2004-03-21..3:02 p.m.

SATURDAY

I�m feeling totally uninspired to do anything worth while today, which is odd (because I just had baked beans and tofu sausages, and if that isn�t enough to make inspire greatness, what is?) and unfortunate (because I�ve a shitload of crap to do today, AND it�s my Nan�s birthday, which means I really should have got off my ass and at least made her a card or something.) (Note the *making* of said card. I find the entire Hallmark supplying bullshit phrases for all occasions thing tedious beyond words, not to mention commercial and impersonal. I refuse to buy into such rubbish, which is of course why instead of arts-and-crafting a cardboard cut out of my love and admiration for the dear old thing, I ended up shoving birthday missives off the shelf and quickly into my bag as quickly as possible, hoping no one I know saw me and, more to the point, security would for fucking once turn a blind eye. It�s not *shoplifting*, it�s borrowing until such times as I can actually afford it. Dumbass)

In highschool, my best friend (who has since legally changed her name because she found the whole idea of being named oppressive to her integral sense of self-identity, not to mention a symbolic construction of patriarchal indifference to the bodily formation that one day came to house the cerebral and creative individual that we now know and love as HER) was caught shoplifting at the Dominion in the centre across the road from our dear house of adolescent academe, and was BANNED FOR LIFE! Ever since then it�s become my mission to be BANNED FOR LIFE from somewhere too. Things only started moving steadily towards that pedestal of social rebellion when I told Nelle about it. We spent much of last year plotting and scheming ways to get BANNED FOR LIFE (it became a primary focal point in our general routine of plotting and scheming, which was really our routine state of existence.) It would have to be somewhere cool though, because being BANNED FOR LIFE from a Dominion (unless it were the Dominion of [country]) isn�t as cool as being BANNED FOR LIFE from somewhere like the House of Commons, or the Presidential Suite of the Ritz Carleton. Sigh. Still at this point, I�d settle for being BANNED FOR LIFE from a bowling alley. Which incidentally, Nelle and I nearly were when we scored a pair of shoes and a bowling ball at the Clover Leaf in Kingston after my Disco Birthday Bonanza last year. But that�s another story. We also very nearly came close to getting BANNED FOR LIFE from S&R, which is the most insane old school department store ever.

S&R belongs to a different era. It has a spiral stair case in the middle of the floor, which though Messer�s S and R presumably thought would class the joint up, is now home to a vast selection of swimwear generally purchased by women who prefer the Floral Whale look when hitting the beach. It has an elevator man who announces each floor (there are three), and the range of goods that can be found on each (First Floor: Gents ready-made suits, casual wear, ties, hats, workmen�s boots); and woman who serves complimentary coffee and juice on the second floor. It�s the only place in town where you can find Old Man Hats and braces that hold up socks. There are hair colorants and mascara blocks on the shelves dating back to some time in the mid forties.* Knitting supplies can be found next to the toy section, a perfect storm of beginner violence. They also carried first edition Simpsons� figurines and Curious George yoyos, those mad proportionate animal figurines and My First Oven refills, none of which could be found anywhere else. Sling-shot Bart and miniature pound cake aside, what really captured our attention were these mannequin torsos under the stairs.

They were covered in thirty years of dust, but still sported carefully applied Elizabeth Taylor makeup and enormous false eyelashes. It was our dream to be able to carry these through the streets of Kingston and cement them as a new addition to the Co-op family by dressing them in Goodwill ball gowns and attaching them to the porch like welcome fairies. We watched them for months until we were quite certain they were in as much demand as the Radioactive Blonde and one day worked up the courage to inquire how one might go about taking possession of them. After being blown off by three separate sales assistants, we were directed to a rather beige man who became extremely tight lipped on the subject until finally barking that the mannequins valued over $500 a piece, were used All the Time, All Over the Store, were certainly not for sale, and under no circumstances were we to speak to his staff on the matter again. The most peculiar thing about it all was that the next time we went in they had completely vanished. Without a trace. Not even a vague outline in the linoleum on the floor. Gone.

