So I am going to Las Vegas in 3.5 days. I am kind of excited, but I was hoping my brother would come. I keep thinking that he's saying he's not coming so that I will actually be surprised when I see him, but I know that's not the case. That is not the case. That type of thinking is immature and unrealistic. Stupid fucker.

I fell down real bad in the shower this morning. The bruise is directly on my ass crack. It's so weird and big.

Have you ever NOT finished a book? I have, but I don't usually note which books. From this day forward I will keep such a list. The first book is called "Veronica" by Mary Gaitskill which I signed out because I like the name Veronica a lot. I actually liked the character Veronica alot in the book, but the book itself reeked of ass. It actually made me feel sick, when I read it on the subway. I quickly switched to "Specimen Days" by Michael Cunningham and I immediately enjoyed my decision - now that is a tasty bit of story, I tell you. I am going to make a bigger list now of the other books I tried reading but stopped/failed to.

Hello;

Today is my birthday. I still haven't sent my brother's birthday present, and his was like, 2 weeks ago. I think I am afraid of the post office line up. There are always Polish people arguing with the cashier. I am always so afraid that the Polish cashier is going to fuck up my packages.

Today I got an e-card from a Temp. agency that I applied to three years ago. They haven't sent me shit in three years, but they dared not forget to acknowledge my birth! I sincerely hope they have a program that does this job automatically (although that sounds slightly improbable) instead of an actual human being. Could you imagine? Having that job? I would just send them all on the wrong dates, to the wrong people. IT'S NOT LIKE ANYONE WILL NOTICE.
"Umm... you guys like, hired me? and then I quit? and now I'm like employed? but you forgot my birthday? And like last year I got an e-card and I want to speak to someone in charge?"

At my last job, when I was assigned to a tedious job of this nature, I would put the word "fuck" in the middle of things, like deep within our website. It made me feel so good. And if I was working late, I would make sure that whenever I had a sneeze coming, I would let it go on my boss's keyboard. Take that, Princess Fuckface! I would also pull up porn sites on her computer when she wasn't there, and then close them, so if they ever checked she would look like a pervert (a perverted mother of three!).

And the funny thing is, I still have a password for my old work stuff, and I STILL like to fuck shit up. Is that bad? Sometimes I like to change my boss's contact email to read: "dirtyhamcurtain@______.org" (can't put the company name, sorry, that would be SO inconsiderate).

so i don't know what to get my brother for his birthday. I was going to make him some soap with some cat feces in it, but i don't want to go to that much trouble...

Below is a story I wrote a long time ago. The scary part is, I don't know whether I was in high school or grade 4. My writing says grade 4, but I have a faint memory of being really mad at all the control my parents thrust upon me in high school, so that would explain the content. Whatever.

so I think my cat hates children. who really fucking cares. look at him:




he's a big old pile of fur and love. and he wants to be an actor someday, once his chin acne clears up.

ahoy,

So yesterday I came home and went through this box of old tapes. I found an unmarked one and put it in. It was Enya. Yes, it was one Enya song, taped over and over. And I don't even like Enya. And on the other side was the Cranberries song "Linger." Taped over and over...
If you knew me in high school, you would know that I fricking hate the effing Cranberries. So why would I have both the Cranberries and mother parkin' Enya on a tape from high school?

Smells like a case for ...

more Halloween photos...

Lindsay frickin' Lohan made an appearance...



and who says babies can't be sexy after all??






I received a perfect 10, along with a Gold medal, in the Scotch and Soda competition.

I like Halloween. I like dressing up as a communist mostly.

What the effing hell?

So Rosie and Elisabeth on the View got in a little spat today about gun control. Big deal. Elisabeth, I'm sure, was just very cranky and hungry. (eat a sandwich! You're off the island!)

Nothing new, nothing exciting, except the story I stumbled across was written for an 'anti-liberal' website: www.newsbusters.org. What the f*#k?? The masthead states "NewsBusters: Exposing and Combating Liberal Media Bias." Wow. Not only can you own a gun, hate black people, shop at Wal-Mart, and just plain adore George W., there are websites out there completely devoted to trashing any liberal agenda -- and any story with a slightly liberal twist.

Here was one comment about Wal-Mart, in response to comments by famed Wal-Mart critic Paul Krugman:


Since returning to the United States, I have decided to shift some more of my dollars I spend on various items to Wal-Mart for no other reason than to give them more profits with which to defend themselves from withering attacks from people who hate them for no other reason than they are successful and by and large their critics are not.


Seriously.

