I Get The Feeling Things Will Be All Right

Went for a walk to try and clear my head. Listened to "City Lights" by the Umbrellas on repeat. It's really grey out --- like, it looks like it's about to rain. But it wasn't too cold. I enjoyed walking 'cause it helped me feel...better. I kept thinking about why, whenever I feel like I've met someone that I could connect with, it turns out he's a freak. I think I'm more upset about losing the idea of him than actually losing him...he was never mine to begin with.
*
So, last night, as I drifted off to sleep, I kinda wondered, when and if I was ever going to meet "the one".
*
You know what I wonder?

I wonder if, maybe, I'm just incapable of feeling any real love for anybody. Like, a huge part of the problem is that there's just nobody out there for me.

I mean, I've said it a million times before, but I've never really faced the truth: there's nobody out there for me. Not a single one out of the billions of people who inhabit this planet.

You know how I always said I wouldn't settle? You know what? I'm getting to that stage where I know it's a lie. I look at people around me and I know in my heart that there's no perfect soul mate out there for me...and I do know I'll wind up settling for someone who's "enough".

High On Fumes

Last night? Coming home? There was this guy who got on the bus and he stood next to me and he totally stank of weed. Like, I felt like I was getting high on the fumes coming off his clothes.

But you know what surprised me?

When a seat in front of him opened up, he tapped me lightly on the arm and asked me if I wanted to sit. I looked at him --- really looked at him --- and was startled to find he was really, very good looking in that scruffy, unwashed way. He had beautiful blue eyes and sharp features. His hair was kind of dirty and unkempt, but he was good looking.

I had my headphones on. I couldn't hear him. But I shook my head and said it was okay. He kept telling me that it was no bother 'cause he could go sit somewhere else.

That was kinda nice.

I wanted to write that down in a bid to release my memories in here. Sort of like Dumbledore and his pensieve.

From Today Forward...

As soon as I write something, then that's it. It's over. I've released it. My mind has to be blank. I have to move forward. I cannot spend all of my time dwelling on things that I can't change. I have to leave the past in the past and move forward.

Life is a journey. I need to realize this.

Everybody's Changing

I try to stay awake and remember my name
Oh, everybody's changing and I don't feel the same.
- Keane, "Everybody's Changing"

A part of me thinks, "Oh, who the fuck do I think I am?" I mean, it's one thing to be told by co-workers and friends and the odd, random blog reader that you should go write a book about your life, but it's another thing to go to a literary agent with hat in hand and meekly ask them, "Would you please represent me?"

Ever since I stumbled across David Sedaris, I've been thinking, "This. This is what I should do with my life. This is the career I'm meant to have." And by "this", I mean writing essays about my crazy, so-called life. Let's face it. I was never really cut out for the journalism business. I know I can write, but reporting is another story altogether. But that doesn't mean I don't get bummed out from time to time, wondering what the hell happened to me. I mean, if I think too deeply about it, I get vaguely suicidal. It's like, "Screwed up. Didn't become a success at age 25. Might as well throw everything into the scrapper and kill myself now."

You know what freaks me out about the future? It's the scary unknown aspect. I mean, what if I never become anything? I was reading that book by Nick Hornby, "A Long Way Down" and the really sick thing about it all was that I could identify with those suicidal characters. All that wondering about whether or not you lived your life right.

Okay. So, to be clear? I'm not suicidal in any way. I'm too afraid of screwing up and then winding up horribly disfigured/paralyzed/brain dead. I mean, that'd be worse than the current state of things, you know?

Last night, a friend called. Mind you, this friend's life seems pretty screwed up all on its own, but she told me about this other woman we both know and about all of the medical problems she's been having. I wonder if it's vaguely sick that this makes me feel thankful it's not me. It should make me more appreciative of how good I have it.

Excerpts From E-mails

Gina recommended reading "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey, which is all about his six-week stint at a drug rehab centre. All the covers have an Oprah Book Club sticker on them and I wanted to peel it off in one piece --- sort of like how I like trying to lift the crust off a creme brule without breaking it. It's the kind of exercise that requires great patience and too much time on your hands --- like peeling off the glue strip that adheres those pizza coupons to the TV guide. I like rolling them up into a ball and each week, I attach the new glue strip onto the ball I've started. My goal is to make a giant glue ball. I've had to start over many times because people actually make the mistake of thinking it's garbage and throw it away. Can you believe that?!

