Idling

I am in a library. A large one.
I was late this morning. When a procrastinator shares a car, it is a considerable deterrent from even bothering to try.
I snooze. My cell phone has a five minute snooze. This is an insufficient amount of time.
Ideally, you want your snooze to be between 8 and 12 minutes. Less than that and you feel unfilfilled. More than that and you are too asleep. Dreams start to surface and take shape, and you'll just start to get into the plot. Of the dream.
I prepare myself. I forget that I have to collect the car from the CONA parking lot. To reach this parking lot it takes ten minutes.
I do not have my backpack. I assume it is in the car which is in the parking lot (and the bog down in the valley-oh).
I begin walking. About three minutes.
I go back to get coffee change and nutrigrain bars.
I begin walking again.
CONA requires a much larger parking lot.
My backpack is not in the car.
So much for handing in that loan info today.
I have one pen. That's it.
I park where I'm not supposed to.
I remove from a bulletin board a posting some math tutor put up.
I write notes on the back of it.
I leave.
I remove the parking ticket from my windshield.
I park more discreetly.
I have awkward conversation with an ex-girlfriend friend.
I talk to Tracey and Aaron (he invented bluekaffee. He is smart).
I talk to Martin. I tell her that I need deoderant. She agrees that it is probably a good idea. Because I have no classroom friends yet.
I'm not really looking for them.
Hippies don't wear deoderant.
I buy coffee number two. I spill coffee over my hand.
Coffee is hot.
All men dress the same.
My sock choices make sense, really.

This Will Be a Pick-Me Up For Weeks

...and Smell the Coffee

Because my mother will kill me. If I do not take care of this today.
I need a loan. My first ever.
I am lucky compared to most, I have come to realize.
Deadlines are my kryptonite. My mother knows this.
I was born two weeks late.
I need this loan.
I hate filling out applications.
Marie and I discuss our shared distate for them (we enter incorrect information, we invariably always need a second form after the first is ruined. We spill coffee on them.) as we are en route.
I need only drop off a signed form.
Marie is effectively my blind seeing-eye dog on this excursion.
She is very unbothered by the fact that part of our day together involves a visit to a loan office.
We enter the building.
Many, many people are sitting.
There is a "please take a number" device.
I do not like these devices. I do not like taking a number unless I am buying a loaf of sour dough, or beef in waxed paper.
Behold my mighty jaws!
Anyway, everyone is waiting with their numbers.
There is a 'drop box'. I do not trust drop boxes.
My laughable, non-existent luck demands I not trust drop boxes.
I place my form in there and the building will end up burning down overnight.
Or, someone steals the drop box because they desperately need SIN numbers for some scam they're running.
A week from now I get picked up in Mt. Pearl for extortion.
Fuck that.
Marie has run into someone she knows. She is engaged in chitchat.
I sympathize, but lose interest.
I observe everyone.
"It's like a doctor's office, but no one is sick," I say audibly.
In stuffy places like this people have no sense of humour.
I am introduced to Anne-Marie's friend.
Clearly, I forget his name. Sorry buddy.
I offer a greeting and immediately ask him if I'd be safe dropping my form in the drop box.
He seems optimistic. But then, he's just met me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see. I can tell.
The whole room is eavesdropping.
I turn to everyone: "What do you guys think? Can this form go in the drop box?
Should I give it to someone at the counter?"
I used to love doing public interactions like this.
Somewhere along the cart path I stopped.
Sarah Turpin reminded me that I used to love doing it.
A fellow answering loan questions takes the form for me.
I like the man because of this.
We leave.
"Why is your trunk open?" Marie asks.
I have no idea why. I do not know how long it has been open.
I close the trunk. We leave.

