Christmas Break: What I'm Reading

I am really tired of telling other people what they should be reading, so I have a new plan: I call it "What I am Reading" and this is the first installment.

Every time I turn around, someone else is asking me what they should be reading. During my final evaluation at Ford, even Jesse asked me what I thought he should read. He told me, "You ask a business student what companies to invest in, and you ask an English student what books to read...." He went on to tell me what you ask every other major on the face of the planet, and I listened politely, as I am known to do right before I say something truly insulting or sarcastic. I usually stick with sarcasm with Jesse because it flies right over his head. So, here's what I am currently reading:

• Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie. It's his new novel and I had to put it in the freezer so that it didn't distract me while I was supposed to be studying for exams.
• With Every Mistake by Gwynne Dyer. Conrad Black hates Dyer because Black's wife has some kind of personal vendetta against him, so Dyer's articles are scarce in major Canadian newspaper (read: almost all of them). So, Dyer put together a book full of his articles from just before 9/11 until right about now. The best part is that he tears himself down almost as often as he tears down every one else...I love it very much, but I never put it in the freezer.
• Love by Toni Morrison. I got the hardcover for ten bucks while I was waiting for Shane...who leaves me alone in a Chapters for an hour? Shane. Crazy crazy Shane.

That's something to get you thinking, but there's more. Besides what I'm currently reading, you now have a once in a lifetime chance to see what I plan on reading over the next month or so. This is the condensed list because I can't remember every single one of them. Expect it to grow when I remember and find new books that I still plan on reading before I get back to school.

• As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. I don't know what it's about. I have to read it for American Lit instead of Go Down, Moses, which I plan on reading just the same.
• Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. Because I don't know how I can go any longer without reading it.
• War Trash by Ha Jin. Because it was a book of the month about two months ago and I still haven't gotten to it.
• Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. Because I hate myself sometimes.
• The Crazed by Ha Jin. Because I like fragmenting my sentences.
• While Canada Slept by I don't know who. Because I wanted to hear from the other side for a change, even if I can't remember the other side's name.
• No War by Naomi...umm, something. Jean thinks it will be a good rant. Now Jean has it and I do not.
• Wicked by Maguire...it's about the wicked witch of the west in The Wizard of Oz.

There's more. I'll get the names and repost tomorrow. I know how eager you all are to see something new though, and I really hate to disappoint. Don't forget to convert. I'll let you in on the secret rules of Weinist Christmases if you convert a friend.

Hillary Comes to London

A heart felt tribute to random road trips.

So Shane and Hillary got to talking, and then next thing I knew we were picking her up at the Burlington bus station. I wasn't even allowed to pick up clean clothes while we were there...too much controversy. But we had an exciting night, let me tell you... From left to right: Kalvin, Hillary and Jason in Kalvin's kitchen. Pre-hot tub. Post- getting the sunfire stuck in the snow in the parking lot of my building. Thank goodness I drive stick so well. Thank goodness that meant I didn't have to get out and push. Don't they look so happy to be together? Wouldn't you also be happy if you were invited to be there? I love the look on Kalvin's face...I bet he's saying something hilarious. Meanwhile all Hillary and Jason can think about is how the picture will turn out.
Kalvin's dog, Luke. I didn't know his name before. Now you know and so do I. Isn't learning fun? He was a little bundle of crazy. He didn't like me very much, but I really wanted him to. Somehow we managed to miss taking a picture of the other dog, Molly. Hillary loved Molly more because she was less jumpy and crazy. I liked the crazy. Speaking of crazy, I really wish we got a picture of Kalvin's dad in the Santa hat. He's the most religious drunk man I've ever met in my whole life.
In case you weren't sure before, here's proof that Wein really is #1. Hill put on the foam finger and was thus officially converted. She was a close follower for some time, but donning the finger is like confirmation. She was drunk enough that I think we can safely say she's in it for all the right reasons. Hill's drink of choice for those of you who were wondering (and I think that's probably every body) is Fireball and Dr. Pepper. Apparently Shane failed to make it taste like liquid cinnamon hearts the way it was supposed to. He liquored her up pretty fast though. (Hooray for public hangovers, Hill. I love that I was not alone in that one, even if yours was later in the day.)
Kalvin, AKA Hugh Sternberger...because the robe makes him like Hugh Heffner, and my stupidity makes his last name Sternberger. Also because he found out that there are people in the world who actually call me Wein and wanted to be one of them. I'm sure he's thinking the deepest of thoughts while he drinks the weirdest of concoctions: watermelon vodka with coke and sprite. He made one for me too. I drank it so that I wouldn't hurt his feelings. And then I puked. Watermelon flavored stuff is now officially on the "things that make me puke" and the "these things are as evil as the devil" lists. I would have put it there sooner (ie last May 24 when I didn't drink much at all but still managed to get kicked out of Bikini Bobs and throw up most of the next morning...) but I thought I was just being a baby.
Because my favorite pasttime is drinking and wearing foam. If you ever needed more proof that my photogenes are seriously mutated, it's right there in front of you. You gotta love the glasses though. If nothing else...just love the glasses. The "lenses" are made out of cellophane, which really messes with one's vision. Rum can have that effect too. I'm sorry to say that the rum actually had very little to do with my wardrobe choices in this case.

The End Game

Good conversationalists know exactly how to get a conversation started and how to keep it interesting. Great conversationalists know how to bring and interesting conversation to a screeching halt without a moments notice.

I was watching an old episode of the Gilmore Girls the other night: Rory's roommate started spewing out random facts she had memorized to make starting and carrying on a conversation easier. This may or may not have been the same episode where Rory tells her date about urine mints. Either way, I've started doing some thinking on the topic and I've made a decision. It is much more important to know how to end a conversation than to learn how to start one. Every body else in the world is concentrating on learning to make small talk at parties and how to come across genuinely and affectionately within the right boundaries of societal norms, so the chance that you will actually find yourself in an uncomfortable situation where the talk just won't start is slim to none. You can confidently leave that to the rest of the world.

Ending a boring conversation, especially when you're really busy, is way harder than starting a boring conversation when you have the time to do it. Here are some tried and true methods, passed on throughout the generations:

• "Well, I won't keep you any longer. I know you've got lots to do." My mom's favourite thing to say to relatives who are keeping her tied up on the phone...literally because our cordless phones never work properly. She shouldn't have ever said it to me though. It's become my staple phrase to use on her when I have essays to write or books to read.
• "I'm really sorry, ___. I've got to get this roast out of the oven." Another method that works better on the phone than in person.
• "You'll have to excuse me, I just need to use the ladies room." No one ever comes back after that one. Stop waiting.

But ending a boring conversation is still not much of a challenge. The fact is, if you are that bored talking to the person you probably don't care if you hurt their feelings a little. What's harder is ending a conversation with someone you actually enjoy talking to, and doing it in a way that makes them leave you alone for quite some time. Try these:

• "Get the hell out. I have to study." I call this the tactful method. You might call it blunt.
• "Look, over there! A thirty foot snake is eating a kangaroo!" The crocodile hunter method. A personal favourite.
• "Is that your phone ringing?" The power of suggestion at work.
• "I have got the worst gas from dinner." Eww. I never use this one, but it works really well for guys because other guys just laugh and take a hint (most of the time) and girls don't stick around to find out if it's true.
• "Talking to you is like eating diuretics." A really bizarre twist on the old favourite, courtesy of JH.
• Just stop talking. Turn around. Stare blankly ahead. It's really confusing but as long as you persist it should work.
• "How dare you insult me in my home!" This works especially well if a) you are not in your home or b) you just received a compliment.
• "For the love of Peter and his starving children, why won't you just go home." This works especially well if whoever you're talking to is home...then you get to yell "THEN LEAVE!!"
• Start talking about your schoolwork or job in detail. Make shit up if it helps. I have started describing theses for papers I never intended to write and delved into the specifics of classes that don't even exist. If nothing else at least you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your ongoing conversation serves no purpose for anyone living or dead.
• And last but not least, there are the "you're just jealous" enders. "You're just jealous of my boyfriend"..."You're just jealous of my gorgeous hair"..."You're just jealous because I can balance jello on my belly button and you can't"..."You're just jealous because he really enjoyed having sex with me"..."You're just jealous that my name is longer than yours"...and last but certainly not least (because it is my all time favourite) "You're just jealous that I didn't try to convert you to my fake religion."

And there you have it. I hope they serve you as well as they serve me. Now if you'll excuse me, I just have to go to the ladies room...

The Snap

I told you it was coming...

I've done everything I can. I walked. I read. I studied. I wrote. I kept going. I stopped. I slept. I stayed up. I listened to my heart. I ignored my heart. I cried. I quit. I started over. And nothing helps.

I realized this when I was walking to the drug store the other night--freaking out because it was dark and my mom has managed to convince me that bad things happen when the sun goes down. I wasn't concerned about being attacked--I have no money. I didn't think I would be raped--my winter garb is neither that flattering nor that infuriating (because I still haven't decided whether I really believe that rapes are crimes of anger not passion). Nope. I was blissfully convinced that some unseen car was going to splatter my insides on the pavement, and my untimely demise would haunt some careless driver for the rest of his or her days.

How did I lose tomorrow at one am today? How did I get so lost? I drew the map myself.

But I kept going. And there was no disaster. I picked up things I wanted to buy, then put them down because I couldn't afford them. I tried to find some epsom salts. I made faces at the make-up mirrors and the price of mascara. It's really outrageous you know. And then I remembered that Jean should be getting home from work by then. And Jean always knows how to make me feel better. Jean and Kahlua...

