1.4: There's nothing but a headache

We need some new guitar virtuosos. All the old master guitar players are now small grey-haired who british men who wear glasses. Eric Clapton. Peter Frampton. Mark Knopfler.

I haven't got much to say tonight. I wrote a play on a whim earlier. It's short, and not the greatest thing I've ever written, but I figured it was something at least, and I'd been expecting to do nothing. It'll be on Interneta by the end of the week.

The problem with this reading week is that it's come too late. All my real stress came a few weeks ago and now I'm just bored. And this week off isn't doing me much good. I hope this Canadian Home Workshop thing pans out, but they won't grant me an interview for a few weeks yet. It's annoying and biting at the back of my psyche.

So I've made some escape plans for the end of the week, so that I can come back and say "I did something." Not much, but something. My instinct says to just sit around the house all week, but it's not doing me much good, because I hate being stuck here with my brothers all the time. I tend to spend more time in places where they're not. Nothing against them, but I spend my whole life with them. I'll actually spend good money to not be couped up with them all day.

I hate winter. It's pretty miserable these days, but I guess that after december and january, we had this coming.

Like I said, not much tonight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

1.3: Solving mysteries in a flying van

My internet is being assy today. That's a word I heard on TV today that you may hear me say more and more frequently. Or else it may just be a one-time infatuation.

If it weren't for my policy of always attempting non-sequitor titles, I would have written the title of this entry as "Glen Beck is a gigantic douche!!" I almost did and would have left it at that, but I felt it required elaboration.

A few weeks ago, for whatever reason, Nathan, in his usual curiosity as to what people are plugged into (as in, he frequently asks "Has anyone heard of this... [blank]?") he asks if anyone's heard of "this guy Glen Beck." The majority of the group shook their heads, but I interjected, "Glen Beck is a gigantic douche!" Eric frequently flips to his show, probably for shiggles*, to marvel at his douchiness, but I can't even stand it as a curiosity. As I exclaim this, the one guy who sits in the back of the class simultaneously declares "I love Glen Beck! He's so funny!" I wasn't surprised.

*Portmanteau: "Shits & Giggles." Yeah, you won't hear me use that one too many more times.

He hosts this pundit show on CNN-Jr. or something where he attempts a sardonic, "humourous" look at the world, particularly the "liberal" world, possibly in an attempt to be the conservative's Stephen Colbert... never mind the fact that the Stephen Colbert character is a conservative, or that Colbert is funny. Beck, I don't think, would have the balls to adapt a similar character that embraces all the liberal tenents to adequately spoof lefties... not to mention, that role is already assumed on a semi-regular basis on Colbert's show by David Cross as Russ Lieber. Oh, and you can't really make fun of liberal ideas all that much because poking satire at people whose public perception is that they want to help people doesn't yeild the greatest results. I mean, anyone can be a shitty political leader, and that can be funny, but when the party doesn't have any targets, why lob grenades?

Grenades...? Well of course, if wit were firepower, Beck'd be shooting blanks.

Anyway, I can't help but think as I write this maybe someone from his office might be scouring the net for info, and come across this little rant (people often come to this place after google-searching their own names... I hate that it happens, but that's my price for being forthright. Not like I've gotten in trouble yet.) So maybe Beck hears my tirade against me and decides, in this hypothetical scenario, to bring it up on his Program, and mock either what I believe (which isn't much) or my tendancy to spend all my time writing in this blog about pointless crap (as I do not have my own national television show or radio programme, else I would shine the light on worthwhile issues and attempt to write comedy that people would want to watch.)

I could rant for hours, but either you know the show and you already get it, or you don't and I can't adequately express my feelings on his douchiness in under 1000 words.

Not that this entry had any particular direction. It's getting back to that dangerous point - already, I might add! - where my only motivation to get out of bed is "Okay maybe I'll get some coffee." I'm such a bloody addict! Man, and the only coffee around here is way out in the cold snowy blizzardation. So I go out and get one of the first "Roll up the rim" cups from the Tims Horton at the mall. It was there that I was reminded of a strange quirk in the english/french language barrier.

English is probably the best/most atrocious language for inconsistent spellings and grammatical errors. Eric and I had seen that commercial where the couple discusses exceptions to "I before E except after C." Then later, we saw a version on the French channel (Eric had switched briefly, I think, to check out "Le Big Green,") and mused that the commercial had to be different, somehow, but as neither of us speak French, we don't know how. The matter was dropped. But flash forward to today, when I'm reading my coffee cup to see what I won't be winning, when I realize that the official Tim Hortons style guide indicates the distinct American spelling of "Donut" rather than the proper commonwealth (and altogether more reasonable) "Doughnut." I had no idea! But here's the thing. The french word for doughnut is apparently "beigne." Imagine if they randomly dropped the "ig" outta there! The french would be in an uproar! but we English-types just let it roll of our backs, I guess. the corruption of our language is fine, so long as it's done to make things more convenient.

Such a world, man. Ah well. e thankful that's my biggest issue for tonight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

1.2: Dying to say this to you

So it's the outset of reading week, which means I'm totally unmotivated to do anything. Early last week Haasim asked me what I planned on doing over reading week. I told him "Nothing." Always willing to offer encouragement, he tells me "That's disappointing, Scott, I would expect you do keep busy and do a lot of writing." That's true, but you know, if I say I'm going to do a lot of writing, and then don't, I'll be disappointed in myself. But, if I say I'm not going to do anything, and then end up doing something, I can feel delighted and accomplished.

That said, I'm sure I'll do some eventually, I'm just not counting on it. And hey, isn't this technically writing?

So I'm in a rut anyway. In one sense, the reading week was just what I needed because the newsroom, the classes, the mentoring, the internship search was all getting to be a bit much for me (as evidence by a few more recent posts.) ON the other hand, it underlines some other very key problems I'm having right now, as all my friends who opted to go to real universities are going back to Hamilton/Guelph/Toronto/Waterloo/Kingston/wherever, and I only really saw them briefly over this weekend (partly, one assumes, because I was in class all week.)

So all my friends are going back to their schools and I'm kinda stuck in this town, as usual. And it's not as though I can hang out with my remaining friends who are still in high school, because you know, they've got class too. I'm thinking of being frivolous at some point in the week and going to Toronto for a day, if the weather's inoffensive enough. Like, this basement has gotten a little more oppressive. It's kind of a drag coming down here every morning and seeing Eric sprawled on the couch. His bedframe's been busted for months, so even though it's warmer in his room (and sleeping in a cold room isn't good for the back,) he opts for the couch, if it doesn't harm anyone. But now his neck is getting a crick, so we'll see...

