This is just to tell you that I wear your dress sometimes.

Living alone is not really all it's cracked up to be. There is always the matter of separation anxiety, which I seem to have a more difficult time with than I thought.

One of these days I will figure out how to not cry all the time.

I drove outta there with no one behind me.

It's been snowing on and off all day. I was really hoping campus might get closed, but it didn't. The bus I rode to school on this morning:
- skidded straight into the sidewalk. Twice.
- took out a bus stop stand-alone sign pole
- got stuck in three snow banks.
And as much as I wanted to straight up die of an aneurysm, my life improved about ten million points in workshop when Carla brought in a big ice cream tub of home made oatmeal rasin cookies (of which I ate aproximately eight) and an even bigger box full of books she decided to award as prizes for last week's anonymous poetry contest, in which I somehow managed to place second.

The rest of the day was spent editing workshop poems, chilling with Elise Marcella, and eating pre-packaged sushi in the Fine Arts atrium.

I have poems to edit again. This fills me with joy.

Tomorrow I have a Scrabble date at Bean with SCR Warner. Tonight I have my entire life's worth of work to do, but it's blizzarding and I'm so warm and exhausted that I might just go to bed at eight pee em. Sleep before midnight for once would be nice. So nice.

In the last week, I have:

- been locked out of my apartment twice
- cried uncontrollably about nothing approximately eight thousand times
- written three poems
- loved my typewriter like a lover of loving love
- been offered a prestigious executive position on the university's literary journal
- bought real groceries
- had my cracked window repaired
- painted my fingernails
- experimented with vampy eye makeup
- seen a ghost
- eaten the entire planet, much to the chagrin of my digestive tract
- gone to class

In the last week, I have not:
- slept

Eros the Bittersweet

the morning light in your living

room will catch every gap
in the vase if you glue it back together.
-Triny Finlay


It's been raining all week. I can't write.
This isn't how it was supposed to go.
The end.

we will sway among the yellow grass

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

Things have been pretty full-moonish lately. I'm not talking until my psychosis starts waning.

your glittering evening dress

I'm home. I'm so glad. I will be even more glad tomorrow night when I no longer have to share 30 square feet of living space with my father. Awkward.

New year's eve. There will be some serious absconding to Elise's tonight. Maybe I'll even dress up.

If I love you, I'm going to do it semi-automatically.

It doesn't seem to matter where I am. Leaving is always hard.

My drafting table and my teak coffee table are in pieces on my living room floor. My clothes are everywhere. Viola, my first plant, is joining my father and I for the trip. We're sneaking the relic Royal typewriter into the car with us without my mother's knowledge. I get custody of the sheep's wool rug. My incredibly emo high school art portfolio has finally been dredged up from the depths of my closet. I have more stuff than I thought, but it will all fit.

I am being uprooted. I am uprooting myself. I don't live here anymore. I've been saying it for months now: I live in Victoria. This is my home. And it is. And when I think of what I'm going home to, who I'm going home to, I know I won't miss it. But, you know, I have a strange, masochistic, self-loathing affinity for this place, which I don't really like to admit. Nineteen years in one city is a long time. I'll miss the skyline at night the most.

Ready to party like it's 1984.

We got the dregs of the last West Coast storm. The roads are absolute fucking arse and it's cold. Finally. I had lunch with Char and Luca (who lives on the second floor) and ate the entire planet. I bought things. Like hot underwear and a rust coloured turtleneck frock extravaganza. I have a half-finished poem in my Scraps folder. I'm tired. I want so many things, and none of them are here.

2.5

It's snowing.

Last night I cut my own hair to avoid self-destructive behavior. It looks good.

I want to go home.

came home with a mission

I haven't even been here two weeks and already my bedroom is a complete fucking catastrophe. I don't know what it is about this city, but I just can't seem to keep my shit together here. This, of course, is the case on many levels. I need to clean so badly. And make cards. And play Scrabble with my mother. And start packing. And finish the poem I started last night and collage the bottom of my longboard and spend my Christmas money. But my uterus is trying to kill me and I have Girl Blues and everything just seems like such a big chore. I want to listen to Shawn Colvin and read the Globe in bed wearing nothing except my underwear until Friday afternoon. Unfortunately, there never seems to be any time for this. Ever.

Auras

I am drunk almost to the point of unconsciousness.

This is how Christmas away from one's significant other should always be spent.

I'm tired of walking around with my hand on my gun.

I'm eating a breakfast of cold fish and chips out of a styrafoam take-away container. Fries are not good after they've been refrigerated for twelve hours.

Yuletide domestic upheaval = me keeping quiet. There's nothing of much interest to report anyway.

I wouldn't mind spending tomorrow alone. As sort of a protest. Or something.

Fuck.

That's all.

Remixin'

I think if a black scarf, a black turtleneck, moccasins, and a pair of girl-boy underwear was an outfit suitable to wear in public, my life would probably be complete.