Anyway, the book's good. After I finish that, I'm going to start in on "Hell Hath No Fury", which is a collection of letters that women have written post-breakup. I find that kind of crap funny. People have no pride sometimes. For me, when something's over, it's over. You go walk into a corner of a room and say emphatically, "He's dead to me!" and then move on. Or at least that's how everyone should deal with bad break-ups.
*
Because most people don’t bother remembering any of my sisters’ names, the three sisters turn into one composite sister whenever I talk about them --- a sister so thoroughly weird that I look relatively normal in comparison. Though, I really can’t blame people for not remembering. Sometimes, my own parents find it easier to just address us by order of birth, which Sister 2 hates because being called No. 2 makes her sound like poo. Personally, I enjoy being called No. 1. Makes me feel important --- like that guy on Star Trek, even though he wasn't the captain, who you'd think would be called No. 1, but wasn't...not that I watched it or anything.
*
I have these two friends who both refuse to swear, so whenever I’m around either of them, I say things like, “G.D. you, you rectal void!” if someone cuts me off in traffic. Granted, it doesn’t have the same sort of impact as, “God damn you, you motherfucking asshole!” Though, I kinda like the ring of “G.D. you!” It's like speaking in code. A very simple code that sounds like you're reciting the alphabet out of order. "G.D. U, U F'N A!"
*
I thought I had the flu --- even though I got the flu shot yesterday. I don't. But you know, any chance to infect others shouldn't be wasted. Being dubbed Patient Zero would be totally cool. Apart from maybe dying, 'cause then you wouldn't get to hear people say, "Hey, Patient Zero! How's it going?"

Whatever Helps You Sleep At Night

Lois finds a note in Chris's pocket
Lois: Huh, what's this? You know Stewie, Mommy doesn't usually read things out of Chris's pocket. She's more respectful than that.
Stewie: Whatever helps you sleep at night, bitch.
*
Found this hilarious site devoted to quotes from "The Family Guy" and as I was scrolling through the Stewie section, I realized that the characters I like best are the misanthropic anti heroes. Guys like House, Dr. Cox, Bender and Stewie.

Anyways...

I look like a homeless woman right now. I have a white t-shirt on and a red, long-sleeved shirt on top of that and a navy blue and white sweater on top of that. Plus, I'm wearing brown cords with Keds that are on the verge of self-anhilation.

I don't really feel like doing any work today, even though today's a pretty quiet day. Plus, the atmosphere's kinda doom and gloom, what with yesterday's news.

I'm starving right now.

All I can think about is food, but all I've got is a paltry crap lunch and I'm too skint to go out and get something else. I mean, lunch will do...as long as I eat very slowly and try to trick my stomach into believing I'm eating a whole lot more. I'm too lazy to get up and leave this desk. I just want to sit on my ass all day and do nothing.

Lost Poppies and Misanthropic Behaviour

So.

I lost my poppy.

Right before Remembrance Day, too.

I was amazed I hadn't lost it earlier when I bought three for me and my sisters at our grandmother's nursing home. It'd stayed pinned to my brown cord jacket. But when I transferred it to my fleece jacket today? Whoosh! Gone with the wind. And you have no idea how much that pisses me off because now I look like one of those assholes who couldn't shell out one lousy dollar for a poppy to remember our veterans by. But you know what irritates me even more?

I shelled out a dollar for that poppy!

Frick on a stick on a brick!

I saw that guy who looks like that other guy I went to high school with again, even though he's probably not that Other Guy. Last time, he sat right next to me on the train ride and I was like, "Oh fucking hell. Gimme a break. There's an empty seat across from me, dude. Why squeeze in next to me? Have the decency to avoid me like the plague like most other guys would."

I glanced up just as he shifted his gaze quickly away and I knew he was watching me the way I watch certain people on the TTC --- covertly. And when they so much as glance in my direction, I shift my gaze because I'm the Queen of Ignoring People. It's like they become this Blind Spot in my field of vision. I'll stand there, see the brown tile floor of the platform, the grimy walls of the station, the garbage can, and blip right over that person who's become a familiar sight. And it's like, by some unspoken, tacit agreement, we agree to never sit anywhere near each other or next to each other. We pretend we don't have any flicker of recognition every time we happen to get onto the same bus, train car or arrive at the same bus stop.