Readers may post comments - and the 'nics' are slightly amusing: exLib, neoConfirmed, Conservative Voice, etc, etc. The comments involve your usual banter about the price of gas, how global warming is a myth, how abortion is yucky, guns, guns, Wal-Mart, and stupid American political talk that is especially annoying when both parties are on the Right side of things. These people are creepy; they started making fun of Rosie's weight! What a clever jab!

(It's fun to read the stories out loud with a southern accent - go ahead, try it out!)

In conclusion, well, there's no conclusion.. I know I shouldn't be perpetuating the negative, and some may think I am providing some inadvertent promotion, but it's about time we realized that this is the way the majority of Americans think (I know, I know, New York City and California don't count and I love them both as much as I love Manitoba). I'm unabashedly shocked by the NUMBER of websites exactly like this one.

That's all. Back to Thanksgiving - which may actually mean something to me now (can you smell the neo-patriotism?)

They even attacked Rose Kennedy! Rose Kennedy! What the hell did she ever do to anyone, except be pinchably cute and regal and stuff - gawd!

So I know that "posting shit from your childhood diary" is about as original as The Hoff falling asleep somewhere, but I felt like writing something, and what's wrong with 're-writing' something you already wroke, like 19 years ago???


I know, they're very short. It was one of those diaries that had about 10 lines reserved for every day of the year. I kept my responses short, so that I wouldn't wear myself out come December. That idea kinda sucked in the end.




January 4, 1987
Dear Diary,
Today we played in the snow. Tomorrow we are going back to school. I might be able to be in the WWF fanclub.



January 14, 1987
Today was art and hot dog day. I am going to Patricia's on Monday.



January 21, 1987
Today was art and a boy on our bus got his ear ripped off by our bus driver Mr. Lomenicki.





January 22, 1987
Today was science and music. Tomorrow we have an indoor hocky game. We are going to play Beth's team. Me and Beth are fighting now.




February 7, 1987
Last night I kept going to the washroom.




February 8, 1987
Dear Diary,
In wrestling today, The Hart Foundation stole the tag-team belt from the British Bulldogs. And worse, Andre the Giant turned bad. THANKS A LOT!

I'm pretty sure this would cause Guy-Manuel and Thomas to kill themselves

Today just sucks. The weather is cold and almost-rainy. I have nothing interesting to say. I saw Snakes on A Plane as well, and you don't see me making a fucking robot rock 'n roll video because of it, do you? Sorry. It is almost September. I hate September. Everything starts moving in fast forward and then you go to a few weddings and gain 10 pounds. And then it's Christmas.

Christmas
I am trying, successfully so far, to convince my mother to take me and my boyfriend on a tropical cruise over Christmas. Here is a brief synopsis of my key arguments:
1) Brother not coming home
2) Sister will be travelling
3) Having two less siblings in the home will cause everyone to be secretly depressed
4) A tropical cruise prevents depression
5) I will drink heavily if not on tropical cruise
6) A tropical cruise will make the missing siblings jealous. I realized this point did more harm then good when my mother said, What if they miss us and come home, and we're not even there?? (I then told her they would be fine - it would be just like Home Alone. In Reverse.)

That's all I have to say about that.

Hey, has anyone seen the most recent photos of Joe(y) Lawrence? He dropped the Y because he's all grown up, and the Y naturally means that one could still mess with him, and obviously you can't. He's bald now.

Last night I told my mother that I was really sick again (lies!), in an attempt to shut her up so I could begin having a 'conversation' with her. It worked, but we didn't talk about anything except my 'sicknesses' and there's no fun in that, really. Every time she started going ballistic with the mouth and the words I would moan and cough and casually mention the wound that won't heal on my forehead. It's manipulative, but don't we both win in the end?

We had our first party in my apartment on Saturday night and it was wicked awesome! Rajo bought a million postcards and we addressed them before guests arrived. We then randomly distributed them to our guests, inviting them to write 'words of inspiration' to the receiver. Much confusion! But there were some cupcakes later. I made all the food and I have decided that my new secret talent is deciding exactly how much food to prepare for a gathering. I based my calculations on expected number of guests, time of year, type of occasion, temperature, seating arrangements, etc. etc. I just pile all those variables into my head and I just, I don't know, I can just see how many types of dip to make.

And that brings me to my next topic - the magic bullet. My mother called to tell me she had an extra one, and asked if Rajo's mother would like it (?). I said, that's so ridiculous. Why do you have an extra one, and why would you think of her? I told her no thank you, because Rajo's mother actually just bought her own magic bullet, because I couldn't stop talking about mine. But, if she hadn't bought one, she would have received one eventually .... and so completes the circle, of magic, if you will.

And then there's Andy Dick, who bit someone in the hand. My friend Laura bit me on the hand last Saturday because we were playing a game called "Lohan & Publicist" and she fell down and when I tried to help her she bit me lightly, just as a warning nip.