The Tall Grass

I am by a pond. I am writing outside today.
I feel that my "oneness with nature" experimentation should continue before winter happens and I go back to embracing my general distaste and distrust for nature.
Perhaps I just feel like writing on my clipboard.
I only have one piece of loose leaf, and I somehow managed to get apple pie filling on it.
I have a cavity. I feel like divorcing my teeth more and more lately.
It's a facefuck story, I know. I won't do it again, I hope.
Bussey sends me the message. I think I am the only recipient. He's advertising a party Miranda is throwing because she is going to live in some place I wouldn't live in.
I say this:

can i have some of this exotic cheese? land line might take a while to get. you know i'm in. tell miranda to invite single friends, though. i'm dying. the girlfriends need friends. i'll likely give you a call while on campus tomorrow. warford

I send this to several people (single friends included) who are going to the party. Inadvertantly. I have no idea I have done so.

Peter says this:
Thanks for sending that to everyone.... That's why there is a "I don't like paul warford and never did group". jerk.

Butler says this:
Warford b'y, you're a tit.

Shandera says this:
Warford you're a dumbass!

I now assume Bussey sent the message to 'da b'ys', and I simply had not noticed. I still do not bother to check the recipient list.
I think to myself, "Jesus, the guys are really giving me a hard time for this slip-up."
It is days before Shandera fills me in.
I'm dying.
And I'd told Marie I hadn't done "anything stupid lately."

I think it's going to rain. I hope it rains.
I smell no smog.
I do not want to leave here again.
Damned lower-scale economy.

Cajun Cream

I tell Anne-Marie that she is a guinea pig.
She does not mind.
See, I firmly believe that cooking is a new avenue through which I can get laid.
So, I cook her salmon and ask her if it is impressive.
Marie says that the she in question should be impressed.
She thinks it rugged that I skin the filet first.
She considers it 'neat' that I thaw things.
I always thought that it was normal to thaw things.
She compliments the strawberry clock on my wall.
I explain that it was there when I moved in.
She suggests I take it to hang wherever I live from now on.
It's stuck on 6:28.
We had discussed when it is that kitsch starts to become charming on the ferry crossing home (Pepsi machine).
I'd say at about age 22.
She washes the dishes.
The clock is in my new apartment.
I hope future girlfriends find kitsch charming.
I hope there are future girlfriends...

It's easy as hell.

Paul's Flirtation Salmon:

Thaw salmon filet.
Skin salmon filet (in front of her).
Heat a decent amount of oil (but not too much) in a pan to a medium temperature.
Roll filet in cajun seasoning and place in hot oil.
Wait.
When seasoning is black, flip & kill the heat (oil should be hot enough to blacken the other side. This way you won't fuck up and burn her food).
In a seperate pan, heat whipping cream while adding a spoonful or two of cajun seasoning.
Reduce.
Plate on lettuce, if you have it. Add cream sauce.
Serve.
Undress.

Some Gulls Came, Too

Why is she held in such high acclaim?

The croissant does not even phase her. It is rock hard. I have no idea how long it has been there.

In my defense, I'm never on the passenger side of my car.
She finds it funny when I ask her to please not "throw out that can" on the floor mat because it is "special". But she does not find it strange.

The can is still in the car.

For some time I have wanted to feed the ducks residing on and around Burton's Pond.

Here is Marie with the bird seed:

We also buy Reese's Pieces. I explain that we have to eat them outside of the apartment, so as to avoid homicide.
These are still in my car as well.

Birds like bird seed a lot.
We are a hit.
She offers me her sweater.
No, it doesn't bother me that it is pink. But I figure that I do not need it.
After going back to the car to get the sweater, we get down to business.
Within minutes there are birds everywhere.
Ducks are not as friendly towards one another as DuckTales would have you believe.

Marie controls pigeons. I do as well. Actually, maybe pigeons are pushovers.
She tells me about convincing welders to do wrist exercises, and what happens when a car is towed.
Boyfriends get impatient. That's what happens.

Hodi!

It is Thursday.
Anne-Marie are going to get together and tolerate one another. 
This time I'm supposed to cook up the afternoon's activities.
I have been adding wayward ideas to kitchen prep lists since Tuesday.
Here are some things we did not do:

• buy/make a kite and fly it.
• get lost on purpose (particularly risky for us. I could see the Coast Guard somehow being involved in this one).
• advertise something in the Buy & Sell.
• Tourists for a day. Straw hats and fanny packs. Brochures stuffed in our pockets.
• A dog-petting lesson for Marie (I'm not clarifying).

