A Broken Crow

i know i haven't been posting much lately. first it was exams. now i've got a million errands to do for the trip. we leave on sunday? really? that soon? holy sweet christ. i'm so excited, it's making me completely scatterbrained. i can't focus on any one thing. i have an attention span of a hummingbird. not good. except that everything IS good. no, more than that. everything is amazing. school is done. summer is here, at least in my mind if not in the weather. i never have to stand behind that freshmart counter again. never ever ever again. i have sweetest, funniest boyfriend in the world and on sunday we leave for our whirlwind tour of sketchiness across the country and back. my little bag for the train is filled with travel-sized games, nudie cards, writing paper, music, books and pot. tonight is my birthday. i am hours away from being 21. all my friends are celebrating with me. matt will be there for the first time in three years and i will be beside myself with happiness. all of my boys are coming. all of my girls. everyone i love to pieces. life is good. life is so so so good.

they're done. i have them carefully selected, organized and printed off in an attractive font. my words. my portfolios. my fragments i'm using to represent me. i hope they're good enough.

Fight club is always relevant and CAN be quoted in reference to Aristotle and Aquinas.

An acorn can NEVER be a puppy.

What if god was not such a nice fellow?



.....oh Andy. You fucking slay me. Woot.

*snicker*

...*giggle*

BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!

I'm done. d. o. n. e. DONE! Fuck you school. Fuck you higher education! Fuck you Freshmart! I'm ready for my birthday now. I'm ready for my trip. I'm ready for fun and craziness and insanity to the power of six! Bring it on, motherfucker. Bring it on.

So that's it for me and the mart. I'm done. We have officially broken up and parted ways forever. It's been a tumultuous two year relationship. It's better for both of us this way. Leaving that place is strange. It encompasses so many memories of the last two years. It's a huge part of my university experience. I've met incredible people there. I've met despicable people there. I've met insane people there. And now it's done. Wow. Wow. It's one part sad and nine parts awesome. I'll miss the customers...some of them. As I served them tonight, I tried to remember that it would be the last time I would talk to them from behind the counter. I smiled wider and when I said "have a nice day", I really really meant it. I wasn't just shit-talking on impulse. I was saying goodbye. I told a few of the regulars that today was my last shift and I was met with shock and dismay. "Really? No! No, you can't leave! You're the nice one!" I laughed. I'm glad that my working there brightened someone else's day. I'm glad that it made a difference to even a handful of people, since it is an otherwise utterly insignificant line of work.

I'm also glad that I no longer have to ring in cigarettes and reduced meat products. I'm glad that I don't have to talk to rancid old drunks from the Carlyle. I'm glad I don't have to work an entire summer for a place that doesn't understand the concept of "respect" or "appreciation". I'm glad that I got out of there before sketchy-sketchbag blew a fuse and knifed somebody. I'm glad. I'm glad. I'm glad to be gone. Done. Finished. Unemployed.

I'm getting my last paycheck early and I only have one exam left before complete and utter freedom. One. Count it. ONE. By noon tomorrow, I'll be flying.

Could it be that I am leaving for my last Freshmart shift ever? I think it could. Stoked.

she's still asleep, my little party animal. my sister. the blankets are twisted around her legs in knots and her mouth is gaping. she's breathing loudly, making little scratching noises with each inhale. her snoring has nothing on you, mike. nothing. she keeps murmuring and i keep responding, forgetting that she can have entire conversations while still asleep and remember nothing. i remember tiptoeing into her room one morning back in prospect, looking for a brush of some sort and having her suddenly sit upright and turn towards me, eyes still shut.

"put down that pumpkin!"
"what?"
"...turn...off that pumpkin!?"
"...what!?!"

then she just fell back down on the bed and slept soundly like nothing had happened. she has no recollection of this nonsense. i kid you not.

she's probably drooling on my pillows right now.

yesterday, everything was perfect. you called. you needed help in the form of goblets and matches. i came over. you made me a kickass latte and i marveled at what you were preparing for her. i laughed at my own pathetic dinner in comparison. save me some leftovers? no? you bastard. we sat on your couch, me unshowered, you coughing and wheezing from some heinous lung infliction. we talked about music, I love Tool too! you talked about her. i love it when you talk about her, you get all red in the face and crinkly-smiley eyed. it's ridiculously cute and you know it. we looked at some old old old pictures. highschool basement parties back before the renovations and the hardwood floors. a picture of you, asleep next to kerri who is drinking in the morning. a picture of jaime looking particularly hard up. a picture of the mushroom bowl next to garlic finger boxes. a picture of you, lying on the mattress, tell-tale bucket next to your head, unused but ready...vigilant. so many funny memories. thank you for keeping them even though it might have meant more tension in the last few years. you have to see the house now, it will blow your mind what my crazy parents have done to it. i took the picture of me shooting the colatta. i tucked it in my purse. i wished you luck with dinner. i walked home feeling sixteen. life is funny. laugh-out-loud, belly-clutching, knee slapping funny. who knew it would all work out and we would both be so happy AND get to be friends again? who knew we would ever be not-awkward after all that happened? who knew it was possible for either of us? you surprise me. i surprise myself. this is going to be the greatest birthday ever. ever. ever. i warn you, once i get drunk i'm gonna have you in a vice-grip hug and not let go.

