Airbud meets Metropolis

Life is hard right now. Not like Syrian refugee hard. Not being held in detention for 30 hours at JFK hard. Just, like, I don't think I'm living the life I was meant to hard. And also I'm 3-fucking-2 and there are complications that come with that number that didn't exist when I first started this ten years ago.

Guys, I have a fucking dog. Do you know how restricted I am as a person because of a dog? Like, ruff rough stuff. I also have a mortgage. And a car. And a job that allows me to have these things. And I'm fucking lucky to have all that, as well as my white male privilege. I mean, I've got the queer gimp Jew thing, but still. These are complications as much as they are joys. Or what should be joys.

I am fucking miserable. Not just tonight but generally. Was I miserable ten years ago? Probably. Was I trying to do hot yoga via radiator heat in my first apartment and then blogging about it? Yes. But being miserable is okay when you still have the whimsy and naivety of youth that allows for such misadventure. Now I'm wise and miserable. And it licks taint.

Maybe I'm just a miserable person. And were I just a miserable person writing about their life and throwing it into the void of internet communications circa 2006 then that would be unremarkable, as we were all doing this shit in 2006. But maybe it isn't just that. Maybe this is an attempt to reclaim the fervour I had then, part of a journey to analyse what interested me enough in observing people on the bus or fabricating love affairs between me and the guy who watered the plans at work. And illustrate it all in Microsoft Paint. At least if you're miserable and passionate then shit can get accomplished. Or maybe I'll just write this one post and that will be it.

So I don't know. Don't hold me to anything. But I know it can't stay like this.

My neighbour/friend/nebulous fun buddy is going to a drug-fueled orgy tonight.

I wanna hit something.

So many tags worked for this one

"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."

Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.

I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.

This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.

I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.

It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.



A couple enders:

1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.

2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.

Ew Sucha Loser

I feel that I'm getting a little too good at this unemployment thing. Since mid-June, I've pretty much done nothing but watch TV online, work out, eat out (I spend about triple on restaurants what I do on utilities), visit Winnipeg for a bit, chill with friends, and...yeah. I recognize this was not the most sympathetic way of starting this post...

Take two: I am a bum.

I saw ESLothario last night for the first time in a year and a half. He looked good. I looked better. Not saying I'm better looking, but in the "who looks better compared to the last time we saw each other" game that goes on in my head and in which I am the only player, well, I won. Being a bum will do that to you.

I feel so much more at peace with life since I last saw him, and I didn't get all emotionally regressive but still... I dunno if we (I) can ever get over emotional trauma. It's not like we went through a break up or that there was anything traumatic in our friendship (and it was only ever a friendship), but in my head...things got a bit mucky, hence small emotional trauma. I had a hard time keeping eye contact, which, not to brag, is normally my thing *breath on knuckles, rub 'em on chest*. I just didn't want to look at him, like he was an anachronism from a time before I went back to school, stopped being a borderline alchie, and found all that inner peace shit that comes with one year of teacher education (lulz). As kind as he is to me and as well as I think of him I can't help but think it would be easier if I never saw him again. He also smelled really good and had on a sweater that was a nicer version of one I own. Whatever.

NEXT TIME: I spend outside my means.

It's not all fun and racism over here at Fleekin Floygn

Where to start, where to start?

With the last week of classes, so ripe with cheer and social occasions with fellow students that I almost felt normal, almost felt 'Winnipeg', again?

With the week spent in Winnipeg, seeing so many friendly acquaintances and so few friends, the latter having fallen to the wayside by means of argument or silence?

With the minimum five cups of coffee I drank daily while there, owing to all the breakfasts and Starbucks chats, which really just jacked me up so much that I didn't know whether to be elated or irritable?*

With the Mennonite stranger I saw more than anyone else simply because I didn't have enough to do and neither did he?

With the hot chocolate mix and box of Bailey's-infused chocolates** I received from a close friend, having purchased for her everything on her list, including clothing, a teddy bear and a Snuggie, and how petty I felt about caring yet at the same acknowledging that bitch shoulda stepped it up a notch?

With the lovely surprise of a two-day house guest once I returned, thanks to a canceled bus reservation, and who breathed fresh energy into what I'm sure would have been a very bleak and lonely weekend?

With the bleak and lonely week that has followed, during which I left the house exactly 5 times, each time fewer than three hours long, and spent the remaining time in pajamas slowly lulling myself into a state of depression not seen for nearly a year?***

With the simultaneous gladness for and madness due to the silence that comes with a roommate-less house, leading to the radio being on nearly constantly and me actually petting my dickface of a cat**** just to feel that the solitude is manageable?

With New Years Eve, spent with a quasi-friend who really just wants to hit this *points to self-loathed body*, drinking vodka, eating bad Chinese food and watching eight episodes of Family Guy?

With the monthly massages I've been treating myself to just so I can be touched?*****

With, in true drama queen fashion, how I told a friend today that 2010 was the worst year to date and then spent the first day of 2011 not doing a thing to make it different?


*I was almost exclusively the latter.

**I hate Bailey's, and don't give me no guff about it, neither.

***Maybe I have that seasonal affective bullcrap.

****It has been the best week of his life.

*****Yep, it's been that long.



Happy New Year, people.