At one am today, I crawled inside my own soul; I drew the map myself, but left it on my dresser.

I stopped at Wendy's having remembered that food was one of those annoying necessities and that I hate to cook. I tried to be pleasant. I smiled at the girl who took my order. She scowled back at me and reminded me of my sister. I love Wendy's because all of the workers are so dedicated to their specialties. The guy with the headset on stood there looking at me while he yelled, "Front cash! Hello! Front cash!!" And then he apologized to me. I couldn't figure out whether he was apologizing for yelling in my face or refusing to push the buttons on the cash register.

I crawled inside my own soul and started looking for the key. I'd left it on my dresser now I'm locked in, home alone, and no one's looking for me.

Back at the apartment, Amanda gave me slightly baffled looks the way she often does when I decide to do weird things like go out walking alone in the dark. At least I didn't come back with ice cream. I commend myself for that. She said that Jean had called back, so I got all excited and called Jean to tell her all my woes. It was one of those awkward moments where I realized that all the things I'd been fussing about earlier were no longer very relevant. That happens often when one has a panic attack and bursts into tears on the bus.

Have you started looking for the key? Or will you just leave me here? Locked in, home alone and no one's looking for me. Maybe I should just stop breathing...

Jean was full of stories for me. Stories of great grief and enlightenment. Stories about work. And decisions. I love how Jean always decides something in the middle of a sentence and all I can do is agree...even if her decision is implausible. IE: We need Second Cup. Well, yea...we always need Second Cup...but you're in one city and I'm in another...So now I have a coffee date planned a whole week in advance and I can pretty much be sure that it will continue for at least two weeks after that. Do you know what else we decided? We love elipses...because this way...we never have to finish any of our thoughts...isn't that ponderous? I think it might just be...

Will you just leave me here? Maybe I won't care. Maybe I should just stop breathing. Maybe I should give up forever.

But it didn't end there. Jean's insights carried me through to the next morning (mostly because I called her again when I woke up. She was called away from the phone rather hurriedly by nature). She taught me a whole bunch of exciting things that I can't wait to do the next time I find my way to the liquor cabinet...Such as the magic trick where you get a string to stick to an ice cube with salt...and then you get to eat the ice cube. Wowee I know.

Maybe I won't care if it makes any difference to you. Maybe I should give up; or wait another hour.

Jean's advice has done little to help my current disposition, however. I'm still here. And I'm back where I started. Luckily I shouldn't have any more bus breakdowns for at least a few days because I have no intention of riding it. Well, I'm going to take it to Chapters tomorrow, but that's a happy trip so I will do my best to keep the tears at bay.

If it makes any difference to you, you make all the difference to me. And I'll wait one more hour until time give up on me.

I'll keep walking. I'll read. I'll write. I'll pace. I'll sit. I'll stare. I'll study. I'll eat. I'll breathe. I'll listen to my heart. I'll ignore my heart. I'll keep believing it'll get better some day. Because anything has got to be better than this. I don't know anything yet. I won't give up until I know everything. Even if knowing everything means there is nothing to know at all...until then I will know I've done everything I can. I have walked. I have read. I have studied. I have written. I have kept going. I have stopped. I have slept. I have stayed up. I have listened to my heart. I have ignored my heart. I have cried. I have quit. I have started over. And nothing helps. But maybe help isn't what we need once we've snapped.

And after I snapped, I made a new blog at 3 in the a.m. called "Iris in Exile": http://irisinexile.blogspot.com There's a story behind that name...you'll have to ask if you want to hear it.

Overindulgent Tripe

Or the clearest evidence to date that the world just isn't listening to a single word I'm saying... This one really is for you, Jean. Afterall, you are the one who told me to read the book. You'll see what I mean when it's all over.

I was so excited. My mind was racing. And, I even had an audience. So, using the escarpment as a sounding board, here's what I came up with:

Thesis: Rushdie's novel Fury exposes the imposing aspects of Emersonian self-reliance and progress models, which have been incorporated into the American Dream.

1. The failure of the Dream: In Fury, commercial success never equates with social success or happiness. Moreover, commercial corruption becomes the infamous "price" of material success. Don't you see? Success isn't even enough...particulary if you're alone in the end as a result. The American Dream ignores the sacrifices one must make to achieve it; and the sacrifices can ultimately defy the dream itself. It's a circular problem. It's a problem of circularity...
2. Nonconformity and the Progress Narrative: Emerson says that everyday we should be striving for something better than what we obtained the day before. Progress is key. Progress is pivotal. But, progress is also probably a lie. So, what should someone do when progress feels impossible? How can one type of progress be distinguished from and judged against another type of progress? Who decides who is right? Well, let's be democratic about this...but Emerson loved individuality, and that conflicts with majority (read: mob) rule...So is nonconformity Emersonian because it is unique? or is it un-Emersonian because it might be defiant of progress? Something tells me Emerson really wanted progress to win out in the end.
3. The selfish side of Self-Reliance: Emersonian self-reliance puts the individual, and his (and I mean his, because Emerson said very little about women) opinions ahead of everyone else. Often, believing in oneself means clashing with every one else. When the main character of Fury finds himself wielding a knife over the body of his sleeping five year old, he realizes he wants to kill his son and his wife for no real reason. Maybe his fury is a result of the progress narrative getting him down. Maybe his insatiable desire to have freedom, and his subsequent cross-atlantic migration is the result of self reliance taken to the extreme. Maybe he's overindulging in a progress narrative that has gotten out of hand.

So, the problem is that for the whole rest of the world, the American Dream is one big mess. Other people see it and if they can't believe it, they hate it. The enormity of American influence thus becomes an oppressive force, in Fury for a British immigrant who continually gets screwed by trying to exploit the capitalist system for his own selfish purposes.

It's like an overreaction to everything American...But then, what is the attraction of the States? Rushdie was living in the US when he wrote the novel...And clearly his popularity is gaining him a lot in terms of capital. But the rage in the novel is what interests me the most. The five page rants about how stiffling America is. The assertion that the draw towards America is almost masochistic. And that's understandable...the main character has those tendencies. But it's hard to ignore how the influence of American culture bleeds through and becomes central to the fury, the rage, the frustration of the speaker/writer.

It starts to seem undeniable that Emerson's influence is not about to stop. The American Dream soundly situates itself on Emerson's bootstrap narrative: progress, slowly or quickly, but do it of your own accord and do it consistently. The idea that any body (umm, probably any white man) can achieve greatness and become a genius just by being unique is undeniably flawed. When Emerson wrote it, it was sort of true. Look at what came of it and you can see that much. But what about that "are they my poor" stuff? That seems to be right in the crux of the anti-American sentiment that is infused into Rushdie's novel.

My answer? Of course they're your poor. Do everything you can for every person you meet that needs your help. If you believe in progress so much then, for the love of all that it is holy, help the world progress! Trust in self is one thing, abandonment of all humanity is another thing altogether!!

And an anti-American stance is incredibly important for a Canadian student studying American Literature because so much of Canadian identity is wrapped up in the desire to be "not American." (Defining self by the other, in fewer words). The knee jerk anti-American sentiment that I love about this book almost definitely has tons to do with the fact that I am Canadian, and I recognize just how infuriating American idealism can become.

And then I realized that all this time, my attentive listener was attentively taking pictures of my backside. In case you thought I was getting carried away...I was.

Picture Perfect

Or, in my case...not so much. Because pictures and words can go hand in hand...

Here it is, Ladies and Gentlemen--proof that I'm not all about words all the time; and more than that, I'm not all about the deep and depressing (let alone the deeply depressing). I still refuse to drop the 'tude, but this post is all about the lighter side of life. Maddy's face says it all. I entertained her for an hour and a half with a handful of pencil crayons and a camera. Oh, to be three years old again.







The cottage, complete with a view of the little red boat. The front door is a recent addition. Someday, maybe I'll tell you the whole story about how capable of deceit my father actually is. If you look carefully you can see the ski rope tied to the tree in the far right: it's keeping up my hammock where I spend the majority of my days up north. Usually the front of the cottage is littered with more water toys, but Shane took this picture when we went up for Thanksgiving. Brrr....

This might be the last surviving picture of me someday. Now you can see how exciting my life is--I went to Shane's house for his birthday dinner and got to look over paint samples with his mom before they fed me. Does that glass sitting in front of me send a shiver of hope through you? No such rum. Just plain coke. Shane has begged and pleaded with me to just leave this picture alone. It's not that good...but let me show you what my pictures usually look like.






Because I only trust the camera after a few rum and cokes...and umm...ya, I'm not gonna lie--there's no other excuse really for the horribleness of my face on film. I blame my lack of photogenes...The first person to say, "Wow, now I know why she is so bitter!" will be excommunicated. I don't even know what excommunication means in Weinism, but if I have to dream it up you can count on it not being any prettier than this picture.





Living, breathing proof that genetic speculation is majorly flawed. My older brother is at least twice my weight and stands about 15 inches taller than me. Takes a better picture too. Talk about getting the short end of the stick....

The most Brendany picture of Brendan I could find. Because I just had to prove that I don't have anything against pictures on blogs, I also just had to put up a picture of the sole inspirator. (And make up a new word in the process) See how happy this whole post has been? Birthday pictures...exotic locales...cheesy anecdotes...smiling faces...and I kept the self-deprecating humour you all love so much. The key to life is balance...that and knowing when the Benedryl is beating out your tired little brain. Time to call it a night. Stay tuned for more witless banter. Don't get too attached to the pictures though--they take half of forever to load and I rarely have that much time to spare. I'm much too busy contemplating the apocalypse. Don't forget to convert.

