Thursday, June 23, 2005


Ran out of books to read again, so I went out and bought Mind Wide Open by Steven Johnson and One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The former is like a novel-length footnote out of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink. It's brain-tology for the layman. The latter has an annoying Oprah's Book Club sticker branded on its cover. Trying to tear it off is fast becoming the battle of the summer.


Film studies final exam today. Didn't study (much). Read a few chapters this morning when I dragged myself out of bed and ate chips for breakfast. Optimistic though. Wrote enough to tire my wrist out. I think that's sufficient: when your limb breaks, it's a good indication to stop. I'd earn a solid A in the class even if I ended up with a 50% (but that's not what my mom wants to hear for what she's paying to keep me spoiled and emaciated).


Techbiana is going to be my roommate come September. I haven't discussed it with my parents yet, but I'm looking forward to moving in with her. We're both journalism students and neither of us have a problem with bringing home strange men ("All I ask is that you turn up the music") and women.

Scanning the papers together, we saw a photo of three Pakistani prisoners sitting on a bench. I said it looked like Three's Company: Guatanamo Edition. Techbiana said the one in the middle with the yeast-risen hair could be mistaken for Suzanne Somers. I said the one sitting with his legs apart was the splitting image of John Ritter "except skinny and brown."


"What do you think? Your type?" Readerdroid whispered in my ear as I skipped between her and Paisley, eating a pistachio cone I milked from one of Readerdroid's flings who was working the cafe counter last night.

Her best friend from high school and his acquaintance are currently in Montreal, taking a break from their studies at U. of T. Dema is Russian, a math student, broad-shouldered and introverted. Dean is lean, has a prominant, aqualine nose and an unhealthy obsession with Bob Marley ("He had Jew in his blood. He was the son of the Queen of Sheba and the King of, ya know, Naga ... Neo ... Naza ... whatever. Anyway, that's why we're related"). Both: boring. Readerdroid told me days in advance to be prepared to meet some gorgeous men. Brushing off my protests of having a genetic disorder that prevented me from discerning a knockout from a leper due to my attraction to the unexplainable allure of emotional immaturity, financial dependence, and social ineptness (which would, thus, make me a bad judge of popular appeal), Readerdroid breathlessly drooled into the phone, "Oh my God, Dean is so hot. So tall and tan," as if nothing I said in the last 10 minutes had been mentally processed or would've made a difference in my evening's plans (bar hopping and sipping water).

Which brings me back to the question she asked me earlier as I was licking the shit out of my ice cream. I looked over my shoulder, knowing instinctively the pair-'o-hommes were eyeing my bum, and answered matter-of-factly:

"Not [my type.] Too clean. I like a man I'm forced to support."

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