slide whistle

I cannot make a lot of claims regarding sex with confidence.
God has a plan for me, maybe. I'm patient enough.
But, with authority, I can assure you that the trombone is a funny instrument to suddenly hear during intercourse.

you name it

Just in case there's anyone left who hasn't had the pleasure.
You know what, even those who have had the pleasure, it has likely been too long since you last watched it.
Because a day is too long.

(called across a room) "Julia! ...Julia? How do honeydews propagate themselves as a species?"
She's a lot of fun.

Entitled

While speaking on the phone.
Mom: What's her name again?
Me: Imogen.
Mom: ...How do you spell it?
Me: I-M-O-G-E-N.
(pause)
Me: What, are you writing this down?
Mom: I find I have a better chance of remembering things when I write them down.
Me: I'm beginning to wonder who I get it from; you or him. I'm starting to think I've been wrong all along.

Bussey: What's her name?
Me: Imogen.
Bussey: How do you spell it?
Me: I-M-O-G-E-N.
Bussey: Where do you think the name comes from?
Me: I dunno. Her dad's Irish.
Bussey: Maybe it's an Irish name, then.

Colin: What is it?
Me: Imogen.
Colin: Sounds like software for a new monitor.

It will take several attempts to explain this name to dad.
He will pronounce it wrong. Perpetually.
He said 'Kurt' instead of 'Kirk' for at least the first three years that we knew one another.

Onset of Calamity

It is approximately two weeks ago.
I have been working on a 200-word outline for Military History for the better part of a fortnight.

Having finally accrued enough secondary sources to compile said outline, I decide to retire for the night, and finish the actual writing process the following day.

The bibliography has been completed in a word document, and I consider this to be a tremendous amount of headway.
I decide that two hours before class should be more than enough time.

Alarm.

I snooze.
For about an hour longer than my schedule deems permissible.
I forgo a shower.
I begin to gather particulars that will be needed for the morning's tasks.
This is a daily routine.
Bank card. Who knows if I will need to buy print credit, pay a library fee I have forgotten about.
One of my regular loan sharks stops by the library. Who knows?
Who knows.
MUN id. Pens.
I scramble for these things every morning.
Should I check my Facefuck messages?
No.
I have to be responsible.
I haven't the time.
Head to the car.
Shit. Nutrigrains.
I go back to the house.
To the car.
Shit. Coffee change.
I go back to the house.
I book it to campus. I have about an hour and a few to complete my outline.
I have to sit and wait for an available computer.
Minutes pass.
Log on.
Get all of my books out. Notes. All of that.
Then I remember that I have forgotten to e-mail myself the outline word document.
Which I would have remembered if I'd checked my Facefuck messages that morning.
So, I am sitting there. With no feasible way of accessing my work. Wondering what I am to do.
And this song happens to be playing on my iPod.
Listen to it and picture me there.
There are 2, 518 songs on my iPod, currently.
There is a larger force at work here.

in your daily planner

Write this down:
One cannot write a paper when one is hungover.
This might be an excuse, of course.
But it is thoroughly difficult to focus right now.
Moreso than usual.
It was worth it. Any excuse to get myself back into much too-small spandex.
Dear Lord. There are so many embarassing sides to me.

Coming for Dinner

So then.
There's this person. Who I've talked to a bit.
Named Imogen.
Follow so far?
She's been subtly mentioned, but otherwise out of the 20-watt limelight of this blog.
By my own choice. That I have yet to qualify. Even for myself.
Okay. Well, she's in BC.
It's sunny there. They get a lot of rain, I hear.
I was there once. BC. I went to Tofino. With Antoine.
No one ever says his name properly if they read it aloud. 'Ant-woyne?'
We ran into an Australian fellow in Tofino that we truly believed we would never see again in our lifetimes.
At a fish n' chip place.
Those Australians and their seafood.
So, she's coming to visit. And is thus metaphorically pushed into the limelight, presently.
I've told several people that when it comes to myself and girls, things are never straightforward.
My true friends have already grown accustomed to this.
"Well, I'm moving in with her, but she sort of still has a boyfriend in Ottowa, but I think she likes me more. She says she does. We're sharing a bed, but she's not sure if we should be 'sleeping together.' She says maybe I should get my own bed. I'm moving out."
"Yeah, that makes sense," my friends would say.
We've never met. Imogen and I.
Which is moot, as far as I'm concerned.
That's why she's coming.
That and the mussells.
We Newfies and our seafood.
She informed me that she would be 'stopping by' during a vacationing trip to Montreal.
I primarily just sat and sweat for a moment.
Then I asked questions. Some appropriate, some less appropriate.
"That's a really strange thing to ask, I'm going to tell Turpin," she said at one point.
Sort of like tattling. If Turpin were any sort of authoratitive figure. Which she isn't.
But she's quite nice. She collects her menstrual blood in a different way than she did before.
I'm excited for her.
Where was I?
Ah yes.
Midnight. November 6th. I've already begun to coordinate an outfit in my head.
I have nine days and counting.
I have to do laundry.
I have to clean my tub.

