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.

The sun, it came burning.

I have been stoned for what feels like forever. This is, for the most part, wonderful. I couldn't recount the last week to save my life if you asked me right now, but I woke up this morning and realized that next Friday, I'll be on the road to the V-Dot.

Whatever, man. I'm like cilantro: I get five percent of the population and the other ninety-five hates my guts.

This is where I'll be whenever you come or go.

I looked everywhere.

It's dumb, I know, but I was just kind of hoping.

Gender bending is fun.

The end.

i miss living alone

Today I:
- wrote a letter
- mailed things
- saw Kate (!)
- collaged my handmade longboard
- worked on Brit J. Bates' Christmas present
- studiously avoided the Ben & Jerry's ice cream stand in Eau Claire
- lost my camera
- found my camera
- got along with city transit for the first time in human history
- smoked in my bedroom
- thought dirty thoughts

Where's that at? If You want me, I'll be in the bar.

Last night, I cried when Fraulein Maria and Captain von Trapp confessed their undying love for one another.

And now I'm drinking Italian Shiraz - holy wine - and chain smoking clove cigarettes at twenty past twelve in the afternoon.

This is how sad and pathetic I have become.