melinda's pathetic life

Friday, March 30, 2001 08:27 p.m.
An evening with the fam.
Well, okay, so I didn't spend the whole evening with the fam. Just an hour. We needed groceries and I wanted to rent some movies, so we all piled into the minivan. Thrilling, I know. We ended up going to three separate video stores just to find The Searchers, an old John Wayne movie I need to watch for my Hollywood class. I also rented Ninotchka (I finally get to see the whole thing! Yay!) and a Norwegian movie called Junk Mail. My father rented Babe for the dogs. Yes, you heard me. He rented a video for our dogs to watch. The weirdest thing is, now my parents and the dogs are watching Babe together in the living room. I know because I can hear the dogs barking from up here. They're barking at the bloody critters on the screen. You think I'm making this up, don't you? Geez, I wish that were the case.
I wanted to rent Annie Hall as well, but I couldn't find it. Apparently someone had checked it out of my fave indie place just an hour before I got there. Damn. So now, to placate myself, I'm reading quotes from the Internet Movie Database. This is, of course, making me want to see the film even more.
Oh, and as you may have noticed, dork.com is finally back up (albeit dreadfully slow). Viva my nav bar, guestbook and other pages!

Friday, March 30, 2001 12:18 p.m.
A morning growl.
Grrrr. Stupid dork.com is still down. I'm annoyed and freaked and not wanting to blog. Grr.

Thursday, March 29, 2001 09:44 p.m.
"Smart people are frightening."
That's what I learned in Hollywood class today. You see, despite getting only three hours of sleep, I managed to make it to my 9 a.m. class. It was quite interesting, too, as the topic was anti-intellectualism. At one point, Murray asked the class what you'd call someone who tried to pick you up at a party by showing off their intellect. The desired answer was clear: a geek, a nerd, a square. Something along those lines. But as the class sat silently, treating it all as a big rhetorical question, I leaned to the girl beside me and answered honestly: "Sexy." Of course, you know that Murray seized upon my voice ("What did you say? Swanson?") and that I got to share my pearl of wisdom with the snickering class, suffixing it all with "...but I'm a social misfit." He told me to rent Prelude to a Kiss. Maybe I will.
Speaking of my geekdom, I handed the essays in today. All four of them, complete and on time. Sometimes I really am an academic superstar. But it came bloody close to the wire this time. I was still finishing up the last history seminar paper at noon today -- not an easy task when one's mental capacity has been dwarved by sleep deprivation. Yikes.
I was supposed to go see glam rocker Robin Black and his band, the Intergalactic Rockstars, tonight but I ended up bailing. By five o' clock, just remaining conscious had become too much of an effort. I took a wee nap though, so I feel a bit better. My sleep meter's up to four and a half hours now. Yeehaw!
It has been a long, strange day. I don't think I ever exactly woke up. Just drifted from place to place, finding newer, nicer places to rest my weary head. And some of them were very nice indeed.
Hmmm, what else? Oh, Robert the Right Wing Bastard called me tonight to update me on his wacky life and to laugh heartily at mine. Good times, as always. He's so witty and urbane. (See Rob? Between plugs like that and your new haircut, we'll find you a relatively non-psychotic girlfriend in no time!)
Ow. Okay, my head hurts, my back hurts, I think I should crawl back into bed. But not before I say this: Fuck Dork.com!! Ugh. It seems to have been down all day, meaning that -- at the time I'm writing -- there's no pretty nav bar at the top of your screen, nor any functional pages other than this one. I'm really annoyed. And really worried that the site has just closed down shop, taking my fabulous webpage with it. (I really should've saved copies of all the pages, huh? Yup.)
So, in closing, a desperate plea: Someone host my website! You know you want to. You love me. You adore me. It would be such a proud moment in your life. By default, you -- yes YOU -- would become an important player in Melinda's Pathetic Life. What more could you possibly want? (insert heartbreaking puppy dog eyes here). C'mon! Let's make a deal.

Thursday, March 29, 2001 03:28 a.m.
Gonna need a whole lotta coffee pretty soon.
Holy crap. I just wrote the ending for my politics feature. Just before that I did the final revision of my english essay. The history seminar papers are...well.. as done as they're going to be. Which means this sleepy lil' webmistress can finally crawl into her nice warm waterbed for a whole three and a half hours. (insert pained groan here) Geez. This can't be good for me.
Oh well. Only two more weeks of school to go. Well, three if you count exams...
Then we're gonna party like it's 1999, or something like that. Okay? Okay.
(Melinda passes out)

Wednesday, March 28, 2001 06:46 p.m.
Melinda loves...
People who love her website!
People who e-mail to tell her so!
People who sign her guestbook! (hint, hint)
What doesn't Melinda love? Writing four essays the night before they're due. But alas, such is her fate. So this is probably it for the night. Rest assured, she'll be back and blogging with a vengeance before you know it. Try to contain your glee.

Wednesday, March 28, 2001 12:27 a.m.
My secret shame.
Today, I downloaded an mp3 of Jimmy Buffet's old hit Margaritaville. As it played, I realized that I knew every single word. So I sang along.
Wasted away again in margaritaville, searching for my lost shaker of salt.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame, but I know (doo-doo-doo-doo-doo) it's my own damned fault (doo-doo-doo-doo-doo).
Oh, and I guess you could consider the fact that I'm still not finished any essays another shame. But I think Margaritaville takes the cake.

Tuesday, March 27, 2001 10:27 a.m.
Desperately seeking emancipation from procrastination.
You'd think that, by now, I'd have finished one of the four essays due on Thursday. You'd think that. But you'd be dead wrong.
Kill me. Or, better yet, write me an essay. Oh, look! WKRP's about to come on...

Monday, March 26, 2001 06:08 p.m.
A thought for the day.
Well, actually, it's a picture. (What are you waiting for? Go see! Go!)
Thanks Vishnu.

Monday, March 26, 2001 03:52 p.m.
Gee, Wally, that's swell.
I actually made it to my Hollywood and Society class today. (Applause please.) And it's a damn good thing, too. I got to hear pearls of Murray-wisdom. ("Those fuckers in the scientific community invented the A-bomb. Poo poo on them.") I came to the realization that the guy who played Lumpy's dad on Leave It To Beaver had bit parts in several cheesy 50's movies. (Yes, I actually recognized him.) Oh, and I got my essay back. The one I was agonizing over a few weeks ago (about class issues in 1930s screwball comedies). The one I wrote at the very last minute. The one worth half of my term mark. And I bloody well rocked it! I was expecting a 70. I got a 91. Life is sweet sometimes.

Sunday, March 25, 2001 10:13 p.m.
Shove it up your alpha.
(Alternate title: I hate frat boys.)
Aw, crap. RyeHigh really does have a fraternity. How sad is that?
(The webmistress flinches for a second, anticipating a flood of email from angsty frat boys trying to set her straight "in more ways than one, huh-huh-huh.")
(Somewhere, in the distance, a figure puffs up his chest a little and mutters, "Don't you worry about frat boys..." Knuckles crack.)
(The webmistress smiles radiantly to herself, pleased that her violent tendencies are rubbing off on others. Even imaginary ones.)
(Lingering in the shadows, the Careful Observer watches shyly, wishing he could be more than parenthetical to her.)
(The omnipotent webmistress blushes slightly, then shakes her head in disbelief. So this is what her life has come down to? Bracketed quasi-flirting with the people in her head? She pauses a moment, then sighs, "Well, at least it's better than working.")
And on that note... Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's back to work I go.

Sunday, March 25, 2001 08:34 p.m.
Revelation.
I wanna be a rock star.
Reasons? Ummm... No homework. Plus, I could go totally glam! I'd be fabulous, dahlink. And with my pimpin' coat and rhinestone studded sunglasses, I'm almost halfway there.
Speaking of frivolity, I've just noticed that my roots are about an inch and a half long. My natural hair colour is actually discernable. This is, of course, a tragedy. As soon as these essays are done (at the end of the week), I'm going to get out the bleach. The question is: what colour to lay atop my temporarily blonde locks? Right now, it's vampire red, which I actually like. But would it be silly to bleach out this colour and reapply it, just for the sake of an inch and half? Any sillier than writing a weblog entry devoted to my rock star aspirations and hair dye? Oh, someone please advise me! I'm feeling less than fab.

Sunday, March 25, 2001 03:19 p.m.
"A needle and not a razor in my hand."
I finally had a chance to finish reading The Color Purple this morning. Great book, despite the overly idealistic ending. Everyone go read it. Or re-read it. Now. Or not.
And now a wee announcement: I am e-ddicted. It's a fact. For one stupid reason or another, I couldn't connect to the internet until just now and I've been going absolutely mental. I can't seem to function before I've checked my email, instant messaged someone and blogged a bit. The modem is my umbilical cord to the world. I'm such a geek.
Alas, no more time for chit-chat, I must attend to my studies. (Gawd, I just adore how pretentious that sounds.) I've only written 600 words of my politics paper and 400 words of my English essay thus far. I've been zoning out a lot over the past few days. I unearthed my Violent Femmes cds. I watched The Ice Storm on TV last night. And then, of course, there's the phone. With the number of times a day that darn thing rings, I'm feeling like I've returned to teenybopperism. Strange.
Anyway, because I love you all so goshdarned much, I've decided to leave a short list of places to play while the webmistress is away:
Eric Conveys an Emotion
Things my girlfriend and I have argued about
Reality Blurred: The Reality TV Weblog
'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy (thanks duane)
Words make me hot (thanks kate)

Saturday, March 24, 2001 10:52 a.m.
Some Leonard Cohen to start your day.
What I'm Doing Here
I do not know if the world has lied
I have lied
I do not know if the world has conspired against love
I have conspired against love
The atmosphere of torture is no comfort
I have tortured
Even without the mushroom cloud
still I would have hated
Listen
I would have done the same things
even if there were no death
I will not be held like a drunkard
under the cold tap of facts
I refuse the universal alibi
Like an empty telephone booth passed at night
and remembered
like mirrors in a movie palace lobby consulted
only on the way out
like a nymphomaniac who binds a thousand
into strange brotherhood
I wait
for each one of you to confess
-Leonard Cohen, 1961