Marie did, however, almost kill my roommate.
And we went to a loan office.
Because I know how to show a girl a good time.

"Dance at the Post Office, B'ys!"

You know how some people snort when they laugh uproariously? The sudden intake of air, that's what does it. Well, Marie makes this suction noice with her cheek.
She admits it to me (whilst laughing) that her face sometimes emits this obnoxious noise. I vow to get it out of her. I soon do.

After paying for my food, Marie and I decide to leave Dick's and breathe in some Bell Island.

It is dark. Lighting is shockingly sparse.

Roads are narrow, and all look the same.

We meander.

We encounter a very large building and turn around in its parking lot. It is the same colour as the post office in my hometown, so I speculate that it is the Bell Isle post office.

I have a habit of sometimes asserting things I know nothing about. It is a trait I have inherited from my father.

My father is rarely wrong.

I am rarely wrong.

I am wrong.

Marie points out that the Bell Island post office would probably not be two stories, and that it is more likely a school.

Marie's such a know-it-all.

We wander more. It's not getting any lighter outside.

We pass the actual post office. It is the approximate size of a shanty, or lean-to.

We encounter an establishment that looks open.

It is a curling club.

We decide to get a drink and rub elbows with the locals.

I desperately want batteries for the camera. We still have none. We see no electronic kiosks to buy more from. I hope to get batteries from a TV remote inside, or perhaps a clock of some sort.

The bar contains three men. Please keep in mind how strange we must look to the patrons.

"What did missus have in her hair?"

It is a small-town bar. Ever been to a small town? Go in a bar? You've been here, then. The Mariner? Same thing.

There are indescernible sports jersies and past Bell Isle victories lightly dusted behind glass.

We sit at the bar.

We order Black Horse.

They take an imediate, friendly interest in us.

We tell them where we are from.

Black Horse isn't even that bad.
They ask why we are on the island.

I lie instantly and tell them we are in the midst of our two-year anniversary, and we've always wanted to see the island.

No one reacts. They likely do not buy the story.

I'm in my first year of university. I'm on the phone with my mother. The lovely Nadine Wood

walks into the room. I tell my mom that my girlfriend just walked in. Nad laughs and leaves. I say to my mother, "She's not really my girlfriend."
"I know," she replies.
Mothers know best.

I ask the bartender if he has AA batteries that I could quickly borrow.
He looks very thoroughly through cupboards and on countertops. He opens a drawer and says, "I have tea bags."
Of course he does. He eventually quits his (legitimate) search. I feel bad for lying.
We finish our bold, Newfoundland ales with its crisp finish, and leave.
We find a lighthouse. Out on Lighthouse Road.
We walk the cliffs.
I act like I am not terrified.
Death is the worst, but heights are up there (unintentional pun).
I am terrified.
She tells me of her first driving 'incident'. It was her fault.
She tells me about her dad.
The view is vast and comforting.
We look at it.

Many people were late for work the day we visit.
500 people leave the island by ferry every day to work in St. John's.
In Bell Isle's 2006 census there was an approximate 2800 inhabitants. It was once 16,000. Its mine once employed 2300 men.
People would ferry over from St. John's to shop.
"We had three theatres. St. John's only had two."
The bartender was once a teacher.
33 years.
He said his experiences could fill three books.
One of the patrons (Gary, or Rod) was a former student of his.
...and I'll get summers off.

Our drive home is quiet. We are tired.

Back in Business

The first class I am not late for. Military History. I even have time to get coffee.
I have a crush on this professor, for anyone keeping tabs.
I am outside of the classroom door. People are seated inside.
Me: "Are you afraid to go into rooms with groups of people in them, too?"
Random girl in my class: "Actually, I'm just waiting for someone."
Me: "Well, I guess that comment wasn't necessary, was it?"