I'm trying to put together some sort of portfolio for a creative writing course for next year. I've been sifting though the old and the new, searching for forgotten yet valuable words. Rummaging in remnants and scraps of a younger me in a different time. I feel like I'm on a treasure hunt inside my own mind. I found a box, filled with everything Andy ever gave me. I went through all the notes and laughed until I cried. You are so funny. I don't tell you that enough. But you seriously can't draw....or spell. Things from Ben are in a few different places. I have a box, crammed and overflowing with crumpled pages torn out of binders. I also have a folder full of late-night ramblings and poetry and hasty notes scrawled in class. I read through some of these and remembered how dramatic we were about everything. I think it's the only way we know how to be, you know. Even our silence is over the top. Oh well. Old habits I suppose. I flipped through my "everything" book from grades seven through nine. It catalogues my entire junior high experience, right down to birthday cards and movie stubs. I laughed at how seriously I took myself when I was fourteen and howled with glee at the hilarity that ensued once Jaime and I became friends. You fill my life with sunshine and smiles and off-colour humour. You are one of a kind, irreplaceable and unbelievably awesome. I don't tell you that enough either. I grinned at the pictures and scribblings of matty and jonjon. I wonder what they are doing a lot of the time. I should call them more often. I winced painfully when I opened the pages to the birthday card Tiffany made me. I miss her. There's no way to tell her that. There's nothing I can do except miss her...so I do.

as you can see....my portfolio got shunted to one side in favor of nostalgic reverie. Another day perhaps.

stop now.
let that whisper fade upon your lips.
let silence blossom around us
in curling ferns and fragrant bulbs.
let my hands speak for me,
fingertips sliding down your spine,
my palms warm against your skin,
kneading flesh, soft as floured dough.
let trembling lips explore you,
my breath performing minuets,
inaudible symphonies of "i love yous".
in our quiet garden
we wrap ourselves in comforting shadow.
we let the honey language
drip from our mouths,
rolling down our pale, creamy bodies
in soft, luscious waves.

one more. one more. you can do this. it's not summer yet. it's not summer yet. it's not summer yet. maybe if i say it over and over and over i'll start to believe and actually try to study this crap. no such luck as of yet.

Until today, I had never tried Lucky Charms cereal. I was offered a box of them, slightly squashed, at work. Since beggars can't be choosers, as the cliche goes, I gladly accepted them. I took them under my arm, excited, like a child with a bag of candy. I later came to discover that THAT IS essentially what Lucky Charms is...candy...poorly disguised as a "breakfast" cereal. It's total sugar. The marshmallows rolled out into my bowl ominously, their colors unnaturally bright. Neon. Weird. I remember the box had advertised "NOW! BRIGHTER COLOURS!!" Why? Was it not artificial enough already? Do they glow in the dark? I'd rather not know. Also, the marshmallow/cereal ratio is not what I expected. It was WAY more than half marshmallow. My stomach turned slightly at the thought of consuming a bowl of them...but I perservered in my exploration of missed childhood pleasures. Next step: milk. No satisfying crackling noises. Just lumps of sugar floating to the top. Ick. I was halfway through the bowl when I noticed it. The milk. The milk had turned an awful awful colour. Not just that slightly off-colour you get with froot loops or corn pops. This was a dark and sickly greyish-green. The colour of Gangrene. The colour of rotting limbs, still attached to living bodies. Oh. Oh god. I can't eat this. I dumped the rest into the garbage and spent an hour sulking over my glaringly matured tastebuds. I'm not a kid anymore. It sucks.

Wow. My compliments, Senor Sketchbag. My compliments and congratulations. I did not think it possible for you to be any sketchier, but, just when I was beginning to doubt you, you proved yourself to be sketchier beyond even my wildest imagination. Good for you. But please stay away from me.

Want to know what I'm talking about? Sure you do.

Keith: "I have a present for that crazy girl I was telling you about..."
Kathryn: "The pill-popping psycho who had you arrested and put in jail for five months?"
Keith: "yup."
Kathryn: "Dare I ask?"
Keith: "It's on the counter in the meat room, covered with a piece of paper towel."

And so I took the bait. I'm a curious motherfucker and this dude is seriously unpredictable. I go to the back corner of the store and lift up the paper towel. What do I see? A knife. A big knife. A big fucking knife. A big fucking sharp knife with a long curvy-snakey blade and a hinged handle so you can flip it open and closed super fast and look super bad-assed. This is the kind of knife you only see in violent mafia movies that crazy cracked-out dudes keep in their sock. Oh Keith, you never cease to amaze me. I thought you reached your pinnacle of sketch when you described your plan to take speed, get "the tracies" and go down to the Palace to "finish off" the guy you already viciously beat and served time for doing so. But no...nonononono. Now you're passing the gift of violence onto others. Good for you.

Now, seeing this crazy-fucked mother of a knife in the meat room got me thinking. I came up with four valid questions, none of which I asked.