Friday, March 23, 2001 07:17 p.m.
Eatonian for life.
I just got a letter from Richter & Partners Inc. They've been sending me mail for the past year and a half. Heavy with jargon, the letters are addressed to "Former Employees of The T. Eaton Company Limited." They say this and that about a lawsuit that I'm apparently a party to. This one came with a cheque attached...
Dear Sir/Madam,
We wish to advise you that by Order of Justice Farley of the Ontario Superior Court of Justice on December 1, 2000, the undernoted Liquidator was authorized and directed to make a second interim distribution of up to eleven (11) cents on the dollar on account of resolved Class I Distribution Claims, as well as the undisputed portion (if any) of unresolved Class I Distribution Claims.
We also wish to advise you that the deductions at source issue has recently been resolved with Canada Customs and Revenue Agency.
In this regard, Richter & Partners Inc., in its capacity as Liquidator of the estate and effects of Distributionco Inc., is enclosing a cheque representing 11% of a portion of your claim, calculated as per the attached schedule.
The Liquidator will make further distributions, as the various segments of the Employee Claims are resolved.
Yours very truly,
RICHTER & PARTNERS INC.
Liquidator of Distributionco Inc.
(and then they signed it "Richter & Partners Inc," as if the company were a real person...)
So now I'm a whole $32.81 richer. Or, at least, I will be if I remember to cash the cheque. It's very strange, as I have no idea why they're paying me anything at all. Yes, I worked at Eaton's. Yes, they went bankrupt. But I got all my pay. And I didn't wait for them to lay me off -- I resigned. I couldn't handle rowdy customers at the best of times, let alone during the frenzy of a liquidation sale.
Ah, I'm having flashbacks to my days of corporate whoredom. Retail may be creepy and evil, but it's also rather easy. I got paid ten bucks an hour just to fold sweaters and feign friendliness. Oh, and act cool, of course. But that's a given. Monday and Tuesday evening shifts were especially nice, because nobody was around and I could just zone out in a corner somewhere and groove to the muzak.
Man, this is making me think that I should just find some mind-numbing job for the summer, rather than looking for something professionally related. Hmmm...
p.s. everyone puhleeeease stop calling and trying to urge me out of the house. it's not going to happen, damn you. i'm not leaving this room until monday. i must be studious. i must work.
Careful observer: You call updating your weblog studious?
Melinda: (sheepish look) Shuddup.

Friday, March 23, 2001 12:18 p.m.
She may be unstable, but she sure is well-read.
All day long Peary shuffled back and forth over the ice, a mile one way, two miles another, and made his observations. No one observation satisfied him. He would walk a few steps due north and find himself going due south. On this watery planet the sliding sea refused to be fixed. He couldn’t find the exact place to say this spot, here, is the North Pole.
-from E.L. Doctorow’s Ragtime
This passage keeps returning to my mind, absolutely dripping with symbolic value.
As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, there was no Thursday entry to the blog. Somehow webmistress Melinda has gone from six updates a day to one-if-you’re-lucky. And I’m sure you’re all just heartbroken about it! My excuse? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Let’s just blame it on being overworked and emotionally drained 99% of the time.
Yesterday was a long and reasonably pleasant day. In the morning, I went to Murray’s Hollywood class and he made us all kneel on the floor for far too many minutes, to experience the kneeling that the West Side Story characters were experiencing. Immobility. It was thrilling, as I’m sure you can imagine.
Afterwards, my movie group watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), which, I have to say, I quite enjoyed. There was even a line about ice picks! Sadly, I only managed to scrawl about half of it down. I thought I’d be able to find the script online, but so far no luck. Anybody know the line? It was something about how you can kill someone with an ice pick without really leaving a mark. Nice. Oh, and speaking of my weapon of choice, a certain someone has promised me an ice pick for a belated birthday gift. And engraved, no less! Let’s see if he follows through…
But back to yesterday. I had a lovely lunch with Ashley. We went to high school together and were in the same co-op class, but I never really got to know her until I started reading her weblog. Ah, the good ol’ internet. Gotta love it.
Next came my city politics class, which would have been interesting if it hadn’t been so bloody nice out. I spent the first hour and a half looking longingly out the window into the sunshine. When break time came, I bailed and ended up lying on the grass in the quad. It’s amazing how comforting it was to have solid earth directly underneath me. Nothing shifting (well, okay, technically the earth is always shifting, but it sure didn’t feel like it). No potential to fall. Just stable ground below and a big blue sky above. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted time to freeze in that serene moment.
It didn’t, of course, which is why I was a wee bit late meeting up with Jes for dinner. But despite my tardiness, we managed to have an absolutely fabulous evening. It makes me so happy that we can be friends again. When we were growing up – she’s my cousin, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that fact – we spent so much bloody time together. Putting on silly plays together for our parents, hurling Popples down her hallway, annoying the heck out of her cat. We dubbed ourselves Funk and Wagnall. Somewhere along the way, we drifted apart, for various reasons. But it feels like we’re cool again now. It’s strange how our paths have paralleled. She’s also studying journalism, also with an interest in magazine work. Maybe someday we’ll collaborate on a mag. We’d be such a dynamic duo, albeit hyper as hell and terribly obnoxious to everyone around us.
But I’m rambling. As always.
My plans for today: lunch, work, dinner, work, snack, work, work, work, sleep. I'm beyond stressed. And yet, still incredibly lazy...

Wednesday, March 21, 2001 05:59 p.m.
"Yeah, it bees that way sometime."
You know you're unstable when an English prof reading aloud from The Color Purple has you close to tears. Here's a bit...
Anyhow, he say, you know how it is. You ast yourself one question, it lead to fifteen. I start to wonder why us need love. Why us suffer. Why us black. Why us men and women. Where do children really come from. It didn't take long to realize I didn't hardly know nothing. And that if you ast yourself why you black or a man or a woman or bush it don't mean nothing if you don't ast why you here, period.
So why you think? I ast.
I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ast. And that in wondering bout the big things and asting bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, he say, the more I love.
And people start to love you back, I bet, I say.

*****
And then, just when I know I can live content without Shug, just when Mr. _____ done ast me to marry him again, this time in the spirit as well as in the flesh, and just after I say Naw, I still don't like frogs, but let's be friends, Shug write me she coming home.
Now. Is this life or not?
I be so calm.
If she come, I be happy. If she don't, I be content.
And then I figure this the lesson I was suppose to learn.

*****
I'm feeling very emotionally spent. I may not write any email today. Forgive me.
What I'd really like to do right now is sit down and read the rest of the book, as I'm only halfway through. But alas, I have far too much work to do. Politics paper here I grudgingly come.
Take care, all. I'll try to do the same.

Tuesday, March 20, 2001 11:51 p.m.
This computer...
Hates me! It keeps freezing and crashing and doing other horrible things. I think it may be because the hard drive's full. I can't wait 'til my new 'puter gets hooked up. The problem is, switching them around is going to make such a mess -- of my files, my desk, etc. I don't know whether I'll have any time this weekend. It's the last of the major hell weekends (well, except for the exam-studying time coming up). I have four major assignments due next week. Four! Have I started any? Hell no. But I will...
Tomorrow.

Tuesday, March 20, 2001 02:45 p.m.
The first day of spring.
Some celebration music perhaps? This has been in my head all day...
My friend, don't just sit there and ruminate,
with your navel to contemplate,
oh it's a beautiful day outside,
time's passing you by.
come on out, don't just sit there catatonic,
when i'm feeling super-sonic,
the west wind is sweeping by,
the sun's full in the sky.
and there's no way of knowing
no way to know, know how long it will last.
and there's no way of knowing
no way to know, know how long it will last.
Ah yes, the Gandharvas (and the song “First Day of Spring,” but you knew that now didn’t you?). It’s funny, but I seem to have hit some sort of music time warp. All the stuff I listened to back in the mid-90s is flooding my brain. Maybe it’s a type of nostalgia for the last time I was “single.” Sometimes I feel like the last few years were all a dream. I’ve been rocketed back in time to pre-mini-marriage. Not that those were particularly happy years. I was unsure of myself and uncomfortable in my own skin, searching for a mold to fit into while resenting myself for wanting to. High school was not fun for me. I guess the ex-ball-and-chain and I sort of got each other through the last two years. I’m grateful for that. I probably would have blown up the school otherwise. Or, at least, had some fun with an ice pick. (Speaking of which, if anyone who missed my tragic birthday wants to make amends, weapons are always a good choice.) But alas, so much has changed since the alternative rock/high school years. I’ve changed so much. And sometimes, when I step back and take stock of things, I’m really quite proud of the growth. I’ve come a long way, baby.
Not the girl she once was at all. But gosh, Pulp cds still make her smile.
Today I went down to campus for a meeting with my mag prof about the business story and it went just swimmingly! This is the story that I was finishing up last Monday at 3 a.m. Remember? Yes, well. He actually really liked the first draft, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to polish it up enough for another big fat A. But the really good news came when he asked what stream I’m going into next year. I said “Magazine, I hope,” then laughed nervously. He replied, smiling just a little under his stuffed shirt seriousness, “I don’t foresee there being any problem there.” So it’s sounding to me like I’ll be recommended for the program. This is very good news.
Okay, I’m going to leave you guys with a story that illustrates just how big of a geek I really am. Last night I had a dentist appointment – just a regular check up, you know the drill. (Bad pun intended.) They recently installed a television up above the dentist chair, so that patients can relax and watch tv as their mouths are poked and prodded. I guess it makes sense, although being less than a fan of the idiot box, I have some reservations. And I have to wonder how soothing it could possibly be to watch Friends while having a root canal or something. It might put you off Jennifer Aniston for life. (The horror!) But anyway, as the hygienist handed me the remote, she excitedly babbled on about how the patient before me had been watching Crocodile Hunter. I listened, laughed politely and then promptly flicked on (and became engrossed in) the news. I think she was disappointed.
Speaking of the news, they said last night that this has been somewhat of a record winter in Toronto. We’ve had a whole 104 days with snow on the ground. One hundred and four! Apparently, last year we only had 40-something. Now, that doesn’t sound quite right to me, but what do I know. Anyway, I’m just glad to see winter on the retreat. (Melinda knocks on wood.) I could really use the sun and fresh air. Although, mark my words, I’ll be ranting about the humidity soon enough. Springtime is my favourite season and it always goes by so quickly. So let’s enjoy it while it lasts, hmm?
Come on out, don't just sit there and decompose,
go throw on some summer clothes,
I would enjoy your company,
but please hurry.
Cause there's no way of knowing,
no way to know, know how long it'll last.
No way of knowing,
no way to know, know how long it'll last...