The Brink

I have a guilt complex a mile long; and it twists around itself until it's smaller than a grain of sand, sitting in the shade of my soul, sipping on a margarita. My guilt is an alcoholic...

I know that I'm really on the verge of a serious breakdown when a couple of things start happening. First, I can't sleep. It's twenty to five and I stopped blinking two hours ago. No caffeine either. Caffeine is the first thing to go when I'm feeling like this--high strung.

Second, I cannot sit still to save my tired soul. And my soul is really tired. It wants to celebrate the end of November with a nice long rest. Sorry, soul, better luck next year...

Third, I'm hungry but I don't want to eat anything. This isn't a self-conscious about holiday weight gain bit, this is an I'm not in the mood for food bit. It's really annoying. I raided my cupboards and despite the moaning and groaning in my stomach couldn't convince myself to even heat up a bowl of soup.

Fourth, all my old addictions come back with a mean vengeance. In first year I used to have bruises on my palm from playing online games where my hand just rested on the desk for hours at a time. It's a good thing I was never a problem gambler. I'm too poor to lose all my money.

Finally, I just don't care. The redeeming feature of being this close to the edge pertains to the rest of the world: you can say anything to me and I will laugh as though you woke up this morning intent on bringing me joy. How sweet of you. Seriously, try it. I dare you.

And the cause? What could be at the source of my confounded behaviour and disposition? I blame American Literature. Read a little Robinson and you'll see. I'm going to be the on the drowning side. Unless I "seize the swift logic of a woman and Curse God and die." All too perfect a plan in my eyes right now.

I'm going to reread the cynics guide for the second time this week because I like to believe it might put me to sleep...there are some things in this world you just can't change. But some things you can't see until they leave--they're the things that you miss. And that's all it is.

Down in Flames

Because I never get to quit when I say I want to.

So, with essay number three out of the way, I can open my mind to greater horizons--like essay number four. Or, I could finally quit the way I always wanted to. Not bloody likely. Tonight I'm going to turn my sights to Dickinson, and hopefully psychology at some point before I pass out. This schedule is messing with my system: I can't get to sleep until like three or four but have to see a certain someone out around five, so just as I'm about to hit my REM cycle I get rudely brought back to consciousness. It hurts.

Novembers almost over though, finally. We can move on to the holiday season. The thing I like best about the holidays is all the things I can hate: Santa, reindeer, gifts, friends, relatives...you name it. They're all walking around with bullseyes on the middle of their foreheads, rambling about the Christmas spirit and Peace on Earth. In case you haven't noticed, one month of introspection and monetary kindness cannot make up for eleven months of ignorance and greed. Just a thought. At least I get to break open my Advent calendar on Thursday.

Did I tell you about the bus pass fiasco? I think I threw it out along with my student card, so I went to get them both replaced earlier this week. (And by earlier I mean yesterday, but my way sounded more sophisticated...more words ALWAYS equals greater sophistication.) I went to my favourite place on campus--the Registrar's office. There, I spent 45 minutes waiting for them to work out the kinks in their database so that they could print me a new card with a picture that's even worse than the first one. Honestly, I didn't think that was possible. I guess the moral of the story is to never doubt the limits of the world's spite for you and your unphotogenic nature. Next, I went to Infosource to get a new bus pass. Twenty-five dollars and twenty feet of receipt paper later, I was told to come back at 5. I love the world. It just hates me so much it's really adorable.

Like I have time for any of that nonsense. But the time-wasters don't just work at the registrar's office and Infosource, oh no...they are everywhere. Particularly, they flock to Student Health Services. I had an appointment this afternoon that was supposed to be very brief...drop-in in nature as a matter of fact. I waited 5 minutes for someone to tell me that I had to talk to someone else who made me wait 10 minutes to talk to her, then told me to sit and wait another 10 or 15 minutes to be seen. Did I mention I only had a half hour from the time I got there until I had to be in class to hand in my essay?

And oh, it gets better. My name was finally called and I went and had my little powwow with the nurse. She tells me she just has to take my blood pressure then I'll be on my way. I drop the layers and she does her bit. Frowns a little. Tells me I can sit back down beside the desk while she goes to check on something. I wait. She comes back and says that my blood pressure was a little high, and asks if I was rushing around before I got there. I told her I'd been sitting in the waiting room for at least 5 minutes before she called my name and waited around before that...no, I wasn't running or walking quickly or anything. Just sitting. Hmmm...she decides that she'll let me sit and stew for a few more minutes on my own then take it again.

Still high. What the hell? Is it really that high? No, just higher than at my last physical (which was in November of last year...) I am getting really frustrated at this point. The more frustrated I get the worse my reading gets. The nurse leaves to consult with the doctor. I'm thinking, holy hell, will I ever get out of here? She comes back and tells me the doctor isn't worried about me, so I'm free to go.

I hope I have a stroke tomorrow. At least then that nonsense will have been for some purpose and the nurse can nanananana at the doctor for letting me leave. I kinda liked her, I just didn't like all that waiting. It would be nice if she was right and I finally got to go down in flames.

P.S. A quick plug I meant to get to half a month ago. Look into Jenn's blog because I am her sole inspiration: http://jschwass.blogspot.com and if you like to see my name mentioned in random and strange ways under the guise of explanation for artwork, try out Brendan's : http://rampantranting.blogspot.com

Procrastination Generation

Or, how to successfully avoid--and validate your avoidance of-- all things unpleasant in life.

You are on the right track, let me tell you. If you have something to read or write or otherwise complete, this is the place to come to prevent you from doing that. There are a few tips that can help you with overall procrastination:

• Get mopey. You already don't want to do any of the things you are supposed to be doing. So put on a sour face and the world will leave you to your sulk party.
• Make everything alliterate. It takes longer.
• Value irony. Spend the majority of your time complaining about how there aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done.

But, that's just the beginning. Take it from me, a world class procrastinator, you really need an entire list of things to choose from when you want to avoid doing something. Like me, here I sit, instead of writing an essay that is due on Wednesday I am protesting writing altogether. Value the hell out of that statement, and read these more specific tips:

• MSN. This one should be pretty easy, and it tends to be on the top of most people "procrastination list", which brings me to my next point...
• Lists. Make everything into a list. Write down everything you have to do and then allocate time for every activity. Frame the list. Love the list. And let the list mean nothing to you.
• Make everything into a drinking game. Barrel of monkeys: every player tries to pick up as many monkeys as they can. As soon as they drop a monkey their turn is over. The person with the most monkeys doesn't have to drink, but everyone else has to have one shot/sip/chug for every monkey on their chain. It is REALLY hard to play alone, in case you were wondering. Make a list of the rules for all your drinking games. Don't patent it. Procrastination cannot be turned into capital gain.
• Read random blogs. Umm, like this one.
• Write random blogs. Umm, not like this one. Mine are never random. They are incredibly well thought out works of ingeniuty.
• Practise a menial task. See how many times different ways you can wrap an elastic around itself. Do all kinds of sit ups and push ups. Turn pieces of your essay into poetry, then back into prose (Did you know that Benjamin Franklin did that to improve his vocabulary?).
• Lead by example. Bring the whole world to your world of procrastination but don't call it a party. It is a meeting of the minds.
• Make Benjamin Franklin your role model. Even he couldn't be as good as he wanted to think he was. Man, I have Benny on the brain today.
• Do other people's work. Read pages and pages of legal crap for no real reason. Proofread essays in topics you know nothing about. Focus your efforts on getting everyone around you through school while you slip through the cracks. In other words, become an academic doormat. (For more on academic doormattism, see previous anecdote about a certain teacher that gave me a B- to prevent another student from failing outright...)
• Fuss about the significant other in your life. If you don't have one, fuss about the lack of one. If you vowed never to let these things bother you, then fuss about how the world fusses too much about such stupid things.
• Go through this entire site and figure out what I was doing because I really believed in it and what I was doing purely to mess with your head. When you're done that write me an angry letter for messing with your head.
• Turn everything you say into a song, either by talking in song lyrics or by singing about what you're doing. People at work were wicked at this. I don't know how many "I'm going to the bathroom, where I will pull down my pants and pee" songs I heard this summer.
• Play the shadow game with your roommate. If you're super bored, play the literal version, where you actually follow him/her around for hours at a time, mimicking his/her every move.
• Sit on your porch, balcony, etc and comment loudly on people passing by. When there's no one around sing only these lines by PUSA: "Kitty at my foot, meowing out a conversation. Two string on my lap, all plugged in to amplification. Rocking back and forth, that's my only destination. Cuz I'm an old man on the back porch." By the end of those lines there should be someone new to comment on.
• Spread your doomsday scenerios.
• Email surveys. Answer in riddle, alliteration, or at least complete falsehood.
• Use email surveys to spread your doomsday scenerios.
• Convince someone that life just isn't worth living. Then, tell them you're leaving to do all the things that you know they love most in life. For example, if you are talking to a horny alcoholic, when the convincing is done, tell that person you're going to drown your sorrows in booze and masterbation.
• Never let the truth get in the way of your happiness.
• Make up random titles to explain your positions in life.
• Practise using oxymorons. When people think you've lost your mind say, very clearly, "Well, all in all, you're just another prick with no job."

Last but not least, convert. You can drag that out as long as you want and I'll be happy to help you out there. Meanwhile, I have a few essays to finish up.

