Funny, that...

My horoscope today:

"Relationships are fluid -- people are moving in and out of the center of your life all the time, whether you realize it or not. The drifting is continuing with a troubled friend, and they seem farther away than ever. Value what they gave you and let them continue on their own path. Ultimately, we are all individuals who need to take our own journeys. Is there someone special you've lost touch with? Get in touch with them -- even if it's just to say a final goodbye."

Huh.

Gatchaman Haiku!

OK, this is the first in a series of Gatchaman haiku -- as suggested by friend P. We agreed this would be hilarious. (Although in truth, someone might have beat us to it.)

These are the first batch, written by yours truly (yes, original haikus penned by me). I will add more, as well as posting offerings from fellow Gatchaman fans. (Gatchaman, for older North American folks, is the original Japanese cartoon version of Battle Of The Planets.)


GATCHAMAN HAIKU by /hg



With deadly speed and
The power of the Phoenix,
But still Nambu's bitches.

They leap and fight, yet
They're mired in seventies' slang.
Science Ninja Team!

Ever impatient,
Joe yearns for deadly results.
Fly, bird missiles, fly!

Galactor pounces
Loosing evil on the world.
Damn it! Foiled again.

June and Ken, lovers
Who are chaste and reluctant.
Perhaps Ken wants Joe.

Small like a robin,
But despite his speed and skills
Jinpei is the suck.

When dealing with girls,
Ken's sensitivity rears
By slapping the bitch.

We wait, breath baited
For Galactor to notice
Their foes wear bird hats.

"Transmute" or "Bird, Go"?
One of these phrases will get
Ken back in his tights.

Father's Day... done a little differently

Incidentally, if you kids have a moment or two, I would highly recommend you check out PostSecret's site today.

Secrets both sweet and heartbreaking.

And for the first time, I finally saw a postcard that could have easily been written by me...

And another weekend turns to dust...

I caved on Saturday.

After watching our front yard become overrun with weeds, tree sprouts and plants I've never even seen before sprouting from the bushes, I realized that I had had enough.

Bought some flowers and spent a good few hours trying to make our front yard look at least somewhat presentable. The folks downstairs are less concerned about the front -- they mow their backyard sporadically, but as far as they're concerned, there is nothing else that needs tending.

While at the Crappy Tire (Canadian Tire -- a enormous chain of hardware-garden-auto-style stores local to... you guessed it, Cameroon), I went to pick up some black earth. But when showing the young-ish fellow my receipt, I realized the gal at the till hadn't charged me for it.

"OK," I said (inwardly cursing the silly cashier),"which is easier -- my just taking the dirt to the cashier, or paying for it and coming back?"

He shrugged. "Just take it."

"What?"

"Take it. Fuck the corporations." And with that, he went back to work.


It's been fearsomely hot here this weekend -- but hooray! Our little secret community pool is open (and heated, so no having to wait for the water to warm up to bearable temperatures). Chris and I celebrated by going for a swim yesterday... and today.

I got a bit too much sun (hilarious, since we went after 5:30 this afternoon).

And on the walk home, I heard the sound of scooter. There were two girls sitting astride the vehicle as it zipped along Dundas.

One was singing Wagner's "The Ride of the Valkyries" at the top of her lungs until they faded from sight.

That was just...silly.

I created a MySpace account.

Why did I do this? Why?

What possessed me to think I had enough time to do both? Hell, I can barely find anough time to gripe here...

Fuck. Who'm I really kidding? I love griping. It cheers me up. It keeps me sane and annoys everyone else.

Where else can I vent my insecurities and neuroses? Well, there are my friends. Those poor bastards. I do feel bad for them.

If I was my friend, I'd tell myself to get stuffed, and then make myself a nice mojito.

The girls at Hooker Harvey's

One day,
Someone will have to tell my we haven't yet legalized prostitution.

It's not going away.
The girls are endangering themselves.
So are the Johns.
Pimps are exploiting both customer and service gal... not to mention exploiting and recruiting underaged girls.

If it was all legalized,

they could be taxed
they could be regulated
they could be licensed
they could be safer
and they could have benefits.

North America's pseudo-puritan policies make me sick.

Sewing is ass.

Just for the record -- sewing with a needle and thread sucks. Sucking of the most enormous kind.

Boo.

When I am rich, I will have my clothes tailored by someone else. Or, at the very least, I'll be able to afford better-fitting attire.

(Of course, the "being rich" part is fucking joke. I'm going to be poor the rest of my life.)

Caffeine is good times...

Having cut my cola intake by about 96%, not drinking coffee and only occasionally drinking black or green teas, I'll be the first to admit that I love me a good caffeine buzz.