So, hmp, yeah. Bored and unmotivated. Do you know, I've got this screenplay on my computer that I still pull out every now and again, that I started two years ago, not even halfway through? Ecch. I mean, that's because it's the type of thing that I don't expect to ever "need" done, so I do it at my leisure. As much fondness as I have for Ana, and I think she's an incredible director (she was better than could be reasonable back in Grade 12, so I imagine she's even better now,) but I think that she would never want to work with me again after "Drift." That was a debacle that we just didn't see eye to eye on, and maybe she still thinks about it, maybe she doesn't. I wish I had worked better on it for her, taken her suggestions more considerately, but it's over and let's all move on ("let's," meaning me.)

Eric and I had an epiphany a while back. We're going to be those people who do something funny on YouTube and then succeed completely by luck. Okay maybe that's not a sound plan (and maybe we'll never get around to it,) but we're both really keen on the ideas involved (taking his fictional "Future Guy" trailer and making it.)

Anyway, that's tonight. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

1.1: What I want to hear isn't true

What a long-ass fuckin' day.

Not to be confused, mind you, with a long ass-fuckin' day. That'd be a whole new set of problems. But, at least for now, I can rest easy.

It began in class. It was a copy-editing class which is sometimes difficult to deal with. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a copy editor. I can deal with that, and I'm doing my best, because the education is supposed to be regarding more direct journalism anyway. I guess what I'm getting at, and not being awfully subtle about, is that I'm certainly not in the business of blowing my top over every little bump in the road I hit (which sometimes, from reading this blog over, would seem to be the case.) It would, in fact, take a lot more time than I care to invest (or feel is worthwhile) to explain the meaning of that statement, but I think it's a decent credo to live by to begin with. but it comes from an incident anyway.

I won't be writing too much of a post tonight, but when has saying that ever really stopped me from being impossibly verbose?

School seemed to drag, made worse by the fact that Amanda and I had to take care of our whole "E-zine web editing" (aka shit nobody wants to actually do so we get stuck with.) So I was at school way longer than I ought to have been.

From there it was a rush home to chill for like an hour before dad came and we had a quick dinner so I could rush out and see the Sears festival plays with CB. Now certainly there is an absurd aspect to paying $10 to see a play I have already seen (and was free at the time) as well as two other plays I didn't want to see nor did I ultimately enjoy. Yet I did anyway, laughed my ass off at the White Oaks kids' show, and then stuck around.

On the ride over, I'll note, I re-affirmed one of the positive conceptions I have aobut myself, that my taste in music is infallible. See after Chrisbrown's iPod had run its course, I plugged in my own. He got a little "Oh that was a bold move," but as soon as Dire Straits started rolling, he was very much "I love Dire Straits!" Well of course! Everyone should. I had a very similar conversation with Mansoor a few days earlier when I realized the true depths of their mainstream appeal. Not just "Money For Nothing," which was the song in question, but also similar hits like "Sultans of Swing," or lower key tunes like "Brothers in Arms." There's also my recent fascination, "Boom, Like That," the meaning of which I could write an entire post about when I've got the time... but not tonight.

So we watched the plays. Just like last year, they put the hilarious WOSS show on first, and followed it with two decidedly low-key shows of darker material; which I suspect most plays are anyway. The first one, a teen suicide melodrama, wasn't my cup of tea, but had the pleasant side effect of making me reflect and realize that I am in a much better, more stable place than I had realized. All it takes is context and perspective to realize that.

The second was a Thornton Wilder affair, which was about the height of tedium for myself, with all due respect to the performers.

From there, after some confusion, we headed out to Kelsey's, CB, Cary, Emma, her male, Vanessa, Anisah, Becky, Ana, Ryan, and some others. We had a few drinks, I loosened up a bit, it was a good way for me to start my break (and for most others to end theirs, I suppose.) I could elaborate, in truth, but why ruin the memory I had of the night by examining it? We stayed until approximately three and a half seconds before closing time.

I'm gonna go relax and sleep now. I'm not drunk and haven't gone to bed drunk in a long time, but I can relax still. As I said at some point, it was better than last week, mosty for reasons I was either too sober or not sober enough to intelligibly discuss (CB, misunderstanding, pointed out how little I'd had, so I couldn't be drunk; but I didn't use that word.)

So I guess that's in. Time to fade out.

I can believe every word that man said, because it's exactly what I wanted to hear.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

1.0: You oughtta see what's inside my head!

Waging a war between dreams....

So today was a weird day. It probably shouldn't have been, but, you know how these things go.

I ended up delivering papers on my own today, which is the stuff sitcom montages are made of. It would have been very amusing cut together in 3 second bits. But no, that was an hour for me. Actually, it was like two hours, because while the papers were more or less on time, I had to find a place to stash my stuff (Mary Lynn was in a meeting, so I had to wait.) Then I had to wait for the avilability of a car to haul those damn papers around. Then I had to deliver the damn things. Then I had to wash the ink off my hands a whole bunch of times, because damn.

For some reason it's a lot more worthwhile when it's half the work for half the pay.

So anyway, that took a whole lot of time, and there was an extra bundle for some reason, so I had to find some place to stash it. Uh; yeah.

So I was the big "How to dress" guy today, yet strangely I had left my (nice) shoes at home. Also, and we got a kick out of this after last night, my tie. The class itself was comparatively vacant. I guess those people figured, hey, it's a shitty day, it's almost reading week, several of us have our placements (that's not to say everyone who showed up didn't.) and also people are sick, like Amanda (hence the flying solo on the newspaper delivery.)

Sometimes I think my tendancy to do anything to make a few bucks will someday bite me in the ass. But who knows?

I'd give some serious thought to producing porn. I mean, okay, performing in it is obviously out of the question, I get performance anxietry from using a bathroom stall.* And I'm not ballsy enough to direct (and if Half-Past taught me nothing else, that would be a debacle of its own.) But produce? Sure! I mean, if I had a bankroll, I could get the equipment, help write scenarios, cast the girls... spend a lot of time auditioning the girls... basically, focus on making sure I get the right girls. And maybe a guy, I don't know, maybe some people are into that girl-on-guy stuff. Anything's possible. I'm maybe just too unsatisfied with the current state of porno. I could bring the world my stunning new vision of the pornographic experience. I could revolutionize spank films!

*As Guth used to say, "Feeble attempt at humour. Moving on..."

So after chilling out after last night, I'm still on edge, filled with an all-consuming dread as my instructors offer half-hearted encouragement that I'll find my place soon enough. Maybe I should believe in myself more; they have to. The placement class stings more and more each week as more and more hands go up. To say this is something I'm self-conscious about is an understatement. "We're aiming for the last week of February," says Mary Lynn. That means I have to spend my reading week agonizing about this shit.

