6:18 p.m. - 2005-04-28
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)
1:43 p.m. - 2005-04-19
...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.
1:05 p.m. - 2005-04-06
...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.
1:37 p.m. - 2005-03-30
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.)
