Analyze this

Sometimes it's a tough call- Do I go to therapy because I'm not doing very well, or do I go to therapy when I feel really great to get that reaffirmed by someone else? Why is it that I feel better about my successes when my therapists celebrates them with me? Too often I find myself calling my mother or a close friend after a session and triumphantly regaling them with a sentence of praise or a word of advice offered to me by my therapist. Too often I am dimly aware as I'm gabbing on that I've heard this advice and/or praise somewhere else before (perhaps from my mother or a close friend?) but hearing it from someone who's credentials adorn the wall of a rented downtown room makes it better. Realer. More valid. Coveted.


I've been thinking a bit recently about this economy. About the concept of paying someone for a service that you may or may not need. I think that a vast number of people make their livings off of a knowledge that translates to a service that everyone else is willing to pay for. Maybe I don't know anything about psychology. Thing is, I know as little about psychology as my shrink knows about me, so neither one of us is truly fully qualified. Even if I was a shrink, I'd still be fucked due to personal bias so I suppose it's a moot point. 


But it applies to everything!


Like, I need to take singing lessons. I need them for a lot of reasons; I don't breathe well, I don't sing from my diaphragm, I don't have a basic understanding of my jaw and mouth muscles and so much more. I could easily go to school, do the work, earn a degree and figure it out for myself, but that would cost way more time and money! So the easiest thing is to just pay someone else and try not to hate yourself for not knowing enough about anything to do it yourself for free. 


I can't fix my own car, cobble my own shoes, cook a 5 course meal- but all these things are so tantalizingly within reach that it's almost frustrating. 

I've moved!

I've started a new blog called "Germs in the Workplace"

http://www.tumblr.com/blog/germsintheworkplace

Check it out for more of the same, only hopefully more cohesive and with a much less ridiculous backdrop.

Love,

Gloria Dysphoria

I must admit I am pending. An idling vehicle at a yellow light, a fried egg that has yet to be flipped, a loose tooth that needs to be pulled, an awkward haircut that hasn't grown out yet.

For a society hell bent on progress it does seem to be in personal short supply. Is it just that progress was designed to be something one always strives for yet never really feels? Perhaps in my day to day activities it can and does appear that I'm stuck in one place perpetually. Still young, still anxious, still scared of nothing, still resentful of the nothingfear. Perhaps my day to day self is unable to look objectively across a broader trajectory to sift through the mire and collect the little self affirming gems of progress and hope. I think that I've totally lost my big picture person. That part of my brain that can examine things from a lofty height. She's gone somewhere else! Where? I don't know. If I did, I'd trace her down, hog tie her and wrangle her back into my mind crate to help me maintain a firmer grasp on reality.

And I'm running out of synovial gas.

22 years, just me and you, baby.

They say that a person can get used to almost anything. They say that time heals all wounds. They also say survival of the fittest.

My coworker showed me something the other day; he asked me what my age is (22) and he got a ruler and pulled the tape out until it was 22 inches long. We then chatted about my lifestyle and habits for a few moments and tried to suss out an approximate natural age of death. After factoring in stress from anxiety, he decided that 80 was a generous number (though I'm not so sure!) and pulled the tape out further until it was 80 inches long. "See?" he said, "look how much time you still have".

And yet the phobia is of wasting it. And the annoyance stems from time wasted thinking about wasting time. And the fear comes from thinking of the time already wasted fretting over the time wasted thinking about wasting time. And so time goes. And it is not dissimilar to the feeling you get when you've let something slip from your hands but are fumbling to not have it drop to the ground and you are juggling lower and lower, desperately trying to anticipate the errant objects' seemingly unpredictable movements that are really only unpredictable because you aren't thinking about which way you toss it as you try to save it from yourself. Think. Only don't think.

Is it better to react or to anticipate? And if it is better to react (but you're a lousy "reacter" and a masterful "anticipater") can it be wise to do the less healthy thing because you're better at it? Is the feeling of satisfaction you can get from perfectly anticipating enough to forgo learning a new way of thinking that could possibly make your tape measurer longer? Or do most people just say, "fuck the tape analogy!" and then go swim after eating? I DON'T EVEN FUCKING SWIM!