So to console myself, I took care of a bit of business I'd been putting off. Earlier this year I e-mailed my poetry teacher Catherine Graham to see if she had any advice on getting published. She invited me to visit her website, which is where I found out about The Danforth Review, an e-zine tht showcases short fiction and literary reviews, based out of Toronto (the infrequency of its publication prohibits me from investigating that as a placement, in case you were wondering.) I decided very well immediately I'd send something in, and spent the better part of a month debating what I should send in. I was going to e-mail Catherine for some advice (she asked me to "keep her posted,") but that was one step between me and my objective which probably contributed to me putting it off. In the end, I went with "The Insomniac," because I've gotten a lot of praise on it and it is the one that seems most complete. "Oscar Lloyd" is more of a crowd-pleaser, but isn't very long. Despite the fact that "Insomniac" is supposed to act as an introduction, it seems to stand on its own well. As far as story goes, it's hardly the most complex, but its selling point is the dreamy description I may have created, if the feedback I've gotten from a few sources is correct. They publish four stories every issue, so fingers crossed that I make it. Otherwise, I have to wait until the next submission period, which is May.

I came home, did that, relaxed, waited for Eric to get home from Hamilton and then made supper. Yes, it's a rather fulfilling life I lead. Chicks dig guys who are in a state of arrested development, don't they?

Ah, truth is, I'm doing okay. I've got a bit of Supertramp going on, and I'm going to update the site for the first time in a month. Good times.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.9: The ties that bind

This entry features perhaps my most relevant title in months, if not years.

It's also gone through a number of mutations in my head over the past few days. For God's sake, it's wednesday and my last post was on Sunday. I've had this shit building up inside for days and every night since, I've meant to sit down and go back to the blog, back to the enthusiastic "here's how my day was" of old, because what the hell, it's the 21st and this is only my 9th post of the month. Weak!

And I am not running out of material, that's crazy. What's happened is that my definition of what qualifies as content seems to have changed. I no longer come home every day and pore over every detail of my day. Maybe I'll go back to that, because some of these days have been crazy.

Every story starts at the end. Did you know that? I just made it up but it's true. You can't start writing a story until you know how it ends and start building toward it. Every story starts at the end. This one did. It's already going.

This is going to be a long fucking post.

Every day I stop by Second Cup for a free paper (and, when I deem it necessary, a coffee.) Me being a journalist, you'd think that this is because I want to keep up on current events, but this is only partly true, because I like the crosswords. The problem is, as Grandma Williams taught me, crosswords must always be done in pencil, and I lost mine sometime last week. Jess, what a sweetheart, let me borrow hers a few days until I brought my own. (I praise her for this, because seriously, who carries pencils anymore?)

Grandma Williams was a smart lady, and I miss her. She told me she kept her mind sharp by doing the crosswords and cryptograms (which I think they no longer run in the paper.) Despite my inability to grasp it, Sudoku is of a much lower skill level than cryptogram, I think. People prefer the former, so it runs alongside the crossword in a double-feature of activities, words and numbers. I don't do Sudoku because it always ends both in frustration and mild embarrassment. Grandma died two years ago and we all had to go get formal clothes for her funeral, including ties.

I've had my fair share of mild frustrations over the past few days/weeks. It's stuff that should roll off my back, it's that small, but a funny thing has happened instead... it's all built up to the point of explosion. I can't excuse myself for this, I've behaved quite irrationally lately, but at the same time I am absolutely convinced that it is justifiable. On Monday, I became so frustrated with my computer that I nearly smashed it, and I went on a rant about how even the most simple of matters were now impossibly complicated. The cause of all this was that I had hooked a video camera up to it, but it would not allow me to import the contents of the tape. See, I'd been working on a video story for the e-zine, and if I couldn't get the footage onto my computer, the whole damn process was worthless, including one particularly embarrassing scenario where I came to school on a snow day partially on the off chance that there might be some kind of story meeting for me to get B-roll footage of (obviously, there wasn't, but I moved on.)

I was very upset. Now as you may recall (but probably won't,) when I'm upset I have a tendancy to do a curious thing: get motivated. Sometimes I just get so upset that I take charge of my life for once and do something that I'd been putting off. In this case, it was an e-mail to a woman at a magazine company who had received my resume weeks ago but hadn't gotten back to me. Mansoor, in his infinite positivity, told me there was never any harm in checking in, so finally I got around to it. My trepidation had been that she had sent my resume off to some other editor, whose name and contact info I did not have, thus making her a somewhat awkward third party.

I got a strangely funny bit of news back later that day, when she told me the resume had been received but they were not looking for interns at the moment, but that maybe I could check back to start........ April 2. Now the funny thing about April 2 is that that is when I am supposed to start my internship anyway. So things looked like they were starting to shape up, but you know me, I can't ever really be comfortable or pleased.

Because after all, I haven't really got anything, except for hope, while one by one my friends advance nearer the finish line (note that I got started before most of them, with the notable exception of Mansoor.) So I start getting a little bitter anyway, and that's the kind of thing that just festers in the back of my brain even as I behave normally or even cheerfully once in a while.

Because while all this is going on, I'm still quite unsatisfied with my home life. I can't put my finger on it, but when I get up in the morning to see my brother passed out on the couch (because he can never seem to get comfortable in his own room,) surrounded by debris of a makeshift bedcouch, clothes, dirty dishes, leftover packaging from meals, and whatever other chaos happens to be around, something tweaks me ever so slightly. I'm a fairly busy guy, let's not kid around, so I don't relish the fact that neither of the other guys seems to like the idea of loading the dishwasher and clearing counter space.

So there you have some severe dissatisfaction in my personal and professional lives, at least I can rest my head every night and get some sleep. Well a few nights ago I was awakened by my own dream at 4 AM and could not settle my hyperactive little psyche until around 6 when I finally got a good hour or hour and a half of sleep. It's not the lack of sleep that bothers me so much as the dreams. I've had some vivid dreams and I've had some weird dreams, but these ones are starting to make precedent in the analogues of dreamdom. Real to the touch, and not all that pleasant. Maybe you could call them sex nightmares, because they certainly aren't fantasies. It's really the residual buildup behind two and a half years of loneliness and inability to get close to a human female. The dreams, along with other elements, contribute to my being generally high strung lately, which is exacerbated by my fear that I'm far too high strung for anyone to want, the cycle deepens. you see, this is the thought process that creates and exaggerates many of my problems, not just this one: thinking about the problem. I haven't gotten an internship, so I get bitter and despondent over it, and then I don't try. Shades of the same colour. Know what I mean?

So I'm walking around with this alarm going off in the back of my head virtually all the time, but I'm trying to jsut live my life. I had agreed to do this "what to wear/what not to wear" pageant for the placement class tomorrow. Never mind the fact that many of my peers have already got internships, and that in several cases they didn't even have to interview for them. We're doing it anyway, and damnit, I'm going to look great. Or at least presentable.

