Ha, ha, and thrice ha.

I got into Golden Key.

Take that, bitch.

Pray that something picks me up.

These last few days in Calgary have made me incredibly fickle. As a result, all I seem to be able to do lately is smoke like a chimney because I'm so bored and I feel so murky and I fucking want to claw my way out of my own skin. It's absolute zero in here and my brain will freeze over unless I get on that plane rightthissecond. Six hundred miles per hour on a direct flight to the ocean is the only thing that will solve this little disagreement I'm having with inertia. I ache for the tide's heady whisperings like a lover's lips on my ear because right now without them I can't write and I can't orgasm and I can't sit still even though I would like very much to do all these things. I have thirty-six hours left here. I've gotten so close, but close is just not good enough.

Ghosts With Just Voices

Me: want to hear a secret?
Her: always.
Me: sometimes, when your msn name shows what song you're listening to, i listen to the same one so i don't feel so far away.
Her: i love you.

That was so long ago.

I'll look out the window and make jokes about the way things are.

Apparently my ability to spend four hundred dollars on clothes in less than twenty minutes when I'm feeling emotionally burdened should never be underestimated.

I should win a prize. A cash prize, preferably, to pull me out of debt. (Joke, kind of.)

Coming Home With an Empty Head

Most of you will know this by now.

It's never a good sign when I'm still awake at three thirty in the morning, smoking, and listening to You Had Time on repeat.

Blegh.

Eighth Grade

He called he called he called.

The end.

You know, I'm so weary.

People seem to think it's okay to leave their friends for lovers because it's assumed that the friends will still be there when they get back snivelling over inevitability and needing half a bottle of vodka. I'm so tired of being the one who waits.

You didn't mean any of it. You were just passing time.

Almost half of my MSN contact list is blocked.

Electrogasm

My new iPod came today. Holy hell in a handbasket, she is so beautiful.

Her name is Apple. Like the company, and the Paltrow/Martin child. Pun-ful, I know. I've always secretly liked that name for a tiny tot. It carries deep biblical symbolism...

Oh dear. Now I've just proven myself a poetry major. Carla would be proud.

Safe Haven of Sleepless

This is going to sound so stupid, but I wish you would just email me in a fit of vulnerability, say you're sorry, and we can forget this whole big mess ever happened. I would do that. For you.

I won't feel like this three days from now.

Think I'm going for a walk now
feel a little unsteady
don't want no one to follow me
except maybe you
I could make you happy you know
if you weren't already
I could do a lot of things
and I do.

Miles From Where You Are

I just called a boy I just called a boy. HEE HEE! Yes, I'm secretly twelve.

Oh, and? My iPod is being shipped from Shanghai. Shanghai! And I definitely don't mean the packet of Udon noodles in my refrigerator. O, globalization...

Yesterday I cleaned out my closet Eminem style and half my wardrobe is going to the Salvation Army. Yay Jesus points! Er... Anyway. Yes. I can't belive I've accumulated so much crap since the last time I did this (February). Honestly? I have to stop buying things. Especially considering there is a -$1500 difference between what my savings account should have looked like by now and what it does look like by now. Word (up, sister, a strong wind can take me away).

And what are YOU going to do to make money in Hamburger-a-go-go? Your fabulous impression of a lockjaw germ? Or, er, that's it.

There's no peace that I've found so far.

The new iPod has been ordered. It will be a sexy silicone beast.

SCORE for being poor. Now I just hope it gets here before I leave.

Deathbeds

Isa is ill. I could take her to MyMac and cry until they give me a new iPod, but that all seems like so much effort when with only several mouse clicks, I can order a brand new black one off the apple online store and have it engraved for free. I can't really finance it, now or within the next four years, but I can't really afford not to, seeing as I'm shallow and a music whore.

The engraving, of course, would say Taken out of context, I must seem so strange.

It wasn't, but he thought it was poetry.

Him: what does it say on your cup?
Me: If I get lost, please locate the girl with the scarves or RECYCLE ME and SAVE OUR PLANET!!!
Him: That's sweet. Hey, you should write something on mine.
Me: I'm drunk.
Him: Doesn't matter. You're a writer. Write something on it.

Drinking sangria
in Shangri-La
wait for me until
I find paradise
at the bottom and
we'll go together

I've been so lonely for touch. Someone's arm against my back, hand on my hip. It's been so long.

