melinda's pathetic life

Thursday, March 1, 2001 01:32 a.m.
Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba-ba, I wanna be sedated.
Ba-ba-ba-ba, ba-ba-ba-ba-ba, I wanna be sedated.
Why am I incapable of sleeping? Why does my brain stay awake when my body is so desperately thirsting for rest? It's really bloody frustrating. I don't know what to do, short of tranquilizers. Which I don't have, of course. Haven't sunk to drug use quite yet. Give it some time, though...
Ugh, geez. I have a nine o'clock class, too. This isn't good.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001 09:30 p.m.
I shouldn't be watching the Temptation Island finale. I'm already in tears. Fuck.
In other news: My man Jim lost The Mole. That stinks.
Okay, this is totally my last entry for the day. Really really really this time. For sure. Girl must sleep soon. It's not optional. Soooo tired and feeling pretty yucky. Goodnight kids.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001 07:51 p.m.
Hey now. Okay, while on the astrology.com site, I did some silly "personal report" that considers your birthdate and time, then spits out a few paragraphs about your personality. Well, again, not to harp on this, but it's pretty accurate. I'm not sure why. I know this isn't nearly as fascinating to anyone else, but I'm going to post it anyway. You know why? 'Cause it's my blog. So there.
Born:
February 13, 1980
12:10 AM
Toronto, Canada
You are very strong-willed and proud, but intensely private and not easy to know well. (Quick note: Those of you who only know me from the blog may be scoffing at the "intensely private" thing. But it's nowhere near as wrong as you might think...) Behind your quiet exterior lies a great deal of emotional depth, sensitivity, complexity, and also fierce determination. When you want something you go after it rather quietly but insistently and wholeheartedly - and you usually get it.
You are not a person who lives lightly or superficially. You want to live passionately and intensely and are not averse to challenge, danger, or to facing the darker side of life - human pain and struggle. You function well in crisis situations and often seek them out, for you enjoy the feeling of living at full capacity.
You are very intuitive about other people and especially about their unspoken feelings and hidden motives. You usually have strong, immediate gut reactions, either positive or negative, which prove to be correct. You approach life very instinctively and are not always fully conscious of why you feel or act as you do. You also have a very strong affinity with animals - an acute sensitivity and a nonverbal kind of rapport with them.
In relation to others, you are rather cautious, sometimes even suspicious, until you get to know and trust them - and trust doesn't come easily to you. When you commit yourself emotionally to someone, be it friend or lover, you are intensely loyal and devoted to them and you also expect the same kind of unwavering, undying loyalty in return. If you are ever betrayed by someone you care deeply for, you are capable of hating and retaliating with as much fervor as you once loved. Nothing is done halfway. In fact, you are intensely involved and often jealously attached to whatever you care about, be it person, idea, or cause. There is definitely a streak of emotional fanaticism in you.
Because of your natural reserve, others may see you as something of an enigma. You are quite self-protective and often defensive. You are also very magnetic, especially to members of the opposite sex.
Okay. I'm not about to attest to that last part. But there ya go. Now I'm off to watch you-know-what. No more entries tonight. I need my sleep. Really this time.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001 05:44 p.m.
Okay, so maybe I won't be going out tonight. I can't find a blank tape...
Well, alright, that and the Bobman is sick. But mainly the tape thing.
I've been playing at astrology.com for an embarrassingly long period of time. I wouldn't call myself a big believer in this whole astrology thing, but I do find it interesting what a typical Aquarius I am. Oh, and the site has some interesting quotations. Like, um...
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Shakespeare, Sonnet 94
How right you are, Bill. How right you are.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001 03:00 p.m.
Who's da man?
I said, Who's da man?
Okay, the correct answer is, of course, "You'z da man," with "you" referring to me. Oh, and don't bother pointing out that I'm not actually a man. I'm not in the mood for semantics. Anywho, it's only 3 o'clock and I'm already done the history paper. I didn't even half-ass it. Didn't need to. It was about the Winnipeg General Strike and the Social Gospel. And while I've never actually studied either of these things, my left-wing sensibilities came in very handy. Yay for me.
Oh, and I forgot to mention earlier that I ran into Jenny on the subway again! It's very strange. She got on the same car, at the very door that I was sitting beside. So I had about ten minutes (she doesn't travel as far) to give her all the latest updates to my soap opera of a life. Poor thing doesn't read the weblog. Not that the whole story is even up here. It's even stranger than you think.
I ran into Vishnu (the temptress) in the journalism lounge, too, but I was rushing off and didn't get a chance to talk to him. It's a damn shame. I really like Vishnu. And we seem to have bonded over my misery.
But alas, I'm off. I've got to find some more to eat. And a blank video tape. Yes, I really am taping The Mole. Shut up. Just shut up.

Wednesday, February 28, 2001 1:19 p.m.
Eek. Okay. I totally don't have time to be writing this now, but I've got to clear my head before I can start my history seminar paper. And, besides, it's weird enough that I won't be able to spend my evening emailing all my favourite kids, they at least deserve an update. (Note: I am fully aware that my life isn't as fascinating as I like to believe. So don't bother telling me, k?)
It was another "Oh-God-I-Can't-Possibly-Wake-Up" day. I think I may have fallen asleep in the shower, although I'm not exactly sure. Whatever. I actually got coffee this morning for the first time in ages. I don't handle it very well on an empty stomach -- I usually start feeling nauseous and kinda jittery -- but I needed the caffeine so desperately. Went to Media Law class and actually had more fun than I should've. There's something about sitting in the back row, being a total jackass (climbing over seats, writing notes, laughing at anything and everything) that's quite uplifting. I also found out that Shanoah and I are cell phone twins! Except that hers is orange and mine is blue. Yes, this is what my life has become.
I left after that class so I could come home and write my stupid history seminar paper. (I should really start that soon...) I find it terribly amusing that I'm skipping class for the sake of a party. All of a sudden, I feel like a real uni kid. I don't know if that's good or not. But it is, as I say, terribly amusing.
One of the bus shelters along my route home has a poster for the Ukrainian gold exhibit that I mentioned awhile back, and it's been driving me nuts! What's wrong with it, you ask? It features a quotation that's grammatically incorrect. Of course, I don't remember the whole thing at the moment. But I remember enough to explain the problem. The quote says something like "The gold which came from afar." (Or maybe it's "The gold which the ancestors brought." Doesn't matter.) Anyone spot the problem? It should say "The gold that came from afar." The word "which" would only be used in a statement like "The gold, which came from afar, was totally rad." See? Yes. Well, it bugged me. This is why I want to be an editor when I grow up.
Dammit, my stomach feels crappy now. I think I'd better soak up that coffee with some food. Then it's on to Canadian History. Blah.
Talk to y'all tomorrow, one way or another.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 08:57 p.m.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHH!! Oh my frickin' lord! The final episode of The Mole is tomorrow. No, I didn't screw up again. The show was on today. The bastards led me to believe that by 9 p.m. tonight, I'd finally know the answer. But then, at the last minute, BAM! Tune in tomorrow for the shocking finale.
Sorry Bobman. Fuck the party. I've gotta know.
Okay, okay. I'll probably just tape it. But then I either have to watch it when I get home at 2 in the morning or somehow convince Marie not to spoil the surprise at school on Thursday. Either way, it's not going to be easy.
Man, you don't know how addicted you are until something like this happens... It's quite sad really.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 07:31 p.m.
Okay, for the sake of keeping myself distracted, I've unearthed a book I rescued from NOW Magazine's reject pile when I was working there. It's called Cuss Control: The Complete Book On How To Curb Your Cursing. Now, as many of you may have noticed, I have a casual swearing problem. It's escalated like crazy since these horrible shenanigans began. In fact, it's gotten so bad that I accidentally swore in front of my poor mother last week. I wasn't even upset at the time. I was just excited. I think the phrase might have been, "It was so fucking crazy!" Yikes. So anyway, this is me admitting I have a problem. Let's try to work through it together, shall we? Attention class. The first lesson begins today. Let's start with something easy.
Shit is the all-purpose word, eliminating the need for us to choose from hundreds of other words to express ourselves. We use it to describe everything. It does little to convey our real message, or the fact that our education continued beyond fifth grade. It is grossly overused. That's why it provides convincing evidence that, yes, we do swear too much.
To prove the point, this list contains seventy common uses of the word:
Who the shit knows?
Who the shit cards?
You're shit out of luck.
Don't give me that shit.
Cut the shit.
What the shit's wrong?
She thinks she's hot shit.
He's really shit on wheels.
He had a shit fit.
She went ape shit.
You're up shit's creek without a paddle.
It's a shithole.
It's a piece of shit.
I don't give a shit.
She doesn't know shit.
I have a shitload of stuff.
No shit.
We were shooting the shit.
He scared the shit out of me.
I was scared shitless.
He's a dipshit.
I'm in deep shit.
Shit happens.
He's full of shit.
He's a bullshitter.
Bullshit.
That's horseshit.
What a lucky shit.
Holy shit.
I took a lot of shit from him.
Oh, what the shit.
Okay, that's only half of them. I can't go on... Y'all better appreciate all the typing I've done for you. Admit it, it's bloody hilarious. When I first found this book, I read that entire list aloud to myself.
Of course, I don't give a shit about the s-word. My problem is with fuck. We'll look that one up next time.
Well, well. On a different matter entirely, it suddenly appears I have plans for tomorrow night. How novel!

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 06:34 p.m.
Sigh. Stupid High Fidelity soundtrack.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 03:33 p.m.
Exciting news of the day? Um, well, this didn't happen today, but I haven't mentioned it yet, and it's bound to shock the people who actually know me but...
Careful observer: Quit stallin'!
Melinda: I'm not Stalin.
C.O.: Hey, that isn't even your joke. You stole that from--
Melinda: --Listen, just shut the hell up. I'm running on four hours of sleep here. I almost didn't make it to class. Then the prof rambled on about how bloody hard it is to get into the magazine stream. Not a great way to start my day, alright? Not to mention the subway ride there...
C.O.: Okay, I give. What happened on the subway?
Melinda: Nothing.
C.O.: Playing coy really isn't attractive, you know?
Melinda: Really?
C.O.: Well, maybe just a little.
Melinda: Good. Well, anyway, it really wasn't a big deal. Just that when I got onto the train this morning, it was filled with men. Seriously. All men. Everyone. Except little ol' me. The only sign of another female was the skanky J-Lo poster on the wall.
C.O.: So?
Melinda: So, I said, "Oh, excuse me, I must've accidentally boarded the patriarchal section of the train. My mistake." And then I got off.
C.O.: No you didn't.
Melinda: Okay, so I didn't. But I thought about it.
C.O.: Now that I believe.
Melinda: Yup.
C.O.: Yup.
Long pause.
C.O.: So I thought you were going to try to shock us.
Melinda: Well...
C.O.: Well?
Melinda: Damn you for paying such close attention!
C.O.: Well, they don't call me Careful Observer for nothing, you know.
Melinda: Okay, okay. I got a cell phone. Yes, go ahead. Let the teasing begin. They're the man holding us down. They're tumor-machines. More than anything, they're just bloody annoying. Yes, I know. I'm not a fan, myself. But it was a birthday present from my parents. They'll feel safer. I'll feel safer. Besides, it's not like I'll be chatting on it or anything. I got the wussiest airtime package around, but it receives email and works as a pager too, which is just kinda neat.
C.O.: Um, question. What happens if you become one of those tacky losers who walk around the grocery store with the phone attached to their ear?
Melinda: You get to flog me with a wet noodle.
C.O.: Really?
Melinda: Yes, really.
C.O.: Cool.
Melinda: Yup.
C.O.: Yup.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 02:58 a.m.
I'd like to be the first to say "Duh!" The answer to my problem was right under my nose all along: Save it on a disk. Yeah, may seem simple to you, but I'm just not a disk person. I'm lose them far too easily to consider them a valuable resource. But anyway, the profile is finally printed -- and let me just say, hearing the printer noise after all build-up that was, well, quite a rush. Probably not as great for the people sleeping in my house, but why the hell should they get to sleep when I can't? Huh? And if they hadn't gotten rid of our super quiet laser printer, we wouldn't be having these issues. Nyah. Anyway, gonna crash for four hours now, then it's back up and at 'em. Yikes.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 02:24 a.m.
ARGH!!! Well, I would go to bed, except my stupid thing won't print. My computer seems to have lost all ties to its networked cousins. Specifically the one that has a printer. I emailed the document to myself, but then the computer w/ printer wouldn't connect to the internet. Bloody hell. My problem solving skills are not at their peak right now. Damn, damn, damn! If I don't get this sorted out in ten minutes, I'm dropping out of school and just hibernating for a few months.

Tuesday, February 27, 2001 01:37 a.m.
I told you writerliness wouldn't be cool at 2 a.m. It's only 1:37 a.m. and already, I'm feeling pretty yucky. I think I'm done, though. As done as I'm going to be, anyway. It's not that bad. I just wish I had left myself time to proofread, because at this time of night (morning?), there's just no use.
My wonderful profile subject just emailed with wonderful news. I'm so happy things are going well for him.
I have a slight desire to tell him that I'm going to do him proud someday, too. But that's just silly.
Well, one assignment down, eleven more to go, huh? (Note: I'm not actually sure that's how many there are. But I've been using the term "dozen" for so long, it just feels right.) My first challenge will be getting out of bed in the morning and draggin' my ass to class.
Oh, but before I even pretend to sleep... A wonderfully kind person brightened my evening by sending along a passage of writing he thought I'd like. He was absolutely right. I'd like to add it to the flow of ideas that this blog drifts through. I hope he doesn't mind. (I won't share your secrets, just some of your literary selections. Deal?)
"For the old, dying is dismal and takes the shine from death. One has grown accustomed to the succession of small disappointments that makes up most of life, so the failures that have followed one about like a smelly, undismissable mutt now resemble a faithful, if antic, companion. The young, however -- still so near the time when they were not alive that not being alive again exerts a powerful fascination -- cannot help but look at the threat of years to come and expect them to be as marked by loneliness, remorse, and triviality as those that have so far survived."
William H Gass
Thanks again. Goodnight.