"Quick and to the Pointless"

Did you say 'malignant tumour'?
Cause that's our word of the day!
Words.
Words of the day...

"You just keep on drivin.'"

I have accomplished the following things so far today:

• attended a scope meeting. Only one half of an hour late. I also managed to interject some witty comments despite my sleep deprevation this week. I asked Elling how he heats his house (it's old, and the ceilings are high), but he didn't really answer my question
• ordered a Zutons cd while flirting with an HMV employee. A female one.
• bought a Bush X album for the sheer 90sness of it. Spacehog is next.
• managed to find a Halloween costume while putting in very little effort. And it cost me less than $4.
• filled the car's gastank with gas.

That's about it.
Come to think of it, I haven't even gotten around to eating yet. And it's 2 o' clock.
I was just excited about the Halloween costume.
What are you gonna go as?

Outside of trapeze artists, I do not believe that trampolines are a wise decision to invest in.

I'll do this occaisonally from now on. Maybe a Friday thing.
Here's a musical performance by a band I like.
It's not ego. I don't know enough about music to have musical taste. I come from a line of accordian players.
But in case you're curious.
I believe that picking a favourite band is a waste of time. But if I was asked, I would likely say Queens of the Stone Age. Because they are rock n' roll. When the dust has settled on this decade, it's a band we'll be proud of.
Unlike Rascal Flatts.

He Invented Anarchism

Pie is both my favourite pastry, and my favourite graph.
Venn diagrams are okay, too.

Milk doesn't have as much calcium as I thought.
This will not keep me from drinking a litre of it a day. If I can get my hands on so much.
Once I ate a bunch of shrimp circled around a shrimp ring while drinking a huge glass of milk.
Shandera and Pete were disgusted. They said that it was the sort of thing someone would eat on a dare.

I've been using my brother's shampoo as a body wash for a few months now.
It's a very large bottle. I'm slim.
I'd buy body wash, sure, but I keep forgetting to.
I don't use my own shampoo as a body wash.
Because it's TRESemme. And that stuff is expensive.
Doesn't she look nervous in the picture? I don't believe she likes the man touching her hair.

I'm going to write a paper on Mikhael Bakunin this weekend.
If you have any insights, please. Feel free.

MUN is having something called 'kindness Friday' this week.
I do not feel inclined to go.

I saw a woman walking a pair of Pomeranians today. It was very adorable and trivial.

The girl who sits in front of me in Canadian History constantly wears dangly earrings.
They're very distracting. And occaisonally hideous.
There's another potential friend, down the drain.

I realized in my Military History class the other day that if I was around during the Medeival period, I would have been a bowman. Because I'm so scrawny.
I would likely be cut down by some strong fellow on horseback.
Far more likely, I would have been an artisan.
Me: I wanna fight too, guys!
Burly Soldiers: No, you stay here. Make us some clay cups for when we get back. So that we may drink from them the blood of our victims!

Halloween's coming. Have you inserted needles into your apples yet?

On Sex.

Me: I don't mind the gaps, but the more time that passes, the less cool it gets.
Shandera (whilst laughing): Fucking right.

A librarian scolded me a few days back.
I still have a knack for sweet-talking professors which I was concerned I had lost.
This will prove invaluable as my deadlines fester and breed.

I have my hoodie back. It's an oldy but goody, like much of my clothes.
I left a winter jacket in Banff, accidentally. This was in February. Newfoundland is cold in February. Newfoundland is cold in September.
I had to hide the fact that I had left my jacket in Banff from my parents, as they constantly remind me to be more responsible with in-season clothing.

Dad: Did you bring home Colin's jacket from Alberta?
Me: Yeah, I brought back Colin's jacket...

Now I have it back. It's a pea jacket. I look quite dapper in it.
I left a suit in Banff, speaking of dapper.
While I was packing I simply couldn't find it.
My family still gives me a hard time about that one.
I moved six times while I lived there.
I lived in a closet for a while.
There were no electrical outlets in the closet.

"Gonna shoot my face with a gun/Cause I can't get my work done"

I sang to myself as I left my apartment for my second trip to the library of the day.
I have a thermos to put coffee in.
It makes the coffee taste like plastic.