Monday, March 19, 2001 10:27 p.m.
Ever over Kansas, ever under Oz.
Warning: Melinda is about to hop back up on her dime-store philosopher’s soapbox. It may get hokey, or angsty, or pretentious. My bet’s on all three. If you’re not in the mood for mel-mumbo-jumbo, skip this one and come back tomorrow for more flippant fun. Now then...
I had a strange thought today as I rode home from campus. Borne of the troubles tumbling through my head, and unexpected email, and interaction with people who have unwittingly become intimate friends, it went like this: We’re all lost. Simple, ambiguous and hopelessly flaky, I know. But the thought captured my attention for quite some time. Such a simple truth. Today I started to see that I’m not the only seeker. We’re all drifting. Some people just hide it better -- from themselves as well as from others.
I started pondering all the strange relationships (friendly and otherwise) that I’ve cultivated over the past while. All the players in my surrealistic soap opera. And I started to think that maybe these ties weren’t so strange after all. Although we come with different baggage, we’re all on the same damn trip. We’re all looking to make sense of the senseless. To assign meaning to the incomprehensible. Lost between childhood and adulthood – and I think most of us are, regardless of age – we strive to make something of ourselves, find ourselves, be ourselves, like ourselves. We assign artificial boundaries to keep the ground from shifting too much underneath our feet. We convince ourselves that responsible, "adult" relationships -- romantic love, commitment, another person -- will save the day. We look outside rather than within. It’s what our society has raised us to do.
When we find someone we connect with -- someone with a sense of familiarity to them -- we sometimes cling too tightly and too quickly, not knowing quite why. We try to use them to fill a particular gap. When this person, or these people, don’t fit into the obvious scheme of life, it can be shattering. Take it from a pro.
But I’m sick of feeling like a mosaic. Maybe the pieces don’t all fit together. Maybe they don’t have to. Maybe getting there is even more than half the fun, even when there’s no there to get to. Maybe there are too many people in the world that just won’t fit into the normal slots. Maybe that’s what keeps life interesting.
Then again, maybe I’m just talking out of my arse. But you were warned ahead of time, so it’s your own damn fault for reading on. So there.
Note: I should probably take a moment to clarify just a bit and say that the above tangent isn’t about one person. It’s about a number of people. But more than anything, it’s about me.

Monday, March 19, 2001 10:01 a.m.
Anchorless.
As you may have noticed, I wasn't blogging as obsessively as usual this weekend. There are three main reason I can see for this: 1) I was oh-so-groggy and tired, 2) I was trying desperately to get some work done (I didn't, of course. Viewing Turner and Hooch really was my greatest achievement), 3) I was feeling mopey in a way that didn't translate well into text.
I'm not sure what's wrong with me exactly. Just moodswingy, I guess. I couldn't sleep last night and, as a result, I overslept this morning. Which means that I'm missing Murray's class for the umpteenth time. That's going to be a nasty exam to write, since I think a lot of it will be coming from the lectures. But you know, I'm having trouble even thinking about exams. They'll roll around in a few weeks, and ultimately, I'll study enough to do reasonably well. But right now, I could care less.
I'm having my running away fantasies again. But perhaps they're not "running away" fantasies per se, maybe they're just vacation fantasies. I want to go somewhere new for a few weeks. I want to breathe some different air. I want to step out of the daily grind before it grinds me. Maybe Vancouver, maybe Manitoba, maybe California, maybe London (England, not Ontario), maybe anywhere but here.
The problem with this scheme, however, is that I have neither sufficient financial resources nor a travelling companion. And while it'd be kind of impressive and symbolic to make this pilgrimage alone and underfunded, when it all comes down to it, I'm a wuss. I prefer company and comfort. Besides, I talk to myself enough as it is and I shudder to think how much worse it would get should I take on such a lonely voyage.
So I'll probably just stay here this summer. Blogging away instead of finding a job. Nah, I'll find a job eventually. I've got to pay my tuition somehow, you know. I just hope I can find something in the writing arena. (Freelancing, editing, writing web content, etc. Offers and/or suggestions are very welcome.) I rather not sell my soul to retail again -- even though I was the best damn hipper-than-thou salesclerk Eaton's ever had.

Sunday, March 18, 2001 02:06 p.m.
Take two.
Melinda regains consciousness, blinks in amazement at the clock, half-heartedly stretches and plods down to the kitchen for some lunch.

Sunday, March 18, 2001 12:01 p.m.
Here comes the sun.
(insert headache-induced moaning here) Good morning, kids. I trust you all slept well? I, on the other hand, barely slept at all. I spent a lot of last night in limbo between sleeping and awake. I was still up (and at that point, on the phone) when the sun rose. So I've had less than six hours of sleep and now it's time for me to get to work. I didn't accomplish anything at all yesterday, save for watching Turner and Hooch on the Superstation. (Yes, sitting through two hours of a young Tom Hanks costarring with a drooling mutt is an accomplishment. Although, to be honest, I got kind of into it...)
I think the reason I couldn't start the city politics paper is because it's not due tomorrow. (It's due Thursday.) I simply can't do work ahead of time. I'm so deadline-oriented, it's frightening! And, you know, sometimes I do my very best work at 1 a.m. When the house is quiet and time stands still, brilliance emerges. Of course, it's a fleeting sort of brilliance that inevitably fizzles out from lack of rest. But hey, temporary genius is better than no genius at all. I'll take it whenever I can get it.
Still, I'm going to try my darndest to be productive today. Right after I find some lunch. And take a nap. Or maybe I should nap first. (another moan) Did I mention I have a killer headache?

Saturday, March 17, 2001 01:40 p.m.
I seem to have left an important part of my brain somewhere, somewhere in a field in Hampshire.
Um, I'm awake. Nothing more to report, really, since this is a relatively new development. I crashed for about 11 hours and I'm still tired. It's been a long, exhausting week. Now I get to start on my paper for City Politics class. Oh joy, oh bliss.

Friday, March 16, 2001 11:28 p.m.
Painful memories become one-liners.
Bittergirl (a darkly hysterical look at the lives of three women and the men who dumped them) was fabulous. Well, let's qualify that a little. The play itself was fab. My experience of it was also fab, save for the few times that very raw emotion was evoked -- the lines that rang so true it wasn't funny anymore. I was both disconcerted and comforted by how many women in the room related to it all. The whole sense of I hear that, girlfriend! Is the getting dumped thing really this universal? So archetypical? So lacking in uniqueness? It's strange to think about.
Watching the play caused me to revisit the whole break-up experience. I hadn't done that in quite a while. It was a little sad, but nowhere near crippling. And I spent more time laughing than anything else. The title of this entry is a line from the play -- or at least a paraphrased version from my crappy memory -- and I think it captures how I managed to cope with this shit. Ultimately, it's all about the story. All about the joke. I've always had a wickedly morbid sense of humour. For once, it's come to my rescue.
Sometimes I can't believe how beyond it all I feel. When everybody said that life would go on, they were right. Life has gone on. And I'm happy. That said, I'm not pleased with the way things ended. It was really ugly and I'll always harbour a lot of resentment. I do miss the bond we shared, but I don't know if we can ever be friends. Because quite frankly, he showed a flagrant disregard for my feelings and my emotional health. He made things even more difficult than they had to be. Because of him, I was convinced that there was something wrong with me. And you know, I'm not sure I need friends like that.
So in celebration of yet another catharsis, I present you with a song by the venerable Dr Frank of Mr T Experience fame...
This Isn't about You Anymore
You were my life to some extent
my little world and all it meant
my only eyes to see it through
but what could I have seen in you?
This isn't about you anymore
you may have been what it was about before
but I gave it some thought
it turns out it's not
I think it's gonna help a lot
Now everything I went through with you
doesn't have anything to do with you
though your spirit lives on
in damage that you have done
there's a big fat hole in my heart
and you know that you played a part
but now I don't intend to make it a trend
it's not about you anymore
I imagine that somehow
far away from here and now
thoughts of you might ring some bells
when I'm sad for something else
This isn't about you anymore
I don't remember what you were in it for
oh yes I do, you were just passing through
unnecessary and untrue
once it was fresh but now it's stale
this tedious and pathetic tale
of regret and chagrin, you were the heroine
now you're a footnote to somebody else's footnote
in a book no one ever wrote
I'll give you a hint: you're out of print
it's not about you anymore
and so my friend, I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go
that's right: you're fired
your participation in this psychodrama is no longer required
your legacy though will never fade
for all the contributions you have made
wrecking my peace of mind was some of your finest work
will you still be so proud of it
now I've written you out of it
you once were the star, now I don't know what you are
but it's not about you anymore
Anybody actually read all the lyrics? Doesn't matter. Great song though. Anyway, I'm tired. Did a really shitty job of pimpin' the beer, but got to see the show free anyway, plus I got a free beer and I got to keep the glass! Ahh, the carefree exploits of a suddenly single girl.
p.s. Yesterday, someone checked out my page from the Warner Bros. domain. Maybe the movie deals really will start rolling in! Cool.

Friday, March 16, 2001 7:03 p.m.
Serve 'em, don't drink 'em.
Well, wish me luck kiddies. I'm off to test-drive my illustrious new career as a beer girl. Bobman and I are distributing beer at the play Bittergirl so we can get into the show for free. Is there anything I wouldn't do for a little culture?
G'night!

Friday, March 16, 2001 04:11 p.m.
The cabeer pics are up!

Friday, March 16, 2001 03:01 p.m.
Rely a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony.
And now, a stream-of-consciousness meditation on Cabeer Night:
Three pubs, confusion, three friends, confusion, many hours, confusion, many drinks, confusion, laughing maniacally, confusion, ogling George Stroumboulopoulos, confusion, being forced into a shopping cart, confusion, realizing that the shopping cart had a security alarm, confusion, wondering if I imagined the alarm, confusion, talking too loudly, confusion, talking too quietly, confusion, singing along to Brittany Spears (???), confusion, falling down, confusion, good times, confusion. Oh, and did I mention confusion?
Pics up in a sec.

