Maxwell's Reflections | snoitcэlfэЯ s'llэwxaM
So here I am, enjoying another fine morning in the McNally East Wing computer lab. You can be sure that I will think once, twice, and three times before I ever put myself in this situation again.
Still, coming home at the break of dawn yesterday had its benefits. You should have seen the morning sky and its reflection on the Bedford Basin. The peninsula looked pretty cool backlit, too. I stared at the panorama in awe, mouth agape. I snapped a few photos but they can only refer to the power of the scene. When I got off the bus in Mill Cove, I walked across the tracks to the Convoy Run and took some more photos. The view was achingly pretty, and I couldn’t help but exclaim to myself how happy I was to live here. [Update: See the photos here.]
So I got home, slept for a few hours, and then went out with my mom in the afternoon to patch up the driveway. Oh, the joys of exurbia. It was very muddy out, too - I soon discovered that I’d better change from my sneakers into rubber boots if I ever wanted to wear those sneakers out on a date ever, ever again.
Mom talked me into subbing for her at her private school on Wednesday morning. I’m kind of looking forward to it. I hope I don’t embarrass myself in front of my uncle, though.
Tonight: Maxwell’s was lively. I got in a bit early and read a few chapters of Hitman. Also, because I was still kind of reeling from last night, I started off like this: “Could I get a pint of Coors Light?” Those are words that don’t usually go together in one sentence. JuJu came after J.G., rolled his eyes, and started us on brewtenders.
My unbirthday party at Maxwell’s went surprisingly well, but… I think I drank too much, and I also went to Reflections when I should have just gone home on the last bus like I originally wanted. JuJu was even subtly trying to tell me, “Hey, don’t come with us just for such-and-such,” but it went over my head. More to the point, though, I should have stuck up for myself and what I wanted. I went along with things just because I was trying to be nice, but it totally misfired, and I had a miserable time. It was a wasted $10 ($9 cover plus $1 to check my backpack), except for JuJu’s timely upbraiding. As he put it, being someone’s friend does not mean having to go along with everything they suggest.
I don’t know what it is with me and dance floors. For me, it’s like swimming through a river of vomit. I just hate hate hate all the posturing and chicanery and games. I can’t court on a dance floor - well, I suppose I have the wherewithal in a physical sense, but there’s a funny mental block that actually keeps me from doing anything. I’m all but paralysed. I tried going around it when I was in Ukraine, but the few times I did just made things worse. So fuck dance floors. For me, they’re dating kryptonite.
“You have to play Wingman.”
“Look, she’s dancing by herself.”
“Talk to people.”
“Make eye contact.”
“Aren’t you enjoying this? Don’t you like the music? Don’t you like watching people?”
“See what the guys are doing, and imitate them.”
Maybe I’m just a lazy bum, unwilling to cultivate skills in areas where I have little to no natural talent. The worst part is, it’s all my fault. I can’t console myself with the tired old “woe is me” schlock - all responsibility and blame for my miserable time lies with me alone.
Still, “it’s not a big deal.” It sure feels like it is, though. It sure felt like a me versus the world moment.
Earlier, at Maxwell’s, by some strange turn of events I had my head in somebody’s lap, but I stretched it just a little too far (in duration) and changed it from funny to awkward, as was explained to me while the two girls involved darted off to the washroom together for the fifteenth time that evening. (She’d stroked my head; what was I supposed to think? But, as JuJu said, it was just lack of experience on my part.) I needed to hear that, but at the same time the news, even though it “wasn’t a big deal,” put me off my feed.
And you know what else? Clubs are breeding grounds for assholes, and not just the ones that start close-dancing with the girl you came with (not With, but still) the moment they spot more than three inches of air between yourselves. Having finally decided to cut my losses (and come here), I had to wait nearly fifteen minutes to get my jacket and bag back from the coat check. And just as I’m getting to the front of the line, some fucker cuts in front of me.
“Hey, I’m cutting in front of you.”
Well, fuck you, asshole. Keeping the indignation off my face, I eventually tap him on the shoulder and ask, “Hey, why did you cut in front of me?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it.”
Fuck you with a farming implement. “Well, OK, but you know, you should have a reason, like if it was an emergency-”
“Well, I gotta get out of here… I gotta puke, I’ve got to get out of here before I puke.”
Well, he should have just said so in the first place. How about: “Excuse me, could I go ahead of you? I’m not feeling very well.” That’s all he needed to say! Instead he just ran over me like I was some kind of doormat, just because he could.
It will be a very long time indeed before I darken the door of Reflections again, let me tell you.
There’s only one other person in the lab with me tonight - a poor fellow working on an imminently due criminology assignment. He even asked me out of the blue if I happened to be such a major. So there’s one good thing to note: I don’t have any assignments to worry about! Yet.
Update, 9:00am: It just gets better and better. ___ phoned me, saying ___ didn’t come home. So if anyone knows where ___ is, call ___ or call me, and I’ll call ___. Much obliged. 2:00pm: Lawrencetown! And all's well.