Monday, February 26, 2001 10:46 p.m.
Wow, I'm feeling all writerly all of a sudden. It's this deadline thing, I tell you. Now that it's late (okay, it feels later than it should to me. I haven't been sleeping.) and the pressure's on, I find myself idly tinkering with phrases. Rewriting the same parts over and over until I'm pleased. And then sitting back and kind of nodding to myself, with that squinty, satisfied, "oh yeah" face. You know the one. If I didn't have such a headache, I would be loving this. What the hell is wrong with me?
I am such a writer. Cool.
Note: It will not be nearly as cool at 2 a.m. when I'm still fidgeting with this one chunk of words. Then it will be torture.
Note 2: The above reflections were about the profile I'm writing for magazine class. But if you were a regular reader, you'd know that. Or if you read weblogs from the bottom up, which makes a hell of a lot of sense but I never do it.

Monday, February 26, 2001 07:56 p.m.
Okay, this is weird. I just realized it isn't The Mole day (otherwise known as Tuesday) at all. Wow. I'm a little frightened now. I was absolutely, one hundred percent CONVINCED that it was. I think my brain was just skipping ahead to Tuesday night because then this damn profile would be done and gone. Or maybe sleep deprivation is really starting to get to me. Shit. Note to self: Sleep. Not tonight, of course. But in the near future. Perhaps I'll pencil it in for next weekend.
Eeek! That really was weird. Monday, not Tuesday. Got it.
Um, but since I'd already planned on using this hour for fun, maybe I'll reply to a wee bit of email before I start writing... Geez, I'm such a slacker.

Monday, February 26, 2001 07:07 p.m.
Q:What are the odds that Melinda will finish revising her profile before The Mole comes on at 8?
A:Terrible.
Q:Will she watch The Mole anyway?
A:Hell yeah. It's down to three players. She's gotta cheer for her man, Jim. (Yes, the gay helicopter pilot!)
Q:What about her schoolwork?
A:Fuck tha schoolwork.
Okay, remember earlier today when I said that I'd lay off the song lyrics? Well, I lied. Instead, I've decided to switch gears. You see, perhaps the most accurate observation George has made to me about this situation is that most of "our music" is even more fitting now. Brown-Eyed Girl is totally about lost love. And a lot of the Mr T Experience stuff is too. I'll give you one really long-winded example and then I'm going to do some more work.
Hell of Dumb (Yes, in its entirety)
You were hell of dumb for leaving. I was hell of dumb for believing you were hell of coming back to me again. Now I'm hell of sad without you near. I've hell of had it up to here with how things are now as compared with then.
Hell of dumb, 'cause you haunt me, hell of dumb, 'cause you don't want me, you just want me to get lost it's plain to see, and I'm hell of dumb for staying now I'm hell of dumb for saying how much I hell of love you when you hell of don't love me.
I still don't know why I cried for you so much. Hell of dumb 'cause I did it, hell of dumb 'cause I admitted how much I hell of love you when you hell of hate my guts.
And I hate the way I cave in and I hate how I'm behaving. I hate the foolish thing I have become. I feel hell of dumb for seeming hell of dumb, and for screaming, hell of dumb, hell of dumb, hell of dumb.
Hmmm. It seems a lot catchier when sung by the talented (and eternally heart-broken) Dr. Frank. But you get the picture.
Sigh. Back to school tomorrow. It's not going to be pretty.

Monday, February 26, 2001 12:05 p.m.
I think it's about time for me to run away, never to be heard from again. You know, Vancouver's sounding better and better. I need to be somewhere that people don't make a hobby out of fucking with my head.
I've decided I'm going to stop quoting song lyrics so much. Right after this:
I'd like a new identity. A pseudonym. Some plastic surgery. Or just a way to disappear. Someone to write me out of here.
Ever have one of those moments where every thought is prefixed by "I wish I'd never..."? Well, this is one of those times.

Monday, February 26, 2001 10:03 a.m.
Skipping Hollywood and Society again. Damn. It's probably the most interesting and most challenging class I'm taking, and yet, one way or another, I never make it down there.
It's a bad morning. I think I'm getting sick, but it may be just stress. I haven't been sleeping very well. Remember that rib/chest/lung pain I whined about a month ago? Well, it's returned with a vengeance. I really should see a doctor. I had an appointment, but then all hell broke loose. I wasn't too concerned because it was feeling almost normal for a few weeks. Then again, I probably just haven't been feeling.
It could also be that I haven't been taking those crazy meds that the quack prescribed. There are still about 10 left. Hmm...
I need to work today. I need to clear my head and just buckle down. Easier said than done, let me tell you. Especially because, more than anything, I'd just like to crawl back into my nice warm bed. Maybe an hour wouldn't hurt. Then again, WKRP will be on soon. Oh, decisions decisions!
Is this what my life has become? Think about it, shudder, and then realize you've only scratched the surface. You actually have no idea at all...
Sigh. There I go drawing the readers in and then crushing them again. Which is winning in this love-hate relationship we have? (Note: Yes, Jose, everything you say can and will be used as material. Sometimes without credit. Harsh, isn't it? Nah, you should be flattered! You're getting links up to your eyeballs from me. I'm such a fan.)
Work? Weep? Whatever. (A nod to the old diversity ads as well as my miserable state of affairs.)

Sunday, February 25, 2001 10:33 p.m.
Would failing my school year really be that bad?
I hope not.
Shit.

Sunday, February 25, 2001 08:44 p.m.
Highlights from my day:

Saw Jes for the first time since the holidays.

Helped rescue her car from the clutches of an evil snow hump.

Didn't crash it!

Revisited all sorts of buried childhood memories.

Got lost.

Hung out at CBC Radio with the Sunday morning news dude.

Wandered aimlessly for hours.

Breathed in fresh, unseasonably warm air.

Touched by a rockstar. (Lenny? Is that you?)

A trip to Way Cool Tattoos.

Ran into Ashley's brother, Matt.
Blood.

Then I got home and found several email messages awaiting me. One of them was a correction from my dear friend Vishnu. Here's an excerpt:
i believe the word you are looking for is bolloks (as in testicles, and a sign of dismay) and not bullocks (a male bovine).
like i said, im a picky litle cunt, and youll grow to hate me for it (trust me on this one).
This was, of course, in reference to my entry on Friday, February 23, 2001 02:45 p.m. While I swear I've seen the exclamatory statement spelled with the "u" and "ck", I'm willing to trust Vishnu as my honourary Englishman. Besides, I find this whole matter terribly amusing. So bolloks, then! As in, "Bolloks! I haven't done any of my bloody homework and reading week is over!"

Sunday, February 25, 2001 09:55 a.m.
Well, well. Speaking of Douglas Coupland, which I was doing a few entries down, it seems that someone is staging an adaptation of Life After God at the Fringe Festival this year. Now that I'll have to see. Along with Christian Values, of course.
But alas, I'm off for my day of adventure with the wonder-cousin.
Oh, and no, I haven't started revising the profile yet. It's going to get ugly...

Sunday, February 25, 2001 12:15 a.m.
Here's a thought: Maybe I should make a conscious effort to sound more sincere when I speak. Maybe that's been my problem all along.
Then again, maybe it's you.
But between that voice thing and the word game incident, Bobman Landers may never ring me up again. Which is a damn shame, of course. Where else am I going to find such a talented booster of casual sex, brutal violence and unemployment?
On second thought, don't answer that.
Since Jes has me waking up at some godawful hour, I think it's bedtime for... bonzo? Democracy? Oh, fuck off inside jokes. Just fuck the hell off.

Saturday, February 24, 2001 03:27 p.m.
Okay, this is what's getting to me: Because I've managed to keep my composure -- for the most part -- people seem to think that it's alright to dump on me. They seem to think that I can handle it. A certain someone seems to think it's okay to treat me as "the bad guy" again. Maybe that makes things easier to deal with. But it's not accurate.
Listen: I'm probably just setting myself up for more abuse, but here goes. I have feelings. I have a really large emotional stake in this matter. I've been releasing a steady stream of crude jokes for the past few weeks so that I don't jump off a bridge. But in case you hadn't noticed, they were tailing off. Or, at least, I'd zoned in on myself as a much easier target. Perhaps not a wise target. But definitely easier. After all, I have nowhere to run.
Look carefully at my eyes. (No, I'm not going to take a picture. I have my limits. You'll have to imagine. Or visit.) There's a reason that people keep bloody crying when they talk to me. To use Jes' phrase, I'm an "emotional tap" at the moment.
All I have going for me anymore is truth, and even that has its limits. I don't feel like I can tell anyone how I really feel. Partially because I'm not sure. Partially because I feel stupid about it. I can't even write comfortably in this stupid diary.
I keep feeling like I'm being held hostage and no one will read me the ransom note. What do my captors want? My downfall? Well, congrats, it's happening. Everytime I start to settle in, someone yanks the floor out from under me again. Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote that I'm afraid to step? Well, now I'm afraid to breathe. So mission accomplished, I'd say. Or maybe it's my heart they're after? Sorry, I gave that away about three years ago. Without coercion. And no, I never got it back. I still have feelings.
And then she sighed and shrugged off the faces of disbelief, singing softly to herself...
Why justify, why even think at all? I guess I'm far too sane.
Cry, and falsify this turmoil of emotion until you feel no pain,
but I'm pretty sure some sun will rise
and give me the strength to shield my eyes
from all the lights and all the lies of compromises.
-JKS, farewell faded memory

Saturday, February 24, 2001 01:49 p.m.
Are people trying to break me? Because, I'll tell you, it really feels like it. I'm getting royally screwed left, right and center. No one has any idea how fucked over I'm being because I'm not fucking "allowed" to tell anyone. I'm going mental, but I'm supposed to just suppress it and do my fucking homework, because I'm the strong, sane one. This is such bullshit. I'm doing nothing wrong. I've been handling myself remarkably well. And I still get shit on.
Fuck. Do you really want to see a breakdown? Are your lives that boring? Jesus Fucking Christ.

Saturday, February 24, 2001 09:53 a.m.
Ugh. Melinda feels bad this morning. Really bad. Exhausted, queasy, shivery (not chivalry). I don't understand why sleeping is getting more difficult for me now. And I certainly don't understand why my room feels like Antarctica all of a sudden, when it's usually more like the Bahamas in here. Brrrr.

Saturday, February 24, 2001 02:47 a.m.
Something I forgot to say: can't find a way to make this mark more clear. So crack your skull before you weep, and I'll try to keep some part of me sincere.
-you know who, greatest hits collection
I told you I wouldn't sleep! But I'm going to now.
A useless entry? For you, maybe...

Friday, February 23, 2001 11:33 p.m.
There are some, err, interesting new entries in the guestbook. Thanks... I guess.
So, after watching Crocodile Dundee on tv ("That's not a knife. That's a knife."), chatting to Jes on Instant Messenger and talking to Jenny on the phone for an hour and a half, I'm back to agonizing over my profile. Stupid school. It's really getting in the way. Who brought textbooks into the bell jar, anyway? Well, not textbooks. Story drafts. But that doesn't sound nearly as good.
I got a little wimpy with Jenny. After telling and retelling all my sob stories -- which she's been very good about listening to -- I told her how much I've missed her. And, in repayment, she accused me of being emotionally unstable! Nice friend, eh? Ah, but she is. She really is. Wistful sigh.
It's late. I should sleep. I won't, of course. But I should.

Friday, February 23, 2001 07:53 p.m.
Well, I'm lost. I'm afraid. Rope tying down a leaky boat to the roof of a car on a road in the dark and it's snowing.
-Ha! Lyrics to an unreleased weakerthans song. (Reconstruction Site.) You just can't beat that. Oh no, you can't.
Alright, so I found the first draft of my profile. Sat down with it for all of two minutes. It's not bad. I still remember what I'm supposed to be revising, which is a good start. I just have no drive to do it. Partially because my mind has wandered elsewhere. Partially because I'm deadline-oriented and this thing ain't due 'til Tuesday. I need to come in (triumphantly) just under the wire. It's the way I operate.
Now, Studious Melinda would say to this, "Yes, but you have twelve other things due directly after this project. If you finished this one, you would be able to proceed to the next."
Regular Melinda would say to that, quite simply and eloquently, "Fuck you." Then she would flagrantly misuse another beautiful lyrical fragment for a trivial argument with herself:
We've got a lot of time. Or maybe we don't, but I'd like to think so, so let me pretend.
In all seriousness, that may well be the line that hit me hardest on that whole album. It's inescapable. Life is short. Yeah, no shit. But geez. Is it ever! How does one deal with that?
Wh-what-what? Am I getting too deep for ya? Psht. Whatever.
Let's quote some Douglas Coupland and then I'll tell ya why I'm doing it.
When you are young, you always expect that the world is going to end. And then you get older and the world still chugs along and you are forced to re-evaluate your stance on the apocalypse as well as your own relationship to time and death. You realize that the world will indeed continue, with or without you and the pictures you see in your head. So you try to understand the pictures instead.
-Life After God
Reading Jose's diary yesterday, I was reminded of the first time I wrote messages on money. It was back in the day, when I was young and impressionable (pause. slight eyebrow raise.) and reading another one of Coupland's novels, Shampoo Planet. I became suspicious of Coupland's writing shortly thereafter -- the "voice of a generation" moniker bothered me. But he wrote some really good shit. Right up until Microserfs, that is. After that, he got tired. Or, perhaps, I got tired.
It's 8:13 on a Friday evening. I'm at home, in pyjamas already. Still. Hair in a bun. Jagged blotches of black nail polish holding on for dear life throughout the torrents of touch-typing. Tempted to go to sleep. Haven't been doing that much lately. I had a point buried somewhere in these fragments, but I think I've lost it...
Having a wee flashback to all the Friday nights spent watching Boy Meets World. It was a strange addiction, I'll admit, but somehow fitting. We used to sing along to the theme song. Of course, since we didn't pay any attention to the actual lyrics (were there any?), it was just an ad nauseum shouting of the phrase "BOY MEETS WORLD!" You know, thinking about that still makes me laugh. Hmph.
It also makes me laugh that there's a Boy Meets World webring.

