2004-11-10..4:43 p.m.

I'm bored and tired and I want a cigarette and I totally forgot to bring in a couple of books I need to take back to the library which means my puny personal exchequer will be inflicted with astronomical* fines (FUCKER!)(and not just one library, but that's right! TWO! PLURAL! HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?!) and the purser will not be happy. I may lose my allowance if this shit keeps up.

*to go with my maddeningly offbalance mental state (no intended punniess) that was totally thought out as �gastronomical fines�. As in, �Go on.. It�s wah-ffer thin� or perhaps, a bout of severe bloating until I return them all.

I�m back at work. I�m not happy being back at work, but it�s better than doing shitall at home (I�ve become Swearo the Swear Monster in my sickliness even more than usual). I attempted uni yesterday and managed all of fifteen minutes of lecture time between having to run out trying to quieten my lungs which were attempting forcibly to eject themselves from my tender ribcage. In the Laurel Grove Bath buildings the public toilets are down a corridor at the back of a long line of converted art spaces (from bath rooms and adjoining changing stalls from when the building was a bathhouse), however YESTERDAY THE CORRIDOR WAS LOCKED! So there I was stuck in the lobby/foyer bent double trying desperately to inhale anything that wasn�t dislodged oesophagus tar with tears streaming out my right eye, cursing vehemently between gasps the shortsighted fucknut that cut my off from a supply of running water and possibly something to discreetly vomit into (though thankfully didn�t). I ended up collapsing against the porters window and leaving smudgy fist prints along the sill before the dumbass porter let me in to use the UNISEX toilet on the other side of his office.

I don�t actually have any problem with unisex toilets. In non-potential for vomit theory. HOWEVER when there is cause to believe that at any point I mightn�t be able to maintain secure hold of the contents of my stomach, IN NO WAY do I wish to have the additional worry that some random dude might be listening. Or worse, knocking on the stall door to see I�m not in fact dying. Not like I�d be all that chuffed about another woman happening upon my Conversed feet poking askew from under the door either, I�d just rather not deal with the O my god she�s dying/bulimic/pregnant What the Fuck do I do? spread of panic that inevitably accompanies finding some chick clinging frantically to the edge of a toilet bowl while her insides splish splosh out. For some reason most women seem better suited to dealing with this, or at least ignoring it all together. In any case. I ended up not throwing up, which is truly just as well because my stomach muscles are KILLING me. I�ve been too knackered/had no space to practice any yoga since moving into M�s place and so have no opportunity to stretch myself out, remove the kinks from sleeping on a swiftly deflating futon nor the knots seizing my delicate abdomen everytime I cough.

Right, so as I'm sitting here with not much else to do but gaze limply at the computer and struggle to keep myself awake* I decided to be AFFIRMATIVE and take ACTION. Which amounts to looking up the listings for the Prince Charles this weekend and lo! Super Size Me is playing! Sunday, 6.30pm. AND Bad Education at 4.30pm. This will be the fucking GREATEST double bill in the HISTORY of double bills. AND (last full-caps AND I promise) we could see them BOTH for the combined cost of seeing ONE at some regular commercial Odeon. AH! AANNNNNNNNNNNNND!!!!!! That Metallica movie is playing on Tuesday!! It doesn't end until 11pm, but how cool is that? Man, as of Thursday my world will ROCK!**

*I stayed up last night until M got home. I miss him.* I miss him I miss him I miss him, so I stayed up last night until he got home and could crawl into bed with his supper in his lap so we could giggle and chatter and make out a bit before going to sleep. He commented this morning that I couldn�t stop wriggling and fidgeting next to him trying to keep my eyes open, so much did I crave those last fifteen minutes of being consciously aware of his smell, his arms, his scritchy, stubbly-chin, his laughter and delighted playing along with my stoopid jokes and scheming.

We might wake up next to each other every morning, and I may well be finding myself increasingly having to bite my tongue from telling him just how I feel, and I may well have never been as fluidly happy as I am with him, but I miss him. Since moving into his place, it just sometimes feels like we never have time to just hang out with no one around. At my old place it was really rare for me to be at home at the same time as the others, but here they�re all fucking layabout students! GO AND GET A JOB AND LET US FUCK IN PEACE! One of these days, I�m just not going to be able to keep quiet and THEN where will we be? HUH?! Ahem. That aside, I miss having the livingroom to ourselves to hole up in. I miss having a kitchen to run around chasing each other with bits of broccoli and curry paste. I miss the little notes he�d leave my on my pillow to find when I got home, and how he�d make the bed before he left because he knows I like that.

**However, Thursday night is M AND ME night in which we are going to kick out his flatmates, run around the kitchen with tomato streaked strips of eggplant and snaking spaghetti strands, lounge on the sofa in front of a movie and be consciously aware of each other all night. Maybe loudly.

In other news I think I might have dreamt of yellow rubber duckies because I keep having little mental flashes of waterslicked rubber flesh and a blue shower curtain.

In other other news my inner jukebox has gone completely batshit today. It makes no sense. Literally from Belle and Sebastian to random Duke Ellington tunes to Barbara Striesand (bet you didn't know I knew any. Neither did I.) to Adult. to Edith Piaf. I need my brain to stop fucking with me, because this is not funny.

In other other other news. I've not had a single cigarette SINCE SATURDAY, I'm feeling chunky around the belly, I keep getting weird looks from my tape dispenser that's shaped like a snail and is blue and I'm fucking knackered. I'm feeling more weird than usual. I think this is because I cannot at this time rely on the calming effects of nicotine (and don't tell me it's a stimulant. It stimulates my calm centre.) But worry not, I will forgo no matter how much the cilia in my oesophagus need another layer of tar to keep from doing Mexican Waves all over the place and making me cough. Because I do rationally recognise the fact that the layer of tar is icky and keeping me sickly. I do know this. I'll bear it in mind all the way to Friday. I'll try. I mean tonight I might as well smoke, all the good the second hand horseshit pre-rolled smolke care of Marcus will do me (doing the door down at the Rats tonight), but I won't. Friday.

In FINAL news my Dad, in a show of remarkably convenient timing, surprised me at the start of my lunch hour by calling all the way from Canada. Fantastic! I�ve not spoken to him in nearly a month!

We talked about:

the similarities between Plato/Aristotle and Benjamin/Adorno

writing and essaying

coughing and getting sent home (he reminded me of when I got sent home for coughing too much in grade one and then again in grade three - very bad year - and then again in grade seven. It was the grade seven time that just sent my mum through the roof and so I ended up spending half the winter in a little side room doing my work so I wouldn't disturb the rest of the class)

how drafts/closing doors/lying down/sitting/standing/walking/drinking/eating/changing rooms can be enough to make you start coughing for hours and the quest for that one position in which you can breathe naturally

coughing on public transport and public reaction to it; what we're reading (me avant-garde theatre; him autosport)

snow (the appearance of it just north of Toronto on Tuesday and it�s disappearance since)

writing emails or not doing so (and our genetic imbalance that makes our letters both extraordinarily infrequent and extraordinarily long)

how we've not spoken in far too long

little stupid anecdotes about nothing

mum

M

the flat

smoking

Zanna

Sweden

Christmas plans


It was so so lovely to speak with him! he's tried calling my mobile but (obviously) unsuccessfully. We can't figure out where we're going wrong.

Fuck me. I really have to go. Why is it I end up spending ages saying nothing when I do in fact have somewhat interesting things to say about politics and leaves falling and midget porn (frightening conversation about it the other night)? Sigh.

****meep