Wednesday, March 14, 2001 05:54 p.m.
I fought the law and the law won.
Melinda woke up on time this morning -- jarred briefly by the stereo on full-blast, progressing quickly into a pleasant morning MTX groove. For some reason, I'm enjoying their newest album (Alcatraz) a lot more than I did when it first came out. Especially the first song, I Wrote A Book About Rock and Roll. (Click the link to read the lyrics.)
Dressed myself, cleansed myself -- not necessarily in that order -- and even managed to get my damn contacts in. Sleep really helps with that. Made it to school early, found the journalism lounge ("j-lounge" for the hipsters) empty and tried to study for my Media Law test. Couldn't bring myself to do it, though. Then I found that the exam schedule had been released. I have one per day for the first week, then I'm done. Now, if I had a job lined up for the summer, I'd be glad to get 'em outta the way immediately, but since I don't, a wee bit of study time would have been nice. Oh well. At least they're on separate days! And only two out of five are at 8 a.m.
Anyway, my loitering complete, I headed to Media Law. We had an hour-long lecture first, by the slow talkin' dude. (We're taught by a lawyer tag team. The other isn't nearly as lethargic, but both have a penchant for responding to student questions with "I really don't know.") So, the clique and I sat in our bad-assed back row seats, laughing our asses off at anything and everything. At one point, I got so bored that I started writing acrostic poems about various classmates. Oh yes. I am an artiste.
Then came the test. And this, as you may have guessed, is where the law won. More than half of my answers were pure guesses, based on the "Well, if I made the law..." theory. Prolly not a good choice, since the law was made by a bunch of rich, white, conservative males back in the day. I only fit one of those descriptors, and I'd like to think it doesn't impact my way of thinking. (I may be whitey, but I'm not the man holding us down, dammit!) So anywho, yes, guesses galore. Not good.
The whole experience filled me with a frustrated (albeit pleasant) energy that simply couldn't be channelled while sitting in Canadian History class. So I used my impressive peer-pressure techniques to convince the girls to take a leisurely lunch instead. Feeling nostalgic for my hbc.com days, I grabbed a yummy focaccia thingy at The Bay's cafe. (Speaking of hbc.com, my old boss just emailed me back today about the business story. I handed it in yesterday. Grr.) So we hung out, we giggled, and, you know, it was strangely comforting. Sometimes I get along with girls. Not often, but sometimes.
Rolling right along... We hung out in the j-lounge awhile. A couple members of the (newly dubbed) Evil Crew smartly stayed on campus 'til 3 to make sure I went to English. It'd been too long since my last appearance there. Our resident bourgeois boy even went to the trouble of walking me to class! Aww. 'Twas a kodak moment if ever there was one.
English was good, even though neither of my two friends in the class showed up. I ended up sitting alone in the front like a big ol' keener, thoroughly enjoying the lecture on The Color Purple. I always feel so sorry for the prof, though. The class, for the most part, is obnoxious and airheaded and really not worth her time. Oh, and I got my midterm back. The one I said I failed. The one I wrote back in hellish February, in a state of mind that really couldn't be deemed sane. (I was writing on Life and Loves of a She-Devil, a book about a woman whose husband leaves her for some slut. Uh huh. I was nearly in tears throughout the whole essay and kept zoning out, seeing my mess of an essay, then panicking.) Somehow, strangely, I got an A. Getting it back, I muttered to the prof, "Are you on crack?" Then I looked around the room and realized that perhaps me at my worst is still better than them (the "peers") on an average day. A truly frightening (and yes, thoroughly arrogant) thought.
What's next for the over-achiever, you ask? I need to do my lemme-into-magazine letter and questionnaire tonight, as they're both due tomorrow. I'm thinking about taking a real chance with the letter -- getting totally spunky and colourful and "I don't give a fuck what you think, 'cause I'm me and I'm fabulous, and you can't help but think so too." This could either piss them off royally or convince them that I have the strong "voice" needed to be a mag writer. I'm hoping for the latter.
So, alas, I'm off to dance with destiny. This may be my last entry for a day or two, as I'll be out all day tomorrow and into the wee hours. I'm going to "Cabeer Night" to "schmooze and booze with real journalists." Or, more accurately, to giggle and guffaw at my classmates as they try to network with quasi-celeb boozehounds. I think I might bring the digital camera as well, in which case, you'll get to see all the blackmail pics. Sound good? Of course it does.
Until next time, keep fit and have fun! (A very Canadian, perhaps Ontarian, inside joke. Good ol' Hal and Joanne.)
p.s. to everyone who's awaiting email from me: it's coming. i'll catch up with you this weekend. i promise.

Tuesday, March 13, 2001 03:55 p.m.
Morning bright rise, go over your lines.
Ahhhh. Okay, I just woke up from my mid-afternoon nap. I feel surprisingly good. Still a little tired, which means that I'll (hopefully) go back to bed early tonight. Still sick, but I'm getting used to the sniffles and the pressure in my ears and the sneezing at inopportune times.
Several things I've noticed over the past few days about how I handle stress:

I used to cry when I was upset. Now I just laugh and laugh. It's really quite an improvement.
I also sing to myself. Sometimes they're actual songs, sometimes it's just melodic muttering under my breath. Last night the real songs included: John Lennon and that wacky Yoko's Give Peace A Chance, Kenny Rogers' The Gambler, an MTX song called Reactivate Your Heart and the theme from Pee Wee's Playhouse. (I'm eclectic, what can I say.)
Finally, I become hyper-analytical about my own behaviour and that of others. I find everything "interesting" and/or "fascinating," and say so in very clinical and distant terms. It seems to freak people out -- which is always a plus. Maybe I should take a psych course as one of my liberal studies next year. (Speaking of which, I still have to pick my courses... Today probably.)
And now a quote from You Can't Take It With You. It's far too extreme to describe my current state of mind, but so terribly amusing. I know I'll lose it if I wait for the right moment...

"I feel so good, life is running around in me like squirrels."
-quoth the wacky Russian dance teacher
Alas, I should probably hurl myself into the throws of productivity now. Catch ya on the flipside, kiddies! (BTW: has anyone seen Careful Observer hanging around? I kinda miss that little fella...)
(A figure watches silently from the darkness. He smiles to himself, then sighs wistfully. "I knew it.")

Tuesday, March 13, 2001 1:18 p.m.
Bursting with fruit flavour!
So I got very little sleep last night. So I woke up with a headache like you wouldn't believe, cursing and waving my arms about frantically like a demented yet lovable Sim. So I barely made it to class and had to wear the infamous glasses (in the rain!) because my eyes were too bloodshot for contacts. So I was forced to sit through an hour and a half of my magazine prof's monotone lecturing -- a deadpan broken record on "beginning, middle and end." So what! I got my profile of the Bobman back. And I got an A.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "Marks aren't everything. This really shouldn't be the highlight of your day, you keener bastard!" But, dude, this A is special. This A means that the opera and business lovin' jerk who once called my writing "chatty, faux populist," may actually recommend me for the oh-so-exclusive magazine stream. This gatekeeper of my fate liked the piece enough to suggest that I pitch it to Toronto Life. Not so defeated after all, I'd say...
Oh, and a note to anyone and everyone feeling even the slightest inclination to email and say, "There you go with your false modesty again. You know you're gonna get in." Listen: It may be modesty, but it ain't false. I worry about these things. I really do. For all of February, my fucked up personal life eclipsed academics and put me in a tight spot. I'm still climbing out of the hole. But as I predicted a month ago, I've come out fighting. I always do.
Anybody wanna wrassle?
With that thought in mind, I'm going to take a nap before I start working again. Goshdarnit, I deserve it.

Tuesday, March 13, 2001 02:56 a.m.
I just finished the business story. Soooo friggin' cheesy, but I don't care. It's done. Now I get to sleep for a whole four hours! I'm a lucky, lucky girl.
Thank gawd for adrenaline.

Monday, March 12, 2001 06:58 p.m.
Looking for a good time?
Try listening to the Hudson Bay Company's Year End Earnings Conference Call!
Oh yes, my life is thrilling indeed. Listening to business people dance around each other's questions over the phone. Hoping, desperately, that they'll say something about hbc.com. (Holy crap, someone just said "dipsy doodling." What the hell does that mean? I think it's a diss. He's talking about Eaton's.)

Monday, March 12, 2001 02:36 p.m.
Oh, the joys of public transit!
Have I ever mentioned how much I just love taking the bus back to my neck of the 'hood? It's really entertaining, lemme tell you. Today I got to be the object of two different crazy guys' affection. At the same time. They took up posts on either side of me and just stared intently in that crazy-bus-guy sort of way. (Meanwhile, I feigned extreme fascination with the latest Maclean's magazine.) Finally, they caught sight of one another and began a glare-down, shifting all attention away from little ol' me. As my friend Martha would say, "It's a good thing."
Oh, and then there was the kid talking loudly to his friend about how he tried to burn a cd, because he had the software and a blank cd, but it didn't work. You know why? Because he didn't have a burner. ("Dude, I didn't know. I thought I could just use the drive thingy.") He also pondered aloud whether Pakistani people counted as black or as hispanic. Ah, good times.
But alas, I'm home safe and sound now and off to seek some sustenance. Expect more updates of the frantic "somebody do my homework please" variation later on. Over and out.

Monday, March 12, 2001 02:23 a.m.
Can I get a "You go girl!"? (long pause) Um, okay, I'll take that as a no. That's fine. Doesn't bother me. You know why? Because I'm finished that goddamn essay! And with a few hours to spare, too. This means I can nap leisurely for a decent 5 or 6 hours before I head downtown to hand that puppy in. Of course, as soon as I get back, I'll have to launch into another long night of bullshitting a major assignment. But heck, one down, one to go. Then I just have to pass my media law test, make my course selections, write my "oh please, oh please, pick me!" application for the magazine stream, and do a history seminar paper. After that, Thursday and Friday evening belong to me, my fabulous friends, and some cool refreshing beer. Beer, you say? I'll give you the scoop later. Yawn. I think it's about time for this little soldier to head to good ol' dreamland.
Oh, and special thanks to a certain boy whose hourly -- or perhaps half-hourly -- emails kept me awake and pleasant. I couldn't have done it without you, partner. Yee-frickin-haw! (Thanks also to Ashley and "Dave from Winnipeg" -- I read 'em, just haven't replied yet.)
G'night all!

Sunday, March 11, 2001 08:00 p.m.
Dude! (Yes, you can tell already things are bad...) I am nowhere near done that damn essay. I'd prefer not to be up all night, but I don't see any other options. This thing is worth 50% of my term mark. It's going to be so half-assed as it is. Woe really is me right now.
On the plus side: My granny has given her blessing for me to curse like a sailor on the blog if it'll make me feel better. Sigh. If only it were that easy... Alas, sometimes even foul language cannot save the day. Shocking, but true.
Oh, but email, on the other hand...