Friday, February 23, 2001 02:45 p.m.
It's funny how animated I get when I'm tense. And by funny I mean abso-fucking-lutely hilarious. I should take this show on the road. The running monologue just doesn't stop. Sometimes I do dialogue. Plum lines abound. But there's no one around to hear 'em. Just me and the cat.
"Give us examples!" you cry? I really can't. Nothing I could type would do the act justice. Just know that it's very darkly comical. An indie filmmaker's wet dream.
So cast me already! I'll drop out of school and become an actor, just like the lovely and talented Liane Balaban. Hey, it could happen. Of course, at this point in my life, I'd only be able to do the "downtrodden, yet remarkably acerbic, intellectual" thing. I could be a great character actor, as long as the character is me. Like Woody Allen or Jerry Lewis or something. Of course, I'm not talking about their overall talent or filmmaking abilities. I don't think I'm a creative/comic genius, and I certainly don't want to get into a debate about it. I'm just referring to the fact that whatever the role, Woody Allen plays Woody Allen. He's consistently Woody Allen-esque. Yes? Yes.
A careful observer interjects: Hey, wait a minute. You're just trying to distract us from the fact that you're tense, aren't you, Mel? You never did tell us what's upsetting you today.
Melinda bites her lip, furrows her brow and replies: Bullocks. Who let this jerk in? And where does he get off calling me Mel?
Careful observer: Bobby calls you Mel.
Melinda pushes her glasses up with her middle finger, in that Grade-5-Fuck-You-sort-of-way: That's because Bobby doesn't actually know my name. Tragic, isn't it?
C.O. yawns: I've heard worse.
Melinda: Oh yeah? Like what, tough guy?
C.O.: Well, once there was this really hot, brainy chick who got dumped a week before her 21st birthday and...
Melinda interrupts: Oh! You're so droll! Don't you think that joke's getting just a wee bit old?
C.O.: Well, I enjoyed it.
Melinda: You would. Asshole.
C.O.: Hey, I wouldn't be trying to make enemies right now if I were you, Miss Thang.
Melinda: Touché.
C.O.: So, uhh, wanna go see a Woody Allen movie? I've seen Bananas seventeen times!
Melinda: Sure thing.
Okay, that went on for too long. And it wasn't even funny. I apologize. I told you it doesn't transfer well into text. Tense. Very tense.

Friday, February 23, 2001 11:52 a.m.
Okay, I've finally gotten around to changing my links so that they're not underlined. I bloody hated that. Oh, and for a nice piece of juxtaposition, I did it while watching Jenny Jones. It was a particularly white trash episode -- paternity tests. My favourite segment was about this chick who slept with two brothers, both named Ronnie, and then named her son Ronnie. Here's a quote from one of the Ronnies: "I really hope he's not my kid, because I've already got a kid named Ronnie." What's wrong with these people??
Oh. Better not leave you hanging, huh? Neither one was the father. Yeehaw!

Thursday, February 22, 2001 11:34 p.m.
I lied. I'm back. Miss me? Nah, didn't think so. No one ever does. (Aw, poor wussy suck-suck.)
I just wanted to thank Kate for encouraging me to soundtrack my life. I'll admit, that Velvet Underground song was pretty good and definitely fitting. But now I'm downloading the whole bloody High Fidelity soundtrack. I don't think that's a good idea. Ah well. G'night for real.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 11:15 p.m.
Final entry on a long and troubling day.
I've been watching far too much television this week. It's a bit of a shock to the system for a reclusive freak like me. I just saw the only episode of Frasier that's ever made me cry. Not this time, mind you. The first time around. It's the one where Niles and Daphne finally get together, on the eve of her wedding and his honeymoon (to other people). It's a great episode. You know, it strikes me I haven't seen a current episode of the show since this one first aired about a year ago. I wonder if things worked out for them.
Note to self: they're not real people.
I, on the other hand, am real people. Apparently a little too real. I just got an email from Andrew saying that he no longer reads the weblog because it's too voyeuristic. (No, that wasn't the main point of the email. We were talking about "keener bingo.") You know, he's probably right. But how else can I live my life as performance art from the comfort of my own home?
Shit. I'm watching the news and they just said something about a connection between hair dye and bladder cancer. That's odd. I'll have to stay tuned. But then the tv's going off for the evening. I have no tolerance for the waves and radiation anymore.
Ahh, permanent hair dye. Well, that's not as bad then. I'll just stick to my manic panic, fudge, etc. Besides, if I was going to do a boring normal colour, I'd use henna or something a bit more natural. So there.
G'night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite. (Bed bugs?? Well, not here. But if I lived in residence at RyeHigh... Shudder)

Thursday, February 22, 2001 10:09 p.m.
Going crazy. Wanna come? (Apparently 53 of you do. Today alone.)

Thursday, February 22, 2001 07:48 p.m.
Okay, this will be my sixth update today. Sixth. And it's not even 8 o'clock yet. I think I have a problem. Scratch that. I know I have a problem.
The April Fifth site is getting wackier and wackier. Here are some highlights:

While mourning the death of her son Jebus, Mary goes into a rage. Remembering that Jebus always referred to his deciples as lambs, Mary goes out and starts whacking anyone who looks at her cock eyed with a sheppards crook, retrieving the bodies and cooking them for dinner. And so the tradition of eating lamb at Easter began.

The combination of a cat eating alien, a nerdy dad, and a crazy pack of nosy neighbours makes a surefire equation for a hit. ALF would go on to be a pop culture icon joining the likes of the Fonz and that sassy Jackee from 227.

Somebody has no life. Oh, wait a minute, that's me. Keep up the good work, Bill.
On a reasonably unrelated note, I really like Jose's diary. He's under the impression that I'm the better writer, but he's a philosophy major, so what does he know? Seriously, though, I think his stuff is great. And he's a vegetarian Weakerthans fan who hasn't fucked me over, so that makes him tops in my book.
Wow, I was just handed an "adjustable gel wrist rest" that runs all the way along the length of the keyboard, keeping my lazy wrists in gooey comfort. Cool. (My father is trying to bribe me into doing this web design project for him. For free.) The only problem? There was barely enough room on this desk for the keyboard, so the new addition is hanging off the edge. But I guess I'll have to rearrange everything anyway, since this isn't my 'puter anymore. (It's the boy's. I have yet to transfer all my data and illegally-obtained software.) Come to think of it, this cramped set-up may be why I'm having so much back pain. I spend about twelve hours a day huddled into this corner.
Uhh, anyone care to pinpoint exactly when I became such a geek? At least my father's pleased with it. Last night he was telling me all about the system he's creating, for which I'm supposed to design a front-end. He seemed really pleased by the fact that I understood what he was saying. A little too pleased. Geekydaughterslpoitation, anyone?
Ooooh! I keep poking the damn wrist rest. I can't stop. Gooey! Squishy! Loveable!
Note: Irreverence does not equal healing, or even good cheer. It's yet another handy defense mechanism. This journey of self-discovery stinks.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 04:59 p.m.
Okay, I'm officially ready to run away. I just can't deal with people, school, etc. No offense to anyone who's been checking up on me. I just really need some time to clear my head. Fuck, when does school end? Let's see... Last day of class is April 12. Less than two months. I can do this. The time will just zoom by. Really.
On the off chance that I become pleasant again, anyone want to join my band? I'm calling it "Loathing the Ellipsis." And yes, that is an inside joke. Sorry.
Mother, hold all my calls. Father, pass the razor blades. Oh no, they're not for me. They're for "a friend."

Thursday, February 22, 2001 02:16 p.m.
Perhaps today is the day I hit rock bottom -- I'm watching MuchMusic. (Ohhh, and with that one catty statement, Melinda alienates the few friends she has left.) I just watched the new Eminem video, hoping to come away from it with some scathing social commentary to make. I have none. Then an old Sloan video came on (captioned "The Good of Everyone"... I always thought it was "The Good In Everyone." Shrug.), stirring up weird grade ten and eleven flashbacks. Now Sook Yin's on screen. Ick. I think I've suffered enough for one day.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 01:17 p.m.
Goddamn you half-Japanese girls. Do it to me every time.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 12:59 p.m.
My mistake to make you cringe. Another greeting like a broken creeky hinge to oil and push or pry apart. The diagnosis of a foreign frame of heart.
(all lyrics are courtesy of the weakerthans, unless otherwise stated. it's easier that way.)
One of the more interesting parts of this experience is watching how others react to me. I’ve probably talked to more people in the past two weeks than I’d talked to in months -- family, friends lost along the way, absolute strangers. I’m floored by the amount of genuine human compassion I’ve encountered. This may slowly renew my faith in the species. I just wish it hadn’t been totally devastated first.
Anyway, as hokey as it sounds, I feel like I’ve inherited a small army of brothers and sisters. It’s an odd experience for an only child like myself. But it’s been good talking to people. Everyone has a slightly different take on the situation. Everyone has a story to tell. Sure, some of the stories end with “so just get over it already” and others end with the realization that the person never got over their ex. But somehow they’re all pieces of the puzzle.
Of course, then there are the people who feel the need to reach out physically. It’s strange how many people have touched my hands. (Often in connection with a searching glance at my eyes and the question “Are you okay?”)
Gosh, these moments of cathartic vision are just strange. (It’s also strange how much the word “catharsis” is being bandied about by everyone. That and “closure.”) Sometimes I can only see things from the inside, sometimes only from the outside, sometimes both at once. I’m so hyper-aware. Torn between analyzing, rationalizing and feeling.
But I don’t want to stay up on the philosopher’s soapbox for too long. I guess I just wanted to say thank you, and to acknowledge that I can hear everyone, even when I get unresponsive. I’m not going to lie and say that I’m not hurting. (I’ve got this store-bought way of saying I’m okay, and you’ve learned how to cry in total silence.) There’s an empty place inside of me that’s going to take a long time to fill itself in. He was my best friend. We knew each other so well. Or, at least, I always thought we did.
Hmmmm. I just got an email that I’m not sure how to reply to. So, more of the poetry of John K Samson...
Maybe we’ll never go insane. You always said we would, sometimes I wished we could with you lying naked in the rain and singing Boney M, cutting down all our old friends. I talk to them again now.
Q: What happens when I run out of lyrics to hide behind?
A: I’ll start writing my own.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 09:44 a.m.
I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping over the past few days. It's really pissing me off. I've got all this tension built up in my back, too. It's not going away. I need a massage. (insert snide remark here)
It's Thursday. My reading week has just flown by. Much like the last few years of my life. Problem: I haven't accomplished anything. I need to revise my profile for mag class today. Or, at the very least, find my first draft. I know it's around here somewhere...
My room is such a disaster area. Crap piled up everywhere. Now, I could probably write a novella about the symbolism of how I'm slowly barricading myself in with shit, but I won't.

If you can’t make sense of the above picture, don’t worry about it. It confuses me too, and I know that I have an inflatable octopus. Oh, I’m not sure what the quality of the pic will be like, either. I lowered it so that it’d load up faster, and take up less space, but it looks the same on my monitor. Does it really matter? I’m just illustrating a point that was self-explanatory to begin with. Digital cameras make that easy.

Thursday, February 22, 2001 01:53 a.m.
You'll all be thrilled to know that my hair didn't end up mud-coloured. It's actually quite pretty. See?

Okay, I'm too tired to wax poetic. I'm only posting this now because my "best friend" Jes asked me to. So there.

Wednesday, February 21, 2001 09:58 p.m.
Okay. Deep breath. Here goes. I just watched Temptation Island. Because I am an idiot. Geez, I still remember watching the first few episodes with George and him getting mad because I liked the slutty girl. (She had neat hair.) Amazing how things change so quickly. I'm reminded of all the times we saw movies/tv shows in which one partner cheated on the other, or left the other, or just generally hurt the other. He would get emotional about it. He would get paranoid. If I stuck up for the philandering character in any way at all, he'd flip out. He was so worried that I'd leave him. Unreasonably worried. It's funny how life works out sometimes. (Not funny-ha-ha, mind you. Funny-strange.)
It's time to drop a bombshell that probably won't surprise anyone at all. Except me. I've decided that I will indeed be seeking out some form of counselling in the near future. Not because I'm crazy, or because I'm weak, but because I need to get through this as unharmed as possible. Rob made a good point when he said that if I got my arm broken, I'd get it looked at. There's nothing wrong with asking for help. That said, it's something I have a lot of trouble doing. But I'm going to try. Ultimately, I need to come out of this on top. I won't let it scar me for life. I won't let it fuck up my school year. I just need to talk to someone objective. Someone who knows what the hell they're talking about.
Okay, I have this paranoid fear that my arch nemeses are reading this and just laughing their heads off. But fuck 'em. Melinda is human. She has feelings. Shocking, but true. Like reality television. Only, ummm... more casual swearing. Fuckin' eh! (Speaking of reality television, I saw "Tre" from U8TV downtown today. It was actually quite exciting.)
(Half an hour later.) Oksana just called me, all the way from Vancouver. What a sweetie! Now I really do want to go out there. Maybe this summer. She said it's ten degrees there right now. Ten! It's minus eleven here.
I have more to say, but ICQ is distracting me. Back later, probably. Same bat-time, same bat-channel.

Wednesday, February 21, 2001 11:04 a.m.
Woke up at 10:30 a.m. Saw a great episode of WKRP (the one when the station sets up a concert with "Scum of the Earth," a snotty British punk band). Now I feel pretty crappy again. Fuck, I'd be in much better shape if only there were an all-WKRP-all-the-time station.
I just got an email from Oksana. Her interpretation of the situation?
yikes!!
says a lot about him
YAY!!!! yer free!
come & visit BC
you'll love it

I wish I could go out there. Although, I'm probably far too impressionable right now to be hanging out with O. She's a wild and crazy gal, and I'm but a jilted housewife. It'd be like Thelma and Louise on crack. Nah, way crazier than that.
I threw some dye on my hair at about 2 a.m. Vampire red on top of purple makes, uhhh, mud colour? I don't know. I haven't rinsed it yet. But who cares? If it looks shitty, I'll dye it black.
Wow, there's some sort of Ukrainian special exhibit (Legacy In Gold) at the ROM. Maybe I'll go. Connect with my "culture" or something. (My grandparents on one side are Ukrainian. Melinda is also part-British and part-Portuguese, in case you were wondering. People seem to wonder about that sort of thing.) Fuck. Flashback to taking him to the ROM for the first time. I was such a good partner, you know?
Ugh! Change the subject. Damn Yap-A-Lot commercials! What's wrong with those people?