1) Where would an ex-con sketch bag like Keith acquire such a weapon? I don't want to know.
2) Why would he give such a weapon to a supposedly "crazy" girl? Also, I don't want to know.
3) Why would Keith bring said weapon to work? I DEFINITELY don't want to know.
4) Why would he tell me about the knife and show it to me? To scare me? To intimidate me? Well done, Keith. Well done. You win. I'm sufficiently creeped out. Now stay the fuck away from me. Only one more shift to work with this guy...alone....at night.

Kathryn: "Are you seriously giving that to her as a gift?"
Keith: "Yup. Gotta make it extra sharp and deadly first though." *sketchy grin*

Great. Stay the fuck away from me. Seriously.

I prowl lean and hungry through thick, dark night,
Clutching memories of Kaluha-soaked kisses and the sun beating down on our warm naked limbs.
I tear through black, unforgiving alleys and shred the night into accountable pieces
And keep them in my pockets.
Still I can't find it.
I crawl along the street to hear the minstrel through the screen
But his soft, honey-toned notes are gone,
Replaced with the sour wail of the city.
Now people go to hear music only to take it,
Opening their eyes and ears and mouths,
Devouring quivering infant notes while they hang in the air.
Snatching melodies from neighboringg ears and fleeing into the night
With their treasure.
Now, music is kept in a small box, hidden far in the shadows,
Underneath a cold thief's bed.
Opened only when no one is around to hear it.
Now people walk around pulling faces,
Forgetting love and life and sweet tenderness,
Chewing lips and sucking tongues and always fretting. Fretting. Fretting.
Now stoney-eyes parents watch calmly
As their children find delight in garbage,
Revelling in twisted filth and slime with inhuman glee.
Still I prowl.
Searching.
Fumbling with my mud-caked bundle of rags,
Singing the last song on earth.

"What are you, some kind of fuck-up magnet?"

This was the question proposed to me today during tea and conversation. I had been talking about highschool. About people and places and situations. About all the bad things that happened that helped to shape the person I am today. Every time I talk about some sort of issue-based incident or personal struggle, she's always shocked. "You never told me that!" No. No I didn't. I was sixteen. After the last explanation, after the fuck-up comment, I had to say it. You have no idea what it's like to be a teenager anymore, do you? You've forgotten completely. Or maybe it's that there is an unfathomable difference between turning 16 in 1969 and turning 16 in 1999. When you were 16 and in grade eleven, life was about idealism. Youth solidarity. Voices getting heard over the corporate and political drone of power. When I was 16 and in grade eleven, a thousand voices had already been quelled. Ideals had crumbled into dusty fragments and slipped through tired fingers. No one was trying to bind us all together to fight for anything. I strived for the opposite. I strived for difference in a world of cynicism and disenchantment. When you were 16, you didn't know anyone with psychological problems and one's identity was expressed through music and dress and personal philosophy. When I was 16, almost everyone I knew was cultivating some sort of disfunction with which to label themselves...myself included. Because it wasn't "who are you?", but "what are YOU suffering from?"

don't call me a fuck-up magnet when you couldn't possibly understand.

I was supposed to start studying for my last exam today. That last thread attaching me to this world of routine and academia before I plunge head first into my pool of wonderful chaotic freedom. I was supposed to start studying. I didn't. Instead I went to the gym and had coffee with Mike. Highly enjoyable.

When I walk through the city, I find myself searching. Searching for people and places and objects to describe. Searching for knots to untangle with words and scenarios to translate onto paper. My pen is waiting. Itchy. Unsatisfied. Over and over, I find myself confronted with the stories I've already told. They leap out from behind corners, as if they are fresh and new and untouched, only to reveal that we've already been acquainted. The untold stories are all hiding from me lately. The unspoken words crouch behind rocks or else fly over my head until I'm left hopping up and down, uselessly clutching at invisible butterflies. Transparent, intangible carrots dangle perpetually in front of my face and I trudge, head heavy, mouth full of sand, always two steps too far away. I need to get out of this place for a while. I need to move, exploring what's unknown to me. I need to walk paths that have been beaten by strangers' feet and look at the stars in a whole new sky. Only two more weeks. Then the air will be thick with words, each one fighting for a place on my page. Sentence fragments will gather around my feet like dead leaves. Adjectives, rich and juicy, will blossom over my hands and curl around my wrists like vines. Metaphors will buzz around my face in swarms, and I'll have to swat them away like flies to be able to see anything at all. It will be perfect.