Still, coming home at the break of dawn yesterday had its benefits. You should have seen the morning sky and its reflection on the Bedford Basin. The peninsula looked pretty cool backlit, too. I stared at the panorama in awe, mouth agape. I snapped a few photos but they can only refer to the power of the scene. When I got off the bus in Mill Cove, I walked across the tracks to the Convoy Run and took some more photos. The view was achingly pretty, and I couldn’t help but exclaim to myself how happy I was to live here. [Update: See the photos here.]
So I got home, slept for a few hours, and then went out with my mom in the afternoon to patch up the driveway. Oh, the joys of exurbia. It was very muddy out, too - I soon discovered that I’d better change from my sneakers into rubber boots if I ever wanted to wear those sneakers out on a date ever, ever again.
Mom talked me into subbing for her at her private school on Wednesday morning. I’m kind of looking forward to it. I hope I don’t embarrass myself in front of my uncle, though.
Tonight: Maxwell’s was lively. I got in a bit early and read a few chapters of Hitman. Also, because I was still kind of reeling from last night, I started off like this: “Could I get a pint of Coors Light?” Those are words that don’t usually go together in one sentence. JuJu came after J.G., rolled his eyes, and started us on brewtenders.
My unbirthday party at Maxwell’s went surprisingly well, but… I think I drank too much, and I also went to Reflections when I should have just gone home on the last bus like I originally wanted. JuJu was even subtly trying to tell me, “Hey, don’t come with us just for such-and-such,” but it went over my head. More to the point, though, I should have stuck up for myself and what I wanted. I went along with things just because I was trying to be nice, but it totally misfired, and I had a miserable time. It was a wasted $10 ($9 cover plus $1 to check my backpack), except for JuJu’s timely upbraiding. As he put it, being someone’s friend does not mean having to go along with everything they suggest.
I don’t know what it is with me and dance floors. For me, it’s like swimming through a river of vomit. I just hate hate hate all the posturing and chicanery and games. I can’t court on a dance floor - well, I suppose I have the wherewithal in a physical sense, but there’s a funny mental block that actually keeps me from doing anything. I’m all but paralysed. I tried going around it when I was in Ukraine, but the few times I did just made things worse. So fuck dance floors. For me, they’re dating kryptonite.
“You have to play Wingman.”
“Look, she’s dancing by herself.”
“Talk to people.”
“Make eye contact.”
“Aren’t you enjoying this? Don’t you like the music? Don’t you like watching people?”
“See what the guys are doing, and imitate them.”
Maybe I’m just a lazy bum, unwilling to cultivate skills in areas where I have little to no natural talent. The worst part is, it’s all my fault. I can’t console myself with the tired old “woe is me” schlock - all responsibility and blame for my miserable time lies with me alone.
Still, “it’s not a big deal.” It sure feels like it is, though. It sure felt like a me versus the world moment.
Earlier, at Maxwell’s, by some strange turn of events I had my head in somebody’s lap, but I stretched it just a little too far (in duration) and changed it from funny to awkward, as was explained to me while the two girls involved darted off to the washroom together for the fifteenth time that evening. (She’d stroked my head; what was I supposed to think? But, as JuJu said, it was just lack of experience on my part.) I needed to hear that, but at the same time the news, even though it “wasn’t a big deal,” put me off my feed.
And you know what else? Clubs are breeding grounds for assholes, and not just the ones that start close-dancing with the girl you came with (not With, but still) the moment they spot more than three inches of air between yourselves. Having finally decided to cut my losses (and come here), I had to wait nearly fifteen minutes to get my jacket and bag back from the coat check. And just as I’m getting to the front of the line, some fucker cuts in front of me.
“Hey, I’m cutting in front of you.”
Well, fuck you, asshole. Keeping the indignation off my face, I eventually tap him on the shoulder and ask, “Hey, why did you cut in front of me?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it.”
Fuck you with a farming implement. “Well, OK, but you know, you should have a reason, like if it was an emergency-”
“Well, I gotta get out of here… I gotta puke, I’ve got to get out of here before I puke.”
Well, he should have just said so in the first place. How about: “Excuse me, could I go ahead of you? I’m not feeling very well.” That’s all he needed to say! Instead he just ran over me like I was some kind of doormat, just because he could.
It will be a very long time indeed before I darken the door of Reflections again, let me tell you.
There’s only one other person in the lab with me tonight - a poor fellow working on an imminently due criminology assignment. He even asked me out of the blue if I happened to be such a major. So there’s one good thing to note: I don’t have any assignments to worry about! Yet.
Update, 9:00am: It just gets better and better. ___ phoned me, saying ___ didn’t come home. So if anyone knows where ___ is, call ___ or call me, and I’ll call ___. Much obliged. 2:00pm: Lawrencetown! And all's well.