Saturday, December 03, 2005


Heading to Funky Toque for a haircut tomorrow (today?). It's going to be one-part Hitchcock beehive, two-parts mod, and a handsome dash of Clara Bow. Gothic and doll-like, I want to straddle a new look that projects a certain je ne sais ... where she bought her mascara from. It's mussy sex hair, it's just got dumped hair, it's eating two pints of Ben & Jerry's custom-blended tubs of instant-nirvana hair. Or perhaps, more accurately: it's the actually moving on from the painful memories of that torrid affair and taking responsibility for the cycle of ecstasy and loss that constantly appears and reappears as a reminder to deal with my shit before it gets out of control hair. My friends have really helped me through this absurd ordeal. They've been quite frank in telling me what they feel I need to hear, but are good-humoured enough to ridicule my self-bred neurosis when appropriate. I have since seen him twice by chance, and twice, I did not hesitate to emote sparingly. All smiles, he was. All How are yous? and How've you beens? as if strong-arming me to let go of his ne'er-forgotten deeds with the sheer will of his charm is a legitimate substitute for remorse.

No. I like it here just fine. A balanced core, the freedom of neutrality. I grieve, not passively anymore, but proactively -- unburdening my pride with affirmations of my (now warranted) suspicions and reminding myself that compared to the conquests of his past, I have survived undeniably unscathed and intact.

We hate those who mirror ourselves. I tried to fix him to atone for my past. To recognize faults is an attempt to walk away from our own. Point the finger and lay the blame.

So upon reflection and growing detachment, it became clear to me that I had to divorce the concept of "loneliness" with the act of being "alone." It was a Catch-22: Being with him, I was never allowed to carelessly express myself. Away from him, I was stuck with what I had become -- vulnerable to criticism, sensitive to a fault. So for the last few weeks, I've been explaining to each of my closest girlfriends why I haven't been calling and reassured them that, no, I am no longer mourning, and that yes, I am fine -- terrific, in fact. They've been infinitely patient and have respected my temporary, if rather drastic, boundaries.

Huge party tomorrow! WOOHOO!


I just put the finishing touches to my project in my publishing workshop class. The assignment asks for a 4-page layout spread for a fake newsletter we are required to create. I chose to christen mine The Narcissist Times. The final page had to be a photo/graphic collage representing the "essence" of our idea. Mine is designed to look like an FBI Most Wanted 9-piece grid. B&W photos of Pinochet, Amin, Kissinger, Mussolini, Tojo, Duvalier, Noriega, Milosevic were placed around the center, Whoopi-warmed, square which is reserved for none other than the fabulously dickless Mr. Geraldo Rivera (with the word "APPROVED" stamped across his forehead in big, bold, juicy, red letters).

My original plan was to use a picture of a sonogram that had the caption: "The unborn child of Tom and Katie Cruise: a crazy war criminal in the making!"

But that didn't show as much promise as using the Fox News reporter -- and part-time moustache model -- for the target of ridicule.

I will try to find a way to upload my project on to my blog by tomorrow.


The drunk girls are at it again outside my door. Vulgarity is a matter of degrees. I mean, how might you interpret violent outbursts punctuated by declarations of affection?

"Open this fucking door!" garbled the more inebriated of the two. "I want to tell her that I love her! She's such a fucking good friend!"

The door opened followed by an immediate warning hush.

"Shhhh, not so loud," my neighbour whispered.

"Fuck you! I love her, man! I looo~ve her ... Let me in! Don't touch me, let me in!"

The ensuing racket of shoulders, walls, bobbing heads and elevator doors quickly dissipated. So the dance continued ... out in the parking lot.

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