What an amazing day this has been. Beginning to end. Awesome.
We woke up and stared with glee at the sunshine slicing through my blinds, cutting across my sheets.
Sunshine? Really? Yes. Warmth. Light. Blue skies as far as the eye can see.
I concocted an omelette of bitchin', godlike proportions. I'm talking green peppers, red peppers, onions, mushrooms, ham and havarti, all adhered together in eggy perfection. What a great way to start the day.
We quickly retreated back to the fortress, window open, cool breeze fluttering our still sleep-heavy eyelids.
We layed there for two hours, a dreamy half-doze. Noses nuzzling behind ears. Fingers curling around fingers. Bliss. Sheer bliss. I felt utter relaxation for the first time in months.
We eventually ventured out to enjoy the sunshine, stopping to pick up a deck of cards for the train along the way. Nudie cards of course....cause they're hilarious. Mullets? Leather? Hot pants? Oh dear. Mike isn't laughing nearly as hard as I am. Teeheehee.
Next stop: Coffee. Perks. Yeeeeees. Grab that table by the window and check out that dude! Crazy. I love people watching when the weather gets warm. Mini skirts and skateboarders are rampant!
We strolled down almost as far as the rotary and clambered down a slippery bank to the train tracks.
The sun was beating down in a steady rhythm and making everything bright and vibrant.
The graffiti art changes every time I'm down there. Today's favorite: A gaping, toothy mouth painted around a slow trickle of water. Awesome.
We walked along the tracks for a half-hour or so, stopping to scavenge amongst the wreckage. What's this? The door to an old mini fridge? With magnetic poetry still on it? FOOLS! We took them all, including the words "atheist", "voodoo" and "guarantee". A gift for the apartment. What fun.
We came out of the tracks on South street and made our way to Dio Mio. Sorbet in waffle cones baby. Sunshine and a frosty treat, sitting on the steps, soaking up the much awaited rays. Loving it. Stole a few kisses. Stole a few more kisses.
After a few errands and some much needed Subway for supper, we're back in the fortress of awesome. I'm about to bake my famous cookies and then we're curling up with popcorn and a movie. Yes. Best day ever. Yup. Best.

Do you know what today is? Today is the day I take the Caper home to meet the parents. WOOT!! They will love him...as long as he doesn't tell the Captain story...hehehe. I will get drunk for free, as the wine is likely to flow like water. Double-WOOT!!

Me talking to him talking to me and smiling like jungle cats. Hearing about her in that gushy voice with a blushing face. You're such a child and it's freakin adorable. Me pouring out the sappy stuff about Mike and you grinning like you used to, giggling like you used to, being stoked for me like I knew you always would be. All those fun times can be thought of without painful nostalgia. All those inside jokes are being unearthed and dusted off. Do you remember? Oh god...yes. How could I forget? I can look through my yearbook now and not feel it. It. That. That heavy weight in my chest that snagged and pulled whenever I saw your picture. It's gone and replaced with sunlight. Happiness. I'm sleepy and so so so so happy. Can we never fight again? Can we never ever be forcibly separated again? I'm so happy for you. You're so happy for me. We're so happy when we're friends. Let's always be friends.

Do you know that you never got to sign my yearbook? Because they came out after. After. The write-ups were done months before and both of our entire write-ups were filled with fun memories from three years of a wicked friendship. They were almost identical...but...but. You could never sign mine and I could never sign yours because....we got them after. After. It. That.

Will you please sign my yearbook? Three years later? Fill all the blank spaces with stories of Hubbards and The Beach and The Pond and My Basement. Fill up all those gaping holes where you were always meant to be. Sign my yearbook and I'll sign yours.

For the first time in months, I feel that academic spark in me. That part of me that wanted to do this degree. Just these last few weeks, I've done so much research and reading on punk music and punk philosophy and I've really really loved it. I dunno. I think I've found something. Something that bears further study and attention. Something to get my hands dirty with. Punk Literature? I think I have my summer cut out for me.

I couldn't force myself to study last night. The exam is today...eeps. Oh well. Summer is nigh.
Instead I learned two new songs: "Lost Cause" by Beck and "Wild Horses" by the Stones.
Then I sat back and remembered why I was learning those particular songs
I'm so strange.

I love what happens to my fingertips when I haven't played guitar in a little while and then I suddenly play for hours. They take a serious beating. In the end, they're left deeply indented, raw and tender, with the skin torn and flaking. It's truly disgusting and I think it's hot. In highschool, I used to play long enough to make my fingers bleed around the nails. I sported my wounded hand proudly. A battle scar. A war medal. My own personal triumph. Every now and then, some random person would offer a "cure" to my callouses. "Oh honey, I've got just the thing to clean those right up..." *Scoff*. I always smiled at them while silently mocking them in my head. You fool. These callouses are the greatest thing I've ever created. They're my prized possession. They are me.

I just fixed my toilet...by myself...without even Mike helping me over the phone. I am smart. S-M-R-T.

Grade me!! Grade me!!

Really? Really? That mark? That mark on THIS paper? Really?? Even though that one that I fished out of my own rectum in an afternoon got an A? Really? This paper that I spent hours on? This paper that I was so proud of? Really? That mark? Fuck? Fuck.

You know how much that paper is worth don't you?
Yeah I know.
You realize that there's no possibly way for you to make an A in this class now right?
I know. Fuck off.
You realize that this will be your first non-A in any class in university? Right? Right? This will be a blotch. You'll look at your transcript and forever frown when you get to this class all because of this paper. Wow. You suck. Man. Are you dumb.
Fuck off brain. Fuck off.

Have a nice summer? What? Yes. Okay. I'll have a nice summer and you have a nice bout of flesh eating disease. Sound fair? Thought so. But are you sure? This mark? This paper? Really?

...I'm so discouraged. Someone tell me I'm smart.