Soul

There's always something tearing you apart. It's always so much longer than you counted on. It hits you so much harder than you thought. But you don't worry; you don't worry. 'Cause darling you've got so much soul.

Something Tearing You Apart
Whether it is a term paper that you just can't stand to think about anymore, or an ongoing argument that you can't seem to escape--there's always something. Moreover, there is something tearing apart every one around you too. Poor people. I don't know how many times I've seen people this week that look so sleep-deprived and stressed out that I wanted to take over their life for them and set them straight. Insomnia isn't the answer. It is not a solution. Eat, sleep, and do your homework in an organized fashion.

So Much Longer than You Counted On
November. One week in November. Today. This hour. The next ten minutes. It's ongoing. No matter how sure you are that you can make it through that 50 minute lecture, there's always going to be some part of you preparing to bolt at the first opportunity. Grin and bear it. Reward yourself when it's all over.

It Hits You So Much Harder than You Thought
This is a quick reference to the fact that you've been wandering around with your head full of ideas and thinking you might just be on the right track finally when smack bang boom you realize you're completely screwed. This is about that second when everything falls apart. You fall apart. I see it all the time. I haven't snapped yet. Be prepared for some pretty intense fallout from that one. It's been building for a while.

But You Don't Worry
Why bother worrying? Where has worrying ever gotten anyone? It's just like not sleeping, it just makes your life harder. So don't.

No, You Don't Worry
Reiteration is sometimes key. Saying the same thing in different ways can help you understand complex concepts better. Don't have panic attacks over life. I've told you before, get your spite out early in the morning over something that can't cause you any additional grief. Fighting with partners, professors, roommates, etc.--bad; Fighting with your cereal for going soggy too fast--good. Yesterday I heard the blandest story I've ever heard in my life. This guy was all jazzed to tell his friend about his run in with breakfast: he never eats cereal and the one day that he really just wanted a bowl of cereal there was no milk!! Can you imagine?? Obviously you can. The world needs to come to terms with Murphy's law and be more proactive about these things. Ie. Check to see that you have milk before pouring the cereal. What a concept. What a moron.

'Cause Darling You Got So Much Soul
Even if you don't think you'll make it through, you will. You're strong. You're intelligent. You may be lazy, but you know how to put your nose to the grindstone when you must. I've seen it. Just remember that the world is out to get you, but your best defense is spite. Don't let anything get you so far down that you don't want to get up again.

If You Don't Have Soul
So, you actually really let November get to you? You really are beyond the verge of tears and are fully committed to quitting life altogether. At least you still have me. And I'm freaking awesome, guys. I have more soul than all the angels in heaven put together on their most soulful day. Just because I'm really that pompous. Believe me, I believe in you. For better or worse. I may be little but I'm tough as raw meat. But I better get to class or I'll be cooked.

Holy Hangover, Batman

And other things that will set your mind reeling first thing in the morning...

Long weekend--in the figurative as well as literal sense. In fact, I wonder if I really had a "week" in between because I seemed to go right from one weekend to the next with just a jumble of random unweekly events crammed in between. Friday did mark the arrival of a very special guest (no, not Aunt Flo), by train, around 7:30. I believe his first words were, "What the fuck? Why is there snow?" Followed closely by, "Oh my god, I sat beside the fattest guy I've ever seen on the train..." What a perfect way to set up my "random things that people say that make me laugh or question whether there is any real meaning in life" blog. Fascinating stuff we'll be getting into here, folks.

But first, I'm going to take advantage of the space I have here to get a certain something off of my chest. Today was the worst day ever. I lost my bus pass; and you know how I feel about public transit in general so you know that I was not off to a good start. I sucked it up and paid the fare because I had a presentation at 11:30 for my very favourite (read worst ever) class on Gulliver's Travels Book One and Two. The presentation was supposed to be sixty minutes long and I had put some extensive work into it. Nervous, as you might expect, I got to class with time to spare and talked to my partner a bit.

Now, here is the kicker. I was presenting second, for thirty minutes straight because my partner didn't want to bother rehearsing the presentation or comparing notes or anything of the sort. However, she did tell our prof that we wished to be graded together instead of receiving separate grades based on our individual contributions and presentation styles. And she sucked. I don't mean she was not really that great, I mean she really blew chunks. She just stood there reading her notes for thirty minutes straight about the wrong sections of the book and then she finally let me have my time. I knew I had to do some extensive damage control so I turned every statement I was prepared to make into a question to involve the class and pounded home my points with a dedication I didn't know I was capable of exhibiting.

Then I sat through the rest of the class and waited. I wasn't sure if we were being graded together or not so my hopes were still high that I would pull off a decent mark. We were to meet Zeitz after class in the lobby downstairs. I had to pee so bad it was not even funny, but I didn't want to keep her waiting so I crossed my legs and held my breath. After some ado, (though not much ado really) Zeitz sat us down and broke the news to us. We almost failed. In fact, after the first half of the presentation, Zeitz wasn't sure what she was going to do because there was nothing for her to use to formulate a relevant grade. In fact, I was the saving grace of the presentation. Everything I did was perfect, insightful, right on the money. So we were both getting a 72.

What kind of corrupt, inconsiderate, boneheaded system are we working under? How, tell me, how does something like this happen? How does a failing grade become a 72 and a perfect grade get the same treatment? Why am I getting the royal screw job, again? Why is someone I barely know benefitting from my hard work? Why am I suffering for someone else's idiocy? And, of course, I came to this conclusion: because that is life and life kinda sucks.

So, we're back to quitting again. But why bother with that either? Let life end when it will. Hang on. Or let go. Whatever. Let's get to the random quotes bit.

• "Holy hangover, Batman! Where are your keys? I'm going in the hot tub." Imagine my reaction to that one for a little laugh.
• "If you will just touch it once I will die a happy man because I will be able to say that I saw you do it." Don't let your imagination run too wild with that one. It's not nearly as kinky as it might sound.
• "White coats are going to be all the rage this year." Followed by my assertion that my pink coat was way nicer than all of the white coats because it was almost the same but more pink. Followed by confused looks because the coat I was wearing was definitely black.
• "Well, I started to feel better but then I drank a lot of milk..." And Jeff says, "I told you so!" Puking milk has got to be one of the worst calls of life.
• "I think I am addicted to pain killers." Of all the things in the world to get addicted to...I don't think that's what I'd choose.
• "Do you want some Malibu?" asks the girl standing in front of us in line at the bar, holding out a decrepit water bottle.
• "My girlfriend is just getting us a couple drinks. She'll be back any minute," pointing to me in an effort to use his little sister to ward of the bar hoes.
• "The casino was the biggest disappointment ever. I only went there to smoke and look at the waterfall. I quit smoking. Why did they have to take out the waterfall? Why?"

It is hard to pick random quotes when I can't include myself in the melange. (Ooh, a french word!) I would also like to randomly include song lyrics but something tells me that annoys the world. Well, I can't explain glacial motion. But everybodywantstobejustlikeme. Do you know why? You better. Convert.

Morning After Conclusions

This week has inspired me to do some introspective considering. You saw my post-oar house musings...very deep, I know. And so, I have come to a few conclusions, then universalized them and put them into a list (what a shocker!).

Things every drunk person needs to remember:

• Cartwheels are for gymnasts and 10 year olds. (Sidebar: When I was 8, one of my friends broke her fingers trying to do a one-handed cartwheel. I had to write all of her homework for her...including cursive handwriting practice. Elementary school teachers are so smart.) If you really feel the need to do a cartwheel, look around. If you are on a hill going into a tunnel...or up out of a tunnel, resist the urge. The consequences of not remembering this rule may include: scraped palms, head trauma, and pulled leg muscles...or in my case all of the above.
• You're not smart. Don't try to talk about smart things when you're drunk. It is perfectly acceptable to try to explain the philosophical importance of how sticky beer-covered floors can be. It is not acceptable to discuss term paper or your fourth year thesis.
• You're happy. Alcohol is, in all fairness, a depressant, but you really need to avoid becoming a weepy drunk. No body ever wants to hang out with the cry baby.
• Cheap shots are the bane of your existence. Especially the ones that actually taste good. Before you know it you will have forgotten all these rules and you will be making a complete fool of yourself.
• Beer is better for you than studying. Don't proofread your essay; have some beer.
• You should not sing along to the songs you don't know. When you're drunk, you think you know all of the songs. You don't. You know none of them. Stop singing.
• You have to snort the key. If you promise to keep a secret, you lock your lips. If you lips are locked you can't open your mouth to swallow the key. You have to snort it. Thanks for the tip, Steve. At least I retain my appreciation for irony after a few beers.
• Walking home is not a better idea than letting someone pay for your cab.
• It is colder than you think.
• You are louder than you think.
• Some things are really important, like the whereabouts of a few key things, like your keys.
• Falling down is not cool. It will hurt in the morning.
• Things like pavement and wood tables remain hard even after you lose your tactile senses. That is to say, don't slam your hand down on the table when you spill a bit of beer on yourself. Don't knock your head against walls. Don't encourage other people to fight. All these things will come back to haunt you in some form or another.
• Water is a foul weather friend. Avoid it until the end of the night, then keep it close to your bedside while you sleep. Don't let people trick you into loving water too soon. Sometimes water is the enemy.
• No one is going to throw up. Your body can totally handle as much alcohol as you just put in it. If you're feeling foul give your friend water a try.
• Toast is a key part of drinking. I don't know why. I just love toast so much sometimes.
• Laying down in the middle of the road is bad. Sitting on the floor at the bar because you're laughing too hard to stand is ok. Regardless of what the bouncers say. It's okay to sit on the bar in order to feel taller. Again, no matter what the world tries to tell you, don't forget proper protocol for where to sit, stand, eat, drink, laugh, and otherwise exist.

