Gah, I hate blogging. Well not so much blogging so much as my own laziness towards blogging. That's pretty ripe. I always think up really good ideas but it's usually on the bus or when I'm in bed and neither of those are particularily convenient times.

I thought of a cute analogy for my romantic life and bear in mind that I'm still on my ne pas de dating trip: the people I date are exactly like my shoes - they're good for a short while and then I ruin them but of course by that time they are far too dear to me and it takes months to finally discard the remains. Anyone who was witness to my Kenneth Cole loafers (R.I.P.) can attest to this. I had to by new insoles for them in Toronto and when I went to take the old insole out, it literally did so in pieces with the last bunch all cruched up in the toe looking like it had been through a garbage disposal. (Maybe we don't rave in the KCs anymore, k?) Sick, I know, but still I loved them and probably won't throw them away until Finnigan (da dog, not da puppet from Mr. Cross-Dress-up) has his rough way with them. "Scuffed shoes are in!" I tell myself, "It said so in GQ!" Yeah, it said that about pre-scuffed Pradas, following in the steps of dirty denim, not David's So-repolished-they-now-look-like-they've-been-Crayola'ed KCs.

Also it occurs to me that one of the reasons behind my somewhat crappy moods as of late have been my dreams. Unlike certain quasi-hippie-hipsters who live on Van Island, I don't put a whole lot of thought into dreams. I'm sure they mean something but chances are that if my subconsiousness is dreaming about it, my consciousness is well aware of the situation. On of the joys of being once described by a close friend as "the most self-aware person I know". I just don't lie to myself. I may not want to think about it, but all the same I know it is there. So I'm not worried about my dreams in that capacity. Rather, I'm more concerned that they've just been rather dark as of late. I never seem to remember my 'happy' dreams, only the macabre or indifferent and I am often dreaming right before I wake up so the mood of my dream will be my first of the day and no bueno.

Lastly (though who knows? I'm kinda on a roll. Mmmm, roll. Did I tell you that I've gone low-carb? Ok, that'll come after this. Don't get freaked out; I haven't gone all south beach or anything), or actually not lastly anymore, I really like my name. Sure, there are other names that I might like a bit more, but that's because they are associated with the individuals attached to them. I find mine very functional; it was nice and playful when I was younger and will be nice and dignified when I'm older. Ok, agreed, that was one of my more vapid thoughts.

Yes, so the low carb thing, it started like this. I was trying on an outfit that I might wear to the New Years party and it looked good but not quite perfect. There was ever so slight of a curve just below my belly button and it was pissing me off. Then I did the standard "Well if you ate better and excercised" speech in my head which was promtly refused as usual, but then I took a moment to disect why I had rejected that notion. Not a complex answer: it's too hard. And it is, to say that one is going to alter one's lifestyle FOREVER. That's a huge commitment. So I says to m'self, I says, "Self, just try it for a month, just until outfit needs to be worn and see if anything changes. Nothing crazy, just limiting sugar and carbs and try a lot of protein and veggies. And here's the craziest part: try only eating when you're hungry and stopping when you're full." So that's the deal, my inverse NY resolution; to eat like we're supposed to. I'm a little over a week in and it's not been half bad so far.

Ok, so that's quite a bit. I can stop feeling guilty for a while now.

Just woke up from such an odd dream. Must write it down before I forget.