Tuesday, February 20, 2001 11:16 p.m.
You know armageddon is upon you when...

A pair of brash right-wingers makes it their mission to console some purple-locked socialist-feminist webmistress. (Thanks Rob, thanks Iain.)

It's almost effective.

The highlight of your day is watching The Mole.

You get visibly excited when Jim, the gay helicopter pilot, makes it through another execution.

Your parents are the ones trying to convince you to drink.

You find yourself asking, "What would Jesus do?"

You're actually curious as to the answer.

You make two bulleted lists in one day.

You get dumped by someone who professed to be your soulmate less than a week before your birthday. Oh wait. This was supposed to be funny, wasn't it?

You realize how uncomfortable your self-deprecating remarks make other people and spout them anyway.

In the middle of writing an entry for your weblog, you receive an email forward titled "You know you've been in university too long when..." and worry that the sender will think you stole the joke. (You didn't.)

You're truly fascinated by the above coincidence.

Tuesday, February 20, 2001 04:02 p.m.
I guess I should have seen the panic attack coming. I was doing alright for awhile. Sad, but in a controlled way. Now I feel like I'm hitting rock bottom. Like the walls are closing in. It's times like this that my fears (of pain, pills, heights, knives, strange places, etc) come in handy. I'm losing it. That's something I find really humiliating to admit, but it's true. I can't handle this on my own. I've been trying. I really have. I put on a brave face. I went out with people. I laughed at jokes. I made light of the situation. I unearthed my Shakti Gawain books and told myself that they were giving me new insight. I swore that I'd plug away at all the work I have to do this week. Right now, I'm staring at the massive list of assignments due and just bugging out. I can't think straight. I'm pretty sure I failed the English test I wrote on Thursday, because I just couldn't focus. (And yes, I really do think that I failed. This isn't one of those false modesty things. I kept zoning out, and then looking at my watch, and then writing a vague and useless sentence or two. I almost gave up altogether.) I know that screwing up my schoolwork will ultimately add to my distress. That's probably the only thing that could make me feel worse than I do now. But I just can't bring myself to do anything. I'm overwhelmed.
Being a perfectionist is not all it's cracked up to be, you know. It creeps into every dark corner of your being. Every success just makes the fear of failure that much stronger. And it's not just about marks -- although, I'm still having a really hard time lessening the power that stupid letter grades have over me. It's every aspect of life. And it's a kind of existence that seems impossible to relate to if you don't have the same feelings.
I'm really not sure if writing this is helping me out. Maybe it is. I'm not sobbing now. That's an accomplishment. And when I write things down, I'm forced to think on more than a purely emotional level. I get to think about language, and about choosing precisely the right words to get my message across. My writer persona takes over, I guess. But is that a good thing? How much does our language censor and restrict feelings and thoughts? Maybe there are no words for what I'm trying to communicate. This thought is impossibly frustrating. Totally unacceptable. Maddening, even.
And so I rationalize. I take societal cues. I interpret life with the meagre tools provided. There are so many immovable filters and molds in the world. So many archetypes. We cannot escape the scenes placed in our heads by family, film, history and culture. There are no new experiences, no new ways of experiencing.
I will dress in all black, absentmindedly light a cigarette and look wistfully off to the left, so you know that I am heart-broken. So you know that Reality Bites.
Somewhere along the line, I have become a dime store philosopher. Don't be alarmed if the above came across to you as inconsequential babbling. I write to clear my head. The sound of clicking keys is soothing and the air of pretentiousness gives me hope that my essays can still be written. I had a conversation along these lines this weekend that seemed far less obscure. Perhaps because one could hear both voices. Not just that of a isolated intellectual with too much to say and no one to say it to.
Aw, hell. Let's do some more song lyrics, since we're on such a role today. Back to Leonard Cohen, I think.
And you know that she's half crazy
but that's why you want to be there
and she feeds you tea and oranges
that come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
that you have no love to give her
she gets you on her wavelength
and she lets the river answer
that you've always been her lover
-Suzanne
Wait, don't tell me. So deep it's meaningless. I know.

Tuesday, February 20, 2001 1:12 p.m.
Songs I've learned how to play simplified versions of on the guitar, instead of working:

Bird On A Wire

I'm Your Man

Chelsea Hotel

Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye

Oh, and if anyone's thinking of emailing to tell me how anthemic I am, don't bother. I'm aware.
Besides that, I've been spending a lot of time lately reading other people's weblogs. I feel like I'm on a quest for shared humanity. I need to know that other people feel. Maybe that seems silly, or self-involved. But it's something that's been called into question for me. My most intimate human connection was, apparently, a sham. To a large extent, George was my barometer of sensitivity in the world. He was the only person I met who seemed to feel things as strongly as I did. But obviously, he got over that. And so I'm left here just an isolated ball of nerves.
Does anyone understand what I'm saying? Can anyone hear me? Does anyone else see the irony in talking to a wall about talking to a wall? Why does this feel more like a downward spiral than a resurrection?
Rely a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony. Get clobbered on by courtesy, in love with love and lousy poetry. And I'm leaning on a broken fence between Past and Present tense. And I'm losing all the stupid games that I swore I'd never play.
Weakerthans , Aside
Did you know that the first time I heard The Weakerthans play, I nearly started crying? It was the craziest thing in the world. I didn't know the band, I couldn't make out the words, but I remember the music stirring up a lot of emotions. I think the specific song was The Last Last One but it was live and a long time ago, so I'm not exactly sure. Anyway, I find it really troubling that the music I connect with most is getting dragged down with all of this. Because he made that girl a copy of my cd. Because they'll probably be at the shows. Erika has offered to tape them for me, which is very kind, but fuck. Seeing them play is one of the few things that reliably made me happy. It doesn't seem fair that my life can be appropriated, and that I can just be shoved out. It doesn't make sense that George can listen to them without it registering that "this is Melinda's favourite band." We must've gone to see them together at least 7 or 8 times, maybe more, cuddling together in the front row. I have all the ticket stubs. Somewhere.
Why did I fall so hard?

Tuesday, February 20, 2001 10:54 a.m.
Those stains in the carpet, this drink in my hand, these strangers whose faces I know. We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say "I wanted it this way" and wait for the year to drown. Spring forward, fall back down. I'm trying not to wonder where you are.
Weakerthans, Left and Leaving
Have I mentioned that nobody's ever going to get me like this again? Ever. It's just not worth it.
Another thought: Nobody got me one of those gooey wrist-support mouse pads for my birthday. Not surprising, since I really didn't have a birthday. But I spend so much bloody time on this 'puter that I really do need one. I'm probably getting carpal tunnel sydrome or something. Just add it to the list of defects. Carpal tunnel syndrome, TMJ disorder, severely fucked-up ribs/lungs, near-sighted as hell, no sense of direction, over-active imagination, profoundly unlovable. Oh, and did I mention harshly critical?
Shit, there's so much work I should be doing. But maybe I'll just go back to bed...

Tuesday, February 20, 2001 12:37 a.m.
What have I been up to, you ask? Just a little something I like to call preparing for battle...

Thank you HeroMachine. You've changed my life.

Monday, February 19, 2001 09:01 p.m.
Stupid All In The Family. Tonight's episode: Edith goes to a wedding and meets a man from her past that she's attracted to. She's tempted, but ultimately returns home to Archie. They've both missed each other, although neither admits it, and they embrace warmly. And at this point, Melinda starts crying. Then she turns on Will and Grace. Oh look. They're not living together anymore. Nice.

Monday, February 19, 2001 06:26 p.m.
I took a picture of the painting Erika did:

My only complaint is that the picture looks a bit bluer than it should. Everything is actually done in warmer shades of purple. I guess I could probably try to fix it with a graphics program, but that seems like so much work. Or maybe it's my monitor. If you're that damn curious, come see the thing yourself. You must come bearing food and gifts, though. You've been warned.
Oh, and if you're wondering why the pic looks so goshdarned familiar, go here. Someone seems to have found my uberfunktastik feature. Which, by the way, is really fucking decent, if I do say so myself. I just read it for the first time since I submitted it to Andrew. Man, I've got to find a way of being paid for going off on personal tangents. It's the one thing I can do reliably.
Well, that and whine. As in, "Owwww, my damn fingers hurt. Stupid guitar. Stupid uncallused fingertips. Stupid Leonard Cohen using Bb all the time."
According to F. Scott Fitzgerald, "It takes a genius to whine appealingly." How am I doing? On second thought, don't answer that.

Monday, February 19, 2001 12:26 p.m.
I just woke up. It's reading week, so I can do that sort of thing. I really should be starting one of the dozens of major assignments that await me, but I don't feel like it. Fuck, who needs to pass my classes, be accepted to the magazine stream or get a scholarship, right? (Answer: I do.) I wish I could get out of town for awhile, but I have nowhere to go and no one to go with. Oh, and no money or transportation either.
Today would've been one of those silly monthly anniversaries that we didn't celebrate anymore, but always remembered. It's going to be a long while before the 19th of each month doesn't make me misty-eyed. Geez, I think I'm more of a romantic than I ever let on. He didn't think I liked flowers. Now, it wasn't something that I advertised, but they made me swoon. I still remember him bringing me a pink rose when we first started going out. I sat there and stared at it for hours. Just like all the little toys that he got me, now hanging in a hammock over my door. Bloody hell. I'm really having trouble with the juxtaposition of such incredible memories and wretched recent events. What the hell happened? When did it happen?
I guess I'm coming to realize that I really thought he was "the one." I didn't believe in ideas like that when we first met. He was always so sure that we'd be together forever, that we'd grow old together, and I was the hesitant one. But by now, I'd come to accept it, to look forward to it even. I could see us slow dancing to "Brown-Eyed Girl" in our slippers, in the living room of our own home. Kind of like my parents -- whom he adored, by the way.
A bit of a side note: Choosing Van Morrison's biggest hit as "your song" is a bad move. 'Cause when you break up, it'll follow you through every dark pub you try to hide out in.
So hard to find my way
Now that I'm all on my own.
I saw you just the other day,
My, how you have grown!
Cast my memory back there, Lord,
Sometime I'm overcome thinking about
Making love in the green grass
Behind the stadium
With you...
Oh, nevermind.
One more thing to spout off about. I think some people's reaction to all this has been to slough it off because I'm "young." Yes, this was my first major relationship. We started going out when I was 17, what do you expect? But I don't think that should be used to denigrate the relationship we had. Because, mentally, I've been about 40 since I was 12. Sure, I've had moments of reckless abandon, but overall, I'm frighteningly responsible and committed. And I guess I expect that of the company I keep. Maybe that intimidates people. I don't think it should. It's just basic human courtesy.
Ugh. I feel like I'm painting myself as some big stick in the mud. I don't think I am. I'm actually a pretty entertaining girl, when I want to be. Some might say a laugh riot. And I wouldn't even have to pay them. Much.
So, uhhh, anyone want to run away with me to Vancouver? It's probably not as cold there. We could get dreadlocks. (Melinda is truly fascinated by dreadlocks.) Nah, I don't really want 'em. I think I'll just dye my hair instead. I'm thinking of black, which would be the most "normal" colour my hair's been in years. I don't know if that's good or not. It'd probably help with the job hunt, though. I've never had the balls to do it before, since it's such a hard colour to get rid of, but now... Well, who the fuck cares, right? My feelings exactly.
Do you remember when we used to sing
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
Just like that
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
La dee dah.

Sunday, February 18, 2001 06:05 p.m.
Spent another afternoon in King's Cafe -- this time with Erika. We got to exchange birthday presents, finally. (Her birthday was in November. Her gifts have been sitting here since then.) She painted a picture of me, which is pretty friggin' cool. What an artiste! She also got me one of those crazy "action sampler" cameras that take 4 pictures in one shot. And Patrick sent along a book as well, which I thought was incredibly sweet of him.
And now the question that's on everyone's lips: How am I doing? I'll give you the same answer I give Rob every single day. I've been better. To be honest, there hasn't been a morning that I didn't wake up in horror. Every day I face the whole scenario over again. I miss him. And I hate myself for feeling that way. Over the past while, he's proven to have a strong capacity for cruelty and insensitivity. He's said inappropriate things to me. He's done (and vowed to continue doing) extraordinarily tasteless things. He's been the emotional idiot that those damn clowns said he was. (What? Don't worry about it.) And yet... Sigh.
What bothers me a lot about this whole scene is that he can walk away lying to himself about the way I felt. In his mind, I wasn't attracted to him. I didn't think he was smart enough. I didn't think he was special. Well, why the fuck would I spend almost four years of my life with him then? It wasn't just for the french fries, you know. I'm an incredibly selective person. I don't waste time with people who don't interest me. But he interested me. More than anyone else I've ever met. If he didn't mean anything to me, this wouldn't be hitting me like a brick wall. I'd be able to laugh, wave goodbye and yell "Bring on the whores!" But what we had was special. It was a very intense relationship, with incredibly high points to balance the low ones. A bit of a roller coaster ride at times, but he liked roller coasters, goddammit. And I liked him.
One step forward, two steps back, huh? Yup. Any of you guys know how to Madison?

