot of fucking work. Or do I just assume that ain't no shame, this is my game, if she doesn't respect my privacy, then let's traumatize the shit out of her, and have fun doing it?
Fuck.
And I had some good posts lined up too. I've been Ericabloggin' too much lately, that ain't my thang, needed some impulsilosophy on this here page.
Well, I guess I'm just gonna have to wait and see where this goes.

Dammit, Dammit, Dammit!

I made myself a secret blog, so I could have some private writing time. Set the fucking thing up, then promptly forgot the user name I used. (I'd just hucked in random letters, figured they'd pop up when I went to log in.) Now I can't get back to that blog, which I could live with, except the name was perfect. Fucking perfect, I say. And the address matched beautifully, and the name that went with it. It was flawless. And it's out there somewhere, and all I can do is look at that perfectly named, perfectly url'ed, blog. With no posts. And there shall never be a post. What a fucking waste.
Reminds me of this friend of my friends sister's coworker. Got her parents to buy her a sweet condo on the Quay, right over the river, beautiful interior, just so that she could leave the ironing board in the living room, hair all over the bathroom, and use the dining room to store her endless supply of empty's....of canned beer....cheap, macro brewery canned beer....
Waste. I hate it. If it's not wasted potential, I don't want to fucking hear about it.
Damn, I'm bitter about that blog. What a beautiful name. And url. And profile name.
It's a darn shame, I say.

Today I....

Saved a pigeon from certain death. Oh yeah, called in the SPCA and everything. Resigned myself to putting the ten bi-weekly journal articles which were due this afternoon on hold so that I could babysit that traumatized pigeon, and chain smoke on the patio. Cause I'm a good Samaritan like that. Saviour of pigeons, great and small. If that doesn't demand good karma comin' my way, I don't know what does.
I'm a regular fucking hero, man.
Oh, and the karma? When I showed up three hours after class had ended with the previously due journal articles, all my instructor had to say about it was a good old talk about the joys of chain smoking.
Bloody waste of good karma, if you ask me, but maybe I've got some left over. Pigeon, assignment. What's worth more?

Went for beers with a friend tonight. We were talking tattoos, she has a friend who has This To Shall Pass tattooed across her wrists. Tattoo girl was depressed as a teenager, her grandmother came one day and said those words to her.
These are the things that make life great, these random connections with people who you have never met. That story that brings it all home, that there is someone out there who one day, had the very same thing pass through their head that has gone through yours.
Sometimes knowing that you are completely unoriginal is shit, other times, it's like a warm, fuzzy blanket.

To My Local Schmoes

Don't worry, ya'll, I'm just taking a bit of time to myself right now.
I got a book, I've done laundry, and I've even done my readings. Plus I've hit 50% of my classes, which is exactly average for me, so no worries there.
Oh, and I got drunk and played a lot of solitaire.
Basically, everything is as it should be.
Thanks for the mad panic, I love you too. And I promise that, should you someday choose to take a couple of days to yourself, I too will threaten to break down your door.

A Theme! A Theme! Random Lyrics Comin' At Cha!

Everything looks perfect
From far away.
Come down now,
But we'll stay.
- The Postal Service

I'm the map, I'm the map,
I'm the map, I'm the map,
I'm the map!
- Dora the Explorer

I've got a flask inside my pocket,
We can share it on the train.
And if you promise to stay conscious
I will try and do the same.
We might die from medication
But we sure killed all the pain,
What was normal in the evening
By the morning seems insane.
- Bright Eyes

Ain't got no shame,
Nobody know's my name,
Gonna ride on into the next town.
- Imani Coppola

I built these stairs
With some wood and some nails,
I used a hammer.
I'd like to spend some time with you,
Pulling splinters from my toes with your teeth.
- Yellow Note

..Je veux seulement l'oublier
Et puis je fume
- Pink Martini

....I wonder if we grew to slow,
Straight down the hatch beneath the streetlights glow,
Baby when I get you on that persian rug,
That's the kind of movie I've been dreamin' of.
- Adam Green

My mama told me,
Long time ago,
Quit all your rowdy ways,
And drink no more.
- The Fiery Furnaces

Kick out the chairs,
Mutherfuckas.
- Munk

On Hiatus

I ain't posting shit 'till I can breath again. As long as my lungs are on strike, my blog is on strike. That'll learn those little bronchio-fuckers.
Cause if anyone loves to read this blog, its my lungs, and I refuse to give those bastards squat 'till they give me air.