Sunday, March 11, 2001 11:11 a.m.
Oooh, it's eleven-eleven again. Spiffy.
As for me, well, I'm not feeling too spiffy. My eyes are watering uncontrollably, making it look like I'm sobbing when, in actuality, I'm just deathly ill. Fabulous symptoms like that make it really hard to write, you know? So instead, I've been absentmindedly playing MadLibs and MASH online. Perhaps I should feel that electronic versions are perverting our silly childhood games, but it doesn't bother me. It's so goshdarned convenient! No paper or pen required! Now, if only they could figure out a virtual stella-ella-ola...

Sunday, March 11, 2001 12:19 a.m.
I may have mentioned this already, but I'm desperately in need of someone to prod me into working. I'll even provide the stick. Really. This has gotten out of hand. My essay has gone nowhere. I'm goofing around on the internet, not even enjoying myself because I'm so stressed. I need to work. And yet...? I don't know. I'm not sure why I'm finding it so impossible to be productive. Maybe I'm not cut out for academia. Maybe I should run away to Vancouver.
But I won't, of course. So if you're interested in being my hired muscle and keeper, apply today! I'm feisty but fabulous. And I'll even put away my ice pick.

Saturday, March 10, 2001 07:58 p.m.
Groundhog Day is on the Superstation. Again. Am I the only one who sees irony in the fact that they show this flick over and over and over?

Saturday, March 10, 2001 04:43 p.m.
Listening to the Kids In The Hall reunion on CBC Radio and chatting with Vishnu instead of working... It's a bad scene. But oh-so-funny.
Hmm, let's try to be productive for a second. Has anyone reading this ever purchased anything from hbc.com? If so, please make my pathetic life a little easier by emailing me. It's for the business story. It'd really help me out. Pretty please?

Saturday, March 10, 2001 03:00 p.m.
Okay, here's my problem: I'd watched the films for my assignment, I'd started to think briliant thoughts, I was grooving on the "we're gonna make it after all" vibe. Then I thought to myself, maybe I should check the course text, to see if it has anything to say about social class and Hollywood films of the 30s. Well, it most certainly did. And it was saying everything that I was thinking. About the exact same movies. Now, on the one hand, it's good that I checked, because otherwise I would've looked like a big ol' plagiarist. But, on the other hand, I now feel like I have nothing new to contribute to this topic. Once again, I've hit a wall. Ouch.

Saturday, March 10, 2001 09:44 a.m.
Have I ever mentioned I'm really not a morning person?
Ugh. As always, the fight with my desire to crawl back into bed is at an Olympian level. Do I get a medal if I resist horizontality? 'Cause then I might be able to do it. I'm very reward driven sometimes.
So here's the deal: I'm deathly ill. My throat still hurts, my voice sounds funny, I can't breathe very well, and my brain is just cloudy. Oh, and the damn pop-ups are back on my dork pages, so I'm feeling pretty violent as well. I'd go do a little wake-up punching if I didn't think that the bag would win.
Someone do my homework. And make me some vegan hot and sour soup. And then, tell me a story. Okay? I'll be eternally indebted and oh-so-grateful. You could really take advantage of that sort of emotional leverage later on down the line. Think about it.

Friday, March 9, 2001 10:09 p.m.
Okay, wait, now it's not happening. What the hell is going on? I don't think I'm sick enough to be hallucinating. Geez!

Friday, March 9, 2001 10:03 p.m.
AW CRAP NOOOOOOOOO!!!!
It seems that the bloody bastards at dork.com have decided to rain on my ad-free parade. All of a sudden, whenever you visit my non-pitas pages, some stupid mp3-hawking pop-up opens. This friggin' stinks. I don't wanna move again. But that box is bigger than the geocities ones were.
Awwww. *pout, pout, pout* Sorry guys. Really, I am. Anyone wanna take pity on me and host my site on their server?

Friday, March 9, 2001 09:53 p.m.
Okay, I'm now officially, most definitely sick. Somebody fix me.

Friday, March 9, 2001 06:02 p.m.
"Holy jumpin' catfish! You drive a guy crazy!"
I just watched It Happened One Night and got totally sucked in, despite the pesky patriarchal overtones. Man, I'm really starting to enjoy these old movies. There's something so aesthetically pleasing about black and white film. And the dialogue is just so sharp! I'm tempted to say "they just don't make 'em like they used to," but that seems like a lot of nostalgia to have for an era I didn't live through. Still. Just listen...
Mr. Andrews: Oh, ah, do you mind if I ask you a question frankly? Do you love my daughter?
Peter: Any guy that'd fall in love with your daughter ought to have his head examined.
Mr. Andrews: That's an evasion.
Peter: She picked herself a perfect running mate: King Westley! The pill of the century! What she needs is a guy that'd take a sock at her once a day - whether it is coming to her or not. If you had half the brains you're supposed to have, you'd have done it yourself long ago.
Mr. Andrews: Do you love her?
Peter: A normal human being couldn't live under the same roof with her without going nutty. She's my idea of nothing!
Mr. Andrews: (raising his voice) I asked you a simple question! Do you love her?
Peter: (shouting) YES! But don't hold that against me. I'm a little screwy myself.
Yeah, so the "take a sock at her" line bothered me. But other than that, it was bloody beautiful. Hmm.

Friday, March 9, 2001 11:37 a.m.
Well well! It seems I've also been linked by Lee-Lee. See, it takes me awhile to catch onto these things, since I can't use the javascript version of the site meter and therefore, don't know if people are getting here through links. Anyway, I'm very pleasantly surprised. I should probably start compiling my own list of blog links, I just haven't gotten around to it. But, mark my words, I will.
Just a thought: if anyone else has me linked, I'd love to know. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and shit like that. And I'd probably reciprocate, when and if my own list comes together.

Friday, March 9, 2001 10:50 a.m.
A soft moan emanates from the sleepy, pyjama-clad webmistress' throat. I think I'm getting siiiiiiick. Geez. My throat is feeling just terrible. My head feels kinda woozy. I have no time for this! Damn. I should probably toodle off downstairs and start dosing myself violently with Vitamin C, echinacea and the like. Not that I will, of course. But I should.
Mister Andy made good on his promise to call me back last night. What a nice boy! With or without the dress. (Although, as I told him, it was a very fetching dress.) His phone card expired just before we had a chance to say our proper farewells, so um, if you're reading this, Andy: It was really fabulous talking to you. Keep in touch. The show must go on, you know!
Yeah, I know, I could've just emailed him. True. But I like putting other people in the spotlight of my blogging glory sometimes. It keeps them on their toes, prefacing statements with "Don't put this on your weblog, but..." Of course, there isn't much to worry about, even if you happen to be within my elite circle of friends (e- or otherwise). I rarely stray from my own head, and if I do, I'd never be malicious about it. I'm far too kind.
Oh! Last thing: According to the sitemeter, someone from Philips visited my page. I've gone corporate and I'm not even sure how. So weird!

Thursday, March 8, 2001 10:05 p.m.
Okay, so I'm trying to choose my courses for next year and I run across this...
ENG511: The Art of Diaries
Diaries have generally been thought to be private texts, not meant for public eyes. In this course, we will consider instead how they are crafted works of art. By studying texts ranging from the early twentieth century to those posted on the internet, students will be introduced to life-writing theory, which they will use to rethink the relationship between gender and genre; art and artlessness; public and private; fact and fiction. Unavailable for credit to Radio and Television Arts and Journalism students.
Argh! Catch that last bit? It's a class about my favourite obsession (at the moment, anyway) and I can't take it because I'm in journalism. Damn, I knew I should've majored in business... (Insert a wry "ha!" here, please.)

Thursday, March 8, 2001 07:59 p.m.
Home again, home again, jiggedy-jig! Ah yes, once again, Melinda's big plans have fallen through. No big deal, though. I was actually feeling pretty tired.
So let's start from the beginning, shall we? I managed to get up and to the subway on time this morning -- a small miracle -- but somebody had jumped an hour or two before, slowing the heck out of the public transit system and royally pissing me off. (Yes, I'm a cold hearted commuter. I know. You should've heard the tasteless jokes I was making to myself at the time.) So I ended up standing on the Yonge/Bloor platform for about half an hour, then finally getting to share a very intimate ride with a herd of angry travellers. At least the guy I was standing beside had a sense of humour. He made snide remarks, I rolled my eyes, we both laughed and managed not to kill anyone. Good times, good times.
So, because of all this, I was late for my 9 o'clock Hollywood class. Luckily, Murray didn't freak. Oh, and he was wearing a bright lilac sweater. Very spring-like. Very strange. Anyway, afterwards I watched On The Waterfront with my viewing group. It was my first Marlon Brando experience. Not bad.
Next came a wee bit of loitering, followed by a trip to my uni's crappy library, then a meeting with Kate to return her High Fidelity cd. Then City Politics class, where the prof spent a full three hours ragging on Toronto cops -- and quite legitimately, I might add.
Wow, the day is just dragging on, isn't it? Sorry. I'll hurry up. Um, um, um! Pressure! Vishnu took me out for a pint after class, which was fun as always. Then Jes called and cancelled our big night out. Then I came home. Now I'm here, drinking a V8 (with Tabasco and salt, in case you wondered). Yeehaw!
So, I'm done class for the weekend. Have to move swiftly into school mode now. Two major assignments, nothing done, very little time. Argh. I'd say that I'm going to swear off email and blogging for the next three days, but it'd be such a blatant lie. Y'all know I couldn't stop. Or could I? Wa ha ha! (That was maniacal laughter, just so you know.)

Thursday, March 8, 2001 12:15 a.m.
Finally going to bed. I'll be able to get.. ohh... just under seven hours of sleep if I drop off right away. Beats four, I guess.
Anyway, I'm feeling okay aside from the exhaustion and feverish temperature. Oh, and I've been linked by ashley -- and with top billing! How sweet!
Goodnight.

Wednesday, March 7, 2001 10:12 p.m.
Just because I haven't updated the blog since this afternoon, it doesn't mean I'm being productive -- in case you wondered. For some reason it's about 30* Celsius in my tiny little room and I'm starting to go a little crazy. (Starting?) I've gotten very little done, aside from emailing my English prof. She claims that I did well on that test, but we shall soon see whether her definition and mine are compatible.
I'm in the middle of emailing a contact for the business story, but I'm having trouble with coherence. Maybe I really am sick. Or maybe it's this dreadful room. It's so bloody hot! And, of course, there's still crap piled up everywhere. I have no time to clean and besides, I've gotten so used to maneuvering around it that there's hardly any point anymore. I'd probably trip on the nothingness.
Once the email is done, I'm going to try to go to bed. My body needs the rest so desperately and I'll probably be out late tomorrow. Well, late by my own anti-social standards, anyway. Hot date, you ask? No no. Nothing like that.
A banal entry indeed. So sorry kiddies.