Saturday, February 17, 2001 04:53 p.m.
I went out with Jenny this afternoon and it was immensely soothing. She was my best friend back in the day and god, she's grown into such a beautiful person. I'm so impressed by her. Sort of proud, if that makes any sense at all. And after all these years, I'm still so comfortable talking to her. I guess some things never change.
Of course, now I'm home alone with Leonard Cohen and my organic vegan zoodles, and falling apart all over again. But you know what? That's okay. That's healthy. Not mourning the loss would be more indicative of a problem. I'm realizing that. I'm realizing a lot of things.
I spent the month before my birthday questing for symbolism. I wanted rebirth. I wanted to be (non-religiously) baptized. In short, I was looking for a rite of passage. And while this wouldn't have been my choice, it seems that my trial has arrived. Moral of the story? God works in mysterious ways? Nah. Be careful what you wish for 'cause you might get it? Perhaps. Actually, I don't know what the moral is. Yet. But I'll keep you posted.
Jenny asked me how it is that I do this weblog thing, baring my soul to anyone and everyone who happens by. I'm not exactly sure. Sometimes it's easy to forget that other people read it. Sometimes it's impossible. But it's all part of my craft. I take some sort of sick satisfaction out of putting my heart on the line. It's my life as performance art.
When I was younger, I always planned on being an "artist" when I grew up. My head was filled with vague images of paint, canvas, intense emotions and humble enlightenment. This is when I was 7. I still remember my best friend back then, Christina, insisting that artists didn't make any money. The thought didn't bother me at all. (Whereas, she was taught to read with a book called "Think and Grow Rich." Seriously.) Nor did it bother me that I couldn't draw. My fantasies weren't about creating and selling pictures, they were about free expression. While my friends declared themselves future doctors and lawyers, I yearned to be a starving artist. A poet. A philosopher. An old soul. I'm not sure that I've ever lost that romantic notion. I'm not sure that's such a bad thing...
Wow, I'm a little flaky today. But I'm not sorry about it.
I've been too apologetic for my own good over the past little while. I'm trying to work through the shell-shock now. While I'm still unhappy with the way things have worked out -- and still unsure that it was right for either of us -- I am going to take what I can from this experience. George said that he wanted to "find himself." Ignoring the ironic undertones of using such a cliche, I don't think he's going to succeed with the route he's taking. I think he's afraid to be alone with himself. I can relate to that. He's looking for others to tell him that he's special when, ultimately, that knowledge has to come from within. I can relate to that too. We're both pretty insecure people, we just channel it differently. George fidgets and retreats. I have internal critics more scathing than those old guys on the Muppet Show. And the jokes, of course.
But whether or not he makes the journey, I'm going to do it. You just wait.
a p.s. to robert, iain, tammy, bobby and the other blood-sport seekers: it...ain't...over...

Friday, February 16, 2001 08:18 p.m.
Ick.

Friday, February 16, 2001 07:20 p.m.
No snide remarks tonight. Oh, they're still coming. Make no mistake. Just not tonight. I'm too emotionally spent to spew venom right now. Here's the email I just sent Bobby. I don't feel like telling it again.
He just left for good. Everyone kept telling me to go out tonight. They said not to stay for it, but I did. I sat perched on the kitchen table watching him and my mother carry all of his stuff upstairs and out to his mom's van. It was psychotically depressing, but I just had to see it. I'm not sure why. Maybe because seeing is believing. Maybe because I'm a sucker for abuse. He asked why I stayed to watch and I said, "I'm not doing it for your benefit. I'm doing it for my art." I'm not sure what that meant. But I think it was still true.
Now my head is spinning and I wish I were somewhere else, with a bottle of beer in each hand. This is hard. I don't like this.
I really hope it does make me a stronger person, rather than just more fucked up.

Friday, February 16, 2001 12:34 p.m.
beer = good
sluts = bad
I know everyone's eager for the next chunk of the saga, but it will have to wait for a bit. Evil takes time, don'tcha know.

Wednesday, February 14, 2001 09:04 p.m.
Ugh! I love my life. It's fucking beautiful. So it seems that someone in particular has stumbled upon my diary. Someone who took great offence to the way she and her child were being portrayed. Well, now, just a question: what were you expecting?
Honestly! How can I see you as anything but a bad person? To get Ricki Lake-esque for a minute: "You stole my man, you *bleep* *bleep* whore!" Or to be more Melinda-esque: You fucked up my life big time. Some shapeless, faceless entity, you just waltzed in and wrecked an incredibly beautiful relationship. I cared more for him than you or he will ever really know. From where I stand, you entered the scene at a particularly vulnerable point in our relationship and you used it to your advantage. I know that you're not the only one to blame. I may be heart-broken, but I'm not fucking stupid. But I also know that George can be a real sucker sometimes. And that he was/is confused. If you really cared about him as a friend, you would have backed the hell off for awhile to let him think.
Christ. I'm not going to feel guilty for the things I write in this log. Regardless of what you think, I'm not the villain in this ordeal. I'm a living, breathing human being with honest feelings to be expressed. I lost my best friend and my boyfriend in the same fucking day, and I'm having a little trouble coping.
As a little aside: It's astounding how violated I feel by this news. I understand that the blog is public, and that people all over the world (miraculously) are reading it. But this still comes as a bit of a shock to the system. She's invading my space, everywhere I turn. Steal my boyfriend, steal my best friend, steal my favourite band too! (Why don't you just move in here and you can write the weblog!) But, fuck it. What's done is done. She wanted to know what I was thinking, fine. She asked for it. How someone in her position can read this and not feel like dirt, I dunno, but go right ahead. Indulge in the drama that is melinda's pathetic life. Take a bow, even. Bravo.

Wednesday, February 14, 2001 03:44 p.m.
Shit. (Nope. No explanation. Sorry kids.)

Wednesday, February 14, 2001 12:17 p.m.
Well, Crappy Valentine's Day, everybody! I went down to RyeHigh, wrote my media law test and high-tailed it home. I kept seeing people with roses and finding it hard not to snap them in half (the people or the roses? I dunno..). This is such utter bullshit. I'm torn between crying and breaking more stuff. Hmmm.
Andrew gave me a birthday card at school today, with a poem he wrote himself. Awww. Very sweet. I also had the exciting task of telling Marie and Shanoah why I didn't do anything for my birthday. Well, the abbreviated version anyway. Marie looked like she was going to cry for a second. Maybe b/c I looked like I was. Ugh, things are just so messed up. And this is making it even harder to tolerate the majority of my classmates, whom I despised to begin with. I swear, if anyone even looks at me the wrong way, I'll have no choice but to kill them. There is no tact left in me. Only rage. But, really, how can I be expected to be the calm, tactful one in all this? He's shown utter disregard and disrespect for me, for our past together, for my feelings. It's indecent for him to expect me to be okay about this. We were together for nearly four years. If we were Jane and Joe Q Public we would have been married by now. Suddenly, I'm expected to turn on a dime. It's revolting to think that after all this time, he's able to shift his attention and be making out with some other girl two days after we break up. And then to show his face around here?
On the subway ride home, I found myself glaring at toddlers. Because, as I think I mentioned before, his slutty new "friend" has a 2-year-old. Um, what happened to our conversations about kittens over kids, eh? Well, at least you know she's easy...
Ouch. Melinda is harsh today, yes? Yes. It's fucking Valentine's Day. What did you expect?

Tuesday, February 13, 2001 09:17 p.m.
I just got off the phone with Jenny, who used to be my very best friend a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. I feel like such an ass for losing touch with everyone and then expecting them to take care of me. So to everyone who's been calling and emailing and generally showing an interest in my well-being: Thank you. You're all such decent human beings. And you've got a friend for life in pathetic-little-me, whether you like it or not.
Something that's been eating away at me: George said something recently about how things were different when he and I were in school together and got to see each other all the time. This upset me. Because I remember when I first started at Ryerson, he was so worried that I'd meet someone else. But, of course, I was faithful. Now that he's in school, however, he feels the need to pick up an on-campus girlfriend. Well, how convenient!

Tuesday, February 13, 2001 06:55 p.m.
Okay, I think today officially takes the cake as the worst birthday ever. Fuck. I'm falling apart again. I got a hold of myself yesterday for awhile. I got angry. I got vengeful. Now I just feel sad.
Over the past week, I've become incredibly apologetic. I think everyone I've talked to has noticed. I feel like I'm troubling them. I can't help it. I like to think of myself as a strong and independent person and this whole breakdown just embarrasses the hell out of me. I'm wallowing in pity. I'd like to get over it, but I don't know how. I'm seriously considering therapy. All my friends are doing it. But then I'd feel weirder. I don't exactly trust the establishment. And I can't help but think that he's the one who needs therapy, not me. Or, at the very least, we both do. But he needed it first.
I talked to him this morning for the first time in a couple of days. It was pretty much a shouting match over dividing up the stuff we own together -- the nintendo 64, the digital camera, etc. I didn't want to give any of it up. I feel like I've lost enough already. That I've got to hold on to something familiar, and if material goods are all I can manage, then fine. Plus I like that stuff. And I use that stuff. So finally it came down to me paying him off for it. I don't know what to think.
Every time I talk to him, he makes me feel like I'm the problem. Like this is all my fault. If only I'd been more affectionate... If only I'd encouraged him to get a scooter... But I put so goddamn much into this relationship. I really did. This isn't my fault. And, you know, if he had come to me just once and said, "Honey, I think my lack of a scooter is jeopardizing our relationship" and seriously meant it, I would've gone along with it. But, for fuck's sake. This is unreal. He could've made that decision for himself. That's not something I would've ended the relationship about. I'm a grown-up. (And for the record, a vehicle that you can only drive five months of the year isn't practical. Just like a beautiful old VW Microbus wouldn't be practical and thus, I'm more likely to get a real car. If I ever bother with my road test...)
It also drives me crazy that he talks so rationally to me about this chick. He says he knows that anything happening with her is just him feeling needy. And that he can't stay with her for very long without taking on some sort of fatherly role with her son, which he can't deal with. But, yet, this isn't stopping him. He's still seeing her. I know because he's coming into my goddamn house with hickeys on his neck. So I don't know whether he's lying to me or lying to himself or what. I'll have to assume he's lying to me.
He asked me why I'm so fixated on the girl in particular. But come on. It's a fucking slap in the face. It's a direct insult. It's a "Ha ha, look at me, I've replaced you already." It forces me to distrust all the things he said to me about wanting to be alone. I've had bloody Alanis Morisette in my head all day. Yes, the "You Oughta Know" song. That, in itself, is reason enough for him to be castrated.

Tuesday, February 13, 2001 02:29 p.m.
I thought I could go out today. I tried. But I can't. Fuck.

Tuesday, February 13, 2001 12:10 a.m.
Happy frickin' birthday to me. It was exactly 21 years ago this very moment that Melinda made her graceful entrance into the world. It's gonna be a tough one, but I'll come out fighting. Just you wait. Thank you to Rob and Ashley and everyone else who sent cards. And to everyone who's taken care of me this week. It takes a crappy situation like this to find out who really cares about you.

Monday, February 12, 2001 05:07 p.m.
Okay, that's it. Enough of this bullshit. A decision had to be made and you fucked it up (you being George). But that's your loss. And I'm not going to worry about it anymore. Because, you know what? You were goddamn right all along. I am too good for you. And I've always been too good for you. So the trailer trash whore just makes sense. Return to the way of your fucked-up family. You'll fit in nicely. Until, of course, it all comes crashing down again and you realize you're not capable of maintaining a relationship. That the problem really was you all along. The thrill will wear off, and suddenly you'll be stuck there with some crazy bitch and her whining brat of a child, and things won't seem so peachy keen. Escapism only works if you keep on moving.
If anything, what bothers me most about this whole ordeal is that this reflects a flaw in my judgement. Because I honestly didn't peg you for an asshole. But that's exactly what you are! There's no escaping the fact that you're a fucking selfish pig. A dickhead. How long will it be until your new girlfriend realizes that? Well, probably pretty long, since that's what she's accustomed to. So maybe you're perfect for each other.
But Christ! Do you have any idea how much my family did for you? When you got thrown out of your house, they didn't think twice about letting you stay here. You were always welcome at family gatherings and made to feel like you belonged. My parents came to care for you like a second child. And this is how you pay them back -- by making them feel stupid for helping you.
And as for myself, well... I really don't want to harp on it anymore, because I feel like a fool. But I cared for you more than anyone else in the world. I let you into my life and into my heart. I told you my secrets and gave you all I had. Apparently, in doing so, I gave you enough strength and confidence to hurt others. That's something you could never do before, remember? Always the dumpee, never the dumper. Until now, huh? Well, you must be really fucking proud of yourself. Congratulations! You've matured into a fine young asshole. You've developed interpersonal skills like lying, cheating, and not feeling bad about it. You'll do really well in life. But that's not something to be proud of...
You're one of them more than you'll ever know.
Note: Okay, no more open letters to the asshole. Promise.

Monday, February 12, 2001 02:43 p.m.
I just found a site he made for me when we first started going out. It's still up. Oh, and the porn stuff was a joke, by the way. Although it did generate some e-mail. (Surprising, considering it's a picture of me looking very young and playing dolls with my little cousin.)

Monday, February 12, 2001 01:56 p.m.
Last night, before I went to sleep, my mother insisted on reading me a bedtime story. She feels so helpless in all of this. I know it hurts her to know that she can't ease my pain. So I let her. All she could find was a book of stupid mysteries, but she read them with such gusto... She's such a good person. I wish this didn't have to affect her too.
Then, I had another troubling dream. George realized the error of his ways. Came to me in tears, begging me to forgive him. Of course, when I woke up, I was utterly alone and went through the dumping all over again in my head. What a nice way to wake up, hmm?
My mom stayed home until 10 a.m., to make sure that I left for my 11 o'clock class. She knew I wouldn't have gone otherwise. So I went. And I opened my eyes as wide as I could to the sunlight. And I made pleasant pre-class small talk without breaking down. And I paid attention to Murray's rantings. And I didn't cry until I was walking down the street, back to my house.
Of course, now I'm back in my hole, contemplating my ruined birthday and my depleted body. I'm still afraid to step, in case I fall further.

Sunday, February 11, 2001 07:44 p.m.
Now this is just getting excessive. I decided to watch televsion. I almost put on Speaker's Corner, but quickly realized it would be full of valentine's greetings, so I put on King of the Hill instead. Well, it seems that in this episode, it's Bill's birthday. Okay, that's okay. It gave me a small twitch, but I can handle it. Then he meets a woman and falls in love with her. This is where I turned it off. I know I'm being hyper-sensitive, but still. I don't want to hear anything about love or relationships or birthdays or anything. So where am I gonna hide out all week?