Also, I shaved my head:

Tableau Un

I am waiting at Main Street subway station for a streetcar home. My yoke/load is easy/heavy, having just gone grocery shopping at the 24 Sobey's and local green-grocer. I do not like being weighed down by melons at the best of times, and this is no exception. I have opted to purchase my goods about 10 minutes from our house because the roommate is out of town and I have hobbitted myself up, with only the senile, colloquy cat for company. To trek the half hour by streetcar down to Kensington Market would have simply been too much.

Two people on the bench next to me, a man and a woman, are talking. I have my earphones in and so can't hear the content of their conversations but the occasional head nodding in my periphery is enough to alert me. After a while, the man stands up and leaves. The woman turns and mouths something to me. I take out one of my earphones and turn to her, noticing the overabundance of bags at her feet.

"Do you or anyone you know like candles?"

We gots a crazy. And I do not accept candles from crazies.

"Um, my friends and I are more incense people."

*Mental high five to self*

The streetcar mercifully pulls up and I wish the generous bag lady a good day. I get on and the car quickly pulls away. The lady has stayed on the bench. It would seem that her location is more of a social outlet than a mid-journey repose. A young man sits down on the bench next to her. They talk for a moment and then she starts fishing around in her bag with a huge smile on her face.

I wish I had taken a candle.

I need a time code for MS Paint Owning

Sorry, not feeling this. I'm not sure if it's the rainy weather or that Glee is over or the aimlessness of my life or what, but it's a shittastic time.

Work has been ridiculous. Our biggest project of the year is happening today and the last week has been a shit show. This was Black Magic's responsibility and she crashed and burned harder than I've ever seen professionally. As the unions are nuts I'm sure there won't be any really reprecussions but the rest of us had to put in a lot of extra time to clean up after her ass (ew) and while there's been a lot of, "Oh Illustrious D, you've such a huge help. We couldn't have done it without you. Stick it in me," it hasn't really made me feel better. Plus that last part didn't happen.

Other than that, my apartment is in shambles, my legs may as well be props, I've unwittingly entered into a fight with a friend who is acting like the third graders she teaches (proprs to Boo), I started crying while watching the little autistic girl this morning and Lily & Marshall are having a baby.

I want orange skiis

The one bright light is the way my family said goodbye to me over speakerphone yesterday:

Mom: Bye!

Dad: Bye!

Younger Brother: I'm getting a lion tattoo!

*click*

I've now referenced Patrick Tillet several times in the past few months. For those of you who haven't clicked on my hyperlink to his blog, first of all, why didn't you click on my hyperlink to his blog? I don't hyperlink for my health, people! Kids in China have no hyperlinks! Hyperlinks don't grow on trees, you know!

Refocus.

Second of all, I'll explain that Patrick - Pat to his friends - Patrick is like a den father (is that a thing?) to a whole bunch of younger, stupider bloggers like me who all follow him like Charles Manson Deepak Chopra cause he's all wise and shiz. As one commenter recently stated, Patrick's blog is like a sequel to Running With Scissors with drugs, the law and mentally unbalanced relatives taking the forefront. In summation, there's some seriously good stuff there.

So that's Patrick.

Now why am I telling you this?

Well, as you probably know, the doling out of blogger "awards" has proliferated the interwebz. I'm not saying it's a good thing or a bad thing, but it's a thing and we're gonna talk about it. Anyway, after receiving nearly every award on the planet by his followers (the fuck is a Blue Award?), he created one of his own called the White Russian Award:

The only reason that I am posting this here is because Pat is a nice guy and that's part of the stipulation of accepting it. I don't know how to embed them in the side bar cause I'm not all worldly and have given myself the HTML Fail Award on several occasions. I'm also posting it because it's fucking hilarious and makes no sense.

Preamble over.

My steady decrease in workload has meant a lot of scrounging for things to do for 37.5 hours of the week and so when I was listed along with about 30 other blogs, I was thrilled at the possibility of following some new ones. I went faithfully to each and every one of them and read a few posts from each and learned that I am truly a lone dickwolf in a sea of nice princes. I am at this moment giving myself the Mixed Metaphor Award.

Every one of them was just so... nice. They all had cute little stories or poems or posts on awards given to them by someone else who was really nice. This is fine. No judgey. I'm certainly not harping on an inundation of niceness, so no "To heck with you, gosh darnit!" comments. I suppose, as I've said in the past, people just have different reasons for blogging and based upon the 30 blogs I saw yesterday, it would seem like a lot of people do it so they'll have this nice little Precious Moments community. (Sidenote: has there ever been anything on this earth less Jewy than Precious Moments ?) I think recognition of another person's efforts is a beautiful thing, but this award thing is getting to be more like daily affirmations affixed to one's mirror than anything else. All this nicety is, well, nice, but it's not me. At least not blogger me. In direct opposition to niceties, my M.O. seems to be thinking of un-PC verbal diarrhea and writing it down before fully pondering that I'll be up all night thinking about how I want to befriend an autistic 12 year old, so you can see where there's some contrary inspiration. This took me back to my days of being the badass slacker of my school's IB program. Both now and then, the idea of my badassery is ridiculous, however no less isolating because of it. Yes, I did so little work in grade 11 that I stayed up for 36 hours on the last two days and did an entire term's worth of homework, but I was also in choir, chamber choir, the musical and regular high school coffee house performer and still made honour roll. So even if I was a bit badass, it was in a very Tina from Glee way. A very queer Tina from Glee way. A very queer racially-stereotyping Tina from Glee way. In fact, I'm frequently rebuffed in real life for being too nice, an irony not lost on a guy whose most frequently used tag is Adventures in No Man Land.

