I love it!

…When my dog lies on his back and makes little grunting noises.  His belly has this warm, distinct smell that makes me want to poke it.  I also like to kiss his dry nose and tell him he’s a baby (and an old man, because of his long white beard).

He’s such a cute boy

On other happy notes, I suspect this shall be a good week.  I have only one assignment due, a job interview, and my one year anniversary.  

So, here’s to life’s little joys.

On a sad note, a dear friend is departing for a year.  I’ll miss her long-winded complaints and deviant actions.  There shall be a great and terrible void in my life.  I better receive many novel-length Facebook messages about the rigors of life in a continent far from here.

Random Thoughts About Nothing

I’m at work, and I should be working.  However, I hate my job. 

I’ve been saying that for awhile now, and I stand strongly behind my convictions.  Still, I haven’t much right to complain, for I’ve done little to improve my situation.  I stay here because it’s comfortable, structured, and financially-appealing.  I have my evenings and weekends to myself – which, I confess, is important to me.  I like to spend my nights socializing, or sitting.  I should be setting aside a few nights a week for some researching/writing.  However, I’m lazy.  Sloth is my Achilles Heel and Kryptonite.  I’d come up with other literary and pop culture references, but I can’t think of any at the moment.

Maybe I should go back to school; perhaps take a college journalism course.  That way I’d be guaranteed a work placement, and I could go from there. 

Then I’d have no money, and would have to put my dream of moving out on hold.  Again.

I don’t understand why some people drink so much water. 

Seriously, some people go through three or four bottles a day.  Does the body need that much?  Perhaps I’m strange, for I rarely get thirsty or feel the need to hydrate. 

I came across an article that said that a sedentary lifestyle (which is what mine is, to be sure) can cause a spontaneous pulmonary embolism (a potentially fatal blood clot in the lung).  I sit far too often, which puts me at risk.  I could have one of those bad boys tomorrow.  Or not, because of my age – I hope. 

Still, that leads to me to my next idea.

A friend has asked me to try out kickboxing with her.  I’m intrigued, and interested.  I could use the exercise, because I don’t get much sitting at a computer all day.  However, I’m afraid of athletic activities, and cheoreography is my mortal enemy.  I’m not a graceful woman.  I’m clumsy and awkward, no to mention stiff and slow.  I’d die if left to my own devices in the wild, and I’d come in last place in a race (that rhymed).  I can’t lift boxes or open jars.  I avoid running - jogging, even – at all costs.  I like to walk – saunter really – from place to place.  I like to gesticulate in a sitting position, perched on a chair or couch.  I exercise my voice (obnoxiously, perhaps).  I neglect my body.

I’d like to change that, but I fear public humiliation and shame.

Still, a little trail kickboxing lesson won’t hurt…

Speaking of exercise, I should walk my dog more – but he hates walking.  He’s a strange and vile beast, albeit an adorable one.  That, my friends, is why we keep him…

Lesbians make excellent writers.  That’s a blanket statement, but it’s flattering.  Are flattering blanket statements acceptable?  All blanket statements should probably be treated with scorn and annoyance, for allowing some would imply a weakness for unsubstantiated flattery.  Such a predilection is undignified, though understandable.

Still, I’ve found myself enthralled by creative projects created by lesbian writers.  They’re engaging, intelligent and in my opinion, fairly well-rounded.

The L Word?

Great show.

Sarah Waters?

Excellent author.

I’m not gay, but I seem to like a good gay story-line (or two or three).  I also like a good gay advice columnist (Dan Savage).

Every time I have nightmares, they always involve me being somehow unable to dial a phone.  I hit the wrong numbers over and over, panicing more and more as I continuosly fail at an astoundingly easy task.

Does anyone else have this problem? Or, at the very least, a passible analysis to offer?

I suppose I should get back to my tracking.

For now, I bid you adieu.  May I return with something of importance to say at a later date. 

Self-Indulgence

I have no issues to discuss today. 

Well, that’s not true.  I have issues, they’re just not important in the grand scheme of things.  In fact, they’re trivial and insignificant to everyone other than me.  Still, this is my blog, and therefore subject to my rantings and ravings.  I try to make them as interesting as possible, so as to avoid looking self-indulgent (but believe me, I am). 

Blogs are often criticized for increasing the self-importance of unimportant people.  Apparently people use them, sometimes, to write about issues that no one really cares about.  However, I don’t think that’s entirely true.  Someone out there can relate, and therefore someone cares.  Perhaps one blogger can articulate another’s emotions in a more concise manner. 

I’ve had an “off” week. 

I’m tired, moreso emotionally than physically. 

It seems that things have caught up with me.  It was Saturday, after a rather nice day spent in Niagara Falls, that I realized that I don’t know what I’m going to do now that school is well and truly over.  I’ve been working full-time for seven months, and I have no exciting or alluring job prospects waiting for me (probably because I haven’t really pursued them).