Sunday, February 11, 2001 06:45 p.m.
Someone up there is fucking with me. Let's call him The God Of Messy, Painful, One-Sided Break-ups. (And yes, he's most definitely male.) As I was writing the last entry, I heard something fall lightly to the floor somewhere in my room. I glanced around, didn't see anything, and kept on writing. Well, I just found the thing that fell. It's a comic-like picture that I photocopied out of a Douglas Coupland novel along time ago (one of several such pics, probably from Generation X) and stuck on the wall. It's a chick holding a coffee mug, looking off to the side and saying "Don't worry, mother... If the marriage doesn't work out, we can always get divorced." Argh. Inanimate objects are mocking me! I can't deal with this.
The marriage was working out. Or, at the very least, it could have been worked out. As lame as it is, I really saw us together for a very long time. Awhile back, I was joking that I was going to enter us in all sorts of free-dream-wedding contests. We agreed that if we won, we'd do it just for the party. Sigh. Such a romantic notion turned into just another silly what-if. Story of my life. Or, at least, of the past few years.
But what happened to the shared dreams? He used to want them too. He used to push for them harder than I did. I was nervous, but he was convinced. We would be together forever. We would have those damn kittens and that damn house. We would be smiling, drinking soda. We would take on the world and come out on top. Together. Why did I have to believe him?
"Don't worry, mother... If the marriage doesn't work out, he can always dump me for some punk trailer trash a week before my birthday."

Sunday, February 11, 2001 04:48 p.m.
I'm writing to keep myself going, so if the blog starts to get repetitive and/or uninteresting, that's why.
Everyone keeps telling me that things will get better. That the hurt will slowly die out. But it's so hard to believe. How do you put logic ahead of emotion? Rationally, I can say to myself, "Melinda this isn't your fault. You're a good person. It's his loss. You need to pull yourself together. You need to eat and sleep and breathe. You need to keep on truckin'." But believing these things, and acting on these things, is much more difficult.
It doesn't help that my birthday is on Tuesday, and that I was upset about turning 21 as it is.
It doesn't help that Valentine's day is on Wednesday, and that I'll be spending it sobbing alone in my room (after failing a couple of tests at school).
It doesn't help that he tells me he wants to be alone for awhile. Wants to find himself. And then throws himself into the arms of another girl. It doesn't help that she's the one he's been talking to about our relationship. That the "voice of reason" had ulterior motives.
It doesn't help that for once, I was right to be jealous of his new female friend. I was right. And it gets me absolutely nowhere. I still lose.
It doesn't help that he's found a group of instant friends to replace me and our relationship. That he's moving to a utopian vegan collective household (read: cult), where his life will be so full and rich and oh-so-political that he won't have time to think about dull ol' me. That he wants it that way.
It doesn't help that he seems surprised that I'm upset. That he didn't realize how much this would hurt me. That he obviously had no idea how special he was to me.
It doesn't help that he's going on about his life as if none of this mattered. That he spent the afternoon spiffing himself up for his new life -- redying and cutting his hair -- when I can't even get dressed.
But enough. I'm sounding like Martin Luther King, but in a bad way. (The repetition, I mean. Like the "I have a dream" speech. You know?)
If he wants to be reborn as an asshole, there's nothing I can do. Fuck.
Enjoy your delayed adolescence. Enjoy your meaningless fling with someone more fucked-up than you. Enjoy that horrible feeling that will eventually creep into the pit of your stomach, when you realize that you loused up something beautiful. That you hurt the one person who cared most.
As for me, I'll probably get quite evil. (And no, despite what you try to tell yourself, I wasn't to begin with.) I'm not going to give my heart so freely. I'm not going to trust so deeply. No one will have the power to hurt me like this. Because I don't deserve to be in pain. Because I'm a decent human being whose only mistake was putting my faith in you.
Things really didn't have to be like this. Remember that.
Note: after this entry, I'll try to stop directing my thoughts to George (e.g. all the "you" stuff). It puts the reader in an unfair and uncomfortable context. Most of you don't deserve to be reamed out. And the blog isn't here for his benefit.

Sunday, February 11, 2001 10:08 a.m.
Fuck. Waking up sucks. I actually managed to fall asleep rather quickly last night, mainly due to extreme exhaustion. But then I think I had a dream with George in it. It wasn't a big deal dream, I think we were just planning to meet for a picnic or something. But it was an "everything is okay, nothing ever went wrong" dream. Then my stereo alarm came on, playing the Weakerthans and I freaked out. All my music is so emotionally-charged now. Everything has some sort of stigma. Oh, and my ribs are hurting really badly again. I think it has something to do with sleeping curled up in a little ball. Fuck. This is such a wretched situation. Because, normally, the course of action when feeling this bad would be to climb into his arms. And I can't do that.

Sunday, February 11, 2001 12:22 a.m.
Still alive. I feel awful. Not much more to report. George didn't come home last night, for reasons too upsetting to write about. We talked a bit this afternoon. It's so hard because despite all the horrible things going on, we still get along on a basic level. You can't erase three years of someone's presence being comforting, even when they're the one who's hurting you.
I just got off the phone with Rob, who was incredibly sweet and kind to me. He's offered me two big shoulders to cry on (his words, not mine) and I may well take him up on the offer. It's nice to see that there's still a friendship there, despite the fact that I haven't seen him in ages.
I'm very tired now, but I don't know whether I'll be able to sleep. There's so much junk in my head right now, circulating madly. It's just starting to really hit me. And, damn, what a punch.

Friday, February 9, 2001 07:00 p.m.
Okay, this is strange. All of a sudden, a ton of people are reading the blog. By all of a sudden, I mean, like today (and the last few days). What's going on? Does misery attract company? Is this like some morbid car wreck that's somehow you just can't look away from? Where are you all coming from? In the back of my head, I have a paranoid vision of someone somewhere linking me with the comment "And you thought you were a loser. Read this!" (If so, someone tell me. I can take it.) Fuck. I wish the javascript version of the counter worked on my page, so I could have a referral log. All I can tell from this is that the page is getting way more hits than usual -- a ton of them from someone with an axxent.ca account.
So weird.
To add to my misery: George just got another call. I was doing okay there for a bit, you know? But people keep asking me when he's going to be back and where he is. I don't know where he is. Out with some gurl, probably. Jesus.

Friday, February 9, 2001 06:41 p.m.
George's crazy mom just called here looking for him. Apparently they're trying to set up their new DVD player and don't know how. It was so weird. She asked me if I was okay a couple of times. I lied and said yes. Just before she hung up she said, "I love ya, you know? Take care" and instead of having my normal Oh-God-Please-Get-This-Psycho-Off-The-Phone feelings, I felt sad and started to cry. I'm going to miss that fucked up bitch. Jesus.

Friday, February 9, 2001 01:21 p.m.
Just now, I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in a couple of days. It was pretty scary. My left arm is covered with deep scratches, a few bruises and a couple of seemingly broken blood vessels. I look like I've been in a fight. But it was with myself. When George told me, I lost my mind. I couldn't think. I grabbed hold of the closest thing to me (which happened to be my arm) and just tore the shit out of it. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to take control of my pain. Maybe I was trying to punish myself. But all I can remember is that the pain in my arm couldn't compete. I couldn't feel it at all. With my luck, I've scarred myself for life (which feels kind of ironic, although I don't want to go into it now).
On a similar note of body modification, I'm thinking of getting a tattoo. I probably won't go through with it, since I'm quite possibly the biggest wimp in the world. But you just never know. Rational thinking has gone out the window and my pain tolerance seems to be temporarily improved. Problem is, I don't know exactly what I want done. This may sound silly, but I'm looking for something utterly symbolic. Unfortunately, everything I've thought of so far is pretty cliche. Oh, I don't know.
I can't believe this. I'm watching A Dating Story. Shit.

Friday, February 9, 2001 10:37 a.m.
Fuck this Valentine's Day shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck! All these flyers and commercials (probably other stuff too, but I haven't left the house in a week) with hearts and flowers and little bears and people kissing and FUCK. I can't believe this. Now, I hadn't bought a valentine or gift for George yet, which is good, since I'd probably be sitting here staring at it like a psychopath. But I had put a valentine's greeting in one of the local independent weekly papers. I sent it in a couple of weeks ago, thinking about what a nice surprise it would be for him. Now, I bet he won't even look at it. Well, I looked at it. And cried. Again.
Fuck. I can't even watch WKRP. Stupid Venus has a girlfriend.

Thursday, February 8, 2001 02:02 p.m.
Damn this weblog. I don't think it's a good idea to write another mopey ramble, but I can't think of anything else to do. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I can't even watch tv -- I tried, but everything somehow reminded me of him. Fuck. I know that writing all this will upset the people who know me or make them realize what an emotional cripple I am. And for the random surfers, well, who wants to read some lame girl whining about getting dumped?
But fuck it. As I said before, this is my diary. I probably can't afford a shrink, so I'll have to abuse my blogging privileges.
I'm going absolutely nuts, trapped in my house, sobbing uncontrollably. I'm scaring myself. A lot. How do I come to terms with the fact that the only person who knows me deep down doesn't want to be with me? He did once, but now, something's changed. Something I don't understand. I'm not even sure that I want to understand.
All I can think of is all the unfinished business. Like this goddamn couple scrapbook thing I got him last Christmas (like, Christmas 1999. not 2000). It holds pictures and momentos and has all sorts of questions about your first date, vacations, hobbies, petnames, etc. I filled in all my answers, and gave him the pretty pens along with it, and he was supposed to fill in his answers. Stuff like what he likes about me, and his favourite memories and shit. He never did. Now, I know I'm a sucker for symbolism and he claims it was because his writing is too messy and he didn't want to screw up the book. But this is just killing me. Has it been one-sided for that long? I really hope not.
We had life plans. We were going to have a house together with a little toy trolley that ran through the living room. And kitties and puppies ("Farfle" and "Little Luft Fokker"). And all our little tiny toys on a shelf around the top of the room, like a border. It was going to be beautiful. I wasn't really fond of growing up, or growing old, but he made it sound like an adventure. Like we'd still be having fun. The journalist and the computer programmer who play nintendo all night and make their own vegan cat food. See, that'd sound strange to anyone else, but to us...
Fuck. I'm torturing myself. This isn't healthy.

Thursday, February 8, 2001 11:55 a.m.
I think this is day number three of not eating. I feel really dizzy and weak, but every time I put something in my mouth I get incredibly sick. Last night I threw up V8. V8 for christsake! It was incredibly revolting, ended up puking in the bathtub. (Note: Melinda wasn't in the tub. Just the puke. That would've been even worse.) The weird thing is, it looked like I was spewing blood. For a split second, I thought about leaving it there just to freak everyone out. But I'm not that cruel. I think everyone's on suicide watch as it is.
I'm still totally in shock and totally scared. I feel incredibly alone and would probably pay people to hold me right now. Just to keep me from falling, you know? (Any takers?) I just can't believe this is happening. I managed to fall asleep (more like pass out) at around 3 a.m., after the puking, but woke up at 8 a.m. It was the weirdest thing. 'Cause for the first minute or two, I had that warm, calm, in-bed feeling. Like it was all a dream. Then I realized it wasn't, and the pain in my stomach came back and my heart started racing. And I feel like total shit.
George still wants to be friends, and while I don't know whether I can handle it, I want to try. 'Cause as much as I'd like to hate him right now, he is my best friend. And I don't want to lose him. I care about him so much and I don't think that will ever go away. We've been through so much together.
But god, what am I supposed to do? How do I cope with this? I've never been dumped before. I've never been in love before either. I'm thinking of finding a shrink, although that'll ultimately make me feel even crazier. Honestly, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. Or have everything back to normal, but as he insists on repeating, it ain't gonna happen.
Fuck. When did I get this pathetic?

Wednesday, February 7, 2001 11:53 p.m.
George came home late from coffee with his bitch friend and dumped me. After three and a half years, he told me that he's not in love with me. I am not handling the news very well. I'm shaking, I'm nauseous, quite frankly I want to die. This isn't fucking fair. Somebody do something.

Wednesday, February 7, 2001 08:30 a.m.
Just a thought: Could it be that my new-found appreciation for capital letters is indicative of a burning desire for structure and order and sanity? Perhaps.

Wednesday, February 7, 2001 07:39 a.m.
Fuck. I can't sleep and my stomach still hurts. I'm going to skip class again today. I'm such a loser. I've got to stop bottling up pain and fear and resentment and storing the bottle in my gut. I haven't eaten for a day. I feel weak and nauseous.
I want my life to go back to "normal" as soon as possible. I want to be happy -- well, okay, maybe that's not normal. How about bitter but amused by my own sarcasm? 'Cause at the moment, it doesn't amuse me, it just hurts.
More than anything, I want to be sucked back into the bubble of happy-go-lucky highschool love. I want everything to be sunshine and roses and lunches of (gross) fries and salad in that stupid cafeteria. I want to be sitting on sunny patches of grass, smiling, both knowing there's nowhere else we'd rather be. No one else we'd rather be with.
Yesterday I realized how deathly afraid I am of losing George. We've been through so much together. He was/is my first true love. He's the only person I've ever met whom I really clicked with. The only person who, pardon the cliche, knows the real me. I hope he knows how important he is in my life. I hope I'm still important to him.
And now, an aside that will probably make me look rather pathetic, but it must be said: George, if you're reading this (I don't know if you do, really), I love you terribly.
Insert dramatic pause here. Silence broken by the sound of an incredibly lame purple-haired gurl in her pyjamas sniffling.
This weblog thing is really strange. You never know who's reading it. You write to the universe and to no one. I'm not sure I can fully wrap my head around the fact that random strangers are hearing intimate details of my life. But then again, the truly intimate details are all residing deep down in the pit of my stomach. So fear not, gentle reader. This experience is not nearly as voyeuristic as it could be.
There was talk of this URL being given to someone whose head I'd like to see cracked open with an ice pick. (Ha. I dare you to give her the addy now.) I had a fleeting and ridiculous thought of password protecting the site. But that would lock out a lot of people, and it's not the strangers I mind. To them/you, I'm just another colourful weblog character, and that makes me feel almost literary. But there are some people who have no right to hear my inner workings. And while I can't really do much, it makes me queasy. Puts me on the defensive. I don't want this blog to become a vehicle for targetted snide remarks. (e.g. Piss off, bitch!) But I'll do what I have to do. This is my chosen place to rant. This is my diary. And damn it all, I sometimes have nasty thoughts about nasty people.
My birthday is still, as you remember, next week. I don't think it's going to be much of a celebration.