I should be studying right now but I'm not. Instead I'm thinking about then and us. I'm thinking about train windows and sketchy passengers. I'm thinking about stiff necks from awkward sleeping being numbed with booze and perfect company. I'm thinking about taking your hand and running through unfamiliar streets, shrieking like children. I'm thinking about waking up in Hostels, you one bed away and sneaking over to curl around your warm back like a question mark. Convex to Concave. I'm thinking about fun little shops and cafes that we'll remember forever. I'm thinking about all of the words words words that will pour out of my lips and pens in torrents, spilling beautifully and sloppily into my pages. My pages where the words will drip-drop in inky rain and run together in swirling patterns. I'm thinking about capturing you in my rushing whirlpool of words, drenching you with them until you're wide-eyed. Shivering. Soaked. Cold. I'm thinking about pulling you into bed, soaked, shivering, cold from my words. Curling around you like a question mark on the mattress. Warming you. Convex to Concave.

Bleary eyes stare at flickering screens. Tousled, unwashed hair, chapped lips and microwaved cups of tea. I feel like I'm being emptied. Slowly siphoned until there's nothing left. All I can do is give more more more more more. When I sit there in the packed arenas, writing the exams, I wonder. I wonder if they all feel like I do. Are you empty? Are you drained? Do you feel like a walking shell of dull skin like I do? Only a little longer. Only a little longer.

It's amazing how sometimes one song will crystallize everything that's been murky and muddled inside you. This says it all. Thanks Beck.


Your sorry eyes, they cut through bone.
They make it hard to leave you alone.
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new.

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause.

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming, they see you go.
They know your secrets, and you know theirs
This town is crazy, but nobody cares.

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause.

I'm tired of fightin'
I'm tired of fightin'
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
There's no one laughing at your back now
No one standing at your door
Is that what you thought love was for?

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause.

How can I even describe it? This. This warmth. This wonderful, beautiful, shimmering warmth that envelops me when I'm with you. It's the feeling of your breath against the back of my neck. It's the feeling of your hands running along my arms and tracing my spine. It's your whispered words tickling my ears. It's your fingers playing absentmindedly with my hair. It's everything about you. It's everything about us, coming together to form a perfect pocket of warmth for us to exist in. I could stay there forever with you, and not even remember that there is another world outside.

Easter always comes to me with a slap of nostalgia to the face. Easter used to be our time. Our time to be crazy, because my parents would predictably go away every year on that weekend. Those basement parties are some of my favorites memories. They are the reason for some of the embarrassing stories that are still repeated every time we get together. Those parties spawned nicknames and countless inside jokes. Every Easter since highschool ended, I've been letting them all run through my head.

Jaime: You are the original holder of the "pukey" crown. You are the huggiest drunk and you have the best morning face in the whole world. Maybe that's why you normally get up at the crack of dawn and take off...who knows? You're awesome.

Katie: You puked all over my reading chair and broke my towel rack! You bastard! But you also hugged Matthew's legs, drank toilet water and tried to put your head through the sleeve of my shirt. Good for you.

Kerri: Way to drink rockaberry cooler straight out of the 2L bottle while you're still in bed the next morning. You win the prize for being dirrty. Remember when Matt crawled in beside you and groaned every time you took a swig? What a sissy. Remember playing drink-go-fish? Good times.

Dianne: Have you ever not spilled a red drink on my carpet? Or smashed a bottle of something on the floor? Yeah. Remember when Matthew poured juice on your head for being too loud? hehehehe.

Matty L. and Jonjon: What can I say? Meat? Weed? Gratuitous destruction of my things? Well done.

Matt: Where to start....the forts? the constant removal of clothing? Remember when you held hands with Jacob Stone for thirty minutes and didn't know why? Remember flipping the rack of bleeding ribs with your bare, vegetarian hands? Remember when I saved your life? No....you don't. You were not awake, but that's okay.

Ian: I got you drunk your first time and crawled around on your belly on the floor. You spoke of truisms and were reborn "Campbellvich"

Every time we did this, we'd all get up, pitch in with the cleaning and then I'd make coffee and pancakes. We'd sit around, feasting and making fun of whatever stupid things went on the night before. We'd pass the pukey crown to it's new winner and we'd have a lovely Easter weekend. Those are my absolute favorite memories. You guys mean the world to me, so here's to all of you. (raises glass)...what? I could be drinking this early...

oh yeah...I woke up around five in the morning....wet. I looked over at Mike and saw a huge puddle surrounding him....great. Did he? No way...did he? I wish he was awake so he could have seen how funny I looked trying to decipher what the large amounts of liquid on my bed were...I could just smell it....oh christ, it's beer. There's Wildcat spilled from one end of the bed to the other, it's everywhere. I poked him until he woke up and called him a bastard and then shunted myself to the one dry corner of the bed. He smiled, said something incoherent and fell back asleep in the pool of wet. Whatever. You're washing my sheets.