Unity and I are going to a rave. I'm pretty sure we're wearing what we wore on halloween. We get past security and enter into this big, white tent-like structure which is apparently at the top of a hill, so once we get in the door we can see hundreds of kids just chilling on the incline. Near the bottom are rooms that break off and they have bal pits in them, like they ued to have at McDonald's except that all the balls are black. Everyone is having a really good time and we find a spot on the left side of the incline where we deposit all of our stuff. I then notice that the bottom of the hill where the tent ends is actually the kitchen of a house and that it leads to a deck and garden. The rave is half indoor - half outdoor. So we're just chilling when a girl walking up the incline turns back to us and says "They won't let _____ in." ____ here being a guy we know that sells drugs. Unity states very positively that, "Oh well, guess I'm doing this party clean." (Cannot even dress to you how much that reaction would NEVER happen.) I go back up the hill to check out what's going on. I go back out past security and the next thing I know I'm standing in front of them with the dealer as he's saying to the security people (and these aren't rave security, it's like full on night stick guys) that he put his stuff in his car. They said they would need to search both of us. "Fine," he says, and pulls down my pants. Don't remember feeling overly vulnerable at this point and yet my underwear (white bozer briefs...I don't know either) are clearly around my ankles. The guy has hidden his stuff in the folds of my apparently massive underwear, but the security guys see it and demand that he takes it out of my gitch and show them. He opens the bag and it's little baggies of suckers and a couple white pills in each. Flash forward and I'm back in my spot on the hill, laying on my jacket, having gone and been social for a bit. The dealer comes running up to me with a black knit winter glove and a security guy with a big moustache and patrol vest following him. "Do you want any blow?" he yells. "No," I say, "I don't want that shit!" but for some reason I take the glove anyway, stuff it under my jacket and dump out the contents. The security guy chases the dealer into one of the black ball rooms and the comes and sits down beside me. He's just chatting away making friends and when he's not looking a glance under my jacket and notice 5 white pills about the size of my percribed prednizone. I take one as his head is turned but not having any water, must disolve it in my mouth. If anyone has ever taken an oral steroid, you know: it's fucking not fun tasting. Then, feeling slightly buzzed, I go off to find Unity.

Here I wake up and think, "Man that was weird." and promtly fall back asleep. In what is a very unusual case, the dream continues, or rather picks up some 6 hours later...

I wake up on the hill and I'm laying on my jacket. I venture down the hill, through the house part and into the garden which has very high stone walls, like at Raven. I see her holding a pair of sneakers and a couple celebrity magazine, rifling through all the zonked out ravers. (This must be related to the halloween party where the girl I was with was so fucked at the end that she was looking through all the shit people had left behind) The sneakers are for her boyfriend. She found them. Suddenly my brother shows up and is instucted to help us carry all this stuff that we have amassed out the car. The sun is up and my watch reads 8:29. We get on to the highway and I wake up.

I don't know what it means, but it's my mother's fault.

If you are in my intimate circle, you've probably heard my view on '7 out of 10' but for the rest of you, here is my philisophical perspective on that ratio.

7/10 is fine. It isn't outstanding or even great but nor is it necessarily negative (except for the fact that in and of itself it is not great). It's just ok. 7/10 has been the dominant ratio of my life for the past couple months. Between the parties and school and performance stress, it's just been a very emotional Middle-of-nowhere time. Perhaps it was that I was going at things half asses or just being rediculously negative but I noticed a change in how I was perceived, not by my closest friends but by more peripheral ones who would look at me with horrified amusement upon hearing one of my little quips, which as of late have been primarily aimed at one reknowned, soon-to-be-retired choirmaster/blow-hard. Oh, I heard that audible gasp and calm right down. I love him, but, c'mon...

Good news though! I think I finally snapped out of it last night, as I'm definitely an 8/10 this morning which I've not been for quite some time. Last night was rather cathartic as I really got back to talking with my nearest and dearest the way we all enjoy the most. That is having discussions that both challenge, inform, and amuse. It felt like an intellectual homecoming, as well as giving much emotional satisfaction/relief. In addition, I was witness to the first public displays of affection between two of my peeps that were just so natural. In fact I was flanked by two couples and yet didn't feel like a spare tire whatsoever, as I often have in the past. This reassures me that I truly am in the romantic mindset that I have been claiming, as one who is content to observe rather than participate for now, and that brings with it all kinds of freedom.

I keep coming up with ideas for posts but am subsequently too lazy to actually write them. This attitude pretty much extends to my life. Ok, so a couple house keeping things:

To finish of the Pre-dumped-or-not saga, turns out I was...n't? We don't know. I went to Toronto and when I came back the exact same thing happened, I text messaged, heard nothing for a few days before he sent me an e-mail apologizing for tardiness and saying that things were super hectic at the moment and that he didn't know when we could see each other so he'd just talk to me soon. Fine, whatever. The sole fact that he actually chose to respond was a big boost for my ego. Now as to whether his whole "I'm too busy" line was bs or not, well, who knows? I know things do get really hairy (I mean, hello) but all I'm saying is that one makes time for what one wants to make time for, or at the very least states when one will be less busy. Quoi-ever. I probably won't ever hear from him again but at least he's not on my ever-expanding Asshole list.