Tuesday, February 6, 2001 10:54 p.m.
Okay, so I'm still feeling pretty sick. Stomach, head, heart. Everywhere. But because I don't want my blog to turn into some pity-me rag, I shall share an amusing anecdote. In last week's Eye Magazine the sex columnist, Sasha, was asked what the H stood for in Jesus H Christ. She, for some unknown reason, asked the guys at Suspect Video (local indie video place), but they didn't know. So I emailed her this simple note:
Sasha:
My money's on Heather.
melinda
Well, today I got an email from the Letters Editor of Eye asking for my permission to print my "hilarious letter" in the front section of the mag. So, barring any unforseen circumstances, Melinda's not-that-funny one-liner will be in Thursday's issue. Weird, eh?
And now back to your regularly scheduled moaning and groaning, already in progress...

Tuesday, February 6, 2001 07:37 a.m.
Oh! And that stoopid Tina the Troubled Teen thing's voice bubble is supposed to change every day. It isn't! I feel ripped off.

Tuesday, February 6, 2001 07:36 a.m.
groan. I'm up for class, but just barely. I had a lot of trouble sleeping, what with feeling wretchedly ill and all. Shortly after my last post, I realized why. Drug interaction. Or, at least, that's my guess. I've been taking those stupid meds that the jerkass walk-in doctor prescribed. (I wasn't going to at first, but my father convinced me that they're just super-strong advil.) Anyway, I think that crappy cider and those crappy pills have been jumpin' around in my crappy stomach and making me feel, well, crappy. Stupid too.

Tuesday, February 6, 2001 01:41 a.m.
Okay class, let's have a little lesson in "how to cheer Melinda up." As you may have noticed, Melinda was feeling pathetically lonely earlier today (technically yesterday). Now then, two nice young men tried to solve the problem. One man -- we'll call him Andy Pandy Sugar and Candy -- suggested that Melinda visit this wacky site and drown her sorrows in a whole whack of raunchy fun. But the other young man, we'll call him Vishnu The Temptress, suggested that she drown her sorrows in a big mug of beer. Melinda decided to do both. Except, instead of beer, all she had was a bottle of spiked apple cider hidden in her sock drawer. It was warm and never very good to begin with. And she had an empty stomach. But she drank it anyway. And now she is SICK. No puking yet, but she sure feels like she's gonna. This will teach her for using alcohol as a crutch, and for straying from her usual girly drinks. (Not that apple cider is manly, but if it doesn't have an umbrella or chunks of fruit on a toothpick, it's sure not a girly drink.) Ugh. Woe is me.
On a totally unrelated note, I got an email from a former diversity girl, David!! (Okay, you got me, he's not a girl. But I tell you, he's way sassier than I am. That gives him honorary status.) Apparently he's a flight attendant now and really enjoying himself. That pleases me immensely. He was one of the people I always enjoyed working with back in the retail days. Yay!
Dammit, I feel so gross. I wanna go to sleep, but I just can't. I'm never going to make it to magazine class tomorrow. Maybe I should watch the Jerry Lewis movie I borrowed from the library. For my Hollywood class, that is. I'll have you know I don't just go around watching Jerry Lewis. That's sick.
And so am I. G'night kids.

Monday, February 5, 2001 03:16 p.m.
I'm feeling supremely unloved. I don't want to talk about it. I just want it to stop. I'm a perfectly nice gurl, you know? Some might even say charming. Right? Right??? Oh, fuck it.

Sunday, February 4, 2001 03:54 p.m.
Meet my new best friend, Tina the Troubled Teen. Brooding, dark and opinionated, she's one bad-assed virtual companion. Sometimes graphics are way better than people...

Saturday, February 3, 2001 06:24 p.m.
A bad day. So just lyrics:
My fury's rising faster than bus-fares.
Could someone clarify why there's no structured narrative? No neat story-line to explain?
Wish on everything.
Pray that she remains proud and strange and so hopelessly hopeful.
(Wishes and prayers are the way that we leave the lonely alone and push the wounded away.)
-Weakerthans "Exiles among you"

Friday, February 2, 2001 02:52 p.m.
Someone please teach me how to prioritize! More like teach me how to work in general. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm just unable to accomplish anything. All day, I've been doing stupid tests on the internet (the personality test at The Spark and others), goofing around with binary and, of course, adding to my weblog.
Do I have the time to laze around like this? Hell no. I have tons of schoolwork to do. And the features editor from the Eyeopener just emailed me. Man, I should never have agreed to write for them. I feel so crappy and lethargic. I need to get out of the house. Of course, then I'll never get anything done.
Someone shoot me. Or, at least, do one of my assignments. (I've got a history paper with your name on it! And there's that business story that has yet to be devised... Hell, you can even write the Eyeopener story. How about it?)

Friday, February 2, 2001 11:23 a.m.
A medical update! Well, it seems that my old doctor -- the woman who, among other things, delivered me into this wacky world -- is still practicing. I just got off the phone with her and have a tentative Sunday (!!) appointment. Thank goodness. It was so weird talking to her after all this time. But nice. She kept saying that she remembered me so well and that I was "such a beautiful, curious girl." (I wonder what she'll think of the hair...) Apparently she thought I'd be a lawyer when I grew up. Crazy! Anyway, talking to her was such a refreshing change after that fiasco with the walk-in-asshole. She asked me what was wrong and then actually listened to the answer. Didn't cut me off once. It was a good thing. Of course, despite all the friendliness, I'm still not a fan of doctors -- mainly due to a strong fear of needles, pills, hospitals, etc. But at least it's a start...

Friday, February 2, 2001 10:29 a.m.
my half-assed birthday wish list:

bionic ribs
one of those gooey wrist-pads for my mouse hand
a spiked collar that doesn't look stupid
a vacation
something to eat -- i'm bloody starving!
I think I'll come back to this later...

Thursday, February 1, 2001 06:18 p.m.
Digital editing went fabulously. Like most computer applications, I found SAW (the audio program we used) to be pretty intuitive. So I just messed around with it and ended up interweaving quotes from a union boss and the song Master of the House (Les Mis) into a quasi-political statement. It was pretty damn funny, actually, although I'm not sure the impact is coming across at the moment. It almost made me want to give radio another shot. Almost. I don't think I could handle paying $20,000 in tuition fees to end up doing what Rob did right out of highschool. Not that it's a bad job. Not at all. (You go, Rob!)
On another journalism-related note: My school clique has decided to attend Cabeer Night this year. It's an event the Journalism Course Union hosts each year, where "real journalists" are bribed (with an open bar) to hang out with j-students. Of course, rather than joining the minions in sucking up, we're planning on causing a ruckus. The main event so far? A hit on Rick "The Temp" Campanelli contest. (Since when do VJs count as journalists, anyway?) Will we really go through with it? I'm not sure. Rick's kinda creepy. But you can be sure, there will be mayhem. And you'll hear all about it right here! In March.

Wednesday, January 31, 2001 11:14 p.m.
Link-o-rama time!
Just visited a smutty site that I found a link for on ashley's friend jish's site (which, by the way, is bloody gorgeous). Talk about your Jesus fetishes! (Note: George's site, www.jesus-fetish.com, hasn't been updated since his computer died horribly and unexpectedly. I think he'd want that made clear.) And speaking of Jesus, have you ever wondered just who owns jesus.com? It's quite surprising... (And no, it's not Reverend Phelps. That's a relief.)
But enough blasphemy for now. G'night everyone!

Wednesday, January 31, 2001 06:39 p.m.
I actually went to school today! I wish I hadn't, though. Wednesdays are my worst days (Media Law, Canadian History, then English). They just seem to drag on and on. Of course, Thursdays ain't so great either. But at least I have Hollywood to start the day off. And tomorrow, during my break in classes, I'm going to learn how to do digital sound editing. In my Intro To Radio class last year, they made us use the old fashioned magnetic-tape-eating reel-to-reel machines. Kinda fun, but totally outdated. Apparently, my year was the last one to learn on 'em. Now everyone gets digital training. It figures, eh? Anyway, Tammy had set up a lesson for herself, so I decided to join her. I figure it'll be fun to play with and, since it's all computerized, I might actually be good at it. Not that I plan on going into radio. Hungry-but-noble freelancer is much more likely. (Wow, I'm not sure whether to smile proudly or sigh.)
Speaking of writing, I need an idea for a business story. The damn query letter is due Tuesday and I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. The only advice Professor Wayne has given is "Follow the money." Um, yeah. Great. That really doesn't help. Anyone have a business I can profile? Or perhaps you have an inspiring/heartbreaking tale of financial fortune/woe to share? Please, for the sake of my GPA, tell meyour story. (Wow, I just had a Jenny Jones moment. "Does your trailer trash mom flash strangers at Burger King? If your sexy mom thinks her chest is the best, call us and tell us your story.")

Tuesday, January 30, 2001 10:36 p.m.
Ashley just emailed me with some amusing news:
"I don't know if you read on my site that I went to an Industrial Engineering conference this past weekend. Well each school is expected to make a video about their school, classes, activities, etc. My friend, Mike, made ours, and it was pretty great. So why am I telling you this? Well in one of the last shots, of the Victoria and Gould intersection, there you are, walking across the street, immortalized in an IE video. So there. I thought you'd want to know. And 330 students from across the country watched you walking down the street this weekend. :-)"
I think Melinda workin' it in her faux fur pimpin' coat and radiant purple locks makes a great impression for RyeHigh, don't you?
Anyway, thanks for the news, Ash, it really made my night. Of course, the magnificent soy-ice cream banana split that I'm scarfing down didn't hurt either. Mmmmm...

Tuesday, January 30, 2001 11:53 a.m.
Skipping class yet again. I am a bad, bad A student...
My 21st birthday is in exactly two weeks -- February 13 (yes, there's still time to find me the perfect gift!). I find this incredibly disconcerting. Somehow, I've crossed the line after which birthdays become depressing, not exciting. Like a real grown-up, I couldn't tell you what I want for my birthday. If I thought all day, I'd probably come up with something immensely practical. But I don't want immensely practical, I want fun! (Unless immensely practical is a guaranteed summer job, some kick-ass vegan boots or a wardrobe of clothes I don't hate...)
No plans for the big day as of yet. I think George is trying to cook something up, but he seems to be floundering. I don't blame him. I don't have a clique of party-ready friends. Sometimes I'm not sure I have any real friends at all. Last year's surprise party was a disaster I certainly don't want to revisit. Maybe we should just go to a sports bar with Robert Turner. Haven't seen him for awhile. We could drink some Heineken and cheer for the bad guys. Of course, I prefer wussy fruity drinks with umbrellas and gave up wrestling a long time ago. Ugh. This is just hopeless.
Any other ideas?

Monday, January 29, 2001 11:59 p.m.
Fuck the patriarchy! Specifically, fuck the male-dominated medical system that makes doctors think they're gods gracing the rest of us with their almighty wisdom. Argh!
Last night, as I think I mentioned in the blog, I was having horrible and unexplainable pains in my ribs. The discomfort kept me awake for hours and hours, making it impossible for me to get up for class this morning. So, when I woke up at 10 a.m., I decided that I'd swallow my pride and head over to the local walk-in clinic. I figured that, as inept as they are, they could at least give me a requisition form for an x-ray. So I went (accompanied by a wonderfully kind boyfriend). And I waited. And waited. And waited. I was sitting there for nearly 3 hours. I swear, the evil-biatch receptionist was sneaking people ahead of me. Then this hulking fat man came in and sat directly across from George and I, with his fly undone and no underwear underneath. And he was giving us dirty looks.
Anyway, I finally get in to see a "doctor" (giving away certificates in cracker jack boxes, are they?). The prick bloody ignored everything I said. He wouldn't accept anything that wasn't a one-word answer directly corresponding to his question. I swear, he cut me off every single time I tried to explain the problem. I'm not sure that I've ever been treated so rudely. Finally, he said he didn't know what the problem was -- it didn't "fit into any syndrome" he knew of -- but he would give me some medicine anyway. And then, as a final insult, he didn't even bother to tell me what he was prescribing or why. I practically had to beat it out of him. (It ended up being an anti-inflammatory drug for muscle pain, although, to quote the jerkass, "I'm not really sure that's what it is.")
Now, this is where the story turns from anger-inducing to pathetic. The incident caught me by such surprise that I really didn't have time to react. Didn't yell at him, kick him in the shins, nothing. So here I am, sitting at home, still in serious pain, still totally baffled as to what's wrong with me. This sucks.
The whole ordeal has cemented for me the fact that I need a decent female family doctor ASAP. Any suggestions?
Meanwhile, I will never return to Jane Park Medical Centre and I advise anyone reading this to stay the hell away from Dr Bhupal... Unless, of course, you're in the vicinity and want to kick him in the shins for me.
To paraphrase one of George's favourite songs: He's gonna wish he never fucked with me, I'm gonna be so psycho. (Well, maybe not... But I have a voodoo doll and I'm not afraid to use it. So there.)

Sunday, January 28, 2001 10:28 p.m.
Um, hi there. I'm feeling a little better now, although I've got this crazy pain in my ribs that just won't go away. I'm going to seek medical attention tomorrow. Maybe at the Ryerson Health & Wellness Clinic. I'm that desperate.
I'm watching the premiere of the new Aussie Survivor. I should be sleeping. What's with me and trash TV? I'm not gonna get sucked in this time. I'm not...
Last point before I crash: People have actually been reading this blog. I'm shocked! Who are you? Where are you coming from? For the love of mustard, sign the guestbook!

Saturday, January 27, 2001 10:42 p.m.
My world is coming apart at the seams. I'm flippin' out. I can't do this now... Your regularly scheduled blogging will return when my life becomes less incredibly fucked. Soon, I hope.

Thursday, January 25, 2001 06:28 p.m.
Yet another crappy day, but this time, it had a happy ending! After a loooooong City Politics class, I dragged my j-school-clique to Sam The Record Man to spend my gift certificate from NOW. (Speaking of NOW, I just heard that Julian Fantino, Toronto police chief, is flipping out 'cause they ran his address and a pic of his Woodbridge home in today's issue. Ha!) I ended up buying the first season of Michael Moore's The Awful Truth on double-DVD. Fun fun.
Then, when I got home, there was a package waiting for me in the mail from my new personal hero, Art ! Awhile back, I had whined to him on the Weakerthans Club bulletin board thingy about wanting old John K Samson recordings. Well, super duper Art came through, sending me two CDs, plus a bonus record. So I'm grooving to the sounds of a very young JKS right now. Everything is right with the world. Friendly strangers rock!