Wednesday, March 7, 2001 1:32 p.m.
Careful observer: Hey Mel! You awake?
Melinda: Apparently.
C.O.: Can I talk to you about something?
Melinda: Yeah, what the hell. It's not like I'm going to class.
C.O.: Okay. Here goes. From what I've seen, reading your weblog and all, you seem like a very intense person.
Melinda: Uh huh.
C.O.: Sometimes you scare me.
Melinda: I see.
C.O.: Other times you don't. Sometimes I'm too busy laughing. (whispers) And sometimes, your weblog makes me cry.
Melinda: Too many potshots?
C.O.: No, no. It's not that at all. Although you could stand to be a little nicer to me. I'm just, well, I'm kind of worried about you. I don't want to see you fall apart.
Melinda: Can I let you in on a little secret?
C.O.: Please do! Golly, I love secrets!
Melinda: Okay. Here goes: I'm a fighter. My life may have seemed like sunshine and roses before, but I've dealt with some heavy shit. And sometimes it's overwhelming. And sometimes, yes, I do let it get to me. I do throw my hands up in surrender and just cry. And those feelings do make it onto the weblog. I can be brutally honest at times.
C.O.: I hope there's a "but" coming up...
Melinda: But, you can be sure that when it's all said and done, I shall persevere. The word "failure" isn't in my vocabulary. Nor is "surrender."
C.O.: Um, dude. You just used both of those words, and in a proper context.
Melinda: Oh, C.O.! What would I do without you? You keep me humble. When you're not stroking my wounded ego, that is.
C.O.: I do what I can.
Melinda: I know. And I love ya for it. Well, as much as one can love a figment of one's imagination.
C.O.: Listen, if you don't mind me saying so, you've been sounding sort of optimistic lately. What's up with that? What happened to the cynical megabitch we all knew so well.
Melinda: Well, rest assured, she's still here. But she's been forced to do a lot of thinking lately. She's been busy re-evaluating her stance on a lot of things. Pondering life's great mysteries. A very special person reminded her that it's okay to be flaky sometimes. She'll always be grateful for that.
C.O.: Wait, she is you, yes?
Melinda: Oh, C.O. You always make me laugh. Yes, she is me. And me is doing okay. I mean, yes, my head is still spinning. Yes, I have a lot of demons to confront and I'm not exactly Buffy (nor do I wish to be, in case you wondered). But I've realized that there's so much to learn. I don't know it all and I never will. But I want to learn. I don't want to close myself off from the world. I was so guarded for so long. I didn't give people a chance to know me.
C.O.: Why not? You're a perfectly lovely girl.
Melinda: Yeah, well maybe I didn't think that. Or maybe I didn't think that others would think that. So I only gave a superficial version of myself, if anything at all. I spoke with insincerity a lot of the time. Not because I was trying to mislead, but because I was shy.
C.O.: You? The "spillin' my guts on the internet" girl? With your self-righteousness and your arrogance and your weird-assed hair colours and clashing fashion? Shy?
Melinda: It's something that takes a long time to get over. It gets you when you're young and consumes you. Hides your personality from the world. Keeps you safe sometimes, but lonely too.
C.O.: Wow. You never cease to amaze me. You're a bloody pendulum. From guarded privacy-fiend to shockingly-candid-online-rambler. You're an extremist!
Melinda: Maybe so. You said yourself that I was intense.
C.O.: Fuck, are you ever intense!
Melinda: Is that a bad thing?
C.O.: Nah, I don't think so.
Melinda: Good, 'cause I don't think so either. I'd rather be passionate than bland. Keeps things interesting.
C.O.: It sure does. I guess that's why you've been getting 50 hits a day lately.
Melinda: Oh? Have I? I hardly noticed. Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find some lunch. Then I think I'll email my English prof and profusely apologize for missing so many classes. I may have crashed this week, but I shall not burn. I'm sure there's a great "rising from the ashes" literary quote I could throw in here, but I don't know it.
C.O.: Does this mean that all your "woe is me" style entries are through?
Melinda: Hell no. I'll keep churning out whatever's inside my head. And sometimes that'll be what I feel. And that's okay. Gosh, I'm feeling like a self-help book right now. And I haven't even been reading 'em! Really!
C.O.: Sure, sure. Okay, go have your lunch. I'd join you, but imaginary cohorts don't need sustenance.
Melinda: Cool. Oh, and if my granny drops by while I'm away, could you pass along a message?
C.O.: Your grandmother is reading this?! Ah, that explains why you haven't been cursing like a sailor.
Melinda: Yes, well, it surprised me too. It seems everybody everywhere is reading this crazy blog. But it's very sweet of her to be concerned. Anyway, if she does happen by, just tell her I said "Hello." And tell her I miss her.
C.O.: No problemo, chief. Catch ya on the flipside.
Melinda: Sure thing.

Wednesday, March 7, 2001 09:50 a.m.
Argh. Somebody fucking kill me.
I overslept, so I'm now about to miss the media law class where I would've found out what the hell is on next week's test. My head is aching and I feel hung over, only I haven't been drinking. I'll probably just fall back into bed now, even though it'll mean missing history for the millionth time. And don't even get me started on english, which I haven't been to since that test that I (probably) failed. I don't really want to get it back, but the prof, by virtue of having it in her hot little hands still, will know I haven't been showing up.
Fuck. My life sucks. I feel so wretched. Back to bed, I think. But not til I find some sort of fruity beverage.
Ow, ow, fuck, ow.
Careful observer: You seem to be in a really bad mood.
Melinda: Fuck off and die.
Careful observer: Um. Okay. That's not really humorous though. Usually you use me as a comic device.
Melinda: Shove it, asshole. I'm not in the mood.

Wednesday, March 7, 2001 03:08 a.m.
Going to sleep now. Gosh, I'm a loser. My body's not going to take this abuse for much longer. I'll crash this weekend and my take essays down the tubes with me. Shit. G'night.

Wednesday, March 7, 2001 1:01 a.m.
Mikhail Bakunin, a Russian "forefather" of anarchist thought, once said that "The urge for destruction is a creative urge too." (Or, at least, something along those lines. It's been translated many times in many ways.)
That said, why do I feel like such a human wrecking ball sometimes?
Perhaps I flatter myself. Perhaps I have nothing to do with the fact that the world shatters as I walk through it. Perhaps it is chance. A not-so-happy coincidence.
But I'll tell you, it's really starting to get to me. It's hard not to take it personally. I seek neither to harm others nor to be harmed, and yet, both come. Effortlessly.
It's a wonderful life, lemme tell you. Now where the fuck is Jimmy Stewart? Perhaps if I have a torrid love affair with him, all the pieces will fall into place. Alternately, we could jump off a bridge together and be saved by a charismatic old angel.
Fuck my rebirth if it's into madness. This brave new world is far too strange. I can only live in a surrealist soap opera for so long.
But alas, you and I both know the drill quite well. Or, at least, I do. Ultimately, there will be no surrender. No defeat. And, as always, I am your pamphleteer.
No sleep in sight, but goodnight just the same.

Tuesday, March 6, 2001 09:25 p.m.
Why am I so afraid of letting people know that I'm...
hu·man
Pronunciation: 'hyü-m&n, 'yü-
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English humain, from Middle French, from Latin humanus; akin to Latin homo human being -- more at HOMAGE
Date: 14th century
1 : of, relating to, or characteristic of humans
2 : consisting of humans
3 a : having human form or attributes b : susceptible to or representative of the sympathies and frailties of human nature ("such an inconsistency is very human" -- P. E. More)
- hu·man·ness /-m&n-n&s/noun
I'm not sure, but it probably something to do with definition number three.
(Special thanks to Merriam Webster, the official online dictionary of Melinda's Pathetic Life)

Tuesday, March 6, 2001 04:23 p.m.
Hi. Have I mentioned that "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"? Yes, well. Apparently, I'm not as numb as I thought. And no, this isn't about him. It'd be a heck of a lot easier if it was.
I have several entertaining stories about today, but suddenly I find myself disinterested. Maybe later.
The internet is a strange place to live. Sometimes I wonder how accurate a picture this thing paints of me. What is the rate of distortion? Does it canonize or demonize? Reflect accurately? Or grossly magnify some characteristics while hiding others? Is there any way to know for sure? Does it matter? Why do I care?
Questions with no answers bother me. Despite what the philosophers say.

Tuesday, March 6, 2001 07:23 a.m.
Feeling a little better this morning. I ended up going to bed at 9, being woken up at 10 by the stupid dog yapping her little face off, then sleeping again til now. Ahh. You know you're getting old when you look forward to sleep this much. Was there ever really a time when I fought it? I wish I could climb back into my toasty warm waterbed right friggin' now, but alas, I have evil magazine class to attend, then I'm meeting a friend for coffee. Should be... interesting.
Okay, so here's my paranoid fear for this morning: I'm suddenly very suspicious that RyeHigh kids are frequenting the weblog. Someone checked the blog from campus at 1:40 a.m.!! (Yes, kiddies, I know that sort of thing. Ah, the magic of the site meter.) Anyway, I know a couple of people had the URL, but now I'm starting to think it's more than a couple. Pretty weird to think about, but whatever. It's all part of the game. And hell, people have been reasonably nice to me lately. Perhaps it's because they think I'm unstable/crazy. That'd be kinda cool. I could have fun with that. Of course, if they're regular readers, they'd know I was plotting... Damn! I've got to start keeping these wild schemes of mine inside my head, rather than publicizing them. Oh, but I'm such an attention whore, haven't you noticed? Nah, me neither. Not really.
There are a lot of things on my mind right now. Tough things to think about. But rest assured, the gears are turning. Actually, how that can be of any reassurance at all, I don't know. But I always enjoy making vague comments that very few readers will actually understand. It makes it seem like maybe I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Maybe this really isn't as voyeuristic as it could be.
Oh, and someone emailed me about the Greta Garbo scene below. Apparently, directly after that chunk of dialogue, she jumps up and smooches him in an overly romantic Hollywood kiss. That amuses me.
Alas, it's getting late. Gotta do the personal hygiene/clothing thing.