Okay, so what's my point?

No, really, I have no idea what my point was

Maybe that I feel totally not a part of an online community of nice people cause I like really funny and/or twisted reading fodder?

Maybe that if anyone knows any other blogs like Steam Me Up Kid, Monster Apathy or Sassy Curmodgeon to pass them my way?

Ugh, I don't know.

Sign Things Cannot Be Going All That Well

I have just downloaded and am listening to the Twilight soundtrack.

I am sad (new definition)

Saturday night I was sitting on my bed with the laptop, drinking wine and feeling generally miserable because my would-be dinner companion waited until 9:00 to cancel. I was consoling myself the the aforementioned wine as well as attempting conversation with this really-dull-but-at-least-he's-online guy that has been on my msn for months. About 5 minutes into the conversation, the following, unedited conversation occurred (It's long. Sorry. Suck it up.):


(500) Days of David says: You like Sam Tsui? That kid is UNbelievable. I'm pretty sure his Lady GaGa medley turned me gay. Again.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yah he is I follow him on facebook hehe(

500) Days of David says: I can't watch him too much. Get jealous

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ol lol Id soooo go on a date with him lol

(500) Days of David says: isn't he, like, 12?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol yah i think Im jsut attracted to his talent

(500) Days of David says: Alrighty, clearly I'm barking up the wrong tree then

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: always been aroused by it

(500) Days of David says: talent? That's fair. Do you have any?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: none that are appropriate lol I used to sing, took lessons for years. did some really awesome concerts can dance...took tap., jazz and some ballet been on stage in community shows.... some really big productions and did a lot of stage managing

(500) Days of David says: what kind of really awesome concerts?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: prob the most noteworthy was Karmina Burana at the Ottawa Art Centre with three top canadian vocalists

(500) Days of David says: yeah? Cool. Done that one a couple times. Though ours was with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They toured it to Ottawa though. My friend (and future roommate) was the sop soloist.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: we joined up with two other choirs..... was about 500 singers plus the NAC orcahstra

(500) Days of David says: nice! musta been awesome You're a tenor?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep I sang first tenor for that

(500) Days of David says: The gays tend to be tenors

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: i am trying to remember who the soloists were I think Russel Braun was the barione i remember him coming out on his crutches

(500) Days of David says: LOVE him... so amazing. Rusty.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: hes the one who uses crutches right?

(500) Days of David says: oh no you're thinking of Kevin McMillan. He was ours the second time around. Teaches at Western. Bit of a pompous ass. But I like his Carmina.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: fun

(500) Days of David says: You gotta admire a guy who overcomes a thing like that. I mean, making it as a classical singer is hard enough, but to do it without opera? That takes balls.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep for sure and most singers are pompus darling comes with the art

(500) Days of David says: I disagree. The good ones don't need to be pompous. I've met so many incredible singers that are just the sweetest people in the world.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: well clearly u are in the know and i know nothing does that satisfy ur ego?

(500) Days of David says: *cock-eyed emoticon* are you being serious?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: honestly right now...u are coming across rather pompous

(500) Days of David says: Because I disagreed with you?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: "Oh ive done that, and better then u and I know them" lol no...I could care less if u disagreed with me it was actually me just saying the stuff Ive done and u ....well seemed like u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad

(500) Days of David says: I'm sorry you interpreted it that way. I was just saying that it's cool we've done some of the same stuff.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol hon u never really acknowledged what I did just came up wiht bigger and better stuff that uve done and went on about who u know really... it makes u seem arrogant and pompus having to upstage people its poeple like that that made me leave the arts

(500) Days of David says: You know, I think if you went back and read this conversation knowing that I was just trying to relate to you and find common ground, I think you might see that I was just trying to have a good discussion. I'm sorry if you felt I was trying to upstage you, but frankly, that's not what I'm about, and had you chosen to not assume the worst interpretation of an msn conversation, you might have seen t hat there was some common ground. But this...this is just negativity on your part.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol dude

(500) Days of David says: You're a nice guy and it would be great if maybe you could assume other people were as well

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ur always trying to one up me...or minilmize me,...in jest or not

(500) Days of David says: HOW? I never said it was better I said it was the same Are you really that cynical?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol not in the least i find it kinda suprsiding how defensive ut are getting over this most psychological therorists suggest that strong defensiveness is a reaction to self doubt

(500) Days of David says: well if you were trying really hard to engage someone and was met with the reaction of being called pompous, you might be a bit defensive.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Hon... I wish u could see me right now