So I got home today and hear the good news that my brother got an interview at this place, Vector Marketing, which I'm told sells knives. So he's gotta borrow a tie from our dad, because he doesn't like his funeral tie for an interview. That's interesting, congratulations, I tell him, and think, maybe I should get my tie and get dad to tie it, because I want to look good and facing facts, I suck ass at tying ties.

So we go, we have a good dinner and while Eric is picking between some ties, dad ties mine very nicely, and we have an altogether pleasant night. Dad tells me he wants me to do a bowl off tonight because he's got business to attend to on saturday morning. I had absolutely no problem with this, and in fact did much better than I would ever expect to at a bowl off, ultimately hitting 195 in my final game (first was 168, well above average, and second ws 134, almost as well below.) So we come home, I'm in a good mood but still a little high strung. First thing I hear is Eric, "Don't get mad... but I was playing around with your tie and it came undone. I'm sorry."

You're... kidding me?

Nope, there it was, a strip of fabric slung over my chair, completely undone.

There were a lot of little explosions going on in the back of my head at this point. They hadn't quite made it to the surface yet, but they were happening. I asked him, "What?" expecting some better explanation, but there wasn't going to be one. He fiddled around with my tie, and ruined it. I don't know what I expected. There was probably nothing he could say that would have made me un-pissed off at that point, but I was still within the realm of rationality. I grabbed the tie and stormed off the to washroom to furiously try to re-tie it. No avail. Frustrated, I storm back out for no good reason except to ahve more words with him, which was probably not the right idea. I think I must've called him an idiot or something and expressed how superhumanly annoyed I was at him, and he got mad at me for being mad. In his defence, it was indeed quite a bit melodramatic of me, but that isn't the right response when you have offended somebody. I know life would be a lot better if someone like me in that situation could just accept the apology and get on with things, but "Sorry" doesn't re-tie a damn tie, and after all, in one of those classic* moments, I had just stepped out of the car with dad, and he was very nearly at home by now; it was 10:30 and what sense would there have been in calling him back just to hold my hand as I attempted to navigate the Windsor knot?

*Classic moment, as in, "Of course *______*! Not having *______* would have been too convenient!" I get them a lot.

So I'm storming around in a huff, bemoaning my impotence at tying a simple tie, Eric and I had blown up by this point and I had to get away. For the second time in as many weeks I shut myself in my room like a preteen and had to go over every little fault I could find with life.

Because damnit, when things go wrong, it alway seems to get worse than it had to, and suddenly everything you hat about your life becomes interconnected.

There are starving people litting every continent, people with ratty, fingerless gloves and paper-thin dwellings that invite disease. There is corruption and hatred and bigotry and greed, while poverty ravages billions. There are vices that destroy families like drinking and gambling. There are STD's and cancer and giant squids attacking submarines. If my biggest problems are neckwear and loneliness, maybe life isn't really that bad. But I'd be lying if I said the notion of hanging myself with that damn tie didn't cross my mind. At least then it would have been tied.

But it's really all about context. We have a bedrock of how bad things can be. I'm not in danger of losing my home or running out of food. It's that old Maslow thing. My lower needs are fulfilled so I have to worry aobut wasting time on neckties and my lack of ability to set the internship world on fire.

It's pressure, and when it gets down to it, pressure isn't my ideal environment. Making matters worse, I've kept away from the blog and kept it bottled up, so that even after a mere 3 days I can explode and wonder what the hell it is I am doing.

In the end, after my explosion, I actually called my dad and had him walk me through it, because I was getting nowhere on my own, and was in no way interested in checking a How-To website (I've used them before and find them unpleasant.)

All stories begin at the end.

Given that my behavior today wasn't quite an isolated incident, I'd say that I'm far from the road to recovery, but anything's possible. After all I've got things in the works anyway, so we just have to keep at it and see what happens.

Before I got hung up on neckties, I was actually planning a brief rant on how ridiculous some of the rants I lay upon my readers seem. The truth is that I'm a fairly ridiculous person. I can't justify my rants, but the onus isn't on my for bitching but for the readers; anytime I get self-conscious, I just remember to myself that I have no obligation to enlighten or really to entertain, because all people need to do when they don't like my words is hit "back." That gives me a free pass to bitch to my heart's content about ties and Sudoku, which I mustn't abuse, but hey, this is only #9 this month.

I'm not going to end this post by saying "I think I'm getting better," because all things being equal, don't I do that, like, every three weeks? I'm obviously not! But if you all can live with this guy, then I see no reason I can't go on being him and try to change what I can while I have the opportunity, behave myself, and not harm anybody.

And then, when all my absurd little outbursts have passed, I sit back, relax, and have a laugh about all the absurdity I inflict upon myself and the world... because god forbid I should ever lose my sense of humour. That'd be the end, man, a cue to call it quits.

Two nuns were bicycling down a newly-cobbled road.
Says one to the other, "I've never come this way before."
The second replied, "It's the cobblestones, dear."

Ba-da-bum, ching.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.8: Stick a cork in it

But anyway.

Long ago, over hot beverages, Alyssa once told me she was planning on cutting her hair as a way of ushering in a new phase of her life. (The haircut she later debuted was declared by Ms. A herself to be "dykishly short.") I theorized that maybe peoples problems, their frustrations, their hang-ups, their self-consciousness and anxieties all get tangled up in their hair, and sometimes the only way to get rid of it is to cut it off. Of course that's nonsense.

In any case, I got a haircut today and I feel triffic. It was therapeutic for me not because my fears and anxieties were tangled in my hair, but because I got my favourite barber, Andrea. She's not my favourite because I particularly like the job she does on my hair - although I do - but more because she makes the haircutting experience much more pleasant for me than any other barber. After all, barbers have the task of minimizing the awkwardness of the haircutting experience, and I'm, as we all know, a fairly awkward guy. But she's young and charismatic and pleasant to talk to. She always remembers me, even though I usually go 3-4 months between visits. We get on well. It was something I needed, a nice conversation and a good haircut. She probably deserved more than I tipped her, but that was the change I had (and it's not like I'm cheap, it was the usual barber tip.)

The only thing now is, my hair is short and it's february. Brrr, man.

So I'm feeling good today, even though I've been having technical difficulties all day. I brought the laptop to the mall, because sometimes I like to get out of the house and be a geek in public. It was because I had envisioned a very particular morning for myself: get up at 11:30, shower, quick breakfast, rush out of the house, grab a Coke at the mall, chill out and check the e-mail and whatever else, get the haircut, come home. The mall was having issues with its wireless. Eric speculates that they're just shutting it down because it doesn't get used, but that excuse doesn't quite ring true because hey, it's still up (the error message was "try again later") and I think WiFi is something you just commit to; if nobody uses it, you still have no reason to take it away, since it doesn't equal profit anyway (just hypothetical increased business.)