White Zinfandel...you did it again. Did I leave my goblets behind too?? I guess so. I'd go get them, but you know....laziness. Matt was fucked before we even got there...around ten-thirty. He was talking in his "I've been drinking since suppertime" voice. Amy and Bianca, I love you guys. No really. I mean it. Bianca, is it just me, or did we have 'a moment' of bonding in that hallway? SWOON. Making out on the bed beside me? How adorable. No seriously, very cute...but gross. What's that Matt? Puke? You? Now? Alright, outside with you. Why...why am I still coherent? A wildcat will take care of that. It surely will. And a jizzoint. There...much better. I think Chris and Tony enjoyed our conversation about lesbianism a little tooo much. I meant to flash my boobs to everyone...I forgot. There's always next time. Uh oh....those ogre hands are pressing my brain into a pancake again...time to go? Well, it's either that or me curling up into a quivering ball. Jazz hands! Flourishing exit and then running, laughing, shrieking. WE'RE FUCKED! How we ever made it home remains a mystery to me...

"we should watch Wayne's World when we get home..."
"YES!!!"

and we knew every line. Both of us. Every line. This is sick. This is meant to be. Party on. Excellent.

"C'mon you creamy sonofabitch!"

"No chocolate for you until my nipples are purple."

"Oh Kathryn...I care about you so much, I'll probably never strangle you in your sleep."

"It's not a car, it's a sport utility vehicle. EAT MY SHIT!"

What's this? What's this? The sun and the breeze and the sounds of Gin Blossoms in my ears? Do you remember Gin Blossoms? Am I suddenly fourteen today? What is this feeling? This feeling that's spreading from head to toe to fingers to the tip of my tongue. Happiness? Happiness? Yes. Yes! Happiness! I'm happy. SO happy! That word, "Happy", is rolling around in my mouth like a sweet hard candy and I'm sucking on it voraciously. I can barely even believe this happiness. So full. So perfect. Complete strangers have been casting quizzical looks at me and crossing the street to avoid me all morning, cause I'm not just smiling at them...I'm fucking beaming.

My smile is so huge that it hurts. It's threatening to crack the frame of my jaw and slide right off my face. It's stretching beyond ear-to-ear and wrapping itself all the way around my head. It's reaching up towards the sky and tickling soft white cloud bellies. My smile? My smile. Yes. Happy.

wow.
wow.
wow.
Happy.

So it's all out there now. Three years of emotions and questions and words words words spilled out at his feet and he gladly took them all. We must have sat on that couch in the back of Second Cup for over three hours. That dirty, faded, warped couch. The same one we've been sitting on since the day we met. How appropriate. We talked about grade eleven. How he was the only one who knew...only one who saw....and I knew about him....and we....but then... We talked about that party. That walk in the woods. Those words. Those tears. That letter and what it REALLY meant. We talked about her. How she continues to despise me to this very day. How I continued to be a source of poison and fuel to their fights even though I didn't ever see either of them. Amazing. I feel slightly empowered, although admittedly for odd reasons. We talked about the crying. The screaming. The pretending. The misunderstandings. Oh. OH! That's how it really happened? Really? That's so funny now. I told him what used to happen when I sat in front of her in Can Lit. I asked him about that party. About the time I ran into him at Chapters. Did you know? Did you know it would be the last real talk in three years? Last coffee in three years? Did it feel like an end to you? Everything came up and out and everything was dealt with.

We shared a hug to make up for three lost years. For the first time in over a year, I thought I would cry over this again, but this time they would be happy tears. I felt purged. Beyond belief. I missed my friend. More than he'll ever know.

So glad we talked. So glad to have you back. Tonight we'll celebrate and get crazy like we used to. Let's drink out of the goblets and do the old man voodoo dance. I'll call you 'Senor Cluck' and you can call me 'Madame Cluck'. Now...where is there a suitable table to crawl under and make it our exclusive brotherhood for the evening? Wanna flash houses from moving cars? Climb trees? Commandeer a trampoline without permission? I do. Teeheehee....let's take Mike to the outback. He has no idea what he's in for.

massive hugs and melting man-diapers
Madame Cluck

working on it...

My room is dark. no lights. no lights now. Only the soft colored glow from the novelty lamp casting sprays of yellow and blue and pink dancing over a small section of my wall. Everywhere else is dark. The window is open and a cool damp breeze is picking up my things and tossing them around languidly, like someone slowly swiveling a snowglobe. Like icecubes being swished around the bottom of a glass with nervous fingers. My building is old, heated with hot water pipes. Sometimes at night the pipes make noises, everything from a small trickle to a rushing roar of water all around me. Tonight, there's water all around me, pouring down in floods. Pretty soon, I'll be drenched to the bone. Where's my poncho?

Whenever I feel this way, I always have the urge to be in enclosed spaces. Closets. Bathroom stalls. Anything boxed in and private. I don't really have that here. Instead, I sat in the corner. Where corner meets corner, mattress and walls fitting together like a puzzle. I sat there and stacked all my pillows around myself like a fort until I could just barely see over the top. I hugged my knees like a child and let messy hair fall over my face and arms. No light now. Only dark and hair. Only the smell of my own skin. Only the sound of the cars and the trickling-rushing-pouring in the walls. Only the feeling of the cool wet breeze that slips in through the spaces and tangles everything up. Only this. Only these.