(500) Days of David says: I know we don't really know each other, but you made the active choice to think the worst

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Im not at all really paying atention to u nor giving u much thought sorry lol u are really using the wrong termonology on this one lol I dindt make the choice to think the worst u are over generalzing and clearly missed what I said well typed

(500) Days of David says: which was what?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted. ur intention was to find some common ground and yes clearly u would get that from re-reading our conversation u are biased from ur intent u know what ur intent was i dont cuz Im not in ur head however. my conclusion...alkthough not a huge conclusion but one none the less came from our conversatons of late You talk about intelectual persutis and conversations and such and u have a tone that, it makes it seem like someone has to be challenged in order to be at ur level u seem to set a bar, and expect people to be there ur wording in your questiosn, come acros as more mechanical rather then general inqusitory of someone in some of our discusons (yes I cannot come up with a specific example, but thats really beacuse I dont give them much thought at aklll...Id rather worry about what im making for dinner or when I can fit in a run) but you come accross with a tone, that people must prove themselves worhty to be at ur level and then with our discussions todya... htis is how I would opperate if I had found out that someone had done the same show as me I would have said oh thats awesome, I loved when I did it...I had this experience rather then that...u went about who was in the show, how many times uve done it...and showing cradentials (winipeg ballet....) and i mentioned the one bari we had...and ur like ow hwe had him the 3nd time round that really does not have a tone of lets talk about shared experiences and yes...u might disagree with me about singers...however... happen to have an older sister who has worked with many many top notch canadian talent (doenst matter who they are) and most of them have an attitude doesne mean they are not nice but in order to survive in that world, u have to be comforable with ur degree of talent, and able to sell it...often times comes across as being pompious and u might think of me as being generally negitvi or cynical It is an easy conclusionn Im sure but it is not even close to the truth I am rahter laid back... I am also really into budist type meditation (mindfullness based stress reduction speicicfially) and I have worked extreamly hard on not being cynical nor nbegative I have a lot of reasons to be both....but it is so far from who I am but again...its an easy conculsion to get to should one not step out of their own sphere and really examine the verbatum and word choices we use not an easy task for sure, cuz we always have our intended context

(500) Days of David says: I'm not really sure where to begin, so I think I'll choose not to. I think we have proven here tonight that the written word in real time can be a very precarious thing. I'm not going to defend the way I talk or try to explain myself cause I think we're just past trying to listen to the other. I'm really sorry that this is the impression you got, as I can assure you it is not one shared by anyone knows me, but that said, I don't imagine you have much interest in getting to know me, so let's say goodnight and good luck and, most of all, good bye.

Did you get through all that? Seriously? Cause I woulda checked out after point dexter here spelled Carmina Burana with a 'K'. Anyway, maybe I slipped myself a roofie or was just super depressed but this almost made me cry. I know. I want to walk away from me, too, right now. I was just so confused about how I could have come across as so horrible! I mean, we meet these kind of people all the time, ones that are always looking to play the victim based on the slightest possibility of misinterpretation. Clearly, this was not about me. Or maybe it is and I'm the delusional one, but realistically, no.

There were so many things I wanted to say to this guy as I sat there for 10 minutes as he composed his final (punctuation-lite) opus. In the end, as you can see, I simply chose not to as there could be no getting through to him and in the words of Madonna, "Your heart is not open, so I must go." Yeah. Referenced the fourth single off of Ray of Light. You're welcome, The World. I could have said that he certainly had a lot to say for someone who repeated twice that he hadn't given a second thought about me. I would say that clearly a little vaca to Tibet is in order because them Buddhist lessons are clearly not paying off. I would also suggest to him to ask the monks how to properly spell 'Buddhist' as clearly that'd been glossed over in his westernized training. I would say that, yes, I do try to expressed myself in an "elevated tone" as to not use the skills I have acquired seems a bit silly, but that I don't expect other people to rise to my "bar" but rather to have decent conversational skills. I would say that I understand that his conversational skills may have been impeded by his constant Laughing Out Loud and simultaneous reading of How To Mask Your Nervous Breakdown Recovery By Calling People Hon A Bunch. I would say that it's time to stop using the word "sad" interchangeably (as in well seemed like "u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad") with "functioning at a level which I am not equipped to deal with and confuses me." Can we reclaim the word "sad," people? It's something that fills you misery, not misguided self-superiority. That this person is so unhappy with their existence (57friendsonfacebook say what?) and mistrustful of others around them really did make me sad. In fact, it made me so sad that I copied it into an e-mail for three friends just so they would tell me immediately that I was not an awful person. So sad that I stopped drinking my glass of wine. See them four horses in sky? Yeah.

So had I felt it would do any good, I might have said some or all of that. Rather, I sadly closed my laptop, rode my bike to a friend's and had him ply me with vodka and chocolate cake until I fell asleep on his couch. Was this the easy way out? Maybe. Was this indicative that my msn days are drying to a close? Quite possibly. Was this taking the high road and acting with a bit of grace, a bit of maturity, despite publishing his e-mail address, kermitty75@hotmail.com, in my blog?

*stares up at the night sky*

I hope so.