So where does this leave me as far as my recently acquired philosophies on sex/dating. Um, I don't know. I think I'm still on the Neither Band Wagon, as while he didn't turn out to be an asshole, it was still largely a huge emotional expenditure for very essentially no result after the fact, and I'M way too busy for that kinda bullshit. I'm staying strong; I've already turned down one potential suitor this week.

I went back to the beginning of my blog and read the posts from the first couple months, largely because I'm an ego maniac, but holy crap, was I funny back then. I gotta return to my roots. Or at least go back to Sushi Ya (April 2005).

So after 24 hours of driving myself insane from not hearing back from him, I called again last night and got a hold of him. We talked for about five minutes. Wasn't a stellar conversation but it was enough for me to understand that he was super stressed about this test he's taking today. We both have really busy weeks so we'll hang out next week and in the meantime exchange cute e-mails. What I didn't realize is that his not calling me was not so much a lack of interest so much as a demonstration of his inexperience with dating; anyone who knows about this precarious nature knows that unless you're being coy, you pretty much call back when you get the message. But more on that later. First, let me present what I wrote yesterday afternoon, a mere 20 hours after The Message was left (afterwhich I will present some opinions on how fucked up I am):

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I have invented a new term: pre-dumping.

Pre-dumping: A complete severance of contact without warning immediately following an implication of romantic interest, the potential for commitment even, such as being curled up in a tight ball on the basement floor, kissing the nape of his neck, smelling the pure juvenile bliss that is the cheap, youthfulness of Addidas for Men followed by a lingering good-bye and a "Call me tomorrow." This is applied only to preliminary meetings, as it implies the termination of a relationship that never truly began.

For those unable to discern what has transpired due to the absence of a chromisone, he didn't call back. (NB: while in the basement, pre-tight ball, we had actually discussed the evils of not returning calls)

I suppose I'm disappointed. I know there should be pangs of resentment, and perhaps there are a few, but more than that, I am filled some something that bespeaks a more serious condition: nonchalance.

It's as though the second I left that voice mail, I knew that it was done with. The boy has always been extremely promt with returning communications (calls, text messages, etc.). So now I'm left with a slew of things I would like to say, but knowing full well from past experience that none of them will garner a response, and yet there's that overwhelming desire to let him know it was a dastardly thing to do or at the very least say, "Hey, it's ok to not be interested. Just let me know and we'll just move on." I have the beginnings but no way to end them. Maybe I should just send him this; might as well go out in a blaze of crazy glory.

I am a bit pissed off, but it isn't even at him so much. I mean, it's definitely inconsiderate and a bit cowardly, but far from a crime against humanity. No, what is angering me is that as far as romantic 'problems' go, these are all I get. The complications I get to enjoy are with people that are still essentially strangers. I don't get to have the big fights ending with either lovely make ups or devastating heart ache. It's like comparing the kinds of sex one can have, one night stand vs. wedding night. We all know upon which we place more value. I have casual, one-night romantic troubles.

And it can't be just him though. This has happened far too much in my 4.5 years of dating to call this one of several isolated incidences. There must be something in my dating style that draws people in while I'm in their presence and then causes them some ungodly repulsion upon leaving my presence. It must be me. I know my close friends will tell me otherwise, but seriously, it's time to own the fact that I have had roughly 4 times more of these 'beginnings to' than actual relationships.

If anyone has any suggestions as to what may cause this, please feel free to let me know. Unless it's "you're a sarcastic bitch." We all know that. However, I never reveal that side until...actually I don't know when I would reveal that side as it's never gotten far enough to be revealed.

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So I'm absolutely messed up.