Monday, March 5, 2001 08:28 p.m.
In the aforementioned manic Murray class, we watched a great clip from a Greta Garbo movie, Ninotchka. I haven't seen it before, but now I really frickin' want to. Check out the dialogue:
Leon: Ninotchka, you like me just a little bit?
Ninotchka: Your general appearance is not distasteful.
Leon: Thank you.
Ninotchka: The whites of your eyes are clear. Your cornea is excellent.
Leon: Your cornea is terrific. Ninotchka, tell me, you're so expert on things: can it be that I'm falling in love with you?
Ninotchka: Why must you bring in wrong values? Love is a romantic designation for a most ordinary biological - or, shall we say, chemical - process. A lot of nonsense is talked and written about it.
Leon: Oh I see. What do you use instead?
Ninotchka: I acknowledge the existence of a natural impulse common to all.
Leon: What can I possibly do to encourage such an impulse in you?
Ninotchka: You don't have to do a thing. Chemically, we're already quite sympathetic.
Leon (bewildered and intrigued): You're the most incredible creature I've ever met. Ninotchka. Ninotchka.
Ninotchka: You repeat yourself.
Leon: Yes, I'd like to say it a thousand times. You must forgive me when I seem a little old-fashioned. After all, I'm just a poor bourgeois.
Ninotchka: It's never too late to change. I used to belong to the petite bourgeoisie myself.
Come on, admit it. That's just fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that a certain long-lost Mister Andy rang me up last night, all the way from Louisville, Kentucky. And I totally dissed him. I hope he isn't too heartbroken. He's promised to call back so we can reminisce about our silly Compuserve-infused childhoods and whatnot. Gosh, that was such a long time ago, when we were both wannabe hippies. Now, well, I don't know what the hell I am now. I don't know what the hell he is, either. That's why we have some catching up to do.
But alas, I'm feeling absolutely dreadful this evening. Maybe I'm coming down with something. I'm not sure... Just feeling really queasy and light-headed. I guess it could be the not-sleeping thing. I'm going to try to go to bed early tonight. Fat chance, I know. But I'm gonna try.

Monday, March 5, 2001 05:19 p.m.
I have a massive headache all of a sudden, so this may not come out as eloquently as I'd like. But it was an interesting day.
I went to Murray's class and had my mind blown as usual. It sounds like such a bird course, but Hollywood and Society is actually the most challenging class I have -- mainly because Murray is an insane genius. Today's lecture spiralled into a disconcerting yet fascinating diatribe on how manufactured the concept of romantic love truly is. My favourite quote from the lecture was: "Every one of you who's hooked on the idea of falling in love thinks you're more than just a person. You think you have a unique spirit." He went on to say that this leads to believing we should buy into a system that fosters our (false) individuality, through consumption. Someone in the class argued that religion taught her that she was an individual. Murray's response was to define religion as "a set of stories and tales that rationalize an economic system as a moral one." When she took offense, he just furrowed his brow and said dryly, "Well, it's a hard pill to swallow." Ah yes, it's an enjoyable class so long as you're not the one being singled out. It's too bad I'm going to do such a crappy job on the essay. I'm still only halfway through the second movie. Oh, and did I mention my business feature story is due the day after that? Kill me.
Before class -- yes, I know I'm subverting chronology, sorry -- I ran into Vishnu in the journalism lounge. He did a very good job of listening to me whine and empathetically mirroring my pouty faces. He also laughed heartily at my misfortunes. Well, at least someone finds my life amusing.
When I came home, it was snowing even harder than when I left. And you know what? It was absolutely beautiful. For some reason, it felt like I was seeing snow for the first time. It was that wonderfully light fluffy stuff that coats every surface brilliantly. Walking home from the bus stop, I felt like a child, all bundled up and warm, with snowflakes swirling about. I wanted to make a snow angel. Or to catch a snowflake on my tongue. Of course, then I realized that I probably shouldn't be consuming urban snow. You just never know what crazy chemicals have found their way up into the clouds. So, instead, I just watched in wide-eyed amazement for a few minutes. Actually (melinda opens her bedroom blind and peers out the window) it's still snowing now. It's going to be hell getting around tomorrow. But gosh, it's just such a beautiful sight. Sometimes I'm not totally immune to nature's charms...
My whole encounter with this winter wonderland brought to mind the last paragraph of James Joyce's The Dead, and I think I'll share it now for anyone who'd like to read it. (I guess my Modernist/Post-Modernist Lit course actually had some effect on me. Sweet.)
"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

Monday, March 5, 2001 09:20a.m.
You know those people who say you need eight hours of sleep a night? Bullshit. They're totally full of it. I've had four, and I'm doing quite well, thank you very much. Sure, I feel a little dizzy and my brain isn't processing input as quickly as it should. Yes, I've yawned about seventeen times and nearly fell asleep while brushing my teeth. But other than that, I'm fine. Just peachy, in fact.
While we're on the subject, I'm not so sure that eating is as "necessary" as they say. Sure, it's a good thing. I'll give you that. But I remember back in high school, when people were doing the 30 hour famine, I'd always just look on in amazement, saying "Dude. I could never do that." Well, my post-breakup fast went on for days and days. 30 hours? Psht. Try 120. (Note: Yes, I'm eating again now. Stop asking me. I promise. I'm a hungry girl. I eat about ten times a day. It's quite possibly my most annoying character trait.)
It seems that so much of life is a case of mind over matter. I can do damn near anything, if I put my mind to it. Not absolutely anything, though. Still haven't quite figured out how to travel through time and/or space. I guess a driver's license might help with the latter...
Gosh, life is funny sometimes. Never go around saying "My life is so bloody surreal, man. It's the craziest!" Not unless you want it to get exponentially more crazy. But maybe that's a good thing, I'm really not sure. As I said, the brain is not operating at 100% this morning. What I do know for sure is that this phenomenon is better than the week where I kept saying "My life couldn't get any worse," and then it continued to do so. Surreal doesn't mean worse. Just more interesting. I like interesting. It just catches me off guard sometimes.
Okay, I've got to get dressed. I've got an eleven o'clock class today and it is SNOWING like all heck. Not a great day to be taking the bus, but what can I do?
Careful observer: Uhh, skip class?
Melinda: No, damn you. I dragged myself out of bed, you'd better believe I'm going. Or, at least, I'm going to make a valiant effort to trudge to the bus stop.
Careful observer: You'll come back. They always do.
Melinda: Yeah, um, at around 2. After my class.
Careful observer: I'll be here. With bells on.
Melinda: I'm not sure I like the sound of that.
Careful observer: Oh, you will.
Melinda: I see. Hmmm. Note to self: Figure out why the figments of your imagination are lonelier than you are.
Careful observer: I heard that.
Melinda: Sorry, C.O. You know I love you. Well, better make that like.
Careful observer: Oh, Mel. I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.
Melinda: I'll bet. Well, listen. I don't have time to entertain the voices in my head right now. Gotta get my ass to class, so to speak.
Careful observer: Don't forget to wear a scarf. It's blustery outside.
Melinda: Aw, do I have to?
Careful observer: Yes. You most certainly do.
Melinda: Okay, okay, whatever you want. No more chit-chat. I've gotta motor.
Careful observer: Sigh.

Sunday, March 4, 2001 06:24 p.m.
Oh you!
And now, for something a little less cryptic: Holy shit! My counter is about to reach 3,000. That's pretty cool. But where are you people coming from? Sign the guestbook! Please? Unless you're going to be mean, that is. I've had quite enough of that shit.

Sunday, March 4, 2001 02:59 p.m.
The good news: Someone actually tried to guess which three Spirit of the West songs took over my brain last November. Check it out:
Subject: SOTW Contest Entry
Honest Gamble, Room without a view, Hounds that wait outside your door.
Hope you're good.
IG.
The bad news: He got 'em all wrong. It was a valiant effort, but alas, the ones I'm thinking of are much more obvious. Or, at least, they would be to anyone who listened to Edge 102's "All Request Breakfast" in the mid-90s. These three songs were played every frickin' weekend. (Geez, I'm just a wee bit embarrassed to admit that I used to listen to that station. But it was a long, long time ago...)
Anyway, in case you're wondering, I'm still the absolute antithesis of productivity. I started watching another one of the movies (A Place In The Sun), but I keep getting distracted. As for my emotional state, well, let's rely on yet another lyrical fragment from those goshdarned weakerthans: I'm unconsoled, I'm lonely, I am so much better than I used to be.
Road trip to Winnipeg, anyone?

Sunday, March 4, 2001 10:57 a.m.
Good morning, troops!
Well, okay, so it's not exactly a "good" morning. More like just a morning. I tried to get up early today, I really did, but I just couldn't. I'm still incredibly sleepy and the only thing keeping me awake is the clickety-clack of my exhausted fingers on the keyboard. I don't know what's wrong with me. Not sleeping well at all.
I'm also pretty damn stressed about my school work, since, well, I haven't been doing it. March is my hell month. This is the time when I have to pull my shit together and just deliver-deliver-deliver. But, as you may have noticed, my two biggest desires lately are sleep and escape, neither of which are particularly helpful.
Runaway train never coming back, wrong way on a one way track... Yes, now I have the Soul Asylum song, Runaway Train, stuck in my head. What is going on here?
Ugh, back to bed or homework? Let's see...

Saturday, March 3, 2001 10:53 p.m.
Blue Mountain, the electronic postcard site, has an ex-love section. That's just fucked.
So I've watched one of the six movies so far. My Man Godfrey. Not bad. My favourite line was: "Oh, money, money, money! The Frankenstein monster that destroys souls!" The rest of my evening was spent talking to a deathly ill Bobman and emailing the lovely and talented Jose. Ahh, you know, some boys are okay. Maybe even more than okay. That's good to know.
I've had two old (well, early nineties) songs stuck in my head all evening: REM's "Strange Currencies" and (get this) the Tragically Hip's "Scared." I don't know what this means. I've also caught the "song" I wrote circulating around in there a few times too. Very strange experience indeed.
Better than Spirit of the West, though. Gosh, I had 3 Spirit of the West songs stuck in my head for an entire month awhile back. November, I believe. I didn't even realize I knew that many SOTW songs before that. (Major brownie points to anyone who can guess which three!)
Oh, and my granny emailed me back today. So sweet.