Il pleut dans ma tainte

I don't really have anything to say, so this is likely to get rambly, people. I apologize.

I have been experiencing what the French refer to as ennui. Who can say why? Not me. That's what makes it ennui and not just regular Americanized depression brought about by Big Macs and a literacy rate encroaching on Chad's. Is it the the let down after the uproarious celebrations that followed my historic blogger award last week? Perhaps. Is it the two e-mails sent in error at work yesterday, leading to gentle admonishment by my Boy Scout leader-esque supervisor? Likely. Is it the fact that I now spend most evenings alone without the slightest inclination to call friends other than Misters Fidditch and Stolichnya? Doubtful.

I'm not exactly subtle about these things. Yesterday, I arrive at work dressed entirely in grey and proceeded to sprawl out on the floor in star-fish position, counting the holes in the ceiling tile above me before crawling into my coat cubby for a well-deserved 9:15 nap. Further, when the fluorescent hell that is my overhead light burned out, I took this as a tangible metaphor for my life and affixed the following sign to the back of my cubicle for maintenance:

That is not a joke. As you can see by the sketchy black lines on the top and right side, this is a scan of a real sign hanging in my area. I like it dark like the little grey storm cloud that's taken up residence over my head and under my taint.

I'm presently inclined to invest in a waist coat and some Absinthe in the hope of becoming a good ol' timey lush. I'd stroll into the office at half past 11:00 in cut-off gloves and disheveled mutton chops, yelling "Harlot!" at my boss before taking my tantrum to the basement food court, where I would likely moon my Chinese lady friends who serve my daily java. This, however, loses its appeal in imagining, as my boozy melt downs would likely occur in front of Booster Juice and I simply have too much respect for the açai berry to let it come to that

On the up and up, Black Magic holla'ed a "Hey, boo." at me while passing in the hall today. Sexual harrassment, say some. The only thing allowing me to cling to sanity, say I.

The Childlike Empress...orer

I think I've kinda lost sight of why I blog. It's become evident to me over the last few posts that my Machiavellian desire to become adored by many has shortened my vision as to why I post for the few. To that end, I had an ol' skool Fleekin Floygn emo realization today. This may not be that funny, but hey, I got needs too. Not made of stone, people; just various scraps of other people's souls and vodka.


There is an album that has been on my iPod for about half a year now. I had never listened to this album before today as it is a blues album by a near-albino former classmate of mine and while I wish to support my friends, past or present, my ears have standards. Not high standards, according to my Dance Mix '95 album, but standards nevertheless. Today, though, I was walking in an area of town that I've never visited and, as tends to happen in during these odd moments of feeling self-reliant, I thought, "What the heck?" and had a gander.

Sadly, as predicted, my gander turned out to be a goose (zing!), The album is little more than the bastard love child of Muddy Waters and Dashboard Confessional. One song even starts, "Why do I feel this way?" Playa, if you're really singing the blues, you'd better damn know why. So I was walking along merrily until the last song started with a possibly (probably) fake dialogue between between my former whateverhewas and his bandmate, and suddenly I missed him. No, wait, I didn't miss him. He's a shmuck. I missed her, the best friend of high school and undergrad who shared him with me, as well as most every other event of my life from 16 through 23.

He linked us physically in a way that we never could ourselves for obvious reasons (read: mah wenis) and we continued to talk about him long after he was gone. This perfectly encapsulates our relationship. We would do have the same experiences, often at the same time but never together and then talk about them afterwards. She was the only person that could empathize with a huge part of my development. She was the only friend that knew that a rave wasn't a bunch of stupid kids in rainbow clothing sucking on pacifiers (they're but a small contingent, so let's let it be); the only friend that knew the unparalleled ecstasy brought by its eponymous drug the first time taken, the joy and openness and, strangest of all, health that was gained by this synthesis; the only friend that I would talk openly with about everything without fear of judgment because we both knew she'd done worse. I had other friends at the time but they either weren't aware of what was going on or couldn't really relate. They would listen and try to take it in, but she would engage, because she knew. She knew it all. She understood the path. She was my proof that it had happened, that there were contributing factors to this David, that it wasn't all by chance. Now she's gone (as in estranged, not dead; you're sick), there is no documentation and I can't help but feel anger and grief that there is an entire crucial part of my life now unknown by everyone else.

Maybe it doesn't matter all that much. Perhaps it's nothing more than losing a photo album, or that part in Neverending Story II where Bastian's memories keep getting stolen one by one. I mean, he's happy, right? ...What? He becomes unbelievably unhappy and almost destroys Fantasia? Sonovabitch...

I just got back from lunch, having had an older couple share my bench. The elderly are right near the top of my list of Things I Just Barely Tolerate, along with ketchup, most immigrants and Beyonce (Hey, Non-Existent Gay Following, consider yourself alienated). However, this couple was something special. They waltzed right over in their leisure suits and matching velcro K-Swiss sneakers and sat their cute little old asses down, barely breathing a "Thank you" as I relocated my Tupperware container to accommodate them. And don't even try that watery-eyed weak-ass smile with me, grandpa. I know all your moves and they don't work on this guy.

Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.

I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?

The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.