It is my second day of class. I have eaten two nutrigrain bars and have had as many 12 oz. (too small) cups of coffee.
I have a three and a half hour break before my next class, and a sober desire to not waste gasoline, and so I hit the library to do some on-paper post writing (yes, i try to produce for you, the audience, even while oot and aboot).
I'm sitting across from a first or second year fellow. His sense of style is strong. He looks relatively lax. Actually, now that I think about it, he looks as though he is having as good a day as I am having.
This petite blonde young'en approaches him. I have my headphones on. I am listening to Metric, for those curious. I can tell by her mannerisms that she is in love with this guy.
She leaves.
I get up. I ask the younger fellow if he sees anyone stealing my stuff, if he could please...stop them. I ask people this frequently when in school. I asked a girl in my Canadian History class the same thing the previous morning.
He's on it.
I begin to walk off, but I turn and say, "Oh. And I think she likes you."
I feel immediately good for saying so.
She was totally into him.

I'd been to Fred's before

I've been listening to a lot of Regina Spektor and Daft Punk over the past few days.
Although Tracey introduced me to the fair Russian damsel, I have been listening to her a great deal because of a Kippens damsel.
This one:

I will finally, finally have more on her visit tomorrow. I am becoming sleepy, and she deserves the zenith of my wit.
My cunning.
She described handing in university papers to me and the similarities were absolutely unnerving.
It's my first day of school in the morning. I am about to remove the apron from my backpack, and put my clipboard in there.

For Par

I'm not even joking.
I know that it would likely seem, after my saying "I'm a natural golfer", that I would be joking.
I got par on a hole. Aparantly that doesn't happen the first time that you hit the links.
Why do they call them links? I can't understand that.
Topless picture to the first person to tell me.
I was outrightly disturbed and unsettled at how much fun I had.

Which is why I went again a few days later.
It is 11 in the morning. I am awake, despite being awake until 5 in the morning some hours prior.
Due to Bioshock. Going to get game of the year. Mark my words. And the words of thousands of other shmucks.
My parents are to come into St. John's because my brother and I have to move from our upstairs apartment to the downstairs apartment in the same house.
My brother is very passionate about seclusion.
I move my entire room by myself rather than waiting for them to get here.
Because our tee time is 2:57. And I do not want my mother to attempt to stop me from golfing.
So, I move an entire bedroom in the span of two hours on my own.
There is a dresser. And a shelf. All that is left at the end is my bed.
That sticky tac shit that I use to paste photos to my wall? I'm scraping it off with a butter knife.
I just want to play golf that desperately.
My parents show as I finish moving our frozen goods. They start as Peter shows up.
I make us late.

Winds are 30km/h, gusting to 50.
There are few people on the links on this particular day.

My thoughts on golf, if you're waiting for them:
It makes me sweaty enough, and stiff enough to be considered a sport.
However, we choose to walk, and my first round is on a very hot day.
If you golf with a cart, and it's overcast outside, the game qualifies as a passtime, at best.
Alcohol is allowed on the course.
Come on.
As a general rule, sports will restrict the consumption of alcohol to spectators rather than participants.

Shandera calls it "whack-fuck" because that's what he says when he plays. My brother laughs every time I use the term.

It's the only instance I have encountered in which a light (or 'lite') beer is the better avenue. Because a heavier beer would make you bloaty during your drives, and you don't want to get too tipsy before the last few holes.
The eighth is a doozy, and the ninth is a real bastard.
Peter usually throws a club on the ninth.

I once finished a round of sex with a girl, and immediately said "That was a doozy" afterwards.
I may and will say random things after intercourse. I feel obliged to be immediately entertaining because the girl in question has to put up with my feeble lovemaking attempts.
And she didn't know what 'doozy' meant. So, naked, hovering over her, somewhat sweaty, I explain the expression to her.

If you have someone shooting in front of you, you're supposed to lean on your club and look impatient as you wait.
Because that is what all of our predecessors do. ...Our golf predecessors.

I have meant to exercise a little. And I have been trying to at least run into nature in passing, from time to time.
I am lining up a putt, with my cheek to the green, and I have my three idiot childhood friends cursing and mocking in a circle around me.
I am laying on the ground. It's manicured, but it's very real.
And I decide that golf isn't so bad.

Don't worry. I washed the butter knife.