Every now and then I start to think that maybe I need to focus a little more on my studies. And after an entry like that you are probably nodding along, thinking, sounds like a good idea to me too. Then I remember, sometimes hangovers are condusive of creating the appropriate appearance for certain presentations--like the ones where you are demonstrating how to turn a puppet show into a drinking game (true story: my idea). Besides, judge ye not...you'll lose.

Can you tell I'm trying really hard to cope with my Novembers? Actually, I was protesting the month when it first got here. The hostility continues, or so it seems. I'm off shots for the rest of the day at least. They are nothing but trouble. Convert now.

Post-Oar House Musings

I think that there is this point, where we all want to be able to tell eachother that life is worth living. I mean, seriously, if you have a friend that is really on the brink...you want to be able to talk some sense into them don't you?

But what is sensible? I'll admit, I'm not a fan of "hard truths". They tend to come across as a reason to cut into someone you're mad at. Consider,"Yes, of course you screwed up!" as a hard truth. You're just mad. You just want to let out your own frustration when you deal in "hard truths". But reality, actual real life, is so full of the hard truths that people use as weapons that hurt is inescapable. In fact, pain is a hard truth. And essentially, so is life. Deal with it, so says the world. But I'm not ready for that yet.

Thus, there is a stubborn part of me that is not ready to admit that the whole world is hopeless. There is an incessant part of me that wants to cling to hope the way that a toddler clings to her favourite blanket. I'm not ready to give that up. I'm not ready to lose all my faith in the world. And, God, don't I know how hard the world works to prove me wrong; but I will hold on to the belief that everyone in the world is just struggling for something they can't have...and that all we can do for one another is try to make that thing more attainable...or at least try to make life more bearable.

Is that pathetic? Are you sitting there wondering if I've completely lost my mind? I know, far be it for me to show any compassion...but if life is one big trial...if life is nothing but a string of fortune or misfortune, then why can't we be friends? Why can't we all just try to get along? Why do we insist on letting our minds or our hearts get in the way? If someone offers you a hand, or holds open a door, why should you read it as a patronizing act? Why do the kindest gestures have to be turned into condescension? The simplest explanation for all things may be the right one: we just are. And if that's all it is, why can't we just let eachother be? Why can't we help eachother without turning against one another.

So tell me all your thoughts on God. 'Cause I'd really like to meet her...

I love people. That is one fact I am really slow to admit. There are people, though, who my heart feels a special something for that I cannot explain. I don't want to be anything special to them, but I want them to know that they are something special to me. And truthfully, some of these people I gave up on in the end. They didn't need me and I didn't need their drama. They'll never know it. They still think I feel the same as ever. I may be cynical and bitter and all kinds of horrible things, but I swear, I really am dedicated to the people that I call my friends. If you gain my loyalty you can count on me to always be there--whether I like it or not, and whether you like it or don't. (Did you catch the bad parallelism? Tell me you did. I will feel successful then). There are a handful of people in my life that I would go to extreme lengths to help, and who don't even realize that I'm willing to do that. More than that, I'm just as willing to step into the line of fire for them when I'm sober as when I'm drunk--shocking I know.

But would you do it for me? No wonder I feel so alone. I am alone in this. I would go to such great lengths for you that you can't even imagine what I'm willing to do, and you won't even spend the time it takes to tell me what I can do to help you. If you didn't know that would be one thing. But you just don't want to accept my help. You think that there should be strings attached...because if the situation was reversed you would be tying the strings yourself. I guess I got caught in the ruse of the world because it's just a promise no one ever keeps. But whose the one you answer to? Do you listen when he speaks? Night all. Sleep sweet as ever.

The Problem with Life

I've boiled it down to one very simple and unsolvable dilemma: goodbyes. Then I wrote you a delightful essay on it. Do you think that's a sign that it's November?

I spend a lot of time thinking (in case you haven't noticed), and I've only been able to come up with one definite conclusion: I hate goodbyes. To be fair, some goodbyes are better than others; but on the hole they may just be the very bane of my existence. Let us explore this idea further, shall we? First and foremost, goodbyes can be categorized and then described succinctly with two words (only to be further explained with several more):

• Break-ups: Emotionally draining. They are the goodbyes that are tainted the most by denial because of that age old phrase, "We'll still be friends, though, right?" I have avoided these kinds of goodbyes splendidly for the last 20 years...well, more like 3 but you get my meaning. For those of you less practical than myself, my heart goes out to you.
• Moving on: Bitter sweet. These goodbyes cause the most conflict because whether you are the one leaving or you are the one being left behind, you know full well that things will never be the same. And that really smarts.
• Moving away: Major denial. The problem with moving away is that false hope that nothing will change because no one is "moving on," the distance between you and the rest is just being altered. Moving away goodbyes are easier to deal with if they're piggy-backing a moving on goodbye, as was the case with Katrina. She went to Korea, but she went because she was done school. The promise of return makes moving away goodbyes harder too because the timeline is never very clear.
• To Bad Rubbish: Good riddance. You know the kind I mean. These are the goodbyes that happen because you can't technically "break up" with your friends. And these goodbyes are about friends, not enemies because you don't ever say goodbye to people you hate: you avert your eyes and run away from them at the first opportunity. To me, these are maybe the worst kind of goodbyes since they are often left unsaid. They are the "and one day she just stopped talking to me" goodbyes. In many ways, they are the most necessary. They are the strangest version of "moving on" goodbyes. They happen because of necessity, but they seem so painfully inexplicable.

Now that we've cleared that up, maybe you can see why goodbyes are the problem with life. Everybody has to deal with them at some point in some way--even hermits. Hermits take goodbying to the extreme: they say goodbye to everyone all at once and never say hello to anybody ever again. And like so many things in life, goodbyes are highly misunderstood. The problems of goodbyes are pinned on loneliness, when loneliness is just a symptom of a bad goodbye, or many bad goodbyes as the case may be.

You may wish to argue the converse: the problem is not bad goodbyes, but a lack of hellos. I, however, try to avoid negative thinking whenever possible. Don't blame the absence of something when the problem can be explained as a presence of something else. As in the example with the hermit, however, you need to recognize how goodbyes and hellos interact to get to the root of this thesis.

There's the problem--laid out for your inspection. But where is the solution? I don't know. There may be no solution to the sound of this polution in meYEA. I think the most important thing to take away from this is the fact that goodbyes are universal, and inevitably linked to so many other aspects of life. I've already shown you how goodbyes are linked to loneliness, but what about something slightly more obscure? How about...writing an essay? Well, that's actually pretty easy to link. You see, you know that you have to say goodbye to your work at some point...finish it up and send it off into the world. Thus, writing an essay links to moving on goodbyes, and occasionally good riddance goodbyes. See how that works out?

Goodbyes actually prove to be a really complex problem because of their relationship to so many other things. With all that said, they are still very important. That song "don't say goodbye, say so long" doesn't sit right with me. The finality of goodbye is its most important attribute. You may think, with that in mind, that I've forgotten death goodbyes, but to me they don't count. Dead people can't hear you say goodbye, so the closure you seek from saying goodbye is just a performative action for your own benefit (Yay, Butler). It doesn't quite fit the goodbye mould. If you know what I mean. Goodbyes must have a purpose and an impact, or they become something else. I don't know what else.

And finally, a word on good riddance goodbyes. I don't want to show any favoritism, but I genuinely believe that these are the bitterest goodbyes. The optimism (or denial if you like) of the other goodbyes doesn't exist in this case. You have to give up something you love because being near it causes you distress. They are also usually decided at midnight in a drunk stupor. It may sound juvenile, but some days I genuinely trust my drunken self more than my sober self--so here we are. Usually, these goodbyes are just decisions that we make and never speak. That is why I always say, if you really make me mad you'll never know it. I just sever the tie and accept that things will never be the same again. Ironically, good riddance goodbyes are also the most likely to be reversed properly. I don't usually believe in going back, but maybe today we could put the past away. Probably not.

Well, don't get lonely now.

Eat My Cherry

A birthday blog for a crazy roommate (and her birthday buddy, Jenn).

Do you know why there are so many birthdays around this time of year? Think about it for a minute, and then I will tell you. Valentine's Day. November is nine months after Valentine's Day. If you were born on the fourteenth (or a few days later especially) you can count on your conception being the result of rigid duty or careless romanticism. Nice. Those of you born before the fourteenth have it even worse--your parents couldn't wait.

