normal folks would be doing a year's end retrospective-type thingie right about now
new year's eve & i have no plans for celebrating. i don't even miss my family because there's not much there for me to miss; i'd rather be cold & lonely in new york. feel my muthafuckin' angsty-teen woefulness. (i'm technically not a teenager anymore, what with being 20 & all...i still don't feel grown up. i really should just own up to being an emo-bitch instead of clinging to the excuse of highschool naivete & "hormones.")
i have still not put my stickers up because life is currently very distracting & i'll go deface the east village & surrounding 'bohemian' areas at around sunrise today/-night when the streets empty out a bit although i've been telling myself that for the past 3 days.
love/lust/restlessness makes one do inexplicable things: i'm gonna be flying back to small, cold halifax with its lone streetcorner jazzman & picturesque mailboxes tuesday evening to spend a few days while figuring out my next destinations.
i'm thinking of going out to vancouver on the west coast of canada (new york's still the best [i'm coming back in the summertime] & i plan to die in manhattan, but it would be nice to be back in a country where i can be legally employed & old enough to buy booze...) & spending the next several months working my way back to the east coast.
with any luck, i'll have done enough maturing to give art school/formal education another go by then.
(how cool would it be if i stickered & drank my way across canada & recorded it here?)
i guess i'm not sorry at all regarding the slacking off in terms of the number of blog-posts i've been/will be putting up -- now, not only do i actually have Things To Do, but as i don't have my laptop with me, i can only be bothered to access the internet sporadically; my attention span is so short that a couple of days seems enough like forever that i'll most likely post something once a week.
until next year,
patronized a laundromat for the first time today; seems like i'm doing this hobohemian thing for reals now. i. have. no. fixed. address. woohoo!
not dead, diseased.
i'm gonna be defiling the pristine streets of new york with my stickers once i stop being so sick i can't talk without coughing. of course there'll be photos for the blog. happy chrismukkah, y'all. (yes, i think it's an ugly sounding word & i'm an atheist in the first place, but who cares? i don't have to do any holiday shopping.)
lots of baggage & not much clothes
typing this in the airport at an internet cafe. i missed my flight (i am very much not a virgin anymore) & will be sleeping in the airport tonight. i refuse to take it as a bad omen...
this is my last post from halifax; i'm gonna pack up my computer now & mail it back to toronto: the next post'll be from new york.
more dramas & traumas
i just saw my mom off to the airport.
she showed up in my room yesterday afternoon with a whole shitload of luggage to drag me back to toronto (she even presumed enough to buy a plane ticket for me) & of course i Freaked Out Completely, ran out & spent most of yesterday hiding from her & walking around the streets of halifax in the first major snowstorm of the year doing my best Tragic Heroine impression. i managed to collect myself enough to talk/scream at her some time after midnight & left her to sleep alone in my empty room. this morning, we talked it out a bit more rationally & i demonstrated enough & repeatedly that i had everything i needed to go Find Myself in new york & that no matter what happened, i would have no-one to blame but myself. then we went for lunch & actually managed to kinda "chat" like a normal, dysfunctional family (ie: with angry phonecalls from my dad only every 3 minutes) before getting her the hell out of my life for hopefully what will be a very, very, long time.
cupid should be drawn & quartered
word of the night:
"menstrubation."
ephemeron [iˈfeməˌrän] noun
an insect that lives only for a day or a few days.
in a twist of fate that can only happen in a cheesy chick flick or to yours truly, i've somehow met a guy with tattoos & travis bickle hair who wants to be the gauguin to my van gogh. (yes, that's how we Artistic Misfits talk...over coffee...aren't you jealous?)
we philosophized & showed each other our self-inflicted scars while sipping martinis from chipped glasses last saturday night after failing to get into a sold out performance of 'no exit;' it's hard not to like someone who'd invite a near-stranger to see a sartre play & be the only one at his impromptu birthday party.
we've slept (& more) together but haven't had sex yet -- because as i'm the innocent-ish virgin in this maybe-relationship, he's letting me take the lead & i have my period & am bleeding like crazy...i do like the biting & kissing, though.