The Tragic Mentor

I don't do the whole celebrity thing.

Not anymore. I once did.
I got my picture taken with Hayden in '04. And I was excited about it.
But I believe that I've grown out of the fanfare.
Cause they're just people really. That lucked out.
Jennifer Garner poops.
So does Mic Jagger.
Except for Larry David.
Larry David doesn't poop. He's too funny to need to.
It's not his co-creating Seinfeld. It's more him. He just seems like a person I would legitimately identify with. Excusing the Judaism, the 450 million dollars, and the male-pattern baldness, I think we have a decent amount in common.
I used to point out examples when watching his fancy HBO show.
Jane would say that I was just trying to sound like I had a lot in common with him.
Which is true.
But sometimes, when I'm late for something and I'm sitting waiting for my third red light in a row to change, and I'm shaking my head sullenly as I watch the front-end loader lazily make its way down the street ahead of me, in the only lane that's open because the other is being painted and then the Burton's pond ducks (adorable as they are) end up crossing the street in front of me and I get to the campus to find no available spaces in the Cabot lot and I park in the first space I come across and I make my way across the lawn and then I turn back for my books and I sweat as I scurry to the class that I'm late for and I find it to be cancelled and I return to my car after a ten minute period to find my freshest parking ticket, I think to myself that maybe, just maybe, I'm a born loser.
And there's not a lot wrong with that.
Because that's funny.
It's just that I happen to think that Larry David is, too.
He's the guy who always misses the bus by inches.
But he lucked out.
So, he's the only celebrity I would like to meet.
Of course he ate dinner at the restaurant I worked at in Banff 6 months after my leaving the town.
What would I say to him anyway?
"You and I are of the same mold, Larry David."
"I think one of your hairs is in my food."

'Extensions be with you'/'And also with you.'

If procrastination was a religion, I would be Jesus.
Disciple #1: When did the saviour say he'd be here?
Disciple #2: Our lord said he just had to get a shower and then he'd be over. Won't be long, I guess.

Too far? I think it's okay.
I was going to capitalize 'he', but decided against it in case my mother ever reads this.

What A Party!

The following men will be in my wedding party for the following reasons:

Robert Shandera will be in my wedding party because he consistently passes up the oppurtunity for sex in order to play video games with me. If the shoe were on the other foot, this would not be the case.
The shoe would not be on my foot. Because I would be undressed. Having intercourse.
Robert's mother fed me more than my own mother.
Robert (and this is a big one) introduced me to pornography.
I have never looked back.

Peter Russell will be in my wedding party because he taught me everything bad. Whatever bad things that I have done in my lifetime, I have done because I learned them from Peter. Except for swearing. I learned that my brothers. And Eddie Murphy.
My mother and I had an argument one morning before school as to whether or not Peter Russell was a bad influence on me.
He was suspended from school that day for calling his teacher a 'stupid bitch'.
Was that the line?
I guess mom was right.
Peter also looks good in a suit.

Kirk Bussey will be in my wedding party because he once drove around the bay in a snowstorm so that I could have sex with someone.
This is a friend.
Kirk remembers everything I forget.
Kirk was the sole reason my application to the Memorial Faculty of Education arrived on time.
It is also not his fault that I did not meet the requirements for said application.
That was me.
Kirk and I discovered the particulars of underage drinking side by side.
That sex weekend I just mentioned?
Bussey helped me dislodge his car from some tenacious ice in a glazed-over parking lot, so that I could engage in some foreplay.
Same girl.
Same visit home.
Seperate snowstorm.

My brother Colin will be in my wedding party because he will end up building most of the things in my house.
He protected me from Brian.
Colin got me drunk for the first time.
Technically, it was Trevor Luedee. But Colin laughed at me just as much.
He trusted me to steer the jeep while he smoked as he drove me to piano lessons, despite my being twelve.
Whenever I was hungover at fifteen, he would never tell my parents.
He would just make fun of me.

My brother Brian will be in my wedding party because I read his books when he wasn't reading them.
Brian taught me to be afraid of him.
The first time I ever stood up for myself, it was against Brian.
I threw a box of Purity crackers at him and told him to "Fuck off!"
He made me pick up the crackers.
Brian didn't really mind when I vomitted in his apartment on his 22nd birthday and prevented his female friends from using the bathroom. He let me pass out in his friend's porch, using their shoes as a pillow.
Whenever I was hungover at fifteen, he would never tell my parents.
He would just make fun of me.

Sarah Turpin will be in my wedding party because it is the only way I can avoid marrying her.
She and I will emcee the event in tandem.

That's the rundown.
You're all invited.
All I need now is a wife.
With huge tits.