"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.

On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.

I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.

That'll learn them.


I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.

I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"

Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.

When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?

Tonight is the movie date with the Young Portuguese. As previously stated, I'm feeling quite a bit of ambivalence from him; we text for a good part of the day and usually chat a bit before bed (effectively replacing ESLothario, thank the good Lord), yet I haven't seen him since last Tuesday. Also, as a result of some preexisting sexual trust issues on his end, we're currently not gettin' 'er done, reverting to kissing and heavy fondling while we "get to know one another." Granted, this was my suggestion, as I'm not a fan of being with someone who feels the need to take 8.3 consecutive showers after seeding...but still. He assures me that is this has NOTHING (his cap locks, not mine) to do with me and yet this is small comfort when my testicles have turned a shade of blue hithertofore unseen with the human eye and that is now being optioned as the eighth colour of the rainbow (watch yo back, indigo). Consequently, I feel like we're reversing into the Friend Zone. How is that even possible? How did we go from naked hot tubbing to him texting me, "What are the municipal boundaries of Chinatown?" in one month? This has been all too much for my personal M.O. of being attracted to disinterest and so I now find myself way more into him than I'd ever intended to be.

Well-played, my little Iberian hobbit. Well-played.

I do fully realize that my current sentiments will likely be resolved tonight when we hang out, but logic has never played a huge part in my brain's life plan. Besides, it provided fodder for a new post at time when inspiration (read: COMMENTS SECTION) is at an all time low. Your love is my manna, people. Come on.

I recently attended a social soirée involving a varied group of people, some of whom I know rather well and some not at all. Given that I am a relative new-comer to this city, this is not a rare occurrence; the fact that I even knew some of them was an advantage often absent from my social exploits. At home in Winnipeg, when I am completely relaxed with my kinfolk, I tend to take on the role of wisecracking social organizer, priding myself on hosting abilities, witty repartée and occasional sexual party favours. However, in a group of n00bs, I am a great deal less affable, contenting myself in the role of observer, perhaps spouting out the odd cultural reference or double-entendre, but generally laying back until I find a connection, usually female, occasionally alcohol, a medium through which I 'join' the group. Sometimes, though, there is one individual who just jumps out at me in a completely arresting manner, effectively shutting down any humour or confidence I might have emitted. Usually, there is some physical attraction to this person and, as such, they are generally male, but this pull is not necessarily induced by physical beauty so much as an aura, presence, call it what you like. Whatever term you choose, it still shuts me down quicker than a Republican at a critical thinking conference. At this recent event, however, I was very conscious of the fact that there was no physical attraction, yet I still felt that pseudo-paralysation, perhaps due to their total comfort in that environment or that they were a controling force in the events of the evening. Who knows? Not this kid. But I'd like to. I want to study this, this quality that causes me to de-David-ify, perhaps even coming up with some sort of unit of measurement for my awkwardness (the "Um" perhaps?) and eventually arriving at a formula I can use on the spot to once again become my awesome, vivacious embodiment-of-a-Cole-Porter-lead-character self. Cause I'm fucking delovely, goddamnit!

Yesterday on the streetcar, I overheard a woman berating a man for choking his dog (he wasn't) and then screaming wildly about cruelty to animals. When I looked over to berate her with a raised eyebrow, I saw that she was, in fact, wearing a fur coat. Mind you, I'd place it's time of sartorial creation at roughly 1972 and she was clearly one of those bus crazies that, while not homeless, surely was living on welfare due to a plethora of social and mental diseases. This was confirmed as she began a conversation with two unwitting 19 year olds, which began with their nose rings and why, if they were so determined to put a ring in it, they didn't at least have the good sense to get diamond rings. Rhinestones, evidently, would not do. She then claimed to live in Thornhill (Jewish, moneyed enclave; I don't think so, Social Assistance Sally), to be a lawyer (cause legal professionals are frequently reputed to brag about bringing their own teabags to Tim Horton's and asking for hot water) and to know the owner of a Kipling-area electronics store that, should they inform one Mr. David Rosenbaum that "Regina" had sent them, would surely give them a discount on a used TV.

The Little Portuguese is acting somewhat distant. The last time we saw each other (Tuesday night through Wednesday morning) he was totally affectionate, to the point of sleep detriment which I'm convinced caused this cold in the first place. I let him sleep in while I went to work and while he didn't even make the bed, he did left an adorable note saying he'd had a wonderful time. Ah, the joys of dating teenagers. Now, however, things feel decidedly cooler. My invitation to call me should he want to do something this weekend was not accepted, he has ceased to initiate msn/text conversations and is being altogether enigmatic. And I'm not sure I really like him anyway. Ah, the shitfalls of dating teenagers.

As such, I spent most of my weekend in bed watching Captain Planet episodes and I have some observations:

-You can cut the sexual tension between Wheeler and Linka with a knife. Gi and Kwami would probably be doing it too if he wasn't such a pussy, i.e. voiced by LeVar Burton.
-The main musical theme when CP is kicking echo-villain ass is a complete and total knock off of the Star Wars theme, but with midi strings. You stay classy, early 90's.
- Captain Planet is the gayest superhero that has ever graced the skies in spandex. Despite his straight-porn-alluding mullet, you know he was totally touching Ma-Ti when Gaia wasn't looking and I don't mean his 'heart'. How else do you explain why that kid is so faggy?