Just now, I've made myself two very strong glasses of cold chai tea (with the Starbucks premix a friend bought for me).

Zoooooooooooooooom!

It's fortunate I'm working from home today, because even my typing is erratic and yappy. But caffeine buzzes are great fun when you're not used to them. The only time I allow myself to overdose on caffeine is during hayfever season because:
a) caffeine is a natural antihistamine;
and b) because it combats the sleepy side effects for the more effective over-the-counter antihistamine drugs.

(Yes, yes -- i know all about the 24-hour, long-term, non-drowsy drugs out there. I've tried all of them, and they're all pretty much useless.)

OK. Must get back to work. Type-y fingers.
Working.
Work good. Work = money.
And took the day off from temping, so must be productive. Productive means not writing on my blog.

And later will call agents and publishers, print mansuscripts and mail my stories out.

Perhaps should wait until I've come down a touch, though.

Wheeeeee.

Hottie McSexness!

Yes, that's me.
I have heat rash... on my neck and along my jaw. It's driving me fucking nuts -- overly sensitive and vexing as hell.

At least, I hope it's heat rash. My skin has been unbearably sensitive lately (I'm back to using scent-perfume-dye free detergent and softener). I would weep knowing that not only is my skin too bloody sensitive to use Aveda shampoo and conditioner (so long $50!), but that I'm having a reaction to my too-too delicious H20 Tropicalia shower gel. *sob*




Sometimes I'm such a girl that I want to hurl.
Sigh.

The lures of... spam?

I have discovered yet another Great Mystery Of The Male Psyche. Thanks to spam.

Everyone gets these stupid junk mails. "Horny Housewives look for big dick," "Naked photos of Brittany, Jenna, Joe and a hairy guy" "How to increase the size of your cock", etc etc.

(I'm not even going to think how many hits I'm going to get simply by using those terms.)

Anyway, yesterday I received a new one: "Rock hard manhood, multiple explosions and several times more semen volume."

OK, the first two make sense... but the last?

I really had no clue that "semen volume" was an issue for guys. I can see where a particularly tiny fella might be shamefaced about the size of his willy, but squirt quantity?

I can only fathom a guess that this is some indicator of a man's virility. "I shoot massive loads, therefore I am potent" versus "Well, a tiny square of toilet paper should clean this up nicely."

He is man. He fills milk jugs.
That sorta thing.

Call me ignorant, but I always thought quality was more important than quantity. A couple thou healthy sperm is likely better than a couple million two-headed, short-tailed, swimming-backwards sperm.

There's more important things to worry about.
Keep your little armies of sperm disease-free, wrapped up and... er, well... I don't want to be crass (although it's a bit late now), so I will merely say eat properly.

Woooo, bonus money!

No, I'm not published.

However, have discovered today (and this is why, freelancing friends, it pays to go over your books) that a company for whom I did a pile of work earlier this year missed two invoices.

I expect it was merely an innocent oversight, but it does mean I have a little sum of cash heading my way sometime in the next month or so. Which eases the pressure somewhat.

My mother heads back up to North Bay tomorrow.
It always depresses the hell out of me.

I miss my family sometimes. Especially my mum.

Getting to bed is so very trying...

Not sure if it's residue from my childhood, but I always dread going to bed. I'm similar to little kids this way, the way they always find little distraction to keep them from actually crawling between their covers and sleeping.

Computers are excellent distractions. So are books. And dishes. And laundry. And... well, you get the point.

Yet I love sleep so very much.

So why the reluctance?

I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I'm absurdly nocturnal. Even now, it's well past 2 a.m. I'm tired, yet bed just seems to require so much effort. And naturally, the more exhausted you are, the harder it is to fall asleep.

I also suspect it has something to do with the fact that I suffered from recurring nightmares as a kid... and actually, well into my adulthood. I have a reasonably good stranglehold on it now -- most horrifying things can now be modified, or observed in a rather detached manner. For example, the other night, I dreamt I was watching security camera footage on my computer (the kind where you don't get to see each frame) where of one of my friends in a hospital bed -- she was restrained, yet managed to sit up with her hair falling over her face.

And suddenly this enormous, shadowy man-shape slithered out on either side of her and crushed the life out of her.

In the dream, I was merrily horrified by the act of watching a close friend die. When I recollect it, however, I find it errie and utterly disturbing.

And now I feel even less inclined to go to bed. Damn.


Other things:

- My mum just arrived this evening for a weekend visit. Yay!
- NXNE first night... far more fun when one has the option of following one's whims
- "Whorrifying": [hore-iff-eye-ing] adj. To be used when describing tramp-like qualities or sleazy attire found on another individual.
- And I finally found P's blog. Ha! And naturally, being joyfully paranoid, the first thing I did was check to see if there was anything horrible about me. I'm so self-centred... but does it count if it's in a self-derogatory way?