Little Doubt on the Prarie

I once had a person from New Minas, Nova Scotia apologize to me for being from Newfoundland.
She asks where I'm from. I tell her. She says, "Oh, I'm sorry."
The irony comes into play only after you have personally visited New Minas.
People from Ontario are the ones who mispronounce Newfoundland most consistently. Even the French fuck it up less. And they speak a different language.
They say that Newfies are the simple ones. I'd elect that it's the group who hasn't learned the names of all of the provinces of their own country by the time they're 20. Call me whacky.
"Well, I've never been there," they often say.
I counter that I have never been to Sasketchewan, but I know how to say it.
And that name is far more complicated. No place name needs that many vowels.
Sasketchewan is the reject province, by the way. Even people from Sasketchewan can't say where they're from with a straight face.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"So am I," they'd likely reply.
But people do miss the Jets.
I had a thing for a girl from Sasketchewan once, which I didn't really see coming.
Dana.
It was a pretty decent obsession I had. And to this day I'm not sure what the cause of it was.
I think I was primarily attracted to her because she had piercings that I wouldn't be willing to get myself.
Big smile. I'm into big smiles, maybe.
Matt Cooke gave me her number. He has many siblings, Matt Cooke.
I wrote it on my arm. I was drunk.
We had coffee once. I thought it went well.
But I'm not that perceptive.
Which is possibly just as well. Her taste in music was simply awful.
"Won't return my calls, will you? Well, once I start my blog you'll get it!"

And That's All You Get

So many released endorphins and no stick and hoop to play with.
No people to bask with.
I've gotten A papers before, sure. But it has been a few years.
There's a man walking around in the library, and I think he may be drunk.
He's middle aged. He's wearing track pants. One of the buttons that fastens that pants together has come undone, exposing a minute portion of his bare thigh.
Where was I?
My parents played with the hoop and the stick, by the way. I know that my father did, at least.
Just like The Little Rascals.
He's sauntering this way.
He seems very aloof.
"I can wield a cleaver," she said with confidence.
I am meeting a new person.
My brother is 31 today.
My family is becoming crow-footed.

Comedy Sunday. It has been a long month.

Rubbing Elbows

My greatest regret of today (this week, this month):
Moments ago. I'm walking home from the library.
I mentioned in an earlier post that I could not read the article I wished to read.
I decided to read it after class, and found a random stoolie to get the article out for me.
Ian, wherever you are, I now have your back.
Which is key to getting mentioned in this blog.
My regret is not telling him that I love him.
And his orange toque.
Just kidding.
I pass the fancy new building that MUN has. Whatever it's called. I look through the glass walls and see there is a function of some sort going on.
There are students. There are professors.
More to the point, there is a buffet.
And I'm standing there. Looking in. Trying to figure out how I can lie to these people long enough to get some food from the buffet.
I stand outside the building for (without exaggeration) a decent minute or minute and a half, contemplating the necessary moves.
And I back out. I do not enter the building and weave whatever magnificent lies I would have came up with.
Twenty minutes later and I'm appalled with myself already.
People always say 'next time'. But I swear, dear readers, next time, next time I'm going in that building.
Though I get queasy when I play sports, I was never one to be socially nervous.
I am in the process of kicking off flaked rust.

Tobaccoh?

I can't determine which it is that affects my mood more; the weather or a lack of sleep.

I did smoke for a while. I never smoked as a teenager.
I am from a small town. Everyone knows my father.
My brothers always promised that they would beat the piss out of me if they found out I was smoking. Y'know. Because they cared.
Everyone knows my brothers.
I blamed it on women (who wouldn't?), but it was also my whack sense of humour that started it.
I sat in the smoker's lounge. It wasn't the cool thing to do. It wasn't the fact that I enjoy yellowed ceiling tiles more than white ceiling tiles.
It just so happened that while I was at the hotel, a slighter percentage of assholes smoked, for some reason. The few people I liked smoked.
So, I ate in the smoker's lounge. I was the only non-smoker (besides Shelby) who ate there.
Some of the smokers would eat in the non-smoking area, and then switch rooms after the meal.
That's a lack of dedication to me.
Which I would mention.
For fun, sometimes, without a word to anyone, I would take Antoine's cigarette pack from the table, proceed to take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it. To get a rise out of people.
"I thought you didn't smoke."
(while coughing) "No time like the present."
I almost became a smoker at the age of 24 because of a running gag.
The process became more delicious and fantastic each time I did it.
Catherine got me smoking regularly. When we started discussing our fucked up relationship, cigarettes helped me concentrate on not snapping.
Then I went on a roadtrip to Tofino. With Antoine.
Antoine smokes a great deal. He has to; his father is from France.
I bought my first pack before leaving, but I bought many packs while traveling.
Export A Gold. Whatever the Gold represents. I never bothered to learn.
It's funny, but I did start to notice a difference between brands. I thought that whole thing was an act smokers put on.
I held my cigarettes very awkwardly.
I concentrated on holding them as stylishly as possible while I smoked.
I stopped smoking because I started to feel bad about it. Not because I smoked, but because I started at the age of 24. And after my brothers had put so much effort into frightening me.
They killed my apetite.
I kept losing packs. And lighters.
I figured after Tofino that I was a goner. I was buying packs regularly at this point.
"I'm a smoker, now" I'd decided. So, I thought I should see what cravings felt like.
Might as well get used to it.
So, I stopped and waited.
And I'm still waiting.
I lucked out. Because I loved it.
I wish I was smoking right now.
But they say it makes your ceiling tiles yellow.
And I don't need that.