Sometimes you just need to hang out by a waterslide with a bunch of messed up friendly people.

Happy Simcoe Day!

I celebrated NEAR Lake Simcoe, how honourable is that?

I watched TV last night because I needed to calm my partially-fried brain, and I watched Supernova or whatever, and it was really really confusing. Is it supposed to be that difficult to follow? Were they trying to trick me, thus blasting my brain into a giant-sized Supernova?? The contestants completed challenges such as smoking, singing, then someone sings "Creep" (which gave me the creeps), then Tommy Lee says something, and then more challenges (which I assumed consisted of more smoking and singing). Where has television gone to? And when is season 2 of Veronica Mars coming out already??!!!

I hate teenage girls.

They fall into two categories:
1) Generally Nice, possibly slightly nerdy (hints of acne and eyewear), Always tolerable, not afraid to talk to adults, good at math and not because they cheat

2) Weird valley girl accent, general bitchiness, won't look other women in the eye, skinny, H&M clothing, prefer speaking to adult males only, cheat on every test because they think they fucking deserve an A, usually white (yeah I said it!), dirty mouths (and not 'fuck' or 'shit', I'm taking about the degrading stuff like 'slut' and 'bitch.')

I cannot do an impression of category two because my vocals chords begin seizing and I feel my throat closing up. But it sounds slightly like a sea lion, if you have ever heard one.

I like the category one people. Veronica Mars would fit into that category, so that's the one I'm rooting for.

Category 2 involves a world which I know nothing about. I simply know it exists. I know it exists and I want to stop it, yet I don't want to know it, so therefore will never stop it. Quite the predicament (I can't stop with the John Travolta).

But category 2 girls also existed back when I was in high school - isn't that scary? They either replicate like amoebas (highly likely) or simply never finished high school and got *alot* of 'work' done in their 20's (slightly unlikely).

I have one question for the category 2 parents: how do you stop yourself from walking into a bus every morning? How did you let them become that way? Did you teach them the Valley Girl accent at an infant age or did you wait until pre-school? Because it isn't cool. It makes your daughter look weird. I want to actually 'correct' their speech, and say things such as "it's pronounced whatever. Not what-eh-va" or "replying with thank you is a little more polite than whispering move bitch or die."

But I don't say anything. Ever. Keeping quiet is easier - you know why? Because these girls are intimidating. You know you would lose more than your job if you actually ever insulted them. So for now I sit quietly. And cherish those moments when Category 1 girls wave at me on the subway.

I am a sweater.

The past few days in Toronto have been exceptionally, grotesquely hot, and I have been sweating profusely because of it. The truth is, I sweat all the time, regardless of the temperature, season, or occasion. I cannot simply shut whatever mechanism it is that controls sweating to the OFF position. My face is constantly glistening; my upper lip - moist, all the time. These past few days have been ridiculously difficult, having to do with 1) the 47 degree celcius temperature every day and 2) the fact that I am taking some serious pharmaceuticals (legal and prescribed, thank you very much). Both factors have combined to provide me with a force of terror every morning. I cannot get dressed until *immediately* before leaving the house. Otherwise the sweating process will begin early.

Let me describe the nature of my sweat. It is almost always localized in the face and neck region, but I have been known to be a back sweater as well. When I wear a knapsack, you can tell. And you don 't even having to be a fucking psychic.

When I leave the house, my hair is usually bone-dry. By the time I get on the streetcar, my bangs are usually wet. By the time I reach work, depending on the temperature and humidity and wind velocity, my entire head is wet. When I reach my destination, if a public bathroom hand dryer is not conveniently available to dry this wet heap off (and it is a joyous, but infrequent occasion when this occurs) I usually comb everything out and pull it back into a ponytail. On my better days I resemble Katarina Witt after her '88 Olympic win; on a bad day, Tara Reid after a good old fashioned Monday night.

Here are a list of things I bring with me, everywhere, to help combat these effects: Comb, talcum powder, extra makeup, dry paper towels, regular towel, hair elastic. I always bring something with me to wipe my face with, although, I have received 'awkward' looks when wiping my glistening forehead off on the air-conditioned subway. Why do I not receive those same looks while on the treadmill at the gym? Why is it simply okay to sweat profusely in certain places and not others? I'm not really inconveniencing anyone by sweating all the time, am I? I have feelings too. We sweaters have been plagued with ridicule for far too long. No, I am not a beasty, ugly, hairy, lazy woman. Even Weezer hates me - if you want to destroy my sweater - do I smell an ex-girlfriend with a sweating problem? Aren't we 'sweaters' plagued enough by invisible backpacks, wet hair, pit stains, and just plain uncomfortableness all the time?