Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Anyways, continuing with the story, when I was 18, my boyfriend cheated on me. I found out he was living with his other girlfriend (!) but I wasn't surprised. As a result, I pushed him down a flight of stairs. (Sadly, there were only 3 stairs in the flight, since it was actually just my front stoop. Nonetheless, the thought was there.)
In retaliation, he decided to learn how to skateboard to win my heart back.
Just to clarify, my boyfriend when I was 18 lived on the reserve, and thought he was black. ("You know you're not black and living in Harlem, right?" I asked him once, with a raised eyebrow. "I'm as close to be black as it gets," he told me, in defense. I guess he was right, since Cold Lake only really has white people and Native people.)
Anyways, he called me up one day.
"What do you want?" I asked him bitterly.
"To talk to you."
"I've been working on something, and I want to show it to you, but not yet."
"What is that?"
"I can't tell you yet."
"Okay, that's nice. Bye."
I hung up on him.
Two weeks later, Helka and I were driving when we spotted him skateboarding down the bike trail.
Our laughter was uncontrollable.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
There's a dead cat on the neighbour's front stoop in the morning. It hasn't died of natural causes, and a grey wifebeater covers its lifeless face.
There's internships and jobs and paycheques and beer and billboards.
There are too many words, and when there is finally silence, the clock ticks much too loudly and the sirens are deafening.
(How long is one moment though?)
Saturday, March 25, 2006
So I made myself a rye and coke. I was grumpy and had no intentions of going out. I tried to convince myself that staying home was the sensible option, and asked myself, "C'mon Jess, do you really think that the nightlife in Toronto can't survive without you?"
Well, it probably will. But I'm always sure that if I don't leave the house, something exciting will happen in my absence.
He seemed more than happy to drop us off at Dance Cave. Caitlin got on the phone with one of her friends, and tried to convince him to come out, by telling him who was out, most of whom were fictional people.
"Everyone's here! Andrew's here, Katrina's here, Jess is here! Uh, Bobbi Sue is here! Ummm....Guido is here!"
"Chris is here! I'll let you talk to Chris!"
Roger who hosts Scrabble in the City.
At this point in the evening, I hadn't seen Katrina and Caitlin in nearly an hour. I thought there might be a chance that they were still at the bar, so I decided to tough it out by myself until they reappeared. I quickly made new friends:Laura and Matt.
I'm not sure if they decided to adopt me because they liked me, or if they just felt bad for me.
I ended up walking down to College, but as per usual, there were no streetcars in sight, so I walked the majority of the way home alone, again, in a short skirt and knee high boots. (A winning combination for walking by yourself in the middle of the night, really.)
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so stubborn.
Friday, March 24, 2006
The week is almost over.
Richard (a friend of ours who is in Image Arts) came over, and they went to take pictures of her topless in the park, posing as a vampire.
(It was so cold outside that she didn't need a "nipple tweaker," as Alice would say.)
. . .I've applied to Magazine Journalism, with Broadcast Journalism as my second choice. I'm not even sure I want to go into magazine, but it's the hardest stream to get into, so I figure that I might as well create a challenge for myself, if nothing else.
Today, as soon as I get dressed, I'm headed to school to start filming this DVD for Ryerson Student Services. I've been selected to be the "personality" on it. Yes, that's right! I'm going to be one of those irritating tour guides on those informational videos that ends every sentence with an exclaimation mark! (We all knew it was coming down to this sooner or later!)
Thursday, March 23, 2006
1) To Fly Your Ship Over Rural Areas
PROS: There are less people to spot you
CONS: There aren't very many interesting things to look at in rural areas (which probably results in lots of cows being mutilated out of boredom) and you are more visible because of the reduced lights.
2) To Fly Your Ship Over Urban Areas
PROS: More interesting things to look at and investigate, your ship is less visible because of all the lights and the chance to blend in with airplanes
CONS: There are more people to spot you, you may get in the way of airplanes
After examining the evidence and weighing the pros and cons carefully, it's beyond me why most commanders of alien spaceships opt to fly their ships over rural areas. Or maybe more UFOs are spotted in rural areas, when really they are more prevelant in city areas, we just don't notice them?
Personally, I know that if I was the commander of an alien spacecraft, it'd be a pretty tough call to make.
*Speaking of "Country Mouse, City Mouse" we have mice in our house. Just thought I'd let y'all know.
**I think the most disturbing thing about this post is that I just woke up, and this is the first thing that popped into my head and perplexed me. It's especially absurd considering I'm not an alien fantatic, nor do I ever think about extraterrestrial life, well, ever. I don't really believe in aliens, although I think it would be ridiculous to presume we are the only life in the universe. (On that note, does the microbiotic bacteria that they found on Mars, or wherever they found it, count as an alien life form? I think it does.)
Although, I did see a UFO once. But that's another story.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
However, I was never trendy or cool. (I know this fact may come as a shock to some, but it’s true. Feel free to take a minute to let this information soak in, and rest assured, because at least I'm surpassing my cool quotient at this period in my life.) And in turn, I never stole anything.