Trying not to think of you. Here in my pillow fort in the dark with the breeze. Trying not to think about what you're doing. Telling myself that I'm not the villain. Telling myself that I'm just a person too, in a fort, in the dark, hugging my own knees. Watching everything get tangled.

The tickets have been purchased. The reservations have been made. The respective local authorities have been warned. Lock up your children. We are coming.

Our hostel in Toronto is in the entertainment district, on the same street as clubs and bars and such. It has a shared kitchen, a patio, a games room, a BBQ and it's own bar. Don't ask why. Never question awesome things.

Our hostel in Kamloops is built inside an old courthouse, complete with bench and prisoners box and everything. Showers are located in the old jailcells. Yup. Sketchiness abounds. I love it.

Things to bring on the train to amuse myself with when not writing compulsively:

-books
-the indestructible walkman and mix tapes
-travel scrabble
-travel-magnetic chess *ooooh*
-a deck of nudie cards
-PORN! hehehe.
-my little personal recorder so I can capture forever the sound of Mike snoring, keeping me awake and the sound of us being threatened to be kicked off the train for our tomfoolery. I'm coming home with an audio journal. Cover your ears if you want to protect your innocence....wait....innocence? My friends? Nevermind.

Went to the Kurt Cobain tribute at the Idiot last night. My first thrill of the night: seeing Matthew Claridge! I hate that guy...and I don't hate very many people. Oh well. We waited in line for quite a while, when we finally got inside, the place was jumpin'. I'm talkin about wall-to-fucking-wall people. Drinking room only. I grabbed a beer and headed into the crowd. Mike and I quickly found his friends Shannon and Caroline. Shannon was already pretty ripped and was lovely company.

I started to look around. They had plastered the place with photocopied pictures and posters of Kurt. Every wall. It looked awesome so we made a plan to grab a few on the way out (and by 'we', I of course mean Mike). A Kurt Cobain tribute draws an interesting crowd. Mostly older than myself, all wearing their oldest, scummiest Nirvana shirt. Chains. Long long long hair. Cardigans and army jackets. A healthy smattering of tattoos and tons tons tons of facial piercings.

We finally went up into the mosh pit when they started playing "Heart Shaped Box", which is my favorite Nirvana song. I happen to be an unfortunate height for most mosh pits. The average mosher's shoulders and flailing elbows are right at face level. Yowtch. I decided to risk it anyways and within thirty seconds, WHAM! (no, not the 80's band) I got a big sweaty drunk shoulder to my cheekbone. Message received. I stepped out and left the pit to the big boys...and those who are small but numbed by alcohol.

At one point, a really really really hammered French guy tried to pick me up...he kept making obscene hand gestures, I just kept shaking my head. nonononono.

know what I hate? stupid tough girls who like to shove me back into the mosh pit for kicks. Assholes. Stupid assholes. Further injuries: A squashed toe, a kicked shin and an elbow to the jaw. Thanks. Thanks.

You know what I love? Mantra. What a fucking kickass band. Heavy, virtuosic shit man. And that singer? How can such powerful stuff come out such a tiny frame? I highly recommend them. I do I do.

Tried to go into the washroom at one point, but it was filled with girls and guys all smoking....fuck.

We had a lovely walk home. Everything felt cool and misty as we wove are way through South End streets. Mike gave me a piggyback ride for a while, for reasons unknown to me. We got home around two. Now I'm up and he's still sleeping. Hungover. Teeheehee. He has a nice nutty professor hair thing going on.

ps. i now have a Kurt Cobain poster for my kitchen.

pps. We got hand stamps on the way in...I now have a blue stamp that read "Idiot" across my face. Damn the way I sleep!

There's no way I can make you understand this. I obviously can't give you what you need and you don't acknowledge what I try to give. You say that those things were said out of anger, but words cut deep and you can't just take them back when the tirade is over. I can't do this with you anymore. I don't hate you. I'm hurt and I'm angry but I don't hate you. We just can't talk for a while. I have to walk away from you right now. You won't believe me, but it's better for you too.

...I took off the post with all the emails. Let's leave it at that.

Why can't they ALL be on punk music? WHY?

I am officially finished all my assignments. DONE! HAHAHA!!! Dalhousie can suck a thousand asses! It's only exams from here on out baby.

*cue obnoxious victory dance*

In honor of Ian's birthday, a special blog for him:

You're the Will to my Grace
You're the Poodle to my Puddin'

I would tell you anything and do anything for you. Need a kidney? A lung? A surrogate mother? I'm yours baby. Yours.

Only with you would I go on dates called "Super Happy Monkey Fun Night"
Only with you would I kayak over to the dingle tower to have a smoke
Only with you would I skip entire afternoons of school to go swimming and eat icecream
Only with you would I go to a Harry Potter Matinee to beat the crowds
Only with you would I get stoned and eat a pound of jelly beans while watching "Kink"
Only with you would I have a bubble bath, with you getting drunk next to the tub
Only with you would I watch two entire seasons of the British "Queer As Folk"

You are always there for me. You were there when Andy and I broke up. I needed you and you came without question. You bought me chocolate cake and smokes and skanky panties. We got drunk together in the middle of the day and we were drunker than Margaret on her own 19th, birthday. I always want to be there for you. I love you more than you'll ever know. You're funny and sweet and Absolutely Fabulous darling. Let's go eat cheesecake and then browse through all the sex shops? Yes?

