we are aware that there are men who believe the earth is flat and that birds bring forth the sun
fuck summer school, i've got my final tommorrow and i couldn't care less, total study time has been an hour and the class is total bullshit. we have to do a poetry analysis with the entire contents of the class, which basically translates into "no, louise, this poem is not about death and suicide" and then that bitch is all like "you can't always shut me down and tell me i'm wrong, 'trees' mean blood, 'soft footsteps' mean noose and just because every t-shirt I wear involves a shitty band and the words "reunion tour". cunt. wastes my time and money. whatever, it's all over, and then i'm going home for a week, only for elyse, (not that i'm against seeing anyone else, but i wouldn't be coming back if she wasn't involved) but as cara said "every time you go back to toronto you end up hating yourself a little more." harsh. maybe i just appreciate montreal a little more. i had a dream about some notorious murderer last night, who first tried to kill me, got sent away for a bit and then upon his release the attempt to assimilate him into society again involved living in my house. from then on all i can remember are lots of big tongues and blue/green background. for some reason all my dreams are in 2 second windows nowadays, and involve some kind of turning it into a movie later on, which is probably just that nagging voice telling me i'm not making the most of my computer, i guess that's where garfinkle's gonna come in on this next return trip.
i started "working" at a cafe called toc toc, and it's fucking ill. i just don't think i can be jubilant today....i tried, but whatever that shit gets old fast. i don't think i ever realized the advantages of drinking solely out of brandy glasses. but oh yeah, summerschool, no fucking way i'm taking classes until august 15th.
i used to think i disliked alistair mcleod, when i read no great mischief, because he was really repetitive in terms of his family's motto's and such, but there's this short story called "as birds bring forth the sun" that's fucking ill. it's got it all, i'm telling you. some guy who loves his gigantic dog so much that when she's in heat he finds some other dog, and like, picks him up and puts him on top of her, cause she's so fucking huge and manually guides their genitals together. and then he gets killed by their babies, and then there's this eternal curse on his family of the cu more glas (gaellic) dog, everyone sees a big gray dog before they die. "the man's two sons, who were still in the boat and had witnessed it all, ran sobbing through the salt water to where their mauled and mangled father lay; but there was little they could do other than hold his warm and bloodied hands for a few brief moments. Although his eyes 'lived' for a small fraction of time, he could not speak to them because his face and throat had been torn away, and of course there was nothing they could do ecept to hold and by held tightly until that too slipped away and his eyes glazed over and they could no longer feel his hands holding theirs. The sorm increased and they could not get home so they were forced to spend the night huddled beside their father's body." morbid. oh alistair, how i misjudged you...still, he did make his grandmother talk wayyy to much in his novel. his brother was an alcoholic who'd lost all bladder control and who bled on his sheets and drank cooking brandy, so the book wasn't a complete waste of time or anything. going back to toronto for a week has already cost me one job, i hope it doesn't cost me one at chz dusty's, it's rare that anyone's even interested in hiring....it's less than two weeks that i move into my new apartment, i better get on that hydro shit or we'll be sitting in the dark.
i started "working" at a cafe called toc toc, and it's fucking ill. i just don't think i can be jubilant today....i tried, but whatever that shit gets old fast. i don't think i ever realized the advantages of drinking solely out of brandy glasses. but oh yeah, summerschool, no fucking way i'm taking classes until august 15th.
i used to think i disliked alistair mcleod, when i read no great mischief, because he was really repetitive in terms of his family's motto's and such, but there's this short story called "as birds bring forth the sun" that's fucking ill. it's got it all, i'm telling you. some guy who loves his gigantic dog so much that when she's in heat he finds some other dog, and like, picks him up and puts him on top of her, cause she's so fucking huge and manually guides their genitals together. and then he gets killed by their babies, and then there's this eternal curse on his family of the cu more glas (gaellic) dog, everyone sees a big gray dog before they die. "the man's two sons, who were still in the boat and had witnessed it all, ran sobbing through the salt water to where their mauled and mangled father lay; but there was little they could do other than hold his warm and bloodied hands for a few brief moments. Although his eyes 'lived' for a small fraction of time, he could not speak to them because his face and throat had been torn away, and of course there was nothing they could do ecept to hold and by held tightly until that too slipped away and his eyes glazed over and they could no longer feel his hands holding theirs. The sorm increased and they could not get home so they were forced to spend the night huddled beside their father's body." morbid. oh alistair, how i misjudged you...still, he did make his grandmother talk wayyy to much in his novel. his brother was an alcoholic who'd lost all bladder control and who bled on his sheets and drank cooking brandy, so the book wasn't a complete waste of time or anything. going back to toronto for a week has already cost me one job, i hope it doesn't cost me one at chz dusty's, it's rare that anyone's even interested in hiring....it's less than two weeks that i move into my new apartment, i better get on that hydro shit or we'll be sitting in the dark.