That's just how it is and how it should be.

This time around, I had the good sense to let him get off first, even though I was beginning to feel neck strain from standing so rigidly and pretending I was feeling perfectly natural and oblivious to his presence. Hey, I didn't remember him. This was no biggie.

I didn't want him sitting anywhere near me again 'cause my bag was emitting the vaguely fart-ish odour of my lunch (Vietnamese sub). Anyone with a nose who had the misfortune of sitting next to me would find me repulsive. Like some homeless person who hadn't bathed in six years.

We got onto different cars and I couldn't help thinking about the Other Guy and how mean I was to him in high school.

I think the only reason he remembered my name and remembered me was because I was so hostile and mean to him. Like, the way I treated that guy was like we were on opposing sides of an ethnic war and my sole mission in life was to scorn him.
Plus, there was the competition thing going on between us in law class. And being forced to sit next to him.

I'd give Dr. House a run for his money in the whole misanthropy game.

I remember this one time, the Other Guy asked me how my weekend was and I said, "What do you care? You just want me to ask how your weekend was and frankly, I don't really give a shit how your weekend was."

And then there was the time he wanted me to do him a favour and I was like, "Since you have so much trouble remembering names, I'll only do it if you can tell me what my name is."

Of course, he has to catch me on the day I'm wearing my mugger's hat, have a big gigantic red zit on the side of my face and have hair the size of an afro.

Ugh.

Bomb Scare

This morning, I get to Bloor station and notice a lot of people staring down the tunnel. When the train arrives, the power shuts down and the driver tells us, that, due to to a "security situation", we had to hold at this station.

Nosy people pour out of the cars, like blood leaking out of a severed artery. Everyone starts walking towards the end of the platform, drawn to it like fruit flies to rotting flesh. And then I notice a couple of officers and security personnel walking past.

Don't fucking tell me some Islamic fundamentalist has chosen to blow up Bloor station today, I think.

I'm strangely calm even though, in retrospect, a little bit of panic wouldn't have been entirely out of order.

I call Patti and let her know I'll be late. I cringe, remembering I was late Monday, too. And when I call, I hear the shakiness in my voice, as though my suspicions about the aforementioned Islamic fundamentalist are actual facts and not just the result of an overactive imagination. And like some highly contagious virus, the fear spreads and Patti tells me to "stay safe."

I stand around some more. At this point, I haven't gotten my period yet, so things are a-okay. It's not like I have any burning yen to be at work, you know?

So, Michelle leaves me this voicemail. She checked in with Leanne, whose boyfriend works for the TTC, and apparently, YES, it WAS a bomb scare this morning.

"We're glad you made it into work!" she said with a laugh.

Um, yeah.

Hurting All Over

Oh God.

I can feel it starting.

The whole please-strike-me-dead feeling, which makes me think that dealing with the onset of PMS, with the depression and wild mood swings and wahtnot, is a walk in the park compared to all this physical crap that I go through once a month. I mean, on a good month, all I feel is bloated and cranky. But this? This makes me feel like I'm going through heroin withdrawal.

And to make matters worse, it's bloody raining.

I can feel in my bones that I'm going to wind up one of those old broads who has arthritis one day. And I'm feeling so fucking cold that I can't seem to stop shaking --- which just makes me seem jittery and high.

Okay.

Think about something else.

Um...I'm reading "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey. God. I've never done drugs, but I get what he's going through. Lucky me. I get to go through this once a month without having to abuse drugs or alcohol. My body just does this to me...and it makes me feel intensely sorry for myself.

I Heart David Sedaris

Oh my God, I'm obsessed.

If I was a gay man, I’d want to marry him. But seeing as how I’m not interested in doing a sex change operation, it’d probably be easier if he was a straight guy.

It’s cruel how life is sometimes.

I'm in love with David Sedaris --- mostly because he's a fucking inspiration.

Found myself reading certain essays in his book and thinking, "Oh my God! Me, too! I do that, too!" or "Holy turds! My parents are like that, too." And then, I had this vague sense of, "Um, yeah, maybe I'm sounding like one of those scary psychos in daytime soaps." You know the kind, right? The ones who build shrines with whole walls covered in glossy, studio shots of their victims and candles all lit underneath it, 'cause, you know, it's not like psychos can afford to pay their electricity bills or anything, see as they don't work. I mean, how can they? They're busy stalking their loved one all day.