Yellow Card, Red Card

I need to read an article.
It is on reserve.
I tried to be proactive. I tried to be keen.
I tried to read this article on Friday. The article was missing a page. The copies had been pulled.
Yes, of course.
Peter and I drove around the bay on Saturday.
I was wearing a newly acquired pair of dad's slacks. That's what they were; slacks.
With gaping pockets.
Before we were passed Donavan's Industrial Park I had misplaced both my MUN i.d. and my bank card.
I had these cards loose in my front pocket because my wallet has been too fat as of late.
They say it can lead to back problems, having an overtly massive wallet.
Back problems at 30. Due to a wallet stuffed with random e-mail addresses and coffee cards and no money.
No thanks.
So, the wallet has been temporarily retired. I carry my MUN i.d. and my bank card because they are central to my daily survival.
This is foreshadowing.
Today, I want to read the article.
I cannot take out a reserve article without my MUN i.d.. It costs $15 to replace a MUN i.d., which I cannot afford because I have also lost my bank card.
Three hours between classes.
I drive to the bank.
And I wouldn't even mind, if the dawning occured sooner.
It doesn't dawn on me during the drive. It doesn't dawn on me while I park. It dawns on me the instant my hand touches the car door handle.
After I've burned the greatest possible amount of gasoline.
I can't get a replacement bank card because I do not have any proper identification because I have temporarily retired my wallet because I do not want to give my future self back problems without even doing actual, physical labour.
I could swindle the bank staff if I had a student i.d., even, but then...
I cannot read my journal article.
Because I am a percentage of a human being.

Bump in the Night

Possible ideas include:

• gluten (my top choice, but I don't know how to dress up as a chemical strand, or mineral, or whatever gluten is).
• a goldfish (because I always forget shit).
• that record from size small. the one with the wooden spoons? That's likely been done.
• Milhouse. Van Houten.
• Kraft Dinner (a noodle [if you can call it that], not the box).
• Rosa Parks
• A draedle
• dignity (I also do not know how to dress up as this).

Failing all of that, I'll just wear a slutty top and go as a butterfly. Or a cat.
Alright. That's it. Eyes forward.

Front Row

My brother turns 31 in two days.
Although it is October, I am beginning to look forward to Christmas.
I am trying to figure out the best possible Halloween costume.
It's a stressful process because I feel as though my choice has to be better than everyone else's in the province.
It takes time.
I skipped a class and called Turpin in order to wake her up.
For fun.
I have important things to write soon that I will eventually be graded on.
I'm wearing pleated pants.

What do you think scalpers do with their tickets that they don't sell?
Do they trash them? A sauve ditching of evidence, maybe?
Do they promise them to their friends? If I was a scalper, this would be my route.
Because you can buy companionship. Not sure if you knew that.
"I want a good seat if you don't sell all those."
It's a less legal variation of 'I'll eat whatever pizza you can't finish.'
I like dating girls with small appetites.
But scalpers always seem so seedy, they strike me as the type to not have friends.
Well, television scalpers, anyway.
Do they go to the shows themselves, or is that too incriminating?
If you have no friends and a bunch of extra tickets, why not take in a little David Copperfield?
Were there scalpers during the 16th century?
Because then you could catch all of the Shakespeares and Marlows you wanted.
"Give me a seat away from the peasantry."
Scalpers would have been very cultured during this time frame.

