Dear Valeria,
Gisela says hi :-)

Cheers
Maynard Mcmillan


I couldn't balance three names more, if I tried to...

Let me tell you, I am so very, very amazingly bored just now. I refuse, though, to go exploring right now.

Firstly, because I have a full day tomorrow with unwelcome obligations and (gasp) social shindigs.

Secondly, because it would feel wrong to go out all on my own, the very day that imasisara left -- not morally wrong, it would just feel wrong. Like...walking with a leg missing. Or, perhaps, the morning after the surgery at which your extra sixth finger got removed.

And lastly, but not leastly, because - and let's face it - I'm too chicken to get on the bus randomly to wherenotwhatnot all on my (sniff) own.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be brave? Tonight, I'll just walk the 6 blocks or so to Starbucks with a book.

In the meantime: Feel like leaving some graffiti on my journal? Right over here, next to the cobwebs, yeah?

As flattering (and blush-inducing) as it is to be told you are the epitome of hot and cool, while smoking, there is one question begging for an answer.

Is it possible to be epitomously hot and cool, even while (bravely) refraining from smoking?

Dying, dear LJ, and there is nothing I can do to help. My fingers are not typing as they should, which could be due to recent lack of usage or longterm insane alcohol intake.
Probably both, huh?

Let's do an ice breaker activity then, like they have them at all those horrendous team-work building sessions.
It's a little quiz: 2 lines from 2 songs. Guess?

1) "Hello, Kitten"
2) "Neon when you come and go"


In other news:

Dear Vancouver, can your proportion of roomsize&quality : monthlyrent seriously suck any more ass? I didn't think so.

Dear elite women's college of pseudo-Ivy-League-fame (to itself), why is there no alumnae club with a website in Vancouver? This is what they were talking about, when they were lecturing us on "networking" for 4 years, isn't it?

Dear Friends, wanna go to Canada and share an appartment with me?

Dear perverted middle-aged Japanese men, keep watching my ebay accounts, babe. HOT SPECIAL USED PANTIES coming up SOON. Help a girl finance school! Get good KARMA points! And SPECIAL HOT PANTIES!
YOU NO LONGER NEED VIAGRA, PROMISE.





P.S.: I do remember I still have a meme to finish, no worries.

After spending the day sitting lotus on a dirty bench with a laptop balanced on her - what else? - lap, breathing in copious dust storms from the construction work ten feet away, and bravely not looking at big crows staring at her, five feet away, the anti-hero slowly packs up:

laptop into her bag,
cigarette butts into the ash tray,
scattered brain cells into her pants' pockets,
but! they'll get lint all over them!
Oh well, they haven't been used for a while anyways.

Then she rips off a piece of paper, scribbles a note on it and deposits it into a green glass bottle. Softly, it rolls across metaphorical oceans and landmasses in the blink of an eye. Little invisible waves lap at your feet, when suddenly a green glass bottle taps against your ankle. You smash it on a stone, and unroll the piece of paper you find inside.

It says:

Babe,

I've been bouncing with manic energy in the subway stations, feeling like I am the punkiest of all punks, the toughest of all toughs, while everywhere but in subway stations I just wanted to sleep. So this week, I'll go buy myself some shitkickers. Don't worry, though, they'll only be there so I can learn to kick my ass. I might have to go do some yoga for a couple of years, what with the stretchiness that will require, but it might pay off, hey? I'll call you as soon as I stop mumbling misquoted lines from Hamlet underneath my breath, all right?

Love, san (anti-hero? anti-christ? anti-work, more like)

I played soccer (Football. Soccer. Whatever we call it these days.) today with a future soccer superstar. He reached to my knees, and could kick his little plastic ball straight across half the courtyard. I'm pretty sure Mr. Beckham would love to have had this kind of massive talent at the tender age of two, but, sorry, Mr. Beckham, you're getting old, and I played for 15 minutes with the second Pele today.

Afterwards, we switched to basketball, and I showed him how to dribble. He might still have to work on that a little, but if I ever see him hanging out on campus again, I'll be sure to work on his technique with him.

This is a story about my friend, kebabguru, but also a story about me, about lifestyle in the land of walking ashtrays and inertia.

Tonight, I was sitting on kebabguru's couch, grumbling at myself, him, and the fact that we had missed our time window to go and check out a blues gig. It's not that we don't have enough blues on our hands, but that it always feels a little comforting to hear somebody sing beautifully about problems you wish you had, problems far more glamorous than your own mundane litany of I have no control, and can never finish a to-do list.

Meanwhile, Kebab was agonizing over deciding whether to leave on a late train to his parents' place, located in some pretty, green boondocks, for the weekend or whether he should go out drinking and dancing with our mutual friend, the Holy Girl of Eternal Clubbing. It was a difficult decision for him, because he neither wanted to go visit his parents nor did he really feel up to going out (this is the kind of blues we have). It took him the better part of half an hour (this is why professional blues is more entertaining), but eventually he looked up and asked,

"Do you have a coin?"
I nearly snorted out my red wine, Do you really want to make this dependent on a coin?

When I didn't react fast enough, he picked up his pack of cigarettes and turned it around and around, looking at the big black and white warnings of doom and death on either side.

"Well, ok. 'Clogged arteries and heart attack' means I'll go out. 'Impending death,' I'll catch the train tonight."

The cigarette pack spun around only once before it landed on the floor.
It was clogged arteries and heart attack. However, when he called our Holy Girl of Eternal Clubbing, she still had two hours left to work, and was already tired.

I should write a good conclusion (optional moral), a subtle beginning, and perhaps weave some more words together, but I'm contemplating the beauty of sleep, and it surpasses cigarette packs and clubbing by far. This is a thought, however, I won't admit I've had come morning, when I will have my first cup of coffee in twenty-four hours.
Going a day without coffee may mean nothing to you, but I'm taking my funny blues where I can get it tonight.

If a smelly guy sits himself across the table?
And all you can think of is Go away, go away, please, go away.?
And your stomach starts feeling queasy?
That's when you know you're lacking graciousness.

On the plus side, I've neither hid underneath my turtle neck, nor moved my stuff away, yet.
On the negative side, I'm obsessively not trying to stare while he picks dandruff out of his hair and also I'm leaning away.

The motto of the day is: Everyone's a human being and deserves to be treated with respect.
This really shouldn't be so difficult.

Edit: Nevermind, I left for the courtyard. So that's that.

Therefore, I can only tell you briefly that I've had an amazing weekend, pagan pyromania included.
Also, I have entangled myself in possibly the most stupid bet I have ever made, which should serve nicely to rid myself of carcinogenic habits completely.

(Because, I cannot run around with a buzz cut. This is not vanity speaking, but love of myself and love of my surroundings, equally.)

As to the how?
I have no idea, yet.

Under the duress of constant fights with family members, I have decided to beat it to some rural buttfuck, where there is no family, in order to see whether I can get a glimpse of pagan easter fires and internal peace.
Orthodox easter will be next week, incidentally.

Edit: And off I go. Shall I bring you stories that are filled with silences and quiet smiles? ;)

P.S.: Maybe I'll try calling again this weekend.