Then I came home and the net was pretty stop-and-start, which is irritating as hell. People wonder why I hate technology. Or maybe they don't.

Today was my grandma's birthday, except everyone in the extended family got sick, so it was a smaller affair.

Not a long entry today. Another pleasant valley sunday, as the Monkees once sang.

Keep on rockin'
--Scotts--

0.7: One can't escape memory

Last night was... well, hardly legendary.

It was a long Friday, it seemed to drag on interminably, but at the very least I got my summative in Jodie's class ironed out. Secretly, however, I'll mostly just be reformatting my Writer's Craft summative, minus Alyssa (so it'll therefore be a pale imitation.) It's not my first choice, but it's my most interesting one. When in doubt, you know, go back to the well.

It was Friday night, however, that was particularly unglamorous. It began by treading through the knee-deep snow to get to White Oaks to see the show. It was really funny; maybe not as funny as last year's Sears, but I really did wear my throat out laughing. The script could've been a bit tighter, but it was quite funny regardless.

After that, meeting with people, some hello-goodbyes, and a dance-off, Chrisbrown and I hit the road. First stop was Shopper's Drug Mart. As I may have mentioned earlier, I made it my New Year's Resolution to reduce my vomitting, as it was getting to be an embarrassing habit. So after acquiring some medicine for that, we went and picked up Doug for the night's ultimate destination, Scott C's birthday. It was at a bar named after a famous James Joyce novel. Among the first people I see after getting in (after the birthday guy himself,) is a fine young lady by the name of Gabrielle. I mention her every now and again when I randomly run into her someplace. It's been a year and a half almost since the last time I saw her, toward the beginning of the last school year. We caught up a bit, she introduced me to her boyfriend, who then soundly kicked my ass in a game of pool. I just wanted a chance to play, and it really wasn't that bad of a beating, so I was okay with it.

A few more familiar faces trickled in, some I'd never expected to see again. Nolan, for instance, was a bartender there, but there were also people there solely for the festivities. Earlier in the night, CB and I had had a conversation about people he'd had problems with in high school, and surely enough they pretty much all made cameos. Josh was there, too, and we got on like old times.

So the night goes on, people start trickling onto the dance floor, so I figure "oh what the hell." I suppose I wasn't technically drunk, but this isn't a decision that gets made by sober Mr. Williams. Basically though, it's your usual drunken mingling. Except for me, it's a bit more awkward, because everything has to be more awkward for me, for whatever reason.

After I had already failed to properly interact with partgoers, I had the encounter that has stuck worse in my mind than any other part of the night, worse than the bitter Gin & Tonics I imbibed just to try to get drunker in a hurry and for cheaper, and worse than the negative hand-signals I had to receive time and again. The boyfriend shows up and escorts me nearer the bar away from loud music.

Says he, "You've got a thing for my girlfriend."

Guh... huh?

Yeah, he insists. Apparently, he'd been keeping an eye on me, observing how I behaved around Gabby, and drew the conclusion that I was into her. This took me by surprise since, apart from the usual "So how are things?" conversations, the only other interaction we'd had that night was a brief dance that caused her to ask if I'd ever actually danced before. I think. It was loud, and I was drunk, so she may have said something entirely different. But the boyfriend was pretty sure I had it for his gal.

I tried to defend myself, but was not at my most convincing. "Ah, no, it's not like that, man," I say. "She's great, she's a pretty girl, but it's not, I don't... uh..." how do you do that? How do you say, "No, this great, gorgeous gal is not my type, you keep her?" I don't know, and nobody was going to buy it. But it's the truth.

Note at this point that the guy had about a half a foot, probably a few dozen lbs, and a few years on me, so a fight was out of the question.

But he wasn't mad. This is what stuck out in my mind, and I applaud him for it, because he is very secure with his relationship with Gabby that there's nothing to worry about (and there isn't, especially not where I'm concerned.) But in any case he insisted on investigating what I thought of her. My answer may have been incriminating, and if it comes up the next time I see her, it'll surely be an awkward conversation. But we agreed that she was, in his words, "More than some random bar chick, she has a brain." Well put.

He left me with one final thought. He wasn't mad, and he wasn't going to do anything, but he "Believes in karma." Now, I'm the last person you need to lecture on karma, and I'm even less likely to take karma as a threat. Not to get cocky, but I'm thinking at this point, karma owes me something, and I'm certainly not about to screw that up by going after some other guy's girlfriend........ again. After all, he was a good dude, he'll treat her right anyway.

The most delicious irony of the whole matter is that I'm in the middle of writing this story, I shit you not. This always seems to happen, which probably makes me either a really good writer or a really bad one, where something I am writing/have written happens to occur for real. The latest installment of Collection of Curiosities details a young man who goes to a party to find his ex-girlfriend, only to get beaten up by the current boyfriend for making an advance. Thank God it didn't play out like that (since Gabby is only a passing acquaintance, but you surely see the parallels.)

The night washed away in a sea of gin, I needed to get rejected a few more times by a few more random bar chicks before it was time to go. I can't remember what I was doing, but it can't have been all that appealing. It's one of those cases where you can have an out-of-body experience, and be mortified, yet do absolutely nothing to stop yourself.

Which drew me to this inexorable conclusion, which was agreed upon by Mr. Brown and Mr. Doug on the ride home: the bar scene is lame. I don't mind hanging out with a few friends in a nice pub setting, but there was barely anyone there for me to hang out with, which is what led to the disastrous mingling experience. Like I said, I'm a fairly awkward person to begin with, and it doesn't get better with the addition of loud music, low lights, and expensive booze.

So yeah, I had a bit of fun, but it was a perfect "What's wrong with this picture?" with me standing there trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do.

So that's what's been on my mind all day. I don't know. It bothers me when I'm confronted with all the shit in my head.

What a downer, right?

Looks like this is as good as it gets, man, because the future ain't lookin' so great either.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.6: A more exciting pair of pants

Do you think there's ever a point where old people roll over in bed, take a deep breath, sigh, maybe light up a cigarette, and think "That was probably the last time I'll ever have sex."

In all seriousness, it's Valentine's Day, but all anyone really wants to think about (I know that's my case,) is the snow. As expected, it was a snow day. As expected, I'm insane, so I trudged out anyway. It's difficult to explain the thought process leading up to that, but I will anyway.

I had to get my magazine article done. Never mind that I haven't technically handed it in yet -- Douglas said he didn't like accepting things through e-mail so that killed my motivation and thus I neglected to send it. I hadn't done it leading up to this morning, which is bad. I haven't been able to really buckle down and get work done at home lately, which may (or may not) explain my lack of blogwise activity lately. Basically what happens is I get home and just conk out on the couch after dinner each night. I can only seem to take care of homework in the newsroom. So I decided I had to get to the newsroom.