I have an intermittent writing gig for a fund-raising organization, but they rarely require (or perhaps desire) my input or contributions.  The woman I work for is fantastic, but she’s sometimes difficult to get a hold of, and is often at a loss as to how to include me in upcoming projects.  I’ve done one assignment in a month, and am currently working on a “we’ll call you when we need you” basis.  My portfolio is lackluster and pathetic.  I need to start freelancing, but I’m having a hard time motivating myself to do it. 

I didn’t get a promising internship that I wanted.  I’m not devastated, really, but rather a little disappointed in myself.  I believe I’ve missed out on a good opportunity.

I want to move out – nay, I feel that I should move out.  However, that would put a strain on some already strained relationships.  I need a certain degree of harmony in my life to be happy. I need to feel at peace with the people I interact with most often.  I loathe awkward tension and sustained anger.  It’s draining, annoying and discomfiting. 

I think my household would be a little more harmonious without me in it, but I know I’d still be missed (and resented for choosing to leave).  I think, for some parents, it’s hard to come to terms with the idea of an aging family.  Your children are your children, but they’re no longer children and cannot be treated as such. 

I’m not a respectful “tenant” anymore.  I understand that living rent-free obligates me to compromise my adulthood freedoms with lingering parental rules, but I’m no longer accepting it. 

I feel guilty and angry simultaneously. 

I could leave, but I’ll be strapped for money.  I’ll also char – not burn – some bridges that I’d like to keep intact.  To put things in perspective, things really aren’t bad enough to leave.  Yet, staying probably won’t work out too well in the long-run.  I like to come and go as I please, and that’s still difficult for me to do.  My mom isn’t strict per se, but she worries.  If my brother or myself come home late or don’t call, she assumes we’re dead.  She no doubt envisions anguishing eulogies every time she gets my voicemail on my cell.  Excessive worry runs in my family, it’s genetic – like heart-disease or cancer. 

To compensate, I invite my boyfriend over three or four times a week and use my parent’s basement as a hotel, essentially.  The parents are at the stage where they accept it only because there’s no real alternative.  My mom would rather I’d be home utilizing her furniture than utilizing empty parking lots where we’d risk, like, police intervention and stuff.

Still, it’s made things weird.  However, when I bring up the idea of renting an apartment, she backs off with her criticisms.  She’d rather have a desecrated leather couch than an permanently absent daughter.

Score one for the bad guy!

Still, she’s reeling from the sudden death of her father, and I understand that.  The logistics of looking after a deceased person’s disorganized affairs are overwhelming.  She has money to sort out, a will to decipher, lawyers to consult, a house to sell, and grief to nurture. 

To make things easier, I try to stay out of the way.  We’ve been having borderline explosive fights over the new dog (I wanted him, she didn’t – and yet she’s home all of the time and I’m not), and things have been contentious for several months.  I’ve made my share of mistakes, no doubt.  I’m dealing with things improperly.  However, I’m not quite sure how to deal with them properly.

A few days ago, I’d have said the best solution was to remove myself (and perhaps the dog) from the house.  However, last night she countered my suggestion with a, “we just need to spend more time together, that’s all.  Let’s go on a shopping trip soon!”  I like that idea.  Nothing fixes family tension like materialism (seriously, I’m not kidding).  There’s a strange, natural high that comes with over-spending on clothes.

Still, ever since I began feeling detached from the people at home, I’ve begun to wonder who else resents my flighty ways and shitty decisions.  Call me neurotic (I can be), but I feel other people – important people whom I care about – rapidly losing patience with me. 

If any of these fine people read this blog: I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about bailing on club nights and being surly over dinner/drinks.  I’m sorry if I go from distant to whiny and needy in seconds.  This, too, shall pass.  I’ve always been bad with change, and my life is changing. 

Maybe I should dedicate Sunday afternoons to writing a sexually explicit novel about ridiculous and improbable things.  I’ve always wanted to do that. 

For those poor souls who may or may not have read this entire entry, I apologize for boring you with my meandering musings.  It was very “emo” of me, and I’m a little embarrassed.  At the same time, I needed to waste time at work writing about nothing.  Doing that almost always makes me happy.

“Hello Darkness, My Old Friend”

Irrelevant blog title, but a cool one nonetheless. 

I’m at work. 

It’s snowing, which means I might get to to leave at 4:00 instead of 5:00. 

I had a latte this morning. 

All in all, it’s been a satisfactory day despite my tiredness.  I didn’t get to bed until 2:30 last night (or rather, this morning), but I was up for a good reason.  A sexy reason, if you will.  To put it more bluntly – for the confused and charmingly (perhaps cutely) slow-witted – I was kept awake by sex itself.  So I’m tired in a content kind of way, if that makes sense.

I haven’t much pontificating to do at the moment.  That’s not to say there’s nothing to pontificate about (there’s plenty), but I’m a little out of touch with issues of vast political importance.  I blame that on being out of school and having little inclination to read newspapers or watch TV.  This will pass, I assure you. 

I have job opportunities at the moment.  One will, I believe, work out.  The other probably wont.  I applied and was accepted to a seemingly competitive government internship program that, according to the organization’s website, I’m not supposed to talk about in great depth or detail.  It’s sort of like Fight Club, only less exciting – much less exciting. 

