Let’s Call This a Footnote

I saw this post last week on Craigslist and it pissed me off.

Really, it smacks of passive aggression and downright laziness.

As we all know by now, from my incessant reminders of my MANifesto, I have a vested interest in the relations between men and women in this grand city. And while I freely admit to being ready and willing to pull my own weight in initiating conversation with strange and foxy men (although I must also admit to having a much more difficult time doing so while sober. This will be my next mission on the path to inner happiness, to try to chat up some dude during daylight hours, I will keep you posted on my progress), I also must stress that I think it’s important that the men take some responsibility as well.

As it turns out, I’m not alone.

There were two responses to that initial post that really tickled my fancy, but some jack-off decided to remove them, so you’ll have to take my word for it.  Or not.  Do what you want, I’m not the boss of you.

One of the posts was so perfect, it could have been written by me. But it wasn’t. Somewhere out there, I have a soul sister.

I’m only willing to practice my new world order of Ladies-Initiate-Fellas-Reciprocate if the dudes can meet me halfway. I do like a little bit of flattery, and to see some initiative coming from you men, too. And I don’t mean I want you to post comments on my blog telling me how “sexy” I am. That just makes me feel cheap. You know who you are. I don’t, and such is the life and times of the modern day blogger.

What I’m saying is if you see me, or any girl, in real life, and you want to chat up that cute kitty, then do so nicely and with respect. I’m not going to shoot you down. I will, like I said, be flattered by your efforts, and I’m almost positive any other girl will feel the same, regardless of whether or not she’s taken.

There ain’t nothing wrong with a little bit of innocent flirting, now is there?

What’s This Lump?

I had another haunted house dream a few days ago.

I won’t bore you with the details, mostly because I couldn’t even bore myself with the details, having forgotten them upon waking up and living life, but it had something to do with the upstairs bathroom.  Not my own upstairs bathroom, AKA the garbage can in my bedroom (do I need to mention that I’m kidding?  Or that I’m only mostly kidding?  Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all, pretend you didn’t read this part), but the same dream bathroom that I always dream about.

No windows, light blue tiles, frosted glass shower door.  An upstairs bathroom in an old house that I am unfamiliar with in waking life, but that I almost always dream about when I’m dreaming of hauntings.

Anyway, what I’m getting at, is that I’m sorta concerned by the return of the haunted house dream.

It only happens when my subconscious is struggling with something.  And usually I know full well what my subconscious is struggling with.  Usually it’s something really obvious in my conscious life.  Some huge pain in my ass.

But I have no pains in my ass, currently.

At least I thought I didn’t.

Shitstorms

What does it mean to sabotage yourself?

When the results you reap are the actions you’ve sowed, and you knew all along that what you were doing would never be beneficial.

I’ve been spending a lot of time doing nothing beneficial.

I’ve been building a dam, made of laziness and debauchery, and although I’ve enjoyed these things before, I am not enjoying them now.

There is guilt in here.  Guilt due to action and inaction alike.

I feel like I’m watching myself move slowly towards a train wrecked fate.  I keep telling myself to suck it up and do something good for myself, even if it means expending energy I don’t have.  To stop looking around and just focus, for the love of sanity preservation.

It’s not too late to turn this mess around, but it will be soon if I continue to mope and avoid my responsibilities.

Good Intentions

A couple days ago, I saw a baby bird fall out of its nest.

Or maybe kicked out.

At any rate, the bird landed on a busy Queen street sidewalk, and eventually ended up inside the restaurant where I work.  There were plenty of women around (customers), willing to play the role of nurturing mother bird, and after several phone calls to animal people, the bird ended up being taken to a nearby park to be set free.

Ideally, it should have been put back outside, near the nest where the parents could deal with it.  Apparently a baby bird does not get shunned by its parents after being touched by humans.  However, if the environment was too dangerous (Queen street weekend crowd, with dogs, and strollers, and heavy traffic on the road), then the bird would be better off somewhere safe, even if it meant being out of hearing range from its parents.

I doubt this little bird survived the weekend, but even without human interference, I think it would have suffered the same fate.

Bad timing, bad nest placement, good intentions.

Isn’t the road to hell paved with all of these?

Acey, Deucy, Juicy Fruit

So, at the place where I work, I am required to do the morning clean up.

This involves all the usual sweeping, mopping and wiping of surfaces.  This is not something that servers often do, it is generally the work of the dishwasher, but we are a small restaurant, and I am my own dishwasher most days of the week.

No biggie.

Something that I discovered as the wiper of surfaces, is that guys really like to leave chewing gum in the urinal.  I will find a wad of gum sitting in the urinal at least once a week, sometimes more than that.

Why is that?

There’s a garbage can two feet away from where they’re standing, easily accessible, why not throw the gum in there?

I suppose it’s better than leaving me an upper decker, but really, who the hell wants to pick used gum out of a urinal?  Or fresh gum, for that matter?

A pearl necklace might be nice.

Oh wait, no.  No it wouldn’t.

A Genre of Extremes

So I really like reading horror novels.