Besides that, the plan had been to continue working on my video story for the zine, by getting b-roll footage of the story meeting. Never mind the fact that because the school was closed for the snow day, so there wasn't going to be one. I had to try.

So I set out. Not on my usual shortcut, mind, because that had obviously been snowed in. I had to go all the damn way down Sewell to Trafalgar. The sidewalks weren't even close to resembling being cleared, so I walked on the side of the road. I couldn't push the button for the crosswalk at Trafalgar/McCraney, so I nearly killed myself. One false move and it's lights out, know what I'm saying? I trudged up to the Trafalgar pharmacy to regroup.

As with many of my insane schemes, I hadn't committed the proper amount of thought required to realize how stupid it truly was. I was roughly halfway there and facing 5, 10, 15 minutes of walking along Trafalgar in the windy snow. Contemplate that fate a moment. I sat in the lobby, dejected, wondering if I should turn back. By this point that would be equally dumb, so why not press on?

I bought a coffee to contemplate my fate and to get change. Crafty sumbitch I am, I connect the dots between the Trafalgar medical center and a stop just outside across the road on the 24 bus route. Luck was smiling upon me as the bus was very nearly in sight by the time I actually got there.

So I get to school. It is fucking deserted, which was fun. The ceiling outside the newsroom was leaking from the snow that had fallen on the glass... yes, a literal glass ceiling, har har. I set to work. Douglas had had us write out a lead before we left last week, and I had, but not really done anything since. But this was one of those cases, which comes along every now and again, where I can boast about how I already have the entire article in my head. That was pretty much the case. The article I had pitched -- and, I might add, he seemed to love -- was one I had long been considering for a Rant on Interneta. It's a good thing that never materialized, because it's better to come up with an idea you've not already done.

Eventually Nathan came by, which was both surprising and not -- the former because nobody was expected, or supposed, to show up; the latter because he's only allowed/available to show up a few days a week anyway.

So I write my article, he has me take a few pictures of people walking to and from the school, and I take advantage of the camera I brought along to get footage of the vacant school, in the event I may want to turn it into a story of some kind. I dunno, I guess it depends on if I feel too burdened.

That all done with, Nathan was kind enough to give me a lift home, and I spent the rest of the day lounging around, until dinner, and I went bowling. It was an average effort, and I made a really lame joke toward this guy I knew who was bowling with his mom.

all in all, a mildly interesting day that might get blown out of proportion in retrospect from the effort it took to get to school and the sheer pointlessness of that activity.

Good day, though. Wonder what tomorrow will bring...

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.5: We're not here for a while yet

If I ever have to shovel snow, I'm relieve it's today. Okay, so it's snowing like a motherfucker out. Like, apocalyptically snowy. But it's so light and fluffy it was moved with great ease. So that's the best money I ever made for a household chore.

People who own race horses have to be careful to feed them frequently. Otherwise, they might get so hungry, they could eat each other.

So I've been spending the last few days trying to, you know, center myself. Like, I had a bit of a freak out yesterday. In retrospect it sounds stupid, and I behaved quite pettily to a good friend. The good thing is that I managed to let out a whole bunch of shit that had been festering deep in my psyche for a while. Not just in text on a screen like here, but out loud where I could get a much more tangible handle on the roots of my problem. Who needs therapy?

So yeah, it's snowy out. In fact, the school was shut down this afternoon, at 4:30 (after many people would already have left, though by no means everyone,) for a snow day. I had left class to grab a drink, and on my way back a redheaded girl in bare feet met me on the stairs to say "school's closed!" Weird, I thought, but all was explained, as the snow slowly envelops our physical and psychological realms, it was important to get outta that building whilst the gettin' was good.

Of course this kiboshed a plan of mine to work heavily on my magazine article, due tomorrow, since I've been unable to buckle down and work here at home. I usually just end up on facebook or here on the blog, or most devastatingly, in front of the TV for 6 hours straight.

I was planning on writing it then. But the announcement came down that the snow was reaching dangerous levels (I'd only the day or two before seen a news report about the 9 ft of snow burying the unfortunate people of upstate New York,) and Mansoor was getting the hell outta dodge. Mansoor, a friend of mine, has given me rides home more often than not this semester, because it's cold out, and he's a nice guy. I don't even usually ask or quite frankly count on it, it just usually ends up that way. So he says "Scott, you coming?" and I vascillate, saying "I don't know, I was planning on doing work here." Pathologically nice, he insists. Being the suggstible type, I can't resist when something is being insisted upon me, (I'm weak,) especially if that thing is a detriment to me in no way conceivable. So I go along and have spent the last 7 hours bummin' around the house.

So I'm attempting to take care of that, and get on with my life. It's a matter, I suppose, of keeping perspective and taking shit one day at a time. Too often do I miss a beat and forget that things aren't often unravelling like I think they may be.

A lot of people are upset with their lives or afraid for their future. And a lot of people happen to be alone during this holiday. One thing hasn't got anything to do with the other, but I figured I might as well attempt to console myself and maybe anyone else out there who's looking wistfully at that calendar. I know, it means nothing, and most attached people I know tend to downplay it "Oh we don't go out or anything," that sort of thing, but you know what? February 14th is a time when people just become more aware of their status, whatever it is. Regardless of the fact that it's a meaningless calendar day with a once-minor tradition now exploited by Hallmark and other card companies, if you're with someone, you feel it more, if you're single, you feel it more. Okay, some people are immune. Granted. Sap that I am, I'm really not. Tie that in to the fact that I already hate February for mostly-unrelated reasons, and man, you've got a mess.

But hey, I can't think of anything more romantic for Valentine's day than for someone to be snowed in with the one they love. So stay warm, you kids out there, and be safe.

I'll just try to keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.4: Wishing it didn't start this way

Holy hell, man, it's the 11th and I've only done 4 entries? That's awful. Time was I'd come home every night and obsessively catalogue my every move for future deconstruction. Something's changed, and I can tell what.

These are desperate times, in that I'm in a kind of despair. I know, I have this same crisis every few weeks, or months, or maybe I've just been having it constantly over the years and I only intermittently thing things are going okay, but lately I'm feeling the crunch worse and worse.

I cannot dismiss it. It's that same old hopeless, futureless, useless, lonely, desperate, unmotivated, self-loathing, overburdened, maybe underappreciated kind of blues I've carried across my shoulders for years. But every time it's at least a little different, depending on the flavour of my life at the time. And it always sucks, stuck inside my head, unable to do my homework. Why does it have to be this way? Why do I feel like they all expect something unreasonable? And why should I think it's so unreasonable for them to give out an assignment and expect I should do it?

Why doesn't it feel like there's any direction to my life anymore?

Help?

The only comfort I'm getting is from Dire Straits.

What a night for an identity crisis.