So many memories. Campbellvich, truisms, my basement, elephant poop island, lewis lake, the dock by my old apartment, ladies and gentlemen's night out, meat and weed fest 2000, Ron Weasley, Hugh Grant, War Boy, By Divine Right, "I got five dollars, I got five bucks, I got five dollars and that's enough cuz I got so much soul"

You've got soul baby. And one sweet ass. Let's go to Ireland and be naughty and debaucherous.

Massive kisses
Happy Birthday Poodle

I love to sing in the stairwells of the Dalhousie Arts Center. They're all concrete and glass and hard surfaces, creating the best possible echo. In the stairwell, a tiny soft note will ring out gloriously and sound three times louder than you meant it to. I stand there and sing in hushed whispers, listening to my voice being carried up to the roof and the falling back down around my ears like soft, silvery bubbles. No matter how much of a rush I'm in, when I get to the stairwell, I always slow down enough to sing at least part of a song.

I want to show it to you. I miss singing to you at work, watching you mop. Nothing is the same there without you.

I spent last night laughing maniacally, running around in tiny circles on my bedroom floor. Bits of dirt on my tongue. A solid mass of laughter gathering in my chest, punch punch punching to get out. Everything was funny. single words. syllables. letters. Funny. I watched the colours in my Dali painting swirl around like they were liquid and I rolled around on my head yelling that my brain was broken forever. It wasn't. I thought it might have been. His face kept changing. I thought he looked like a lumberjack for a few minutes, so I told him and he took it as a compliment. I felt the cold air from the fan on my head and was convinced for a while that all my hair had fallen out and i was bald. He put on the rainbow car pants and the leopard print slippers and I laughed until I thought my ribs were going to collapse. I wanted so so so badly to go outside and runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun!! I could have run for hours. I could have run for days. The air would have felt amazing with me run run running and laughing as hard as I was. I collapsed after a few hours and slept very very well.

It's been a few months since I've written a song. When I pick up my guitar, I always play through them all, all the old ones, all the ones that make me laugh that I wrote when the same things used to make me cry. Sometimes I feel like I need the unhappiness and self-destruction in order to create. Like truly beautiful things only come from personal sorrow. Fuck that. I'll take the happiness thanks. Lately though. Lately I've felt them. Rolling around in my head like little kernals. Funny little beans, waiting to sprout. Blossoming overnight into curly-furling vines, climbing out of my head to the sky.

On our walk to the Mart this morning, Mike and I were approached by a rather chipper religious gal. She was all smiles and perkiness.

"Would you like a free Bible?!?!?"

Yes. Yes I would. Certainly not to read however. What should I do with it? Suggestions?

I just walked down to Dal to return some books and pass in an essay. Outside of the SUB, I was witness to a loud, acapella, offkey duet by crazy-drunk Greg and the Dawgfather. Prince's "Purple Rain". I shit you not. Greatest thing ever.

What a great morning. Wow. Wow. Buck 65 and laughing hysterically in the abbatoir. After a Michael Jackson/Britney Spears/White Stripes morning medley, Mike deduced that I was a pinnacle of lunacy and lovingly called me a weirdo. Awwww. Outside. Walking through the melt. Winter dripping off the trees, flowing though the cracks in the pavement and disappearing from our sight. Smell that? Life. Growth. Warmth. Mike's eyes were darting all over in all directions. Scanning, scavenging. What has been buried under these cold white mounds? Garbage mostly. Part of a computer. A handful of random playing cards. Oh yes. Oh yes. Spring is here. A hand in hand stroll along the waterfront. Sun cascading magestically over our backs and shoulders, both draped in vintage leather coats. Excited talk. Did you ever? Yeah! This summer we should. I can't wait until. This is going to be so awesome. So awesome. Coffee and muffins and fruitcups in hand, we claimed a table full of sunshine. Outside. Bare wood with flaking green paint. Perfect. We ate and drank. Laughed. Told stories. Pigeons gathering and pecking around our feet. Get outta here yous. You really want to go into the Art Gallery sometime? That's so awesome. I think a trip into Freak Lunchbox is on order. Do it up. I will. We ate sour candies on the wall in front of the library, scanning the coast. Feeling that warm caress of spring on our cheeks. A nice chat with Bill. The gout you say? That's rough buddy. Rough. Freshmart. Still no paychecks. CURSES. But there was a nice little rendevous with crazy Greg. Always Always Always a pleasure.

"Is this your main squeeze Kathryn? Oh wow. So nice to meet you Mike. Let me tell you, you got one of the greatest girls that has ever lived. So nice to meet you Mark. You have to try purple haze!! Oh wow. Kathryn, he's a sweetie. You seem like an artist Mark. I can tell. My father invented FM radio you know. 179 papers and three degrees with honours! What a sweetie Kathryn. Mark, you're a lucky man. Oh wow. You guys are just the perfect circle of magic. Love baby. It's real. Peace and love babies. Peace and love."

Excuse me Sir? I'll have whatever he had.