Monitor Me

Don't even think about offering the possibility that it's Something New that is making me feel less poetic. That would just be a whole giant barrel of monkeys that I can't even begin to sort through. They would be angry monkeys, and they would pull out my hair, and also throw poo.

Are you beginning to see the problem with tooth situation? If I sleep on my left side, I'm guaranteed intestinal discomfort (See Fig. 2). If I sleep on my right side, I'm guaranteed tooth pain (See Fig. 4). This leaves me two options. Here is a rough diagram of how I can attempt to sleep while keeping all of my parts in pain-free positions.

That just lets you know that when Victoria wants to party, she parties hard. She keeps her officers on their feet making sure that the peace cannot be kept. I imagine, though, that the line was flooded at that point with crazed mothers reporting them with the sound of tiny little children voices crying in the background, "mommy, what's a blow job?"

Me: Well, now I know how Jennifer Aniston feels.
Em: At least your face won't be on a million magazines with "How will Rilla Deal?"
Me: True. Although, I've always thought Angelina was pretty hot. It's hard to dislike her.
Em: I don't think so.
Me: Plus, she's an excellent mother.
Em: What?!
Me: Come on, she buys her children everything.
Em: She buys her children.

Also, I had a very bizarre vocabulary for a child growing up in the early 80's. I once told my parents that my classmate was apoplectic, and they thought I was the funniest girl in the world. I was being serious. He had seizures. It was quite traumatic.

And that's a lot of it right there: getting divorced is way more than being married and then not married. For years and years we fostered the habit of thinking of two instead of one, and then... there's only one. The ramifications of that are so complicated I can't articulate them at all.

Also, I've got other dreams that are hatching and I think I can use the momentum of my fellow writers to bring those little hatchlings out from under the heat lamps and into the grassy yard... where the neighbour's dog will terrorize them, or my brother will hypnotize them by drawing lines in the dirt with a stick, or my other brother will throw a big bolt at one and kill it, and then we'll have it for supper.

Chase that metaphor. Chase it like a chicken.

Did I ever tell you that I didn't listen to regular music for most of my life? My parents didn't hold with that popular music mumbo-jumbo. My only glimpse of what was cool to listen to was Video Hits with Samantha Fox on CBC television. Because of that show, I held Le Chateau as the paragon of style for most of my youth. I even bought my wedding shoes from Le Chateau -- they are as uncomfortable as fourteen uncomfortable things.

We didn't have a costume budget -- we always improvised our costumes -- and so we were left with what one would imagine to be the daunting task of making a dinosaur costume. Allow me to present the logic of a couple of young girls who want to pretend to be dinosaurs/dinosaur hunters.


"Why don't you just throw the cape over your head and lumber around the stage?"
"Okay."

I found myself walking around the office today with a goofy smile because of her, and I just wanted to get down everything I could ever think of about her. Even though we haven't seen each other in eleven years I would crush her with a bear hug if I saw her on the street.

I woke to a rough cat tongue on my hand, and I left my own warm spot to curl around it. I watched it groom itself and I nuzzled into the blankets and pillows as much as possible. It was then that I heard a car door slam. The mutterings of my nieces from the lower floor took on a new pitch of excitement.

So, the original version of "My Humps" annoyed the fuck out of me. I remember talking to Rob about it when it first came out, and how pissy I'd get whenever it would come on. We both agreed that we'd never heard a woman objectify herself so many times in a span of a few minutes.

Here's the thing, see. Douglas Coupland said in an interview once that one's twenties were a lot like a car crash. It's a simile that I've been rolling around in my head for about seven months. I look back on my twenties and I see myself failing at a marriage, struggling through degrees, working many many shit jobs. Is this comparable to a car crash? It's a little more violent, I suppose, but it leaves its share of bruises and scrapes, anyway.

Afterwards, as Kaz held me close we wondered about leaving the past behind us, or whether it is possible to keep it linked with the future somehow. Does the link have to be painful, or can it be a recognition of past relationships, loves, mistakes, and happinesses. And, with that recognition can we simply embrace the whole gamut of emotional ups and downs without it becoming a harmful or draining experience?

I was bitter and angry, and I think Rob got the brunt of it. Phone calls were always upsetting, as I let go of weeks of anguish to the only person I felt close enough to, to see the pain that was inside of me. He was disappointed by my lack of writing progress over the summer, but I'm pretty sure no one was more disappointed than I was.

The project, and my masters degree have come to symbolize a lot of negative things in my life. With every struggle that I overcame, I did not see it as a triumph, I saw it as a failure for not overcoming faster, more efficiently, more professionally, more better (a phrase that I let slip in class one day). I started my degree four (?) years ago feeling confident (albeit nervous), intelligent, and excited. At the end, I feel worn and weary.

He starts talking about how it's sometimes funny when people get hurt. I think he said something like, "If BB got kicked in the balls, that would be funny!" To which I replied, "I would not object if someone kicked BB in the balls." He writes down what I've said and says, "will you sign this?" Sure, T-ass (drunken sot) I'll sign it.

The next day, BB looks very hurt when he comes downstairs. "Why would you say that!" says BB. Thanks T-ass.

It took me some time to come to this one, I had been originally sidetracked on a more depressing and soul-crushing mantra. Something about growing up and taking responsibility, blah blah blah. It was not uplifting, and I had been warned that if I attempted to use this mantra I may turn into an old fuddy-duddy who is boring and no fun. That is not something that anybody wants, least of all me.

Marker: Oh, hello! I hope you're not going to be writing anymore translation exams!
Em: !
Me: !
Em: Uuh.
Me: I... hope... not??
*INTERNAL SCREAMING: WHAT DO YOU MEAN MAN!? HAVE WE FAILED? HAVE WE PASSED? STOP DICKING AROUND!*

What made Gail really special though was the self-induced vomitting. If it weren't for her -- and her phenomenal amount of vomiting -- J-Bra and I would never have come up with "The Time is Right" game. Whoever could guess the correct time of the next spell of puking without going over won nothing! But it did help pass the time a great deal, and the winner could experience self-satisfaction at correctly estimating just how long Gail could go without sticking her fingers down her throat. J-Bra was better at the game than I.

Me: Hello?
Bne: Hey, Ril. Listen. Would you say, "freaks are for suckers"?
Me: What?
Bne: If we were talking and the conversation turned to freaks, would you say, "freaks are for suckers"?
Me: What kind of freak are we talking about, like a sex freak?

I loved these geese. Every time I walked through the ballpark I had to restrain myself from running up to them and hugging them. Em and I usually walked the same path home together, and once, upon making this comment about hugging geese, she looked at me mischievously and said, "why don't you?"
" 'cause I know geese. They're actually kind of mean," I replied.
"But not these geese, they're nice geese," she smirked back at me. She's so saucy sometimes.