"He Wants His Shirt Back"

Martin and I drank coffee.
I showed up before her. Which I believe needs to be documented.
She bought me a gift. And carried it in a very decorative bag.
She bakes most when she's upset.
I drink alcohol from wide-mouthed bottles when I'm upset.
Or I make jokes (crying out for help, I am).
I was taken aback because I had forgotten that I'd asked her to get me a gift.
I frequently do this.
Robyn in Banff went home to Edmonton for a week. I asked her to bring me back a bar.
She did. Mirage. Which is up there.
So, I asked her to the Christmas formal. Which I was late for because I had to first plate the meals all of my co-workers were eating.
Then I changed.
Then I went.
Her dress was green.
It didn't pan out.

I went around the bay to see Williams.
Peter's mother asked about my comedy. She wants to come and see it.
"It's a side of me you probably haven't seen before,"I told her.
There are many sides of me that Jeanette Russell has not seen.

Me: I'm gonna stop wearing my headphones in public for a while.
Peter: Because it's Ramadan.
...
Peter: It's Wango Tango!*
Satellite radio makes the past the present.

*This site has pop-ups. None that involve penis enhancement, but still.

Don't Say Nothin'

I've got little for today.
I had a three hour nap.
I had coffee with Martin last night which I have to detail more.
Tomorrow.
She bakes.
She plays water polo with boys.
Glad she's on my side.

I'm glad Elling is on my side as well, as he festooned this tasty treat.
...
Okay. That didn't work.
Elling transformed my published TragicHero strip into a .gif. But it's too itty bitty to decipher.
This is because of me. Not Elling.
I really need a roll in the grass with Photoshop.
Thought that counts. I'll get to the bottom of it.
He will get to the bottom of it. And tell me what to do.
My father has gotten me out of several jams in a similar fashion.
They had tea for me last time. I was cold.
There was a bread item of some sort. I didn't have any.
I didn't want to make a mess of myself immediately after meeting these people.
As for this week's baked gear...hard to say.

Few days back my brother and I marveled over the fact that I have never been arrested.
Then we discussed what I should do when it happens.
Just to be safe.

The Rest

About a month ago I passed three custodians who were smoking outside of the Science building.
I almost, almost asked one of them to 'save me a draw'.
Maybe next time.

Sometimes I walk around campus and am relieved to see people reading at the base of trees.
We, as a race, are supposed to be reading at the base of trees.

The day after the Metric show.
I'm in Military. This class has a frightful number of students with useless opinions.
I get impatient easily. I dislike most people.
How bad do they get?
On an occasion or two, they've said things so outlandish that I've suddenly turned towards them while shrugging. The way you shrug when you're exasperated with someone. Who isn't making any sense. I am not in the least bit subtle about it.
I dislike most people.
So, the blond one. The female. She may even be the worst.
Mentions something about the Metric show.
Attractive Professor: Oh, I didn't realize Metric was playing.
The Female: Nobody did.
Me (immediately): I did.
Everyone looks at me.
Me: What? I never say anything in class. I thought I'd speak up.
The show sold out. 600 people.
Who says that?

You know the pretty ones? The ones who spend more time on their makeup than they do on their homework?
If you watch them really closely, you can tell that they're concentrating more on not bailing in the hallway with their mid-week pumps, than they are on the route they need to take to get to their destination.
Why do they call heels pumps? I never did understand that one.

While on that. I check out a female in the following order (they'll be lining up at my door after they read this one. To be fair, all men have an order. I'm just honest about it):

• face.
• breasts.
• shoes.
• ass.
• teeth.
• eyes.
• the rest.

Why is shoes number three? Fair question.
I believe that you can determine a great deal about a potential life partner by the footwear they don.
Certain shoes suggest laid back. I need laid back.
And if a girl is wearing something like, oh, I don't know, pumps, at a barbecue, it's best I move on.
With many girls that I've seen naked, I can recall the shoes they were wearing when I met them.
Do not mistake this as a fetish. I find feet kind of gross, actually.

I'd like to ride in a zeppelin before I die.
Because you're not one with air, as you are in a plane. You're beating air.
I compete with most gases.

Guys can't handle having other guys hold a door for them.
Homophobia for some is not an edict, it is a way of life.
They'd sooner wait until you let go of the door.
Guys are idiots.

Lastly, Tragic Hero is going on paper.
The Scope is going to print it. At least once.
Every time I see the layout (which I am not unveiling until after the issue's out) I feel like I'm about to ask out Heather Bartlett in grade 9 all over again.
I still can't believe she said 'yes'.
We've since went our seperate ways.

edit: The Scope is actually on the go now (I forgot which day of the week it was). But I'm not sure how to turn a .pdf into something I can have you all look at on this site.
I'll get back to you.

'Hey Herc! Hey Herc!'