That said, it is Amanda and Jenn's birthday today. Jenn always says that I have nothing worth saying about her. I would agree, but it's Wednesday. You know what that means. An ode to all things Jenn:

• Canadaopoly. No one else would ever play it with me. You saved me from myself after long, hard Mondays by keeping me company and playing that game.
• Mario Party. It was 3 AM. Neither of us could move. Neither of us would turn off that damned game.
• Doug. Most people are worth loving for their significant others. Doug is so a male you.
• Passing out in the stairwell. Did you think I'd forget? I thought you were going to die!
• Sidekicks. I always made yours for both of us. It was a sweet deal. I ate for free and you didn't have to learn how to boil water.
• Your limitless supply of everything. I'd walk into your room and you would open your top drawer and offer me every kind of snack under the sun. It always creeped me out because I reserve the top drawer for undies.
• The way you used to skulk near my half-opened door trying to decide if you should knock or leave me alone.
• The way the decision was usually based on what day of the week it was.
• You egg me on. There is no "I don't think that's such a good idea with you." As far as you're concerned, I should drink until I can't stand or draw hopscotch boards on the kitchen floor.
• Your fear of public transportation and all things "urban".
• Your English conversation group. Funniest thing I've ever heard you say: "I asked them what they thought 'the cop showed his badge' meant and they thought cop meant prostitute and badge meant bitch." Oh, Jennifer.
• Your taste in music. You were playing the song that Shane and I made fun of endlessly on our first date. Now you're listening to Smash Mouth...It's so random. It's so perfect.
• "Oh, you know..." Your signature phrase.
• Your rabbit stories. I'm really sorry Tuttles died...no, Tuttles's husband. My mistake.
• Whiskey. You make it sound like such a manly drink.
• Trips to Wendy's. How I had to fight with you for hours to take me...how you sat and watched me eat...how you called me fat and evil for making you drive...What fun.
• Your ongoing assumption that every word I say is tainted with bitterness and sarcasm.
• How often you are right.

And the roommate birthday bonanza doesn't end there...There is so much more. A moment, if you please, for all things Amanda. Here, my dear, is why I love you:

• You met me for lunch the day after you got your wisdom teeth taken out. You found out that I was into "all things foam" and took a trip with me to Michael's so that you could have foam fun too.
• Your foam finger says that you are number three. You adhere to all the rules of Weinism without understanding a single one of them.
• You make obscure family members read my blog.
• You tell obscure family members that I'm wasted when I write my blog.
• You spit all over me tonight and you are never going to live it down. I'm currently working on a master plan to replace your shower water with saliva from random people I meet on the street.
• When you say things like "eat my cherry" I can just walk away shaking my head. You know full well that I'm beyond laughing or trying to understand.
• Because tinsel is for life.
• You make me an alcoholic. Okay, for you skeptics out there, it really is Amanda's fault. Every time we want to have a drink and watch some tv, she tries to dump her drink. It's too strong. It tastes too bitter. It tastes too sweet. And you all know how I feel about wasting alcohol...so guess who drains it. Case and point: Tonight Amanda brought out a bottle of Peach wine to celebrate her birthday. No glasses. We don't need glasses. She puts it down in front of me. And that is the end of that.
• When I come home from a long day at school and don't take off my headphones because I have to pee more than I have to breathe, you think I'm mad at you.
• Every time you knock on my door and I tell you I'm naked you say, "Like that's ever stopped me before" and wait patiently for me to find my pants.
• Yahtzee.
• Ergo: (Latin) Bite me.
• You love your cat so much. Way more than me.
• You got so jealous when Shane bought me flowers.
• You hated the "book-a-month" plan, even though it was made to keep you free from looking at the flowers.
• Your ongoing belief that I have a valid opinion about what you should wear. Have you seen how I dress?
• Starbucks before the VPP meeting. I'm surprised we didn't cause a riot.
• Giggling in Lily's class. I'm not a giggler. What the hell?
• The way you hated me for playing Feather Pluckn when you wanted to listen to Lump. You are so sensitive. It's hilarious.

Alright, and if that isn't enough for you that's just too damn bad. I need to get to sleep. Exam at noon tomorrow. These personalized blogs are catching on...soon I'll have to start collecting commission. Tune in next time for some less directed hostility and bitterness--the way you like it best. Don't forget: everyone wants to be just like me--and you didn't believe me when I said that everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people. But I got the pistols. (No, I really don't.) Convert.

Brendan's Birthday Blog

Back and better than ever...Following through on that not-so-forgotten (anymore at least) promise. To those of you who are NOT Brendan: you should read the books too. I'm an absolute genius when it comes to these matters.

Whether you remember or not, I promised you a list of books to read for your birthday. The list got shorter, and then I made it longer again. Why? Because I'm in charge here and I want everyone to know it. Here's the list, in the order I liked best:

• Shogun. James Clavell. Oh wait! You already finished that one. This is my way of celebrating that milestone with you. YAY!
• Fury. Salman Rushdie. The book I was crying about the first time you came over to talk to me at five percent. When you're finished you can help me write that essay about the truth of the progress narrative and anti-Emersonianism. Because I know you are dying to hear more about that. Just like the rest of the world.
• The Salmon of Doubt. Douglas Adams. Odd essays and other non-fiction by the author of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. There's a really weird story about some dogs, and how dogs don't understand loyalty the way that people do. Dogs don't think like people?? WHO KNEW?? You can read the guide too if you like.
• I Know this Much is True. Wally Lamb. Long, but moving. It's about being the identical twin of a schizophrenic. It hammers home the issues of essentialism and constructivism even though it only really mentions that idea once. Actually, it's just another good tear-jerker.
• The Sun Also Rises. Ernest Hemmingway. I hear it's about impotence. I thought it was about love. "Isn't it pretty to think so?" That'll make sense if you read the book.
• The Satanic Verses. Salman Rushdie. You gotta love contraversy, don't you? I highly doubt you'll be able to borrow my copy though: Shane bought me a first edition hard cover for my birthday because it's bad form to buy kahlua and sidekicks for the love of your life.
• Moby Dick. Herman Melville. Just kidding. It's torture. But I finally finished it.
• A Fine Balance. Rohinton Mistry. Indian politics in the 70s. Since oversimplifying is one of my strong suits. It's another big book though. And I think I may have lost my copy.
• The DaVinci Code. Dan Brown. Because I hated it and I want someone to share that hate with. Everyone I talk to about it (other than Mrs. Jobe) thinks I'm nuts for wanting to watch it burn. You will probably love it and then I can reassert the fact that the world hates to agree with me.
• With Every Mistake. Gwynne Dyer. After you finish the one I mailed to you. You should read War too. If I knew when I was shopping for your present that you would enjoy Dyer that much I would have got that one instead.
• "Socioeconomic Integration in Major Barbara." That's the essay I wrote that you still haven't looked at.
• Robinson Crusoe. Daniel Defoe. So that I don't have to. Actually I read the illustrated version once...
• Whylah Falls. George Eliot Clarke. Because we all need some poetry in our life. If you won't read Whylah Falls at least read Blue. Better yet: read them both.
• From Ink Lake. Compiled by Michael Ondaatje. Canadian short stories. My favourite is called "The Lake" by Joe Rosenblatt. I've had the book for about 5 years and never finished it because all I want to do is read that one story.
• Things Fall Apart. Chinua Achebe. After you finish it, you can read my insightful essay on how Aristotelian analysis fails with non-European and non-North American fiction. My Theocrit prof went on a mild rant about this after he read my response paper. I hid in the back and tried not to cry. Or you can just enjoy the book.
• The Buenos Aires Affair. Manuel Puig. Everyone dies. But they deserve to because they're all addicts and sex fiends. The girl falls in love with the guy that kidnapped her to rape her. You can consider the problem of consent in abusive relationships while you read it. I sure did.
• Bushworld and The Best in American Crime Writing. You have the authors' names because these are the books I gave you. I only read a bit of each, but I trust you to tell me how they turn out in the end.
• Go Down, Moses. William Faulkner. Mostly because the bookstore won't take it back and I have no time to read it.
• On Bullshit. Harry G. Frankfurt finds a way to define the difference between lying and bullshitting, following the epistomological roots of the two words and coming to a shocking and revolutionary conclusion.
• In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Kim Cooper. Because Rory talks about it non-stop. It's still not in print yet. In the meantime you can evidently just listen to the album.
• War Trash. Ha Jin. You can't read it until I finish it though.
• The Prison Notebooks. Antonio Gramsci. Oh, hegemony. You will love this as a follow up to Marx. I told you about it once before and you just gave me confused looks. At least my cult studs class was good for something--confusing you. Muahaha.
• Imperial Ambitions. Noam Chomsky. Just for kicks.
• Step Across this Line. Salman Rushdie's collection of non-fiction. I had no idea "The Wizard of Oz" had so much history. You might have to fight with Jean for it. Last I heard it was keeping her hamster in her cage. That is a really weird sentence.
• Mythologies. Roland Barthes. Talk about reading too much into everything. It's hilarious, but I don't think it's supposed to be.

And that's all for now. See how I kept it short and sweet and then came back and added more? Everything that I wrote after that question doesn't make sense any more. Do you remember what I wrote? You said it was ingrained in your memory. Liars exhaust me.