Wednesday, January 24, 2001 07:44 p.m.
Morning: For some reason, I was feeling especially ill on the subway this morning. I actually (very briefly) considered pressing the emergency alarm thingy. Then I thought about how annoying it is when that happens in the train ahead of you and you're stuck there waiting for ever. I decided that if I really *was* sick, I'd be considerate enough to get off the train before requesting help. But I wasn't that sick at all, so I just hung on.
It was weird, a few lines from an Allen Ginsberg poem kept repeating in my head:
youth of my twenties
fainted in offices
wept on typewriters More like fainted on subway cars, wept on a compaq keyboard. Ugh.
Day: Long, drab, trying. I hate my classmates, I really do. And the profs are nearly as bad this year. I spent the first 2 hours of class listening to a lawyer drone on in Media Law. On top of being a monumental prick, my history prof has no respect for chronology. (Oh no, that'd be too easy.) And Marg the English prof, although somewhat charming and Mrs Roper-esque, is sounding quite defeated. If I had to teach these buffoons, I'd be defeated too. Someone was clipping their nails in English today. That's gotta be the worst noise in the entire world. *shudder*
Evening: Some aging glam-punk guy started talking to me at the subway station, asking "What exactly is The Mr. T Experience?" (For the uninitiated: They're a punk rock band. I have a patch on my backpack.) Very cool.
At home, I found 5 email messages waiting for me -- 3 of them legit! It seems that Erika's an avid reader of the log, Oksana came to T.O. without visiting me (*pout*) and Tammy's just Tammy. Then the boyfriend showed up and told me all about his new friend at school. Vegan punk rockers unite, I guess.
But alas, I have a history seminar paper to write (Umm, anyone know about the Riel Rebellion of 1869?) and some Hollywood reading to do. And all before my daily dose of trash (read: reality) tv! What is a gurl to do?

Tuesday, January 23, 2001 06:59 p.m.
A strangely pleasant day. Random people were overly-friendly, starting happy conversations with me for no apparent reason -- the punk guy at Sam The Record Man, some dude in the journalism lounge, etc. My magazine prof actually liked a piece of my writing, calling it "impressive" rather than "chatty, faux-populist." When I got home, George and I watched a rousing episode of Days of Our Lives, featuring oodles of Stefano DiMera, evil-doer extraordinaire! Why is it that I always find myself rooting for the bad guy? Probably the same reason that when I was just a tot and my friends acted out "She-Ra" in the playground, I'd always be Catra. Villains rock.

Monday, January 22, 2001 03:28 p.m.
As you devoted blog readers (all 3 of you) may have noticed, there was no Sunday entry. It was a long, strange day about which I'll only reveal one event: George and I went to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Although it wasn't my pick, I'll admit, I was really impressed. It was a gorgeous film, the story was engaging and the martial artistry was just phenomenal. I was particularly struck by the number of female fighters in the movie - very cool. Anyway, as you can imagine, by the time I got to Keele Station, I was fantasizing about kicking some creepy-bus-people's ass. I want a sword for my birthday, dagnabbit! Or at least a tae-bo video...
As for today, I went to Murray's class, which was as disconcerting and challenging as ever. My favourite part was when he called Toto, from The Wizard of Oz, a "little fucker." Oh yeah. Tell it like it is, Murray.

Saturday, January 20, 2001 06:12 p.m.
Dammit, I'm bored. So bored, in fact, that I've been watching absolutely nothing take place on U8TV. If you haven't heard, U8TV is an online "reality tv" type thang taking place here in T.O. Eight corporate-cool young exhibitionists are living together in a loft at Richmond and Peter Streets, clogging the web with cheesy programming and having their lives broadcast 24/7. While it's incredibly trite, I've already managed to pick a favourite lofter. In case you're wondering, it's David, the brooding Jewish kid (who, incidentally, Ashley has distant ties to). *Yawn* What a wasted weekend. This stinks.

Friday, January 19, 2001 05:54 p.m.
No psychobabble today. It's been a lazy day off and I've accomplished absolutely nothing. I feel kinda bad about it, actually. I'm so behind on my reading! But alas.
It also happens to be my 40 month anniversary -- otherwise known as 3 years and 4 months, otherwise known as "not a real anniversary" -- with George. Nifty.

Thursday, January 18, 2001 11:22 p.m.
Perception is a funny thing. Lately, I've been catching tidbits of how I am perceived by other people, and, I must say, it's surprising. Give us examples you cry? Alright.
1) Let's start with something my long-lost friend Andy said to me in an e-mail this week: "Judging from your website, you appear to be doing really well." My first reaction was to laugh. Ha! Then it got me thinking... Despite the ranting and raving and venomous complaining, my site gave him the impression that I was "doing really well." Am I? How do I define this nebulous state of wellness? How do others define it? And what is it about the site that brought about this belief? That it existed at all? That I rant so proudly? The mention of my high GPA and writing credentials? The happy vacation pictures? What?! And do others see it too, or is poor Andy boy alone?
2) Then, today, I was lunching with a classmate and it came out that she sees me as extremely confident, motivated and “most likely to succeed.” This absolutely floored me.
So now I’m sitting here idly wondering whether or not there’s any truth to these generous rumours. (Forgive me for dwelling so long inside my head, but this is, after all, my little diary.) For a moment, I thought, wouldn’t it be swell if we declared a national perception day, or some such nonsense, and all shared our perceptions of those around us? Everyone spends so much time worrying about what others think anyway – wouldn’t it be nice to know? Then, of course, I realized that this would invoke a lot of cruelty as well as enlightenment, even from the inventor herself. Maybe it’s not always good to know. But if anyone would like to share, feel free. And no, the mighty melinda ain’t just trolling for compliments. She’s honestly curious. Call it a hokey voyage of self-discovery.
p.s. Melinda also decided to explore the use of capital letters today! Strange!

Wednesday, January 17, 2001 11:47 p.m.
to the boy who has everything -- except some mr t experience song lyrics dedicated to him on my weblog...

now i'm anticipating
we'll spend another lovely evening of complaining
about life cause we've discovered
it's one damn thing after another
so don't try to call us
we won't answer the phone
we hate to go out in public
even more than we hate staying at home
we'd just hate anything anywhere
and anybody who may be there
so i'll be here and [he'll] be near
there's nowhere else to be
'cause we hate all the same things...

gee, ain't love swell?

Wednesday, January 17, 2001 08:56 p.m.
i know you're all desperately awaiting news of my history exam... Well... i feel kind of sheepish admitting this now but, despite all the mayhem, i managed to get an 80% (the T.A. originally gave me an 85%). *ahem* yes. so, needless to say, i won't be leading the revolt. still, i'm totally supportive of the people getting screwed over -- they're petitioning and stuff. the prof is a prick and deserves a big ol' punch in the neck. so there!
other things: this morning, as i was walking from the subway to school, some random gurl started talking to me about hair dye. how incredibly pleasant! i'm really not used to strangers being nice to me...
also: i found out that andrew reads my weblog. just for that, i'm going to plug his magazine. go to uberfuntastik! go now!

Tuesday, January 16, 2001 05:18 p.m.
today started off with a morning much more pleasant than yesterday's! there i was, half-asleep (standing up) on the subway when my old friend jenny appeared. now, despite the fact that jenny lives about a 5 minute walk from my house, i haven't seen her in ages. we first met way back in grade 1 -- i have total blackmail pictures of her at all my wacky birthday parties! -- and we got to be pretty darn good friends later on. i remember having deeply philosophical conversations with her at an pretty young age, as well as the typical "ooh, look at that cute guy!" stuff. anyway, fast forward to today: she's at U of T (majoring in geography, apparently), i'm at Rye High, and we never see each other. she still hangs out with a lot of Memo (old highschool) people, which i have to say, is pretty creepy -- i wanted to forget about that place even *before* graduation. but she seems to be doing well and i'm curious what turns her life has taken. we said we'd get together for coffee -- i hope we do.

Monday, January 15, 2001 11:27 p.m.
this morning got off to a really bad start as mighty melinda slipped on a patch of ice, fucked up her knee and decided that going to class was a bad idea. so she skipped yet again. this time, it was my cool-assed Hollywood and Society class with murray so i felt kinda bad about it. stoopid ice. anyway, so i spent the remainder of the morning enjoying the pleasure of a nice warm bed instead of the "pleasure of looking" being discussed in Hollywood.
got up in the early afternoon, was about to set to work on my profile when the telephone rang. it was kate, the former history t.a. with some horrific news: my prick of a history teacher (who "hates journalism students," btw) had whited out the marks on all the exams kate marked and lowered them considerably. (i.e. someone went from a 70 to a 40! geez!) anyway, she was calling to prod me into starting a revolt, which i may well do, but not until after i see my paper. the thing is, i need to pass this class, so pissing the prof off without the support of my apathetic peers ain't gonna cut it. dammit, i was expecting a high-70 to mid-80 on this exam, but from what i've heard, there's no way in hell... i'll keep you posted.
so needless to say, the phone call left me a little antsy so, yes, i watched days of our lives again. but so did george! and you know what, i think he's more addicted than i am. so there.
fast forward to post-days: finished the profile at 8-ish. i think it turned out decently, but i now know WAY too much about my good pal and up-and-coming young actor/playwright bobby del rio. the whole experience has left me feeling both proud (wow, what a star!) and a wee bit jealous (i wanna be a star, dagnabbit!). george has suggested that i "do something, then!" maybe i will, goshdarnit! maybe i will...
oh, and erika emailed me tonight too. quelle surprise!
~fin~

Monday, January 15, 2001 12:51 a.m.
why is it that i'm only capable of writing after the clock strikes midnight? seriously. i have something due, i sit around all day staring at a blank screen, trying desperately to produce. then, as soon as the wee hours of the morning roll around, my writing ability slowly kicks in. i'm some sort of journalism-vampire. this isn't healthy! i need sleep. what's more, i like sleep. crap.

Sunday, January 14, 2001 01:02 p.m.
mainly as a result of my shameless site-promotion, i just got email from two fine individuals i met a long time in a galaxy far far away... compuserve! yes indeed, kiddies, when melinda was just a wee lass, she spent many an hour in the student and vegetarian forums at good ol' cserve, making e-friends who have somewhere along the way e-grown into e-twenty-year-olds. neat. (yeah, i thought about saying "e-neat" but figured i was already pushing it...)

Saturday, January 13, 2001 01:31 p.m.
note to self: after beating the crap out of a punching bag, typing feels bad . kind of like the tendons in my arms have wacky little minds of their own. geez, i'd be such a terrible jock. which is why, i guess, my involvement in "sports" is limited to mini-golf, net-free park badminton and occasional goofing around with boxing gloves.
well, lookie there. it's january 13. meaning my birthday is exactly one month away, at which point i'll be 21. now that's just crazy. i'll be a legal adult everywhere. i'll be "twentysomething." fuckeroo! i feel a panic attack coming on...

Friday, January 12, 2001 05:30 p.m.
Do something about your long, filthy hair
It looks like a rat's nest
Do something about your mullet
Get out the hair clippers, jerk.
i just downloaded an mp3 of wesley willis' "Cut The Mullet" and it has almost single-handedly cheered me up. (if you don't know what a mullet is, go here.) ahh, crazy crazy wesley willis. when we went to see Jello Biafra perform in the summer, they played WW's cd 3 or 4 times before the show started. the first time it was funny. the second time we knew the words enough to sing along. the third time, well, let's just say that if i ever hear the words "suck a camel's ass" again, it'll be too soon.

Friday, January 12, 2001 03:23 p.m.
why do i feel so bloody lethargic?! it's my day off, i have a profile to write for magazine class, i actually have material to base it on and yet -- nothing. i can't even be bothered with pretending to work. i think i'll go watch Days of Our Lives...

Wednesday, January 10, 2001 07:55 p.m.
the McClung's site is finally up! it's ryerson's feminist mag and i write for it, so go take a look!
also, an update: i've actually finished my politics paper. and it's still early. skipping class really paid off. yeehaw!

Wednesday, January 10, 2001 01:54 p.m.
i'm such a bloody slacker! it's the third day of my winter term and i'm already skipping class. two of them actually. but there's a reason! i've come home to work on my politics election analysis paper that i've had two months to work on but only started two days ago. i can't believe me sometimes! yesterday i watched The Mole instead of working. (hey, if i'm gonna watch crappy tv, it's gonna be the *crappiest* tv...) i hate to admit it, but i actually got kind of into it. right now i'm thinking Jim is the mole, except, of course, that that's far too obvious. the producers want me to think he's the mole... george thinks that it's the gurl with the mole on her face who's the mole. maybe he's right. maybe they're trying to be cute...
but let's change the subject, shall we? i saw ashley today in school, but i was too busy getting the heck outta there to stop. it's too bad. i wanted to tell her that i've stolen her weblog thunder! ah well.

Tuesday, January 9, 2001 11:57 p.m.
so maybe you've noticed the big website move and redesign... i did it on my last week of xmas vacation as a procrastination technique. worked well. now i'm totally fucked with schoolwork, but the site looks nice.
speaking of school work, george has decided to check out post-secondary education this year. he's doing 'puter programming and analysis at evil seneca's york university campus. so we shall never ever see each other any more. *sigh*
speaking of never ever, we've lost our favourite vegan chinese restaurant. well, ok, so it's still there, but i ain't never (EVER!) going back. we were there on the weekend and found a bug in our goddamn food. a scary bug. *shudder* i can't believe it. we've been going there for 3 years, ordering the same damn lunch special for 3 years... to get sentimental for just one sec, it was "our" restaurant. and now, well, now it's just an infested memory.
it's a good thing i developed a bit of a tolerance for cooking over the holidays, 'cause i think we'll be eating at home for quite awhile.

Saturday, January 6, 2001 10:27 p.m.
welcome to my weblog! in an attempt to keep the page fresh with minimal effort, i've decided to keep an online journal! will i update it regularly? will i say too much? will anyone actually notice? there's only one way to find out...

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