I had had such a good weekend, too. I went out last night to Hamilton with some friends, to see Cary in a play. I've told people different things about what I thought of the play. I think I hate university theatre. Pat put it so well when he said it was too much about "Look how smart we are" rather than trying to entertain. Or maybe someone else said that, or I combined quotes from two or more people. I'm losing my fucking marbles, you see. But at least there were several really good performances and other neat stuff.

Afterward, we all hung out and played Wii. It's addictive, but frustrating as hell when your excessive caffeine consumption leaves you with a less-than-steady hand for certain games. I'm good at boxing, though.

I went home and attempted to write, but I was sidetracked when a pathetic friend of mine wnated to play a game. I call him pathetic, because he guilts my brother and me into playing games with him by saying how we used to do that all the time and never do. That's pathos. Hence, pathetic. Etymology, baby. Anyway, surely you know the type; he loves to play games, but mostly games he's much better than you at. I fucking hate that. It's like when my friend Drew used to challenge me at swimming. The dude had a pool, and if you've ever seen me, you know I'm not built for speed (or endurance, or athleticism in general.) So asshole has me and my brother in this game, which he kicks our asses at quite decidedly, when my computer freezes unexpected as usual. Quel dommage* (*said with absolute dripping sarcasm.) So finally with that out of the way, I decide to start the typing I had meant when I got in at just past 1, except it's well after 2 by now, I'm tired and moody, and it all comes out fairly shitty. But that's the nature of it.

I didn't want to write this, but I knew I had to. I had to get it out there before I could move on. I'm not cured. By God if this blog teaches me anything, I know that much. But maybe I'll be able to go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow looking at it differently. As it stands, I'm going to try to revise what I did last night, have a drink, and get some goddamn rest. Maybe I can sort my thousands of projects out tomorrow.

I had ambitions once. Goddamnitall. I can't complain to my classmates, I'll get no sympathy there. I don't want it, either, though (even though I do, I deeply don't,) because I don't want to be challenging people to a game I intend to slant toward myself. Who cares, man? There's a world going around, who can keep track of every stressful little thing out there. There are lives that need to be gotten on with. It's all we can do to help ourselves.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

0.3: About places safe and warm

So seemingly my remark about body-betrayal was on the money. Despite a speedy recovery from my death-cold (courtesy of 12 hours of sleep,) some weird new developments have occurred, mainly in the form of a weird bruise/bump on my spine. When describing health ailment, "weird" is not a term one would ideally use. But that's all I've got... sore and weird. Just when I think I've got a handle on things, my back has a weird soreness.

I had so many ideas about something I wanted to write -- it's something I am writing, and feel am making particularly good -- but I'm neve4 near my computer when I get ideas. So they've flamed out by the time I have the wherewithal to actually write them down. Guhh, damned fickle inspiration. I should be doing taht instead of this. But alas, the blog is all anyone reads, and not even by much...

I was put in the unenviable position of potentially having to inform a friend that out friends hate him. He already thinks it's true, and I don't believe it. I've seen no proof and don't want to believe it even if I get any sort of indication that his feeling is true. This is just because I would like to believe the world is a good place and that by this point we're past stupid scandalous teenage drama. That's right -- some semblance of optimism and maturity from Scott himself. Weird, huh?

I had to prepare my portfolio today. It's a bit of a mess, each page with a jagged edge where I attempted to cut it cleanly from the newspaper, arranged in order of............ when I chose put it in the portfolio. A healthy combination of actual writing and mere page layout (plus a cameo of photography and a brief stint of editorial cartooning.)

Elsewhere on the educational/occupational front, I'm waiting on a response from the place to which I sent my resumé last week. I know I ought to be patient, but I haven't exactly applied anywhere else (due to laziness, bad Scott...) and I'm getting anxious. Eric doesn't believe "anxious" is different from "eager" but he never read "The Lively Art of Writing" and even if he had, he wouldn't trust it.

Speaking of Writer's Craft, whilst sick and semi-awarely searching my house, I found my old journal. It was always a little difficult to do right by, because I was juggling that and this, which had essentially the same function, and that was so much ore ridigly formatted that it was just easier to use my quality stuff up here and let everything in there just read perfunctorily. Not to mention in awkwardly-worded, badly-constructed sentences. Of particular note were the entries I was most curious to read about, written in the delirious insomnia of the trip home from New York. I was supposed to write them while in the city, but was so exhausted at the end of each day that I put them off to a five-hour stretch on the ride home when I refused to sleep sitting up. The nervous adrenaline made my handwriting extra-illegible (which, if you've ever seen my handwriting to begin with, is quite a feat.)

I'm attempting to negotiate writing this while in class, waiting for my portfolio appraisal. It's a bit of a chore, there's plenty of background noise and my own conversations going on. Add this to my own lack of any true material, and you've got the last paragraph in this entry.

Only thing left is to keep on rockin'
-Scotto

0.2: Don't hurt yourself punchin' 'im

My god this post has been a long time in the making. I really hate that I've put it off, but general laziness and a kind of low, humming stress will do that.

This is post #700 which is an atrocious milestone. How can I have seriously taken the time to write 700 lengthy bitch-sessions about my life, which for the most part go unread by the masses and unacknowledged by me? Then I think, well, it's been over two and a half years, and 700 isn't even one a day for two years, so, you know, the match checks out. Posts have become less frequent these days, though, and maybe I'm just feeling so run down lately that something had to give.

Like, a ton of stuff has happened that I might have blogged about while it was going on, but when you get far enough away they seem so flavourless. On saturday I had dinner with dad, and we had a bit of an awkward conversation with dad about what I might do next year, living-wise. He kind of took the opposite stance as I may have expected. I don't really have an feeling on it yet, but I mentioned I was leaning toward moving out, and he seemed really down on the idea, like, "How are you supposed to pay for that?" I don't know, but plenty of people seem to manage. I don't know, and is that a crime? I'm seriously trying to just take one thing at a time and not get far ahead of myself, and that's a step in the wrong direction.

Eric drank himself sick again this weekend. Like, I don't know what he's doing with himself. It kind of throws us all out of whack when he comes home and crashes on the couch for 18 hours, and he himself pledges "Man I'm not gonna do that again for a while..." and it's just like, well, wait for next week. Then we'll see. I mean, I've gotten plenty drunk then come home and woken up the next morning before Eric was up without him even drinking. Dude's gotta get a grip on himself, but let's move on...

I'm fearing betrayal. By my friends, by my dog, by my own body. Let's start with the first one. I'm not seriously afraid of this, but being the socially awkward type I often am forced to examine how tenuous my friendships may or may not be, and what I may have or may end up doing to offend them. The dissolution of a friendship is not a pleasant process, especially when it comes in one big confrontation. I've been there, man, it's not cool. It's not that I think this is happening, it's just that every so often I wonder if it could happen again very suddenly.