Saturday, March 3, 2001 03:59 p.m.
Back from the video store with six classic films under my arm:
My Man Godfrey
A Place In The Sun
It Happened One Night
On The Waterfront
Sabrina
You Can't Take It With You
I'm probably not going to watch them all. It was more of a mad frenzy to find anything that might contribute to an essay on the representation of the rich and poor in Production Code Era Hollywood films. Now that I have them safely in my possession, I can do a little planning and research. Or maybe I'll just watch 'em all in one go -- twelve straight hours... that would bring me to about 4 a.m. Hmmm.
I must say, the prospect of watching all these films alone is a little saddening. I'm one of those people who can't go to a theatre alone. I just can't. I know watching them alone in my room isn't nearly as bad, but still... Sigh. Three years of movie companionship out the window. I'll never watch Grosse Pointe Blank or The Graduate again. Nah, that's probably not true.
I'm in quite a crappy mood today. Didn't realize until I tried to interact with my father. For one reason or another, I found it absolutely impossible to modulate my voice to a pleasant tone. Some days I'd rather stay inside my own head.
Outside, the snow is melting. Spring is almost here. I know it won't take long -- nothing does anymore. This thought would cheer me up if the underlying meaning didn't scare me. I keep hearing/voicing this same sentiment: "Even though individual days can feel long, the weeks/months/years are always so short. It didn't used to be this way. A week used to feel like an eternity. Or, at the very least, it felt like a week."
I find that even when I want things to hurry the hell up -- like the school year, for example -- there's a part of me dragging my heels. I'm 21 and finishing my second year of university. When did that happen? Blink and I'll be graduating. Blink again, I'll be 30 and... what? I have no idea. Not even fuzzy images. No specific aspirations.
The urge to flee is strong today. Anyone up for a house guest? (Preferably someone outside of the Greater Toronto Area. I shall not make my great escape to Etobicoke.)
Is there ever a time when weakerthans lyrics are inappropriate?
There's a bus that's leaving half an hour from now. It won't take her where she really wants to go. So she sits there with her luggage at her side. Leaving empty stations, leaving empty lives.
Ah, I'm sorry. This entry is not as charming or upbeat as I would've liked. Don't take it as regression, though. I'm still chugging along nicely. I think writing this weblog has been really beneficial, albeit time-consuming. As you may have noticed, I have a somewhat obsessive personality and find myself updating it far more often than I should. It'll be interesting to see whether or not my daily hits drop, now that I've moved away from the suicidal rantings of early February.
Alas, I'm rambling, as always. Time to do some work. Right after I check my email...

Saturday, March 3, 2001 11:11 a.m.
The warped one-liners that no one hears:
"It's 11:11. Should I be thinking about death or pizza?"
(Clarification for the baffled non-Canadians: 11/11 is Rememberance Day and 967-1111 is Pizza Pizza's phone number. Ahh.)

Saturday, March 3, 2001 10:39 a.m.
I just awoke from a stupid dream. Damn subconscious. What makes it think it has the right to express itself, just because I've collapsed from exhaustion? Jerk. (Yes, I'm calling my subconscious a jerk... Get over it.)
Remember what I said about seeking counselling a few weeks ago? Well, I've changed my mind. I think I'm on top of things. I'm not the crazy one. Of course, that's not to say that you need to be crazy to seek counselling. I don't believe that for a second. And, if I start feeling shitty again, I'll probably go. But for the time being, I think I'm okay, and quite frankly, I'm sick of telling the story.
I really have to start one of my assignments today. Probably the Hollywood and Society essay, since I have just over a week and it's worth 50% of my mark. Yes, you heard right. Half! It's insane. I need to start by picking some old movies to analyze. I guess that means I'll have to leave the house today. That would require changing out of these nice cozy pyjamas. Damn.

Saturday, March 3, 2001 12:24 a.m.
Earlier today, I found a scrap of paper with a passage from a book I read years and years ago. I'm going to share it with you now, in tribute to the big comeback insomnia is making into my life.
Lying in their beds, stripped of the masks they had worn all day, people took stock of themselves. They opened their hearts and examined their innermost secrets, peering into the recesses of their souls. Stricken with remorse and anger, they wept over the waste, the losses, the bitterness of the day gone by. Of course, there were a few pleased individuals among them, but these were already wrapped in satisfied slumber. The rest were disappointed, miserable creatures in unwarm beds, tearfully bemoaning their fate.
Whether in the brightness of day or the darkness of night the world always has these two different aspects for these two different kinds of people.
-Pa Chin, The Family

Friday, March 2, 2001 06:21 p.m.
Riding out a wave of sudden loneliness. Damn. Damn! I had been doing so well. This is why I shouldn't stop moving, even for a second -- things catch up with me. Alternately, this is why you (whoever you may be) should be emailing to distract me. Don't you love me, dagnabbit? Well? Don't you? Sigh.
I went looking for that script and couldn't find it. I did, however, run across a folder of other old ones. The two that amused me most were David Ives' Sure Thing, an awesome one-act play that I did with my friend Lee in highschool, and shockingly, the script from The Graffiti Project, a summer theatre workshop thing I did in '97. Reading over stuff like that is just so crazy, because I realize that all the lines are still in my head somehow. I also realize that I kind of miss acting. Or whatever the hell I was doing up there.
And now a few lines from Sure Thing:
Bill: You weren't waiting for somebody when I came in, were you?
Betty: No, just reading.
Bill: Sort of a sad occupation for a Friday night, isn't it? Reading here all by yourself?
Betty: I guess I was trying to think of it as existentially romantic. You know -- cappuccino, great literature, rainy night...
Bill: That only works in Paris. We could hop the late plane to Paris. Get on a Concorde. Find a café...
Betty: I'm a little short on planefare tonight.
Bill: Darn it, so am I.

Friday, March 2, 2001 01:50 p.m.
I just created a really (really) simple chord progression to go with the words I wrote last night. I'm not sure why. I've never been compelled to do this before. It's not very good, I don't think, but it's mine. Maybe I'll play it for someone someday. Maybe not.
I'm feeling what one might call "zoned out" right now. Not capable of working, which is a damn shame since I have a lot of stuff to do this weekend. Hungry, but too lazy to make anything. Sometime soon, I'm going to stock up on those overpriced vegan zoodle-type things, for days like this.
I just checked for snail mail. Nada. Sigh. Yesterday, I got a birthday card from my granny in Peterborough. Just a little late. It made me really happy, though. I e-mailed her this morning to thank her. It's so nice to be able to do that. Apparently, she's becoming quite the email maven. That may not seem impressive to our "internet generation" (shuddering at the term, for various reasons) but gosh, the world has changed so drastically all around her. She's seen so much. I can't even begin to imagine. I wish I saw her more often. Several members of my father's side of the family live up in that direction, so we go visiting on the holidays -- xmas, easter, thanksgiving. But I feel like such a stranger there. And it's not just being a city mouse in a country atmosphere, although that doesn't help. It always takes me awhile to get settled in, and by then, it's time to leave. Sometimes I wonder what they think of me -- how much they really know.
Not the girl she once was at all.
That phrase is reverberating in my head. I think it's from a book I read earlier this year, although I can't quite place it. I hate when that happens...
Okay, that's it. I'm starving. I'm going to have to seek out some form of nourishment now. (Hmm, that's reminding me of a scene from a play for which the script may be somewhere in this dump. Maybe I'll look for it afterwards so I can share. I'm just so good to you guys.)

Friday, March 2, 2001 11:59 a.m.
The most interesting thing I learned from Media Law this week was a police radio code: a "10-64" = very very violent This amused me so much that I wrote it down and decided to adopt it as melslang. As in, "Dammit, I'm feeling 10-64" or "Don't make me go 10-64 on your ass!" Trust me, it'll sound cool.
Careful observer: Wait a minute, you're telling me you have your own language of slang?
Melinda: Well, okay. So I wouldn't call it an entire language exactly... Just a few select phrases.
C.O.: Such as?
Melinda: Umm... Geez, now that you've drawn so much attention to it, I feel rather silly.
C.O.: Get over it. Take it like a man.
Melinda: You mean I should run off with some two-bit who--
C.O.: --No, Mel. That's not what I meant. Although, if that's what'll cheer you up, I'm free tonight. And I'm (whispers) not wearing underwear...
Melinda: Fuckeroo!
C.O.: (looks around) Is that big green motherfucker here? I hope he brought Marigold.
Melinda: No, not Polkaroo, you twisted, doll-loving freak. Fuckeroo. It's one of the terms.
C.O.: And you actually say that aloud?
Melinda: Hell yeah. What's more, a few other people have picked it up. I'm a real trendsetter in the casual swearing department.
C.O.: Oh really? Let's hear another.
Melinda: Well, then there's... Fuckety Fucksters!
C.O.: Didn't you used to say Floopety Floopsters?
Melinda: Yeah, but that was just silly.
C.O.: I see. Of course. Floopety Floopsters was ridiculous. But Fuckety Fucksters? Now, that's hardcore.
(long pause)
Melinda: You really aren't wearing underwear, are you?
C.O.: Would that please you?
Melinda: No. Quite frankly, it wouldn't. In fact, it might make me 10-64.
C.O.: Good to know. Well, uhh, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and, err, rotate my tires.
Melinda: Sure. Catch ya on the flipside.
C.O.: What does that mean?
Melinda: I have no idea, but it sure sounds neat.
C.O.: Yup.
Melinda: Yup.

Friday, March 2, 2001 01:31 a.m.
I've written something. Lyrics, poetry, junk, rhetoric, something. I don't know what to do with it. Maybe post it. Maybe delete it. Maybe sing it to the walls. Maybe none of the above.
I never cease to be amazed by the power that simple words have over me.
Really simple words.
Like, for example? One.

Thursday, March 1, 2001 10:26 p.m.
Both Pitas and Sympatico are giving me a hard time tonight. Grr! But the archive has indeed been created. (With some irritating quirks, I might add. But I'm trying to work through 'em...) It seems so weird to be on a fresh page, however, it had to be done.
So, I actually made it to my 9 o'clock class today. On time, no less! After that, I watched the original version of Sunset Boulevard with my little Hollywood film viewing group. Neat old movie. It had me feeling all black and white and voice-overed. And for some reason, I actually felt compelled to scribble down quotes from it twice...
"We didn't need dialogue. We had faces."
-Norma Desmond (frightening former silent movie starlet, played by Gloria Swanson)
"Poor devil. Still waving to a parade that had long since passed her by."
-Joe Gillis (struggling scriptwriter, played by William Holden)
Analyze my selections all you like. Or not.

Thursday, March 1, 2001 08:18 p.m.
Okay. All of a sudden it's March. I've been blogging heavily for two months now and this page was just getting out of hand. So all the Jan/Feb entries have been archived. Or, at least, I sure hope they have. Pitas is kinda pissing me off at the moment. Anyway, I'll come back and tell you all about my day once I make sure everything's working. Okie dokie? Good.

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