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.