It is Thursday afternoon. The long weekend is about to birth itself.
That's right.
Birth itself.
Even now I get papers back from professors, and they've written 'syntax' next to some meandering sentence or another.
My life's a sham.
It's four in the afternoon before the long weekend. My classmates' brains are on standby.
I'm learning about anarchism.
The window allows a view overlooking the campus.
I always find myself peeking out of the window during terrorism because I'm watching to see if my car is being ticketed across the pond.
I'm not sure what I would do if it were getting ticketed.
Get up in a flourish. Bang on the window. "Wait! I'll move it!"
Anyway, a hercules C-130 flies over the building. I watch it.
The professor has to stop his lecture.
"I believe there's a plane outside," the professor states, loudly.
"Yeah, it's a really big one."
Everyone looks at me.
"...That's why it's so loud," I mutter.
People stop looking at me.
I check on my car.

Paul! This way!

The biggest reason I'd like to be famous?
The cool photo ops.
I'd try to get onto the cover of GQ wearing a suit that has stains on it.
And they'd go for it.
Because I'm famous.

Pitter Patter

As I was driving to work this morning I seriously contemplated which man over 40 I find most attractive.
I am meeting someone new.

I have a wicked idea for a gag. Now I just need to find someone who is willing to lend me their infant.
Open to suggestions.

edit: I chose Robert Redford.
Sam Waterston was a runner-up, though I didn't mention him.
He was my heart's choice.

They have the best radishes

I barely existed today.
Whenever I'm near horses I get the strong impression that they don't like me...

Your ass. My elbow.

I think I'd like to have sex with a librarian sometime.
Not because I have a fetish for glasses (though I sort of do).
It's just that librarians always know where I can find the journal article I'm looking for.
And that's hot.

While Traversing Newfoundland Tip # 32:
If you ask a fisherman what it's like outside, and he says, "It's fuckin' shit, b'y," dress in layers.
Many layers.
It's going to be a long fall.
It will seem brief once winter starts, though.

In other tripe, I went to class today.
Class wasn't going ahead though because today is the last day of mid-term break.
It's a different scheduling setup here than I'm used to!
I ran into Aaron and Tracey, though.
And Bussey.
He and I sat in the library. I tried to log onto blogspot to write this post, but the computer was effectively inoperational.
I'm sitting there. Making attempts to log on.
Refresh.
Making attempts to log on.
Refresh.
I'm telling Bussey about my weekend 'round da bay.
As I'm talking, this female included in a group of students adjacent us switches location and stands next to me.
...
And then she nudges her ass against my elbow as I'm refreshing.
And leaves it there.
I say nothing.
I do nothing.
Until I begin laughing as I'm talking to Bussey.
Because her ass is still there, and can't she feel that it's against a part of me?
I don't think it was flirtation.
Maybe she lost a bet...

Is He Yid?

I'm sweaty.
I'll tell you why I'm sweaty.
I am wearing a massive woolen sweater.
I liberated it.
I found out, while in the process of removing several of dad's unwanted sweaters from his closet, that this is the very same woolen sweater that my dad was wearing the day my mother met him.
The nostalgia intertwined with the destiny intertwined with the stitching makes this a remarkable item.
"I believe he was building a bird house at the time," my mother regaled.
Of course he was.
There's wood glue all over it.

In other phone calls, I spoke with Imogen today.
I didn't have time to prepare myself or anything.
I was embarrassed when I didn't have any news regarding Burma for her.
Because I'm of the world, you see. I should be privy to such things.
I'm in a terrorism class, for crying out loud.
What's wrong with me?
She likes oysters. I like mussels.
I say tomato.
I don't know what she says.
I'm not sure why she called in the first place. I think Turpin wanted something...
Quite sultry, in fact.
She claims she has a charming laugh, but I don't believe it.
But then...no one can properly represent themself with bronchitis.

Subtlety

The fact that I cannot find a picture has prevented me from posting this beforehand, but I can't wait any longer.
I have to post this.
Without the picture.
Which requires me to give you a "y'know the blah blah blah?:"
Ready?
Y'know the A & W guy in the commercials these days? You do. Not the guy in the bear suit.
The older, middle-aged gentleman who sort of plays the chubby, satisfied-with-life manager?
The fellow and the wife get to the counter. This guy tells them to buy the chicken nuggets.
"The papa burger is back!"
Whatever.
You know who I'm talking about.

Bussey and I are collecting dust in his apartment.
An A & W commercial comes on. Cue the bald, middle-aged geezer.
Bussey: Man, that guy must get some pussy.
Me: He's probably married, b'y.
Bussey (shakes his head): What a waste.

For the memories...