I fully realize this. No matter how much I heard, "David! Relax! It hasn't even been one day!" I couldn't. I was in such a black and white place where there were no extraneous factors and his lack of immediate response meant that a) he was a prick and b) I was a loser. I think we can kind of agree that b still stands. I'm just so determined to be betrayed for some reason, that reason being all the betrayal in the past. Yesterday I was seriously considering taking myself off the market for a good long while. I imagined scenarios where guys would approach me and ask if I want to go out (cause that happens all the time) and me just saying, "I'm sorry; I don't date." And I really meant it because I can't deal with how stressful yesterday was, purely of my own making.

Oh, but the good news is that now, if it does fall to shit whithin the next couple weeks which, I mean, c'mon, than I'll have already gone through this and won't to go quite as crazy again.

God, je suis le fucked up.

I hate the post-first date follow up.

Last night I hung out with a perfectly lovely boy who by all accounts is everything I should want without being perfect, cause no one needs that. Sweet, kind, adorable, the whole thing. We had a great time and he left at 2:30 in the morning, telling me to call him tomorrow/today. Yay.

But see, the second he walked out of that door, it was all up in the air; until you actually speak for the first time after that, it could really go either way. Some guys simply have a way of doing a 180 within a 24 hour period and there's really not a lot the rest of us can do about it. There's no real reason why this one should, but weirder things should happen, so without being too preoccupied, I'm ever slightly on edge.

I called at 6:45 tonight with the full expectation *ring* that we had have a nice *ring* little conversation *ring* and then get together *ring* later in the week. *voice mail* Shit. The worst thing is leaving a message because then the onus as well as the fate of my neuroses are on him. I could have hung up, but with caller ID he would have known that I had called anyway. So I left a message. It wasn't the most brilliant message ever, but it was short, cute, and not too clingy. So now it's nearly two hours later and I haven't heard anything which is completely reasonable and yet the wheels of panic are already starting to grind. I really won't be all that heart broken if he never calls as I've learned not to get too invested this early, but there was potential. And it's been a while since there's been potential. A long while. In fact I believe that back then the word for potential was Oog.

I had a very disturbing, if cliché'd dream on Thursday night. I dreamt that I was in a small doctor's office and the doctor was informing that I had contracted HIV, but not because I had had unprotected sex or shared needles, rather because there was a new strain that was air-born. I feel this was my psyche's inability to actually take responsability for my own actions. Clearly, were I to ever contract such a thing, it wouldn't really be my fault. I handled it slightly better than I imagine most people would, although less well then I've assumed I would. (When you're a member of community with a history such as - and I use this pronoun only in the strictest sense - ours, the thought must inevitably cross one's mind. It's like First Nations and diabetes or Mennonites and the jitterbug. I've long forgotten the rest of the dream, but it was remarkably unsettling not solely because of the news itself but that I couldn't control how I would react. The feelings of despair and helplessness were overwhelming, and I didn't get to 'do it my' way as I've discussed before (the living wake, etc.). There was also a lot of shame. The history of the disease is riddled with shame because it was originally considered a gay man's disease at a time when that was dramatically less accepted and that feeling still holds true today, even with greater rights being passed around. It's also a disease of ignorance, as it is prevented with education and awareness. It's not equal opportunity, like cancer. Hell, we're all gonna have cancer in this generation. HIV is just so simply preventable: use a condom, don't share needles (or really, do heroine at all, cause, c'mon...), know your partner's sexual history. It's all so basic. Essentially, if I was some John Deer from middle America, I would view HIV and AIDS as the disease of the stupid gay man. Actually, perhaps not even the Middle American. We don't really express it due to political correctness, but even those of us who consider ourselves to be more educated still have those stereotypes of the slutty fag and the junkie prostitute as the poster children. Yes, there are marches and elegant fundraiser like for cancer, Parkinson's and all the rest, but HIV doesn't have the dignity of those illnesses because, for the most part, it's your own fault. That's an asshole statement, I know it, but that doesn't make it less true. I wouldn't be embarassed to tell the people I love that I had any other fatal illness, but I imagine that having to admit to this would feel like entering a guilty plea and that there would be punishment to follow, not in something so hollow as death, but rather that judgement, as innocent as it may be, decrying, "You did this to yourself."

I'm having trouble ending my entries lately, so there. That's it.