wakko101's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- you gotta, gotta try a little tenderness!!! Everyone check out the Toronto Star letters section tomorrow. I'm being published. (insert big, goofy grin here) 6:18 p.m. - 2005-04-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ...and do I detect a hint of minty freshness? I really dislike being sick. When I was a kid, it wasn’t so bad; it meant I didn’t have to go to school. In high school, the vice-principal figured out far too late that it wasn’t such a hot idea to let me write my own absence notes once I turned 18. In University, I could wake up with a crusty green thing in the corner of my eye and decide I was too traumatized to make it to class. Even when I was working as a waitress, I could call my manager and ask if he really wanted my sneezing on the fresh fish of the day all night? He usually said no. Right now, I’m at work, and I feel like 10 pounds of shit in a thimble. It wouldn’t be so bad if, last Monday, I hadn’t had to endure the most pathetic example of sick-day hypocrisy from Brother-boss – I really don’t understand how someone who Works From Home can tell his boss that he’s too sick to sit in front of the computer and go to work, but then proceed to sit in front of the computer and play video games for a whole day. I suppose saving the universe from an alien invasion could be construed as "restful" to some. At least I am afforded the luxury of taking a nap on my lunch break. Being my brother’s nanny doesn’t completely suck ass. Today. 1:43 p.m. - 2005-04-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ...and tomorrow, I'm makin' waffles First off, I'd like to say thanks to the latest arrivals to the "me as a favorite diary" list. Glad to have you. Next off, I'd like to say: Crap, do I have to start being funny on a regular basis now? There's a good likelihood that I will buckle under that kind of pressure. I am, afterall, Wakko. 1:05 p.m. - 2005-04-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I need a hug If anyone reading this ever thought of my being an intelligent, rational human being, read on and you’ll soon be straightened out. Last Wednesday, I was scheduled to go see an exhibit of Caravaggio paintings at the National Gallery. I like to keep up the illusion of culture by doing things like that once in a while. I was up and ready to go with plenty of time to spare when I found that was having trouble locating my keys. I searched everywhere; in the kitchen, the living room, my bedroom, in couches, under shelves, through drawers. Forty minutes into the search and I had a very disquieting series of thoughts: I must have had my keys when I let myself into the house the night before around 10 pm. That was the last I remember seeing them. I had about three bags full of various things in my arms when I went through the door. I have been known, on occasion, to leave keys in the lock when I’m weighed down with baggage. They’re definitely not in the keyhole at the moment. Shit. It seemed the only logical conclusion. I must have left them in the keyhole and somebody grabbed them, either for the little swiss army knife I used as a keychain, or to actually use at some point in the near future while everyone was out. I called my housemate and she soothed my conscience by insisting I just needed to search a little more, they must be in the house somewhere, but if I had to leave without my keys, she would let me in the flat later that evening. I took her advice and left. While I was on the tube on the way to the exhibit, I had visions of some nonchalant, whistling hoodlum watching me turn the corner at the end of the street and then casually using my keys to rob my flatmates and I blind. I considered returning to the house to keep a vigil, but decided sitting in front of a locked door for four hours was probably a silly idea. When I arrived home that evening, everything was safe, but my keys still weren’t around. After a fitful night of half-sleep, I awoke the next morning absolutely convinced that my keys were gone, taken by some ne’er-do-well punk, and now posing a serious threat o tthe safely and wellbeing of the occupants of my house. I barely even bothered to put on a second search mission. Instead, I discussed the matter with my housemate, sucked it up, and paid to have the lock replaced. After calling around, I found a guy who would do it for the flat rate of £55 that afternoon. I was leaving for my weekend getaway to Majorca that evening, so it needed to be taken care of right away. He came and started to work, while I went upstairs to start packing. While I went through all of my things, I kept shaking my head at my misfortune. I couldn’t help but thing that only something like this would happen to me. But I was wrong, something else entirely happened to me. As I packed my bag, I looked up and happened to notice an object on top of the shelf in the corner of the room. I jumped over my bed to get a closer look. I hoped to God it wasn’t what I thought it was. But it was. SHIT. I’m sure you can fill in the rest of the details yourself, but just in case you’re a little slow, I’ll give you a hint: I completely wasted £65 on a brand new door lock and bright, shiny keys. (If you’re smarter than me, you might have noticed the price went up £10 from the original quote in that paragraph. Good find: the extra ten quid was for replacement keys for my housemates, who still don’t know I found the originals. When it comes to the people you live with, some things are best left unsaid.) 1:37 p.m. - 2005-03-30 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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