[if i wasn't drunk & determined to document my life as it is happening, i'd be blushing right about now.]
all this is still very Surreal & i've been walking around in a daze because i still can't believe that there's someone out there that i can consider an equal who likes me in all my fucked up glory.
it kind of snowed on sunday, by the way.
today there was no rain for a change, instead, halifax got treated to a 15-minute hailstorm right when i was in the middle of buying packing tape & postal tubes (did you know that postal tubes here don't come in anything wider than 3" ?). it still hasn't snowed yet.
word of the night:
"shituation."
today was wasted on another self-directed bus tour of halifax: the bus tickets here (humongous & neon orange) are sold only in multiples of of 20, & since there isn't anything really beyond the couple dozen blocks that make up "downtown" & i'm enough of an asshole to reuse a single transfer for as many days as it takes for it to get noticeably disintegrated, i have plenty of tickets left.
5 hours of riding random buses has exposed me to enough picturesquely weathered pine trees & sentinel-like boulders to last me the rest of my life.
song of the body eccentric
i don't like my wrists or my ankles.
they seem to me to be absurdly delicate & fragile...the rest of my body is more solid, earthly, like it's actually good for something more purposeful than fluttering about & swooning.
i wear leather bondage cuffs to hide my wrists & heavy boots to cover my ankles. both for protection & for grounding, to act as an anchor in case my mind decides to go away & not come back.
the rest of my body is not something i normally think about very much: it's just there & that's enough for me. i suppose i don't take as good care of it as i should; i brush my teeth every day, shower when i remember to, & moisturize when my skin starts to peel. makeup is something i'm too lazy to bother with & my hair i hack off whenever it gets past two inches long & i'm drunk enough to forget that i'm trying to grow it out.
i'm a bit overweight but i don't give a damn. i'll start to worry when i can't touch my toes or climb fences anymore.
attracting a mate/fuck buddy isn't something i even want to think about until i figure out what i'm doing with my life. i'm starting to suspect that i'm not 'questioning' or 'bisexual' after all, just monastically asexual.
i wish my breasts were smaller. that way i'd never have to bother with buying bras again. i buy in bulk the cheap kind that comes in boxes but i still have to venture into the lingerie department to grab them & no matter how quick i do it, i still get weirded out by the displays of ass-flossing thongs & expensively lacy whatsits.
all my parts are still factory original girl-bits, but is it my fault that i have no desire to walk about with a self-imposed wedgie or flash my tits for anyone who might buy me a drink?
i'm not being a tease when i tell you up front that i won't have sex with you no matter how many drinks you buy me.
(it's not a challenge either.)
is it outside the realms of possibility that a single female sitting alone at the bar is actually, surprisingly, there to drink?
go pick on/pick up some bubbly, cosmo-swiller & leave me to my double gin & tonics.
ataxia [əˈtaksēə] (also ataxy |əˈtaksē|) noun
(medicine) the loss of full control of bodily movements.
killing time
only 11 more days before i'm outta here for good. since i've decided to not bother with any of my classes, all i've been doing is staying in & trying to finish the foot-tall stack of books & dvds i borrowed from the library. that & making sure that i'm sufficiently incapacitated by drink that i don't get suicidal enough to actually Do Something About It; i'm looking at my calendar & i still can't believe that i've been in halifax for only 3 months -- objectively speaking, a quarter of a year isn't all that much even if i only plan to live until 60/senility, & yet here i am, doing something that's either Monumentally Idiotic or Absolutely Brilliant, depending on how idealistic you are. i haven't even figured out what i'm gonna tell my parents when i ship my stuff back home. "guess what? i'm a complete fuck-up so i'm dropping out of university & moving to new york to live in the muthafuckin' subway tunnels & scavenge for food on the streets because halifax makes me want to kill myself every morning i wake up to all the rain & quiet & i can't move back to toronto to live with you guys because waking up every morning to your arguments & fights doesn't exactly inspire me to live either?"
the worst part is, i don't know enough chinese to explain to them why exactly am i doing this (even though i'm not too sure myself). it took years for my parents to give up on getting me to become a doctor: how long is it gonna take for them to realize that there's no way in hell i'll succumb to their white picket fence dream of grandchildren & suvs?