OK. Sleep now.
Seriously.
And... sleep!
Any second now...
I can do this.
It's just sleep, right?

Hmmm.

In a fortuitous change of events, I no longer have to make phone calls.

Which makes me wonder if my dear friend P. reads this...

See...? I *am* still alive

Ack. This is the first time all week I haven't spent running around the city or working. And got almost 10 hours of sleep! Whooo!

Last Thursday, I began temping at my friend's work -- it began with data entry, which was pretty heinous (entering information off contest ballots into Excel, approx. 400 a day), but once you clap on the headphones and play decent music, time just sort of drifts by.

Most people who know me will admit that I'm not the most patient person ever (understatement of the effing year), but there are some mundane repetitive jobs where I just sort of zone out and work -- and suddenly hours have gone by.

Yesterday, however, was an entirely different matter. I was told a needed to make a few phone calls -- which I was fine with. What I didn't realize was that I would be handed almost 70 pages of phone numbers (around 10 or 12 per page)to various companies, where I was expected to invite them to events.

I almost cried. Seriously, I was damn near tears.

I have done some utterly shitty jobs in the past few years (fry cook, cleaning lady, cashier, retail, food prep)... but the one thing I always refused no matter my desperation was a job where I was forced to call people.

I worked through about 10 pages yesterday, until I began to feel like vomiting. Then I stopped. I have to do more today -- had I known this was involved, I probably would have refused my friend's kind offer.

I feel like killing myself. I would rather clean public toilets with a toothbrush.

Ugh.

Let's see, in other news...

NXNE (indie music fest over the weekend) has begun. Have opted not to review bands, but received a wristband which I will be putting to work this evening.

My mum may visit me this weekend.

My nephew lost his first tooth.

I've moved on in my tai chi class and, with some of the intermediate students, amd learning Liu He Pa Fa style (like tai chi, considered an "internal" exercise). It's a little faster than tai chi, and much more fluid. I am liking it a little more, to be honest. But I still am looking forward to learning the sword technique...

Am sure there's more, but must get ready for work. I'll try not to throw my head upon the streetcar tracks in hopes of being put out of my misery.

The plot thickens...

Was returning home just now after an evening with chums (I've been invited to Thailand -- anyone got an inside scoop on cheap flights to Bangkok in November?).

As I walked up the street, I recognized one of the old men who previously lived next door, drunkenly tottering with his his usual bag of newspapers/misc. paper products.

Then he quickly ducked between the houses... seemingly into his old driveway, yet when I looked down the strech of property, I did not see him.

What I did see was small lights coming from the basement of the supposedly "empty" house next door. I also remember my neighbour from the other side mentioning something about squatters living there.

It is my firm belief that despite the city shutting down the house, evicting the tenants (due to massive health violations -- including the ownership of 30+ unhealthy and uncared for cats) and boarding up the front door, that the old men are still living there.

And while I do support cheap housing and such, I feel torn. These men are obviously not capable of taking care of themselves. Do I report? Ignore? Gossip with the neighbours?

All I know is that it is late, and I have to work tomorrow -- temping and doing some absolutely painful data entry.

It's good for me. Keeps me in touch with normies.

Just let go...

I'm not sure Montreal gave me the perspective I wanted.

I returned home after a fun and busy weekend of trotting about Montreal -- food, clubs, bars, shopping... stuff. When i returned, there was no work. No income coming in.

And while kids book #4 is nearing completion, I find myself assessing my situation.

No income coming in (well, very little -- a month's worth at most).
No drive to pitch magaizne ideas that are likely to be ignored, stolen or pay very poorly.
The feeling of pending failure.
The feeling of pending bankruptcy.
Fear. Period.

I suspect I'm wasting my time.

So now what? What wonderfully satisfying and dream-shattering career might I begin planning for? It's times like this when I see the attraction of flinging oneself from the CN Tower while mightily flipping the bird at the world.

One career failed, or simply flailing.
Dare I attempt another?

In happier news, a friend of mine has just welcomed his second child -- a wee boy -- into the world.

I'm always amazed people are still procreating as the world becomes an increasingly shitty place, but still... good for them. They've been talking about marriage and family since the early '90s (and earlier, I suspect), so one must applaud their sagacious planning.

They're of that ilk that claims they still want to be friends -- but I secretly wonder if they're only saying it out of politeness and obligation.

Question: How does one offer a "get-out-of-friendship-free" card without sounding like an insecure lunatic?

Answer: One doesn't. Because one is, in fact, a lunatic.

(For the obtuse -- that "one" would, of course, be me.)