I hope I wrote that phone number down correctly.

If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?

The answer, of course, is a scarf.

Calgary's Fringe Festival is hot awesome. Thirteen dollar Broadway plays (The Vagina Monologues) at the Fringe Festival are even more awesome.

Today I bought a red lace Calvin Klein bra and underwear set. On sale. It's been so long since I've felt sexy under my clothes. Chelsea is racy again. Yesss.

My first kegger of the summer/ my life in half an hour.

Word.

You are just flying past.

At two o'clock this afternoon I will be a FREE WOMAN, yo.

The last two weeks of my summer will include nothing but bad poetry, worse daytime television, and too much food I shouldn't be eating.

RepresENT.

The Sadness

I really have to stop crying over cheesy, overwrought mainstream music videos.

Trampoline

In my father's yard is
my mother's nightmare
the trampoline he bought us
seven summers ago
when he felt light and spiteful
without his marriage burdens

behind that the bush
I back-flipped into by accident
last May when I fancied
myself a gymnast
when I longed for
my own kind of weightlessness

it's still crippled where
the branches splintered in my ribs
like broken bones
like her face inside my eyelids
her I told you sos hissed
into that space below awake

hilarious you said later
in your still-night telephone whisper
surely you pictured me
sailing cartoonish
through the air
limbs flailing in
quiet desperation
my dotted line tragectory
a perfect parabola

but where were you
to feel gravity's slow pull
to unconscious
like a shrinking rope fastened
to the ocean floor

where were you
when she rushed over to ply bleeding cherries
from my hair.....wood slivers
out of my hips and fingers
her sighs articulating their own
vocabulary of guilt

and now the adages swirl
in my head like stale reprimands
curiosity killed the cat
absence makes the heart grow fonder
mother knows best

how to untie the silence
strung long and heavy over our heads
how to ask
where are you
to feel your way in the breathless dark
read these scars like braille
call them poetry

where are you
to slip these aphorisms
the tongue

I felt it so half-assed.

I've gotten into the habit of using extravagant lies to sick out of work on the first day of my period, then sleep until unreasonably late hours, consume a lot of Advil, and watch trashy movies all day. This is the current plan. This is why I'm blogging, groggy headed, at quarter to twelve instead of selling flowers.

I am tired in my bones.

Keep your eye on my finger.

I have a place to live. I am thrilled. The End.

Fo' drizzle.

It's raining Victoria style. This means a day in bed with Margaret Atwood, The Virgin Suicides, and Love Actually. If we had real bread (read: not icky flax bread that tastes like ground styrofoam) and real fake cheese (read: not soy cheese slices that have been sitting in the fridge since winter break), I'd make myself a grilled cheese sandwich. We don't even have soup. I'm never prepared grocery-wise for comfort food days. However, I do happen to have seventy five packets of Japanese udon noodles.(!?) Those, I suppose, will have to do.

Forfeit your frontal lobe.

Then again, maybe she doesn't. It all just sounds... hollow.

The sun is rising late. It was almost dark when I woke up at six yesterday morning for work. Fall is coming. I have three weeks left. Three weeks left, and I have nothing to show for all this wasted time. I was supposed to have accomplished so much more by this point.

Yes.

Ani's new album came out today. Despite the strange xylophone/ bongo contraption fiasco at her Folk Fest show, she's still got it.

show me a moment that is mine
its beauty blinding and unsurpassed
make me forget every moment that went by
and left me so half-hearted
cause I felt it so half-assed

*Sigh.* Yes.

Professions

You call yourself a straight edge
but you look so smug in the dusk
smoking from the side of your mouth
behind your house where
no one can touch you

we both know this quiet
rebellion doesn't count
as long as we don't get caught
so what will you do
when you see me spying
a voyeur crouched in the periphery
in the trees

the way I'd crouch over
your shoulders
those furtive nights
rub truths out of you
like back pain
in places where
friction alone made us
both sinners

it must have slipped your mind to mention
you'd rather make things up than
say you had nothing to reveal

and even now
my nonchalant professions only
follow you around
revel in your iniquities
when you think no one's looking
so pass me that cigarette
because we're both hypocrites here
bathing in our own bad blood

Turn your head.

I feel like a horribly, horribly boring person lately.

Tonight I would like to buy things, but only because I have nothing better to do.

I've started dreaming of you again. At least my REM time is interesting, though not necessarily in a good way.