*We have wavering theories** on why this might be. Either management is fully aware of the fact that they contain radium to varying degrees and have been putting off recalling them because it would mean having to put off the Annual RMCP Frontenac Division Table Tennis and Potluck in order to evacuate the city, and find a dump site secure enough to take them, or their removal would cause the blue brigade to have a social rebellion of their own, and they�d end up burning down the store, which would mean calling out all three firetrucks. Either way, we�re pretty sure it�s down to fear and laziness.

**Actually, we have plenty of wavering theories about S&R in general, and not half because of the mannequin torso thing. I�m all for small business, but there is no way they can still be making money, at least not profitably. They�re probably a front for a huge prohibition style smuggling ring. I expect I�ll be dragged into an alley and shot behind a stack of cardboard for even mentioning it. Forget I said anything.

What was I talking about again? Oh right, doing nothing blahness. I think I might be coming off like I�ve been feeling this a lot lately, but it�s not really true. I�ve actually been quite chirpy lately. In fact, I came down with a case of Monolithic Phantasmagoria mid-week and went on an veritable rampage of daydreams and imagination that rocked the nation. Maybe it�s just burnout. Maybe it�s the boozing and overnicotining of last night. Maybe it�s because I burnt the roof of my mouth yesterday hurrying over soup before the clock ticked over and I was free to start my weekend, and of course went straight to the Water Rats because going home would be out of my way, and I had all my shit, so figured, eh, whereupon I CHAINSMOKED for the next SIX HOURS and spent far too much money and then decided to be cheap and WALK HOME after which I was too tired to do my usual pre-bed Bendy is Beautiful yoga and so curled under the covers all wild-eyed and jittery with my legs pulled up to my chest and clutching my toes like that might help me nod off and then woke this morning completely stiff and raspy. Maybe that�s it.

Regardless, right now (and by right now I mean right now as I�m writing this, rather than right now when I post this, because I will be posting all of this tomorrow morning because I am a lazyass beyatch who gets up for nobody. Also, one of Flatmate Emma�s friend�s is over for the weekend and asleep in the livingroom where I would normally sneak down for midnight internetting) Right now the house is very quiet and plungingly black. Right now I want to read by low light. Right now I am rather hoping aliens will swoop me out of bed in the middle of my sleep and remove the grotesque back-fatty feeling I�ve been plagued with all evening as a result of too much fun and good times from last night, and the inexplicable chocolate follow-through of today.

I like this friend of Flatmate Emma. I actually rather wish she was Flatmate Sam, and Emma was the Flatmate�s friend. What a thing to be thinking.

SUNDAY = RANDOM COLLECTION OF UNCONNECTED THOUGHTS. TO CALL THEM THOUGHTS IS ACTUALLY GIVING THEM TOO MUCH CREDIT. SUNDAY = RANDOM COLLECTION OF IMMATERIAL BRAINWAVES CULMINATING IN MUCH DRIVEL.

Groany. Grumbly. Sunshine good. Brain haze bad. Vague ideas of hangover with no laudable explanation because woke up and thought, Too early. Two hours later, too late. Coffee. Bring coffee. Don�t make me get it. Please. Will stay here like good girl. Won�t move. And some morphine. Maybe a Magnum. The ice-cream, not the gun or the PI.

Speaking of ludicrously attended to upper-lip follicle manipulation. I saw a man the other day on the street waiting for a bus. The 259, though possibly the 279. two stops before the Finsbury Park bridge in any case, outside the Council estate. He was sporting a handle-bar moustache. I think he was sporting Alpine suspenders and breeches, and shouldering a grappling hook as well, but I tried not to look too closely.

I should look into trying to arrange various bits of pube to handle-bar. If nothing else, than for the well-placed injection of surreal it would bring to a first night home with a new dude. Could be rather handy, actually. A measure of how much they�re actually into you, verses how much they just want to get in your pants. I�m toying with an image of chasing after them yelling, You don�t like it? But I did it just for you! as they scramble into clothing before hurtling down the road with nary a backwards glance.

Right. Work work work. Must be productive. Must get something accomplished. Must! Do! Something!

Hardwired and multitasking, I�m a busy meepie.