My dog's been a pissy little jerk lately. After we walk him, traditionally we give him a treat. In exchange, he usually lifts a paw for the old "shake a paw" trick. Inexplicably lately this has been accompanied by a snarl indicating hostility. Maybe he feels threatened? Maybe he's sick of doing the same old tricks. Who knows what's going on inside that little canine brain of his? I know I don't, but that doesn't mean he has to be an asshole. And then, after he snaps at me, he just goes about his business like nothing's wrong.

As for my body, well, it was a nice three weeks but I'm fuckin' sick again. I was sniffling a bit when I went to bed last night, and by 4 I had to get up, take some pills, and try to get back to sleep with my mouth open because my nose was too stuffed up. Ecch. I can sometimes place the source of illnesses, but this one just kinda snuck up on me, maybe because of how cold it gets in the basement sometimes. Maybe from inhaling the mess Eric left but mostly cleaned up late Saturday night. Maybe just from going about my business. Who knows? The body can, and will from time to time, betray. It gets sick, it conks out on you, you can never be sure, because health is a tricky fuckin' concept. I don't know what else could go wrong. I read not long ago about a whole Minnesota Varsity Wrestling league - the whole damn league! - tha thad to be shut down because of an outbreak of herpes gladiatorum (Not the genital kind, but with that name, you'd think it might be even worse.) I've often said that herpes is a funny disease for two reasons: because you have it for life, and you did something private to do it (but it's not life-threatening, so it's funny, unlike say, AIDS.) But the worst part of that story is that those poor kids didn't even get to have sex to get it, they got it from wrestling. That's terrible. They missed out on the best part of herpes. (What a terrible thing to say on my part, I'll admit.)

We're in the midst of a cold snap - as in, "Oh, snap, it is so fucking cold!" Restricted outdoor activity, mobility, winter chores, etc... oh February. So predictable. The winter blahs set in...

People sometimes wonder why I so drastically prefer summer to winter. As hot as summer gets, you are rarely kept inside from the heat. Sure, A/C is preferable, but there are plenty of ways to beat the heat and remain active (after all, who doesn't love a cold beverage?) whereas winter breeds claustrophobia. I'm highly succeptible to psychological conditions, or so I fear (but that may just be paranoia.)

This is terrible... I forgot to buy more buns at grocery shopping, so I've got this lunch meat at home and nothing to eat it on. So I'm at school, I'm sick, and what am I craving? Cheese, man. Shit, you can't have cheese when you're sick. But I really want it. My problem is that, when sick, I tend to go about my business as though I'm not. I shouldn't even have come to school, but it was the beginning of a rotation on this new e-zine, so it was kinda necessary... erg. Cheese.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

0.1: A brilliant crash scene

I never see the silent curve til it's way too late.

So I took a few days between posts. I think that's my perogative, but it's still not always the best way to do business, since what am I if not indebted to you, my faithful readers? Uh, yeah.

I could say it's been a budy week, but that'd be exaggerating. I could play it down and say it's been dead but that'd be far too modest. So I'm at a loss. Because I'm feeling an extreme and a moderate statement just isn't gonna cut it. "A bit of stuff has happened I guess," just doesn't seem to cut it.

So I sent in my first ever resume/application/please-hire-me for an internship at a magazine. That theoretically puts me a few steps ahead of some of my cohorts, yet a mile and a half behind others, like Mansoor, who had his place at the Mississauga News months ago. The magazine is Canadian Home Workshop. Now, I know nothing about carpentry or home improvement (except grunting, Al Borland and Wilson, har har dee har,) but the ad stated that while knowledge was a plus, it was not necessary. The ad itself was put to our attention by Mary Lynn, who said they were extending their deadline until the end of January because nobody had applied. My ears perked up. If nobody had applied, that meant the competition was low, which means they might be desperate. Now, is it a great career move to go for the most hard-up-for-interns publication on the block? Certainly not. But that seems to be the unofficial dating tactic around this place, so why not use it for careers?

So I dragged my feet on it over the weekend, considered it at length on monday, and by the evening of the 30th, began to really fret because I had no clue what to include for a resume or a cover letter. With a little help from my friends (as in, "I get by with...") I managed to complete both and send them in. Except the attachment feature on the Sheridan WebMail client is a bitch so I had to re-send it (a few times, actually, to my embarrassment,) but I was assured in placement class on Thursday that this was not a job-killer. After all, they're desperate.

So I've made my first steps into a larger world. Eric, meanwhile, is making his. He's out tonight, continuing to be social. Meanwhile, his phone is over here, ringing off the hook, because the girl he's not with seems incredibly desperate to spend the evening with him, despite his being incommunicado. Eric has left his phone behind, because last week, in anticipation of spending the evening with his young lady friend, he dropped it, and some wiring got jostled around so there's this light that won't turn off, so he can't take it out since it would be a constantly-draining battery, so it's essentially worthless as a cell phone anymore. This all means, like I said, he goes out, leaves it here, and it rings off the hook. And I'm not answering it.

But alas, my biggest thrill these days seems to be in reporting others' (non-)romantic endeavours as I have none of my own. No conquests, no lusts, no great interest in any particular female. I lament this, because being hung up on some chick is actually really good for creativity. But I'm just a lonely guy. And it's in times when I'm lonely that I start to resent all my female friends just a little bit. It's quite terrible, because this is the bulk of my friendships we're talking about here, and some really nice girls. Rest assured, I only resent my coupled-up male friends slightly less.

Haha, damn I'm such a miser. But I laugha at it -- the text doesn't convey that so well so I might as well not go further, and instead type this paragraph attempting to account for myself. Just because I am bitching about my personal problems does not mean I have succumbed to them. I still have my perspective and my humour. I'm not a troubled individual. You should know that about me right now, even if it doesn't always come through. Sigh... the convolution of text-based reticence.

Where was I? Oh yeah, at home on a friday night, hitting the bottle.

Now, now, it's not that. I wasn't driven to drink because of my lack of a social situation. This was a special occasion in that I actually felt like coming home and having a beer. It's unusual, but this week I needed it. I don't know. School is starting to get to me, I suppose. The pace has grown too frenetic, and while I can keep up academically, mentally and spiritually it's got me down (makes me wonder if University will even be a good idea? Hm...) so at the end of the day I actually thought to myself, "I could use a drink." I think this is how alcoholic spouse-abusers are born. But that'd be tricky to manage, given that I haven't got a spouse. And so my pledge must be that when I acquire this, the drinking will not increase.

The universe is a hostile place for me right now is all. It ain't easy. Christ, you know it ain't easy. The way things are goin'...

Well you know it's been an SWP post when two or more separate Beatles references are dropped in without warning or reason.

Keep on rockin'
Scott