Next on my youtube list: Jem and the Holograms. Rumour on the street is that she's truly outrageous.

There are times where we need to do things for our own sanity. Moments where we do not expect to receive what we ultimately wish for but rather just hope to alleviate the pressures self-imposed on our mental health. These pressures can bear down on the soul so hard that they can cause us to make decisions with implications far worse than anything we might do or say to alleviate the pressure, like a tumor deep inside the brain placing dampers on basic rational functions. These are the things we do to guard ourselves, small battles that we forfeit in order to win the war, as we've all lost wars and know that the reparations are far greater than that of one fight. And if the war is indeed worthy of the guns and soldiers and families that you throw into it, these sacrifices will make it all worth while in the end. An overactive mind truly is a battlefield and you've got to be careful when removing mines and keeping your head clear. And one day, if you are smart and self-preserving, you will gaze onto this mineless mind field and feel that it has paid off as the flowers begin to grow again.

Oh, you guys, I'm struggling. Struggling, struggling, struggling. But good news: it's ok! It's a beautiful struggle. I'm finding all these ideas and concepts and precepts and mantras and theories and notions...all of them just flowing in, doing battle with each other. Not war-like battle, but more organizational battle. How to exist together battle, like trying to figure out how all the pieces of a room fit together.

Yes, I have feng shui battles.

There's a thirst right now to bring to configurations of thinking into being and, conversely perhaps, a desire to learn how to keep them at bay. It's like I want to know everything but rather than have it become instant gospel, I'd like to keep it all in a pen to fester and then settle, leaving, hopefully, some small truths that may be gleaned. I'm learning how to treat people, less reactionary, less 'helpful', which is really just another word for judgmental. I have this habit of throwing people away. I know this. I'm not saying that I've been necessarily wrong in doing this sometimes, but it is still a habit. I'm now thinking what would happen if instead of saying, "You know what? We had a good run. Thanks for playing," I let them, us, evolve into something else. Perhaps it would still end, that this shift was a sign that the relationship really does have an organic finish, but perhaps they...you know, wouldn't and we'd enter into a different stage with completely different functions.

Ultimately, this is a decision to not walk away, which is sorely tempting on so many occasions. I'm going through this really messed up period with my father, which certainly does not need to be aired in cyberspace, but contains many issues surrounding alpha male domination and parental sovereignty...things of that nature. And there's distance, unlike since I was in my teens and I feel it as well this instinctual desire to just shut off, contented with my cranial soap operas now showing the cutting and eloquent things I would say to demonstrate how demeaning this situation is to us both. What I'm learning, however, is that this will not do. It will not get us anywhere and could provide a pattern of alienation that could last until his death; the seeds of alienation have been planted over issues far smaller than this. So this is one of the struggles: how to maintain personal integrity (read: pride) while not catering to these base, irrational debates in which one is asked to participate. I don't know of course, hence the struggle, but rather than come to one conclusion and declare it god and master, I'm going to put the options at my disposal in that pen we were talking about earlier and let them stew, see what happens.

Ugh, this was so not intended to be a Daddy Issues diatribe but I just realized how late it is and must retire lest the Mennos decide to take up midnight tap dance lessons.

Ripping myself off from an earlier post. Let's see how my priorities have changed, shall we?:


One day I will get up and sing in front develop a perfection healthy crush on of my peers a boy and not suck.

One day I will open my mouth and out will come exactly what I expected all along, exactly what happened in the practice room in my mental preenactment of the scene mere moments before. My throat will not feel like it has little throat-gnomes creeping out of its walls lost the ability to make functional sounds, constricting my air flow awesomeness, adding little scratchy noises baseless paranoia, which, I swear, were not there before was pretty much always there. One day, my knees confidence in my awesomeness will not shake nor my balance wildly pessimistic thought process test me. F#s Semen Charm will flow out of me like semen. Wait, that's gross the point. Like blood in a Disney movie. Actually, not a ton better rarely does semen flow in a Disney movie. Is there any single substance romantic situation that emanates from our bodies my mind that is not disgusting fucked in some matter? I'm gonna go with no holy hell, I hope not. Where was I? Oh yes, the awful, baby-crying F#s sweaty-palmed rejection fantasies. Yeah, those will be awesome stop. One day I will not have to float above myself in real time thinking "Oh Christ on a bike, not again!" and I'll actually be able to do a character nonchalantly call someone up and ask him to coffee rather than some shallowly emoting caricatured writing annoying blog entries about it. One day I will not finish a performance conversation with a friend and want to go up to every single person in the room on the bus and say "I'm sorry! I over-sung in the practice room over-think every single moment of my life and I can do it better, really I can am so sorry you had to hear about it! I swear, I have made progress in the last four eight years!

One day all this will happen.

Today, however, is not that day.