Anyways, I had to write an entrance exam last week and I feel ambivalent about it.  It probably went well, just not exceptionally well.  I can only hope that, to my surprise, I’ll have scored phenomenally high.  It took me so long to get there – and believe me, the journey was a perilous and difficult one – that I almost want to believe I’m fated to move up and on in the program.  I survived poor directions, wrong-turns, and crippling hopelessness to make it to the test centre with three - yes, three – minutes to spare.  I looked dishevelled, stressed, and shockingly under-dressed (there were a surprising number of people in suits), but I made it. 

Still, my hopes aren’t high.

I’ve applied to volunteer (yes, such a process does exist) at a fund-raising foundation at a hospital.  I’m looking at writing letters, annual reports, and blurbs.  I also expect to do some light research and make phone calls.  I’ll be gaining some experience working in public relations, which is good.  I won’t be paid for my efforts, but constructing a more recent, relevant and well-rounded portfolio is slightly more important than adding to my horribly meager condo fund. 

The radio station at work has been playing a lot of upbeat 60s music today.  Mindless, joyful stuff.  Not a bad thing to listen to in a sterile office, I don’t think.  Actually, I’ve had a soft spot in my heart for 60s pop since ending up at 60s night at a small, appealingly skanky bar several months back.  It was a surprisingly good night, even though nothing particularly memorable or exciting happened.  

Actually, I just thought about something of value to talk about. Unfortunately I have not the time to address the subject, which will require a longer and more thoughtful analysis than I’m at liberty to give at present.  I have lots of invoicing to do and only a half hour left to do it.

The topic is Discovery Channel health shows.  I watched several this past Sunday as I entertained the new-ish puppy (who’s an adorable, charming, satanic little monster). 

Perhaps I’ll discuss it later.  Like tomorrow, if the blogging mood strikes.

 I think this was the most unfocused entry I’ve ever written.  I blame the happy exhaustion. 

A Box Free of Soap

No soap-boxing today.

That’s not to say that there’s nothing to soap box about, I just don’t feel like doing it.  It’s Christmas-time, and I don’t have any energy.  

However, this is the first Christmas I’ve actively looked forward to since, like, childhood.  The last time the idea of Christmas brought me any sort of joy was when I was in grade 8.  I don’t feel particularly high-spirited, but I’m looking forward to the break (however brief it’ll be, now that I work full-time).  My two-day vacation will break up my monotonous (scarily so, these days) schedule. 

I don’t really like my job,  however fortunate enough I am to have it (and I know I should be thankful every time my alarm doesn’t go off at 5 am on a Friday morning indicating that the Starbucks pastry case needs tending to in a half hour).  Still, eight hours of paper-pushing isn’t what I had in mind for myself when I started school four years ago.  Then again, I’d be better off if I was more of a self-motivator.  Instead of actively looking for better opportunities, I often choose to sit.

In ten years, I might be that Hispanic liquor store janitor in Superbad saying, ”fuck my life.”    

I haven’t written anything substantial since school ended.  Sometimes, when I promise myself that I’ll schedule some much needed alone-time with Oscar (my laptop), I end up re-reading old essays, stories, blog entries and personal e-mails/Facebook messages and scowling at the screen.  I think of all the ways those pieces of writing could be improved upon, but I rarely start anything new.  I feel like I can’t, and I don’t know why. 

 A year ago, I used to think that my writing was best when my mind was clear – that is, free of immediate and self-centered concerns.  I suppose I thought that a distraction-free mind was a more rational one (which is probably true, but that’s neither here nor there). 

However, looking back at things I’ve written during extreme emotional highs and lows, I realize that they’re a bit better than the pieces I wrote while free of internal ecstasy/distress.  The problem is that times of unexpected happiness and sadness rarely compel me to write.  In fact, when the pendulum is swinging too hard to the left or right, I try to spend time away from Oscar (but he understands, and loves me anyways).   

Perhaps, to be successful, I need to be in a constant state of mental mania or anguish – with my very livelihood depending on churning out articles/stories/whathaveyou, etc.  I’ll write when I need to, when the circumstances are perilous and I have no choice.  When I’m not compelled, I tend not to.  Probably because I’m lazy and devoid of passion. 

Perhaps I’d have more motivation if I didn’t have a cushy, well-paying job to support my sedentary ass.  I suppose I haven’t experienced enough character-building situations in my life.  Some people might recommend some kind of bare-bones pilgrimage to change this, but that kind of journey isn’t in the cards for someone like me.  I’m too attached to daily comforts, like hair-dryers as powerful as Lear jets and expensive moisturizers infused with luscious scented botanicals. 

Besides, I did the whole back-packing thing this past summer, and it didn’t do much to fundamentally transform me.  I’d still die if I got lost in the wilderness.

In happier news, a puppy is on his way.  He’s a two-week old West Highland Terrier, and we get to take him home at the end of January. 

Pictures are coming – make no mistake of that.