Not that I'd ever do that with David Sedaris.

I mean, I had this mini shrine to Jude Law once, but then the whole nanny thing happened and I had to tear his picture off my wall because that just really disappointed me.

Anyways...

I've been thinking lately about how, a couple of nights ago, I was on the train coming home when I overheard these two people talking about some project they were working on and it was obvious they were uber smart, successful people making a real difference in the world with their unpronouncable scientific research thingies. And standing there, I felt like this colossal loser, who couldn't help questioning what the hell happened to make me fritter away my God given potential to be really, truly something?

'Cause, you know, like David Sedaris, I have this completely unfounded sense of intellectual superiority that is 100% baseless.

Baseless or not, I still feel like I could have potentially found a cure for HIV one day or single-handedly brokered peace in the Middle East.

Instead, I work at...well, let's not get into where I work. Let's just assume for entertainment purposes that I'm a drug mule and leave it at that.

And call me a melodramatic hoe if you want, but this really plummeted me into the throes of depression.

But then, I started thinking about how God's always given me pretty clear signs as to what He wants me to do with my life.

If David Sedaris can become successful as a writer then maybe I could, too.

To G - Miscellaneous Crap

Date: Tue, 8 Nov 2005 17:48:36 -0500 (EST)
From: anonymouswriter78@gmail.com
Subject: Miscellaneous Crap
To: G


Um, yeah. You sound like my mom with the hot flashes. Just the other day, she was flapping at herself and saying, "Are you hot? I'm hot. I'm sweating!"

And I just looked at her and said, "Um, no. That's because I'm not suffering from menopause."

The other day, we were visiting with gran and there was this huge storm happening. Anyways, lightening and thunder crash and mom's sitting by the window. The noise startles her so badly she wobbles and makes this weird noise. Gran, meanwhile, is just sitting there. She seems more lucid these past few days. She's pissed 'cause she knows what's going on. Anyways, guess what my mom thought the lightening and thunder were? A nuclear bomb going off.

Um, okay-y-y...can we say "Crazy"?

We're teaching her how to play chess and she eagerly sat down for her first game against Sister 2, rubbing her hands together and saying, "I'm going to kill you!"

Guess what? Sister 2 had a job interview as web designer...for a porn company! She didn't go for the interview of course, but it was funny when she found out what the company was.

Had to go buy a swim suit for sister 4 the other day. It was embarrassing because she and I are the same size and because she was't there, I had to try it on. Couldn't find a sales clerk and when I did, it was a guy, who felt compelled to tell me that I should keep my underwear on when trying on the swim suit.

Um, no shit. Do I look like I've never tried on a swim suit before?

Geez.

Got my flu shot yesterday. Felt like I had the flu while I was sitting down to get my shot. But I'm fine today. The nurse wasn't gentle, though. She practically manhandled me with those massive paws of hers. I felt totally abused afterwards.

Wow. Didn't know you'd have such a reaction to spicy food. I think I'm just used to it 'cause, seeing as my parents were born in India and we have Indian food all the time, we're used to it. Plus, when it IS too hot, I suffer in silence. Luckily, I don't have any telltale clues of the internal struggle that I'm going through. Sister 2, on the other hand, is like you. Eyes watering like you wouldn't believe.

Things I Think About In My Spare Time

I like to rank people in order of importance in my life just so I'll know who to give my kidney to.

Yeah, the kidney donation thing...if I consider you a good friend, I wouldn't think twice about giving you a kidney --- but only if you need it, of course. Not for show or anything. But you know, I like to rank people in order of who I'd consider giving a kidney to first...if such a scenario should ever arise.

It's sort of like, if there were two people hanging off the edge of a cliff, who would I save first?

(Not cousin Vanessa, not Aunt Helen, not Aunt Susan, not Uncle Peter, but yes to some of my sister's friends.)

Um...yeah, this is what I think about in my spare time.

Oh, and adding people to my "Should Be Sterilized List". Or contemplating how great it'd be if I had some opera singer follow me around and shout out "Mistake!" every time I was about to do something stupid --- as a warning system. (Saw that on Scrubs once. Funny episode. People are morons for not watching that show.)

Or maybe not the opera singer, but a manservant like Jeeves.

You know...just general, run-of-the-mill stuff.