I took the typical horror route, starting with Stephen King at the age of twelve, plowing through almost all of his work, including the Richard Bachman novels. I stopped reading his new novels, Hearts Over Atlantis was painful to read, but I did still enjoy Everything’s Eventual, a collection of short stories, short stories being Stephen King’s forte.

I have, in the past, read about four Dean Koontz novels, and although I agree with the masses in saying that he sucks, I can’t really remember what it is about him that inspires such rage in his readers. If I were a brave woman, I would try to read another one of his novels and see what the lynching rope is made of.

Maybe I will.  Masochism can be so exhilarating at times.

Fast forward a few years, and a few more reading experiences, I’m currently reading, or was trying to read, some John Saul. First book, Shadows, went down alright, second one is going into the garbage. I’m not even returning it to Value Village; I don’t hate anyone enough to want to subject them to this nonsense.

Dear John Saul,

Have you heard of character development? It’s when you add some dimension to your characters, preferably realistic dimension, so that the reader can sympathize, or at least empathize with their position.

Really, the only horrifying aspect to Sleepwalk is that it got published.

Let me guess where you came up with the idea: you fell asleep within the first twenty minutes of Dangerous Minds, woke up to Bonanza, and decided that combining the two would really turn up the suck.

Am I right?

Sigh. Back to square one for me.

Any suggestions on good horror writers would be greatly appreciated.

I Was Wearing Pink Rubber Gloves

Occasionally, I like to watch Kenny VS Spenny on YouTube.

They’re funny enough to make me laugh out loud, even when I’m alone, and there’s a huge stash of episodes available.

However, after last night’s strange dream, I wonder if maybe I should cut down on my KVS consumption.

I dreamed that I was in Kenny’s bathroom, helping him set up a camera in the toilet for a stunt.  His toilet was really dirty, and I started to clean it for him.  He said I didn’t have to, but I told him the camera would adhere to the bowl better, if it was clean.

I was on my knees, he was standing naked in front of me, and I offered to stick his penis in my mouth.

He asked if I was kidding, and I said no, and he said something about having to hang out with me more often.

I didn’t suck him off, but we made plans to go shopping together after the camera was set up.

Interpretation:

In this dream, the bathroom signifies my need for self renewal, and cleaning the toilet means that I’m now ready to shed my inhibitions.

A naked person, one that does not disgust me, means that I’m able to see and accept people as they truly are.

Offering up a BJ means that I’m willing to give pleasure to others, even to comedians, who, in my experience, tend to be mean and self absorbed off stage.

A New Cherry to Pop

I really like song covers, when done properly.

And sometimes, I hear the covers before I hear the originals, and everything gets messed up.

Here is a crazy cover of Toots and the Maytals’ Monkey Man, done by Melt Banana.

It really blows the tits off of the version done by the Specials.

I hope this link thingy works.

Take That, Moon Trip

I am so very tired.

It has something to do with staying out until 3am last night. Or this morning, as it were. I was flirting with a handsome stranger, and lost track of time.

I can only imagine how charming I must have been, choking on beer, and spraying it all over the table.

Blathering on about god knows what.

I mean really, could I be any more stupid than I am while drunk? How hard it must be to carry on a conversation with drunken Mavis, having to constantly repeat responses to my inane questions because I was too drunk to absorb any information.

This isn’t a shameover post, though. I didn’t do anything all that stupid last night. Nothing to fret over, at any rate. As we all know, I’ve managed to set the bar quite high for myself as far as drunken shenanigans go.

I convinced the two guys ahead of me in the bathroom lineup to let me go first because they had something they could pinch, while I did not. I’ll have to thank my grade eight teacher for inventing that excuse, it’s a good one and I’m totally using that line again.

Oh, and I broke my MANifesto curse, too. I hit on some guy before I even knew what I was doing. It came so naturally, my inner slut just waltzed on out, guns a’blazing.

Good for me.

Slutty girls have more fun, after all.

After This Nap

I have a friend who owns a ninth floor condo with a fucking VIEW. I was there for the first time during the day last week. Gorgeous. I had no idea you could see the lake from there.

Trees are so pretty this time of year, with their pale green baby leaves. The cherry blossoms contrast nicely against them.

Spring is weird for me.

It’s fresh and pretty, and I like that summer is coming and winter is far, far away. So why do I always go through a depression in the spring?

I never noticed it before, but it happens every year, this depression.

At it’s worst, I think about killing myself. Last year was bad. I even got so far as to actually plan my suicide, which, upon realizing how far gone I’d been to do such a thing, caused me to cry while riding the subway. I’m not much of a crier these days, haven’t been for a couple of years, so to start crying on a fucking train, surrounded by people, was definitely for me a sign of distress.

This year isn’t so bad.

Not contemplating suicide, at any rate.

Just constantly tired. Exhausted, actually.

I just don’t have the energy to make dresses, or try to expand my line to new stores. In fact, I’m really behind on everything. I was supposed to do a photo shoot, and a studio sale, and send off stock to some stores this month, but I’ve barely done anything.

And I have no idea where the time goes. What am I wasting it on? Solitaire? Super Collapse? Archie comics and VC Andrews?

All I want to do is eat and watch tv. And read VC Andrews and Archie comics.

Fuck.

I have to do something about this.