Tuesday, October 18, 2005

"Computer Use Guidelines ..." do not apply to me

One word: intense. This man simply embodies the word. I saw him around during my freshman year, always contemplative, always alone, always listening to his iPod, dreadlocked and melancholy -- a typical Buddhist-looking, organic-humping hippie. Oh, but how drool-worthy. Then he cut his braids and appeared in my publishing workshop class ... unbeknownst to me because I'm near-sighted and completely oblivious to changes in people's physical appearances ("Did you do something with your hair?" "I shaved it"). I got a big laugh from him one day after cracking wise and have been strangely drawn to his stone-cold aura ever since. We've chatted by proxy which involves me speaking to friends across the room in my best impersonation of wit and him laughing at my jokes at frequent intervals or talking to each other without ever looking away from the computer screen. My affections are perma-shifted on neutral, but I'm still visibly intrigued. My dyke-friend-with-straight-boyfriend told me she had a huge crush on him last year, but from what I gathered, it was an admiration from afar-type affair and, lo and behold, "he had a girlfriend, he might still have her." Thus, I have already postulated a bad outcome from potential pursuit. It will go as thus:

1. Commencement of innocuous relations
2. Insertion of -- no, not that -- racy dialogue into everyday speech
3. Development of mutual fondness
4. Courtship continues outside of school
5. Purchase of shovel to bury dead girlfriend

See, nothing good will come of this.


My dyke friend's dad died recently, hit by a speeding 26-year-old while on his bike (this is why car insurance is more expensive for men!). I gave her my sympathies, but since Techbiana and I are good friends I told her it could always be worse.

I related the story of a high school classmate whose father and younger brother were hit by a truck. The brother died, the dad was left temporarily paralyzed, and she ended up quitting school and joining the circus. "And not just any circus, but Cirque du Soleil ... in Las Vegas. So be grateful you're not in leotards, riding ponies." True story, those leotards ride harder than prison bait.


My courriel correspondence has ended. I hate that bastardly biological specimen, that masterful example of deceit. How do people end things on good terms? I'm out of my element if it doesn't include a bloody knife through the chest and some sort of trafficked body part. It's not that I'm a misandrist, but I'm starting to believe I have a dreadful relationship with men because none of them will agree to being just "friends" anymore -- compared to my childhood, of course. This face is the poster child for angry groins. Adolescence brought along a world of unmanageable expecations and unsatisfiable needs. Even my neighbour, whom I borrowed a vacuum cleaner from, looks at me like a hole on heels.

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