This is basically a personal time capsule. You can ignore it.
I had two papers this week.
I ran into Kirk in the library several times.
Robert is in Menihek. Likely wishing he was somewhere else.
I played skate. with Mike Lockman for the first time yesterday.
I asked my dad to make me a stand-up stool.
Jesus has nothing on dad. As far as carpentry is concerned.
As far as being the saviour of humanity...well...dad can still build you a mean patio.
I forgot to attend a very special and private screening of things with Scope people.
I galvanized a deal to write about not vacuuming with The Downhome. And I'm gonna get paid.
I was given a week-long free rental at Jumbo video for shooting the shit (sometimes counters just wanna chat).
I bought an M & M cookie in da mall.
I mailed Turpin her birthday gift.
I am still infatuated with the Brand Power spokeswoman. I'm sorry. I think she's solid. I would buy her dinner.
And today?
Today I was considerably ahead of schedule for my Military class.
Colin commented as I left.
But there was no scheduled class.
Because Thanksgiving is coming. And this means I'll be 'round da bay.
Wishing I was somewhere else.

Cheated Out of a Visit

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKSxHYK_wfs
Integrity.
That's today's lesson.
Integrity.

You've likely all seen this already.
I hate acknowledging mainstream whatever.

Balanced Learning

I'm crossing my fingers for a more eventful weekend than last weekend.
Or was it the one before that was slow?
Either way.
I'd like to end up at a kegger this weekend.
You need those red cups at a kegger.
I did a kegstand once. I felt I needed to as a testiment to my properly experiencing University.
I also smoked drugs out of a bong while in university.
It wasn't until after my degree, however, that I finally got around to vomitting off of a balcony.

People are riding unicycles downtown these days.
I may have mentioned this some months back.
It feels like a bit...but I don't want to make fun of these people.
To have enough coordination to maneuver a unicycle on Duckworth during the afternoon in August...it feels like something I shouldn't touch.
Speaking of things I shouldn't touch, I attempted a unicycle once.
You know the guy who picks up a hobby for a week, and then ditches it?
"Put the juggling balls in the closet next to the lacross stick?"
Scott Pickup had a unicycle while I was in Wolfville.
We got drunk and took turns.
Another fond must of my university career.

Mang has no Nutrients

Picking up writing jobs weekly, this guy.
I now contribute for the Downhome, apparently.
I'm not even sure how I managed this one.
I think I wandered into their office by mistake while I was looking for a washroom, or a place to buy a muffin.
Either is entirely likely.
Bring it on, I say. I'll write snippets for every publication out there.
Farmer's Almanac, I'm talking to you.
As for The Scope...
I am in print and on shelves. I am in a new network of artsy individuals.
My chances for sex have increased. Marginally?
And really, that is my motivation for committing to anything.

In other rot, I have another paper to write tonight. Irish History.
Was the British government to blame for the widespread disease and death of the Famine?
Nay. The potatos were the cause of the disease and death. Well, that and the bodies.
But the British didn't help matters, and they could've.
Then again, the Irish had pigs. They were exporting them.
Bacon is wicked. ...Think about it.
I saw a wet paint sign today on a random post on campus.
Orange.
I had a distrubingly strong urge to touch the paint. I walked past it and almost turned around.
That kinda strong. I have no idea why.
I have ink all over my hands.

Oh. Don't actually answer the question, but what in the fuck did Brittney Spears do? Seriously.
I'm purposefully not reading up on this bullshit, but even I'm getting curious.
Her TV performance was so shitty child services are taking her kids away?
That's the masses for ya; always ready to turn when you stop killing.

I googled myself just now.
And myself turned up.
After some football asshole.

Out of the Closet

This is Sunshine.

She is very timid.

I thought perhaps it was about time I introduced her.

I owe her an e-mail.

She taught me how to make caesar salads.

In other news, I am awake.
I wasn't for most of the day.

I was leaving campus today (after a great deal of walking and an embarassing amount of sweating), and I noticed something as I passed my beloved ducks.

Three (three!) seperate groups were feeding them.

Now, fair readers, I appreciate that my fanbase has spread to the MUN campus, and I am thoroughly pleased to see my readers copying what I (intend to) do.

That's the whole point.

But if the ducks are fed too frequently, they won't be excited when I show up.

I need them to be excited.

I have grandoise notions of the ducks loving me before the term is over.

And they can't love all of us.

Just a cautionary, gentle readers.

One of the couples finished copying me just as I was coming by, and they resolved to hold each other on the bank. The sun was lowering in the background. Their hair was lightly tossled by the wind. The girl turns and kisses the boy.

And I think to myself that I'm missing something.

I need one of those pretnetious mail-carrying bookbags. Like the one homey was wearing.

I thought to ask him where he got his.

But you know me. Romantic at heart.