A couple nights ago, I was in top form. Truly, by shiz, it smelled not. Along with some new-ish friends, I went to this gender cabaret, if you will, with all different G.L.B.T.T.T.T.T.T.Q.O.4.&. folks doing whatever they do best. There was some refreshingly impassioned performances from men, women and everything in between, including a kick ASS belly dancer that performed to my girl Natacha Atlas's "I Put a Spell On You". I felt awesome and clearly, this could not be permitted to last.

When he walked by me the first time with a slight glint in his eye, I was tempted to be thrown. The 'he' in question was what turned out to be a misfired fling last June, with me thinking it was leading to a relationship and him telling me four weeks in that we were just friends. You know, cause I wake up most of my friends with morning head. In any case, the ending was uncomfortable but not altogether acrimonious, and we kept in very light touch, an msn IM or facebook message here and there.

In retrospect, I should have learned from the past that the occasion winking emoticon does not romantic intent make. Perhaps it was the fact that no one has stepped up to succeed him as my most recent, but in times of want, I still think of this pischer. In any case, I knew that there would be a moderate likelihood of seeing him and the lopsided grin was not altogether unexpected. However, on the next pass, the grin was accompanied by a playful little pinch on my side; the next was a hand-grab/tickle and the final one, when my coat was on and it was clear that I was leaving, was a full-on 5-second embrace.

God, it was nice.

It's a tad pathetic, to cling so dearly to something so insignificant, but with all apologies to rationality, it was.

Upon my return home, I wrote a simple if open-ended Facebook message:

"You looked really great tonight.

-D"

Ok, so not that open-ended. It definitely seemed to imply, "I gotta thing, you gotta thing, maybe we could have a thing..."

When the response "So did you ;-)" appeared, I won't say that I wasn't a bit excited, winking emoticon, be damned!

"So if you look really great and I look really great, why don't we ever hang out anymore?" I replied.

"i dunno," came the response.

"So, would you like to sometime?"

"It wouldn't be like before david. I'm seeing someone..."

"..."

I'm not sure what element got to me the most. Was it the use of my name, so disgustingly sympathetic in it's use, as if to say, "Oh, you poor thing...no." Was it the lack of punctuation and capitalization, reminding me of how wrongly matched we were and would ever be? Or was it the ellipses, echoing the use of my name, pathetically outlining how easy it was for someone like HIM to find someone and how someone like ME would forever remain a lapdog, begging for scraps of affection.

In the end, I responded with something polite, like, "Oh that's great. How nice for you!" but I don't think either of us believed I meant it. Despite the mountainous history that could have foreshadowed this event, I still maintain my right to be bitter. You can't treat people like they're your prize and then say shit like "I'm seeing someone dot dot dot."

I was getting so good at not doing the emo posts. Fuck you for being the cause. And for your ellipses.

Miami 3 is on her way. Patience.

As I've stated before, I don't cry. Not really. As a child, yes, all the time. Near daily at some points. I always loathed it, as far back as I can remember. I'm not entirely sure why, perhaps some gender vision that was muddled to think that it was shameful, but I've always hidden it. When I have cried, it's typically been done once year by an event that is unforgivable. Things will continue to evolve after it, but the person or event that caused it will never really be healed. We can be surrounded by such beauty but it will never be Eden. When I have cried, it's been like shoving a waterfall through a sieve. If you're standing underneath the sieve all you see are little droplets falling down; you're completely unaware of the force beating from the other side. There are as many ways to cry as there are to laugh, though I think generally involve either sobbing or silent agony. I've never sobbed. Never had the falls break the sieve and vocalized despair. Not once. I have no clue what it feels like, though I can imagine from watching enough Baz Lurmann films.

But there's one coming.

It's everything about this past year. The move, the aimless wandering around the end of my degree, the emotion surrounding the Recital, the tectonic shifts in friendships, the barren womb of the countless relationships I didn't have this year or perhaps just the one...It's coming. I'm experiencing it almost every day now, watching an episode of sappy television or listening to a song that ends me. Sometimes I catch it and taper back. Other times, I think that I'm just going to let it out but then quickly retract the reigns, the rebellion and its failure occurring within a split second.

I've been told before that for me to cry is one of the worst things possible. Granted, this was said by a dear friend; I'm not really sure why, but I almost understand it. It's not an ego thing or thinking that I'm better than an other, but it seems as though something would break if it would happen or I just wouldn't be able to stop. I know what this sounds like, but at times I feel as though I'm just passing through, like I don't really belong here. This isn't meant to sound grandiose, but I almost feel as though any human behaviour has simply been assigned so I can pass through unnoticed, undetected, while performing some sort of heavenly case study. A celestial creature riding transit.

I've been feeling oddly drawn to the angel Gabriel lately. Those that know me would never think that divine inspiration would be a presence in my life, and I'm not saying it has in the traditional sense, but it's almost like meeting someone for the first time and knowing them completely, knowing exactly what will make them laugh, draw them in, push them away. This was similar. I never thought anything of seraphim and always loathed the name 'Gabriel' but some time, several months ago, it just clicked into place, batteries meeting, that this was something worth drawing from. What it actually may be is not important, whether it is a calling or merely brain synapses misfiring, completely irrelevant so long as a journey is begun.

I've been almost crying a lot lately.