That is, until yesterday.
Canice and I walked out of Value Village* and I triumphantly pulled a Harlequin Romance novel out of my bag and handed it to her, which she placed in her bag with her stolen doilies.**
I was giddy with the thrill of the crime, until I realized that theft has become such an abstract act that I probably do it on a regular basis. So, it was time to write a list.
Things I Stole This Week:
1) 20 minutes of time at work (I showed up 10 minutes late to work and left 10 minutes early, but did not adjust my time sheets accordingly. I’m underpaid as it is.)
2) Margarine from Katrina, Sasha & Court’s fridge (It’s okay though, because I left something in return: crumbs from my toast in the margarine. Seems to be a fair trade to me.)
3) Free long distance from the university (I called this guy in California for an interview.)
4) Mark’s Spin magazine (although I intend to give it back to him soon, because it’s a shoddy piece of writing as it is, but I still feel inclined to read it for some reason.)
5) TTC fare (Canice and I both shoved through the turnstile at once on her Metropass)
6) $72.64 from my Dad’s credit card (but only because my own credit card expired and my Dad lost not one, but both of my new credit cards) to pay for a computer part
7) $37.50 charged to Dad’s credit card for a therapeutic massage
8) Two one-cent stamps from a card Katrina’s grandma mailed to her (Canada Post failed to stamp the stamps).
9) A surplus of illegal downloads
10) And something really abstract (electronic, in fact) that I actually feel really guilty about stealing, and I’m worried that someone will find out.
So, on top of being exceedingly trendy and cool, I'm also a badass now.
It's just too bad I'm not 13 anymore.
*I don’t feel guilty stealing from Value Village, because for the every time I moved, over the last 4 years, I donated my old clothes to them, under the assumption they were a non-profit organization. After discovering that, in fact, they have been selling all my old stuff for profit, I’ve come to the conclusion that they owe me. So really, stealing the novel was more like a trade for all the stuff that I’ve given to them over the years.
**We weren’t indiscriminately stealing doilies and Harlequins, just to clarify. It was for a website Canice is working on for our online journalism class.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Nine years ago, I was born.
Five years and fifteen minutes ago, my Grandma and I collected wild strawberries from the lawn in front of the cabin. I ate them out of a styrofoam cup, mixing them with Orange Crush pop. My grandfather unboarded the cabin windows, and pointed the intricacies of spider webs out to me. I helped him cut up worms to feed to a bird he had saved. I sang and played the piano and helped my Grandma plant sweet peas.
A school year later, I painted my nails with black nail polish. “That’s disgusting,” my best friend told me. She was destined for popularity, and eventually a child and a husband. I was destined to wear fishnets and go to university. My mom told me that boys liked the best friend better, because she was prettier than me. It made me cry, but it was the truth.
Three weeks ago, a tattoo artist with a lazy eye was injecting black ink into my hip, while my disapproving brother waited in the other room. The tattoo artist kept one eye on me, and the other on the pulsating needle. I was barely 18, and had driven four hours into Edmonton on a whim in Kyle’s 1984 Ford Tempo, for the sole purpose of getting tattoos before Helka went back to Finland. We got lost on the way home, singing along loudly with the Juliana Theory, Sublime and pre-Fergie Black Eyed Peas.
Five minutes pass, the scab is gone and the star’s lines are wavering. We eat meals of bread and processed cheese, and bread and Nutella. The shower curtains have mold, and we’re lost every other day. I write Devon long letters and send Mike postcards. I hold my guilt tight to my chest, drink beer for the first time, and calmly watch people snort lines of cocaine.
After breakfast, Chloe and I drive across the province. With the Kidney Thieves blaring from my car’s speakers, we try to put up our tent in the pouring rain, but get frustrated and open our beer instead. Within moments, two guys come along and put up our tent for us. We smile triumphantly, as that was our plan all along.
Later that afternoon, I’m surrounded by thick salty air. I’m 21, in the blistering heat on a desolate beach crowded with crab carcasses. The tide is out, and a little girl tells Naomi and me how to tell the difference between the males and females. Most of the dead are female. I can feel the skin on the back of my neck scorch and die.
The sun sets and rises again, and I’m sitting on a Toronto rooftop, scribbling furiously into my journal. I don’t feel clichéd. I feel strangely settled, alive, and on the verge of something.
Tomorrow, I’m writing this for you.
And when the next season passes, I’m dead.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
I really think the resolution I should have made this year was to not stand in any more line-ups.
My mood was gradually starting to improve (I had felt pretty sick earlier in the night) and the fact that Jack was actually using a pay phone made me happier.
When was the last time you actually saw someone using a pay phone? At a bar, no less?
It was so funny that in the process of laughing at Sasha, I knocked over a huge glass of water.
Seriously though, the bottom line is that I hate lines.