And now, in Weinist tradition, I better make the list of reasons to celebrate your birth (like anyone ever needed an excuse):

• The look on your face when you stumbled into your party. It was not just surprised. You were dumbfounded.
• Your name alliterates so well with this topic. And you know how I love to alliterate. BBB...that's so awesome.
• Your mom says I'm a good influence on you. Maybe that's a reason to love your mom, but you came out of her so my statement stands. I like to believe I am. After all, look at that list of books I made for you.
• That time you made me watch the Corporation. On top of that, the way you got so excited when you thought I was going to burst into tears at the horrendousness of life. So compassionate of you.
• Your consistent refusal to take any of the blame for my problems. Like when I tried to tell you that I would have finished Uncle Tom's Cabin back in August if you didn't make fun of me for reading it in the first place. Or the way you told me that if I went blind from trying to read it in one night you wouldn't care.
• You used to dance to make me feel better at work. You're a terrible dancer. It's one of my favourite things in the whole world.
• The only day I really wanted to do your work for you was the day you refused to let me. You have a spitefulness in you that you're not even fully aware of. Plus, I think you thought you were being nice.
• You hate to lose any argument. And everything is an argument. That one day that we sat and debated for two hours you followed me to the washroom so that you could keep fighting with me. In all fairness, it was a five minute walk and you made some excellent points along the way.
• The way you congratulate me for the randomest acts in the history of the world. You'll have to figure that one out for yourself.
• The way you lied to me about your age until you found out I was younger than you. I spent like 3 hours trying to figure out why you couldn't drink in the states when you'd just told me you were 24. Very confusing. Very sneaking. Very unnecessary.
• Your devotion to the hot tub. It is so central to your life, and yet, it is never ever working.
• You taught me how to cope. Well, you gave me a book from the 80s that made fun of stuff. And that got me through most of October.
• Your inability to understand Table Fries or their revolutionary traits. They are so much more than strips of fried potato, comrad.
• Your insistence that I was jealous. I'm pretty sure I just wanted to tell you that you should protect me from "those people trying to make me smoke things I didn't want to" in the Buick. And that the Buick scared the crap out of me.
• The essays you want me to proofread for you. First, they weren't that bad and you knew it. And second, I happen to love the highlighter plan. I'm using the highlighter next time FYI.
• The stress card that you carry around with you. And more than that, the fact that you couldn't find it when you thought I was going to give myself a stroke over something at work. I thought you were looking for chocolate. I wish you were looking for chocolate. I really wish chocolate didn't give me migraines.
• Green apple vodka in green apple crush. You're so innovative.
• Your complete and utter lack of faith in me. Or your complete denial of the aforementioned lacking.
• Your undying gratitude. I spent weeks trying to find you the perfect gift and you reduce it to my ongoing conspiracy to sabotage your attention to schoolwork. Plus, when I told you I spent almost two days trying to find Mein Kampf for you, you just laughed at me because I was afraid to ask Mr. Pickwick for the Hitler book.
• Your love for my bitterness. No one else in the whole world is as amused about my eagerness to witness my own demise. You can't wait to see me go down in flames. I happen to hope that you are looking up at me as I plummet.

And that, my friend, is that. If you call it "nice" ever again...well, just don't. I hope your birthday was everything you hoped it could be, and then some. I hope you never let anybody read this without my written consent. Oh, I know it's posted on the Internet. And finally, for the second time today: Happy birthday one last time. I'm down in all my fears but I ain't crying no tears...over you. Know what I'm singing? Convert.

Walking Week Wednesday

A post for the workoholics of Weinism. And you thought Hostile Wednesdays were bad before...

So I'm walking down the street--literally? what the hell? It's getting to be damn cold in this city...and in this country for the most part. So why walk? Oh, let me tell you: I lost my bus pass. Actually, I just misplaced it. Actually, I know exactly where it is, but I can't get to it. "Cuz you're so short?" AHAHAHA...no.

So, my bus pass is in Burlington, and I'm walking to school. But that's not enough. I'm walking to school three and a half hours before I have to be on campus because I agreed to volunteer at the grad and professional schools fair. For fifteen dollars and a free t-shirt, I spent three hours smiling and greeting recruiters, directing lost souls, and answering some of the dumbest questions I've ever heard in my life. I was supposed to help distribute water bottles too, but I decided I was above that.

Then there was the actual school part--never anything much to report there. Prof talked; I took notes; prof stopped talking; I went and bought 10 dollars worth of gum; and I was back on the road again. (Of course, by the road I mean sidewalk...I don't have a death wish this week.) Now the worst part of the walk home was the feeling of panic and hurriedness. It's November people...I don't have time to breathe let alone spend 45 minutes climbing Sarnia mountain. Oh, it's steep like a mountain.

So, I was hurrying. And here's the really sad part: I was hurrying home to do someone else's homework. I'm sure that Someone Else would love to pipe in and explain that I was just helping to correct the homework...but that he really doesn't have a voice in the world of my rants. And that brings me to the focal point of this particular entry: I just realized I'm a workoholic.

Now hold on. I know what you're thinking. But, staying in character, I'll prove to you that I am in fact a complete workoholic with one of my lists. Ahem. You know you are a workoholic when:

• You walk to and from school in order to save yourself $2.50 or the shame of being caught trying to sneak on the bus at Natural Science. (Not that I would ever even think of such a thing.)
• You walk at a superhuman pace because you have to get home to read.
• You have to get home to read someone else's assignment.
• Someone offered to pick you up, but that would involve waiting around for 10 minutes extra. (Remember, it's a 45 minute walk.)
• While you walk you try to formulate the perfect essay topic.
• For all three of your papers and how to change the papers just enough to get away with it.
• When you're not scheming about your essays, you're wishing you were pregnant. Have you heard this logic yet? If you were pregnant someone would take pity on you and offer you a ride home. If you were pregnant you wouldn't have to be afraid of being raped (that would be too awkward for the potential rapist) so you could accept the ride as the act of a good samaritan.
• Your heart rate increases when you realize the outline for your term paper, which is to be between eight and ten pages, is fifteen pages long.
• You spend ten minutes explaining passivity to someone, then give up and lapse into grammar jargon that even you can't understand.
• You vent for half an hour about how you don't even have time to eat a proper meal only to conclude that you don't like food that much anyway.
• You revel in the idea that your thoughts might be confusing enough to give someone a headache.
• You have more than one panic attack a week.
• Your panic attacks revolve around what other people are wearing and the stupid things that other people say.
• Your proposed essay topic is declined, but you decide to write it anyway--out of pure spite.
• There is nothing unusual about the fact that you have 200 pages left to read at midnight.
• When you hear someone bemoaning the fact that they only have 2 weeks to write a paper you restrain yourself from slapping them. Two hours is all you need. Two hours and a lot of caffeine.

And, according to tradition, here is the list of ways to overcome the issues of workoholicism:

• Make up new words. It will make you feel better.
• Spend the money you saved by walking on booze. Holy call for rum and coke.
• Skip instead of speed-walking. It's really fast and dorky looking. You just can't be stressed out when you're skipping.
• Always remember that someone else's procrastination is not your emergency. No one is going to let their assignment be handed in late just so that you can stress over their grammar (or content for that matter), so they can either give you adequate time to take care of it, or do without your expertise. (NB: I had lots of time; but lots is never enough.)
• Waiting time doesn't have to be wasted time. Turn the time you have to spend sitting on a bus (if you're so lucky as to ride one) or just before you get sleepy to do something you really like. I read the books I wouldn't otherwise get to read. And eat chocolate. Oh, chocolate.
• There's nothing wrong with thinking and walking, but be aware that those revelations you had may be best attributed to the gas fumes.
• A baby will not fix anything. Ever. I have nothing against the little droolers, but they are not the solution so forget you ever thought they could beYEA...yea.
• Tell yourself that increasing your heart rate is a form of exercise. Even if you're panicking. NEVER let the truth get in the way of your happiness.
• Claim that the overuse of any type of jargon is satirical. If you're a scientist and you find yourself talking about everything in terms of biology, chemistry, or physics (etc), when you catch yourself, smirk and say, did you see what I did there?
• There really is nothing unusual about having that much to read.
• Chocolate is the only kind of food you really need. Free chocolate is the best kind of chocolate in existence.
• Become overly egotistical and carry a bottle of aspirin around with you. Whenever you go to pitch an idea to a prof or want to talk to someone about your classes, offer them a pill before you start.
• Quit panicking. God, what are you? Some kind of freak?
• Oh yea, people really are stupid. Laugh at them instead of hyperventilating though. You now what they say about laughter and medicine: They mix poorly if laughter is induced by alcohol. (NB: I don't know who "they" are. Maybe the voices in my head...pfft.)
• Don't abuse spite. It is a beautiful thing if it's properly employed. You can be as spiteful as to write a paper unnecessarily only as long as the real papers are already finished.
• Caffeine is bad for you. It gives you insomnia. That's the editorial you: caffeine gives everyone insomnia.
• Just remember: When ten million monkeys all picked up guitars--no body taught them how!

And that, my dears, is that. Walking week continues tomorrow. Wish me luck. Don't be a workoholic anymore. Fight the desire to do too well. Sleep sweet. And remember that every thing's totally feather pluckin insane.

Positively Hopeless

And other mind-boggling paradoxes.

My favourite thing to do is come up with random questions about relatively normal things. Granted, normal to me is rarely normal to the rest of the world, but my hobby persists unfettered by such contentions. So, I'd like to give you all an opportunity to skulk around in my brain for a while; this is your chance to think what I'm thinking...

• Why do misnomers, oxymorons, and paradoxes have such a tantalizing effect on thought processes? What is it about considering "fighting for peace" that is so amusing? How about the desire to turn latent dream content into manifest content? It is impossible. Why does anyone waste any time on it? Let alone years and thousands on therapy...I hate psychoanalysis.
  
• What is it about gray skies that is so cheerless? Is it a social construction or is there some other plausible physiological explanation? If the sky was blue when it rained, would we be less depressed by it? Who came up with pathetic fallacy? Were they following social norms or did they create them?
  
• Why can't students penalize professors for their grammatical and spelling errors? If your TA comma splices in her comments on your paper, shouldn't you be allowed to take off stylistic marks? Shouldn't those marks be added to your paper?
  
• If you fall on your ass but you're too drunk to remember it, will you bruise as badly?
• Why aren't there more public washrooms?
• Why does the weather insist on going from too hot to breathe to too cold to move so quickly?
• Are there no happy mediums left in this world?
• Do happy mediums give happier predictions?
• Did you see what I did there?
• Are you still following?
• Why would anyone ever think I'm older than I actually am? Have you seen me? Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be called "mature for your age"?
• Should I be grateful or annoyed that Jack wanted to fix my life and plan my future for me?
• Who eats gummy bears? They make me feel so sick. Bring back the chocolate.
• I want a candy apple.

Wasn't that exhilarating? Now you know what it's like to live inside my head. Stressful huh? Kinda confusing? You're one step closer to being converted. I'm positively hopeless.

Jeanism: A Small but Worthy Sect of Weinism

Before we begin, please note: Most religions fear and loathe dissension. They think any opposition to their established beliefs will lead to their downfall. In Weinism, this is not so. The basic rules are simple, and as long as they're adopted, you can do pretty much whatever you like. That means you can be part of another church, pray to whomever you like, and abandon then return to Weinism as many times in one lifetime, year, month, day, hour as you feel necessary. With a thorough understanding of this fact, my second in command has established her own version of my already near-perfect religion. And so, I give you, a glance into the world of Jean...

Jeanism is rather strange; and while I'm sure I've had some impact on the rules that have come out of its development, I don't quite know where to begin with this one. Surely there must be something about fire hydrants...? Well, that's been done. Second Cup is pivotal to Jeanism...just like Weinism, and it has been done. So, I have decided to just relay the story of my twentieth birthday party, since I owe most of what happened to #2 anyway. But you know how I love my lists:

• Crabby Cakes: Thank Wein you didn't bring those out at the bar. I would have been mortified. But for anyone who doesn't know, crab cakes are cupcake tops, covered with red icing, with licorice legs and hot lips claws. They were delicious. Except the one that i knocked on the floor. It was a little hairy.
• Killer Koolaid: I remember Dennis screaming, "Oh God no! Not tequila." And I remember thinking it was a good plan to see who could drink the KK the fastest. After that I remember very little.
• The rules: framed and on fancy paper. You confused the whole world with it. It is on my book shelf in London. I look at it every time I get lonely for you.
• The hat: how could anyone ever forget it was my birthday? Do you have any pictures? There is only one way to relay this point properly, and that is definitely with a picture. At least Tobin gave me points for wearing it the whole night.
• Sippy cup: the bartender wanted to give me one because I kept spilling my drinks. She gave me a free shot instead though...it seems counterintuitive.
• The DD: all my love to Dave because there would have been no party without his cooperation. There would be no Dave if there was no you, Jean. So you get props for the DD bit too.
• Way to make me cry: I went almost four straight months without a weepy drinking night. You show up and I start crying like the world is caving beneath my feet. Actually, I seem to remember vaguely believing that it was. The end was near. I could feel it.

I don't know, Jean. This one doesn't seem to do adequate justice to you and your ways, but I don't know what else to say. Every day of the summer was the same. I called you, you got up. We went to Second Cup. I had to have you home by a certain time so that you could see your lover and so that I wouldn't be late for work. Now I don't see you anymore. I just sit alone in my bedroom in London, listening to PUSA and thinking about the good old days. And I genuinely believe that everyone wants to be just like me....I'm naked and famous.

Singing Rory's Praises

An ode to all things wonderful in my favourite Ford friend...(Think that's gonna cause controversy? I doubt anyone will notice.)

What can be said about Rory Burns? Only good things of course. And that must mean something because I very rarely have anything remotely positive to say; let alone nothing but good things. So, Rory, this post is for you.

My first memory of you is from the week you were training. Dennis and I were talking and you came up and asked Dennis if there was a y in penny. I was heart broken that you didn't ask me. But now, do you know what one of my favourite things about you is? You ask for my help and advice with things like grammar and vocab...no one else ever wants to listen to me when I start talking about that stuff. You are the only person I've ever met that has patiently sat through my CVC lecture [Sidebar: For those of you who don't know, the CVC rule is the consonant-vowel-consonant rule. It pertains to whether or not you have to double the consonant when adding a suffix. For more on this, consult Rory because he is such an excellent pupil.] Better than that, we spent like an hour one night discussing how to use big words in sentences properly to sound old fashioned. AND you remembered that we did that and made me teach you more last night. You're fantastic!

On top of all that, you're convinced that I know everything there is to know about every book that was ever written. You tell me what you're reading with beaming pride that is unmatched anywhere in the world. You have so much faith in my literary expertise I could never possibly live up to your expectations, but you never seem to be disappointed by my ineptitude. You're wonderful!

But it gets better. Not only do you speak to the English student in me, you're also the only person at Ford that readily agreed to come to my wedding. In fact, you were excited about getting the invitation and even more excited when I said you could bring a guest. Everyone else either told me not to get married or said they'd only come if the reception was open bar. You're the epitome of dedication!

And there's still more...you give me advice and I take it. That almost never happens. Advice from anyone else seems harsh and unrealistic. You could tell me that it's a good idea to dance naked on the roof during an ice storm and I would probably do it because you've never steered me wrong in the past. Plus, your advice doesn't come out as advice; it's more like...opinion. You just state the facts in a way that can't be contradicted. Have you considered a career in law? People who can persuade people to do things without sounding persuasive make the best and most loved lawyers....You would be an awesome lawyer!

Do you know when you really won my heart though? It was the cinnabon day. You said that your brother got free cinnabons from work, and promised to save the first two for me. Your follow through was incredible. To make it all the better, you made me promise to heat it up before I ate it because it wouldn't be as good otherwise. We spent at least two weeks discussing nothing but the wonder of cinnabons. That is two weeks of my life I will never get back--nor do I want to. Your buns were delicious!

And finally, the number one reason why you are my favourite Ford friend, is because on the hostilest of Wednesdays (ie yesterday), you were the only person who made me smile. You're the antithesis of everything I claim to believe in, and I love you all the more for it. And as with Jean, this post was all your idea. God bless you for your modesty.

Coping Strategies

What to do when you don't want to do anything...

In accordance with Jenn's advice, this is indeed the second post in two days. I hope you enjoy it, my dear, since you're the only person who ever reads this nonsense.

It seems to me that much of the world is in need of a few pointers on getting through life. I know full well that I'm not the only person who has miserable Tuesdays, and the popularity of Hostile Wednesdays is booming in a way I never thought it could. So I've compiled several suggestions that I believe will help get everybody through this grand ordeal with at least a few less injuries.

First and foremost, give up on the idea that you will ever be content for more than a few moments at a time. The sources of happiness for most people are so few and far between that they do not deserve any type of devotion whatsoever. That includes lovers and friends because the world is constantly trying to right itself, and that usually involves separating happy couples and forcing together people who would rather die than enter into a friendly exchange. As for school, even if you get an excellent mark it won't make you happy. You will always find a way to ruin it for yourself. Moreover, if you get perfect you still won't be satisfied because you will tell yourself that it was "so easy," thereby devalueing the best possible mark you can get. Case and point: I almost cried when I got 107% on a grammar test last year because there was a bonus question that I missed.

Take a healthy dose of spite when you wake up each morning. Find an innocent object (not person) to kick or yell at just because of the way it looks or something that is inherent. [Sidebar: this morning I got mad because my shower was so wet. This is a perfect example.] This way, you won't relinquish your wrath on every passerby--just a few of them.

Get a really boring hobby, then let your creative outlet be finding ways to make that boring hobby interesting or relevant to other aspects of your life. If the hobby isn't that boring, you can still be creative and come up with excuses for doing it. When you get really good at it, you can tell because people will groan when you start talking about it, knowing full well that you are preparing to launch into a speech about how video games increase reflexes. An excellent case of this happened just last week: I explained to Brenda that Dynomite was helping me study for geology because the combos were named based on time periods. Now if that's not innovative I don't know what is.

Send random and retarded essay topic proposals to your professors. You'll get used to getting shot down, and once you've worn them out your actual topic will be like a breath of fresh air to them. They will be so glad that you gave up on a "political" reading of Peanuts in relation to nihilism that they won't be able to refuse your somewhat more conservative approach to the course material.

Learn a new language. Start with the profanities. Learn to say these foreign obscenties in the sweetest voice you can muster, and greet everyone you meet with them. This trick works extra well if you can do it convincingly enough that no body thinks you speak English. NB: Gibberish is a great language to break yourself in with. Practise my lapsing into gibberish whenever your emotions are unexpectantly heightened.

Tell every person you see that they are your new best friend. Tell them something incredibly private. Like always, don't let the truth get in the way of your happiness.

Do a formalist reading of the Presidents of the United States of America's song "Feather Pluckn", "Lump", "Naked and Famous", or "Stranger." Try to figure out what they're really saying. Reason your way into an epiphany about life, death, sex, or chocolate.

Resist everything, especially your most basic urges. (That one was just for you, Jenn.)

Earnestly claim that you don't like the smell of it. Then take your clothes off in a restaurant for the helluvit. Or tell someone that you live in seclusion. Make it clear that reality and sobriety are your only delusions.

Every time you feel like you're on the verge of tears or any other kind of utter emotional collapse, do the chicken dance. You won't be able to take yourself too seriously if you are doing the chicken dance. If you are afraid to do this in a public place because you think it's embarassing I have only this to say to you: swollen eyes and runny make-up; real men don't cry.

See, the most important lesson to learn is that life is just one big joke. No matter what you do, it's probably wrong in someone's eyes. If you try to please only yourself you will be all alone in the world, and if you try to please everyone you'll be a miserable failure. Positivity wein-style. You know nothing if you expected anything different. Tomorrow I have a special entry planned...for the only person who was capable of making me smile on my Hostile Wednesday. Who could it be? Oooh, a cliff-hanger. Til then...