So I wonder (and ruminate and obsess and theorize and hypothesize and criticize and idealize and fantasize and despise) if one can get used to anything, why then, have I not yet gotten used to this?

The Cure for the Common Panic Attack

On nights like this I can see a physical imprint my hands leave on everything I touch- a waxy panic residue, a flaky shaky energy that cascades off of every part of me in a seemingly endless supply. I can trace my pacing across the floor and my sporadic taps and twitches on doors, walls and my person.

I am aware of a more or less calm exterior despite wanting to tear my hair out. Despite wanting to cut my own flesh and rip my burning stomach out. Despite doubting my sanity and thinking in circles and losing the ability to move my eyes or lungs. Ow my sternum, my ears, my breasts, my bowels, my ribs and entrails and appetite and legs. My ass is twitching. I want to fight someone I want to choke to death. I am choking to death.

I lose my taste for life.

And I hate myself. I hate myself with a passion. I hate myself as though there's some nobility in it; as though self hatred is a redeeming quality. I hate myself in lieu of being humble. I examine my ills and feel revulsion.

I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going Going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going I'm going.

The world is out to get me.

My mother has offered to treat me with Reiki, but there is no cure for the common panic attack.

Day 1

Technically this isn't Day One. Technically, this is day eight. However, there was one day of set up, which would make this day seven, and we took a break for 2 days making this sort of somewhere between days five and six. I never considered the marking of days until my mother asked me how the time was passing for me up here. Above the sink in the bathroom, right at eye level is a little window that faces west and every evening at sunset I wash my hands and think, "there goes another one".

To explain briefly, I am at a barn near Stoney Creek in the county of West Lincoln, bordering on Hamilton Ontario. A 20 minute drive away rewards us with a post box, a Fortinos, an LCBO and a TD Bank. If we go a little farther we can also access a Giant Tiger and a Food Basics. The Barn itself is gorgeous and old. The water is a little smelly and the kitchen is modest, but it opens up to a lovely main area as well as a spiral staircase leading up to a loft for sleep and general lazing about-ness.

The Reason I am here in this barn near Stoney Creek is because I am recording my first ever full length album with the particular band I am here with. It is a consistently trying, wholly rewarding experience. We are operating at an intense version of low intensity. Those who have energy are conserving it. Holding on for dear life. We have 14 more days up here more or less.
I'm not scared... I may be a little bored. I may be an only child feeling deprived of "alone time" or "down time" or whatever we typically require. And I'm anxious most of the time. It's tougher than I expected.

why can't a blade of grass just be a blade of grass?
why does it have to be examined so? and considered from every angle?
is there dog piss on this blade of grass? did a sneaker tread on it, covering it with the filth of urban streets? who sat on this grass before me? were they healthy?

i know that to you, a blade of grass is just a blade of grass. it's green, and pretty and a good place to sit when the weather is nice.

and so perhaps the world to you can simply be the world. i sit and think about how beautiful it would be to sit on grass and share drinks and open doors and take the subway and converse with people and handle money if they were all just simply what they are.

i live in a made up world of projected consequences. i do not feel safe anywhere.

The Test

An interesting thing I've noticed about tests in general is that the more difficult the trial, the more strength is required. If you were to make a mathematical equation it could potentially read something like this:

s = strength, t = trial and v = victory.

where s > t = v.

Unfortunately, the equation changes drastically when fear is introduced. All of a sudden, strength and trial have an inversely proportionate relationship. Whereas before, strength and difficulty increased similarly, now strength diminishes as the test becomes more difficult. And victory is harder to achieve.

The trip began as (to the eyes of the averse) a killer Everest to scale. It has since downgraded significantly; first to intermediate obstacle to finally, training wheels with papa bear trailing behind ready to catch me if I fall.

Following logic (and remembering that when t = time is introduced to the equation it also brings along 2 other factors- b = bravado and h = high hopes) the original plan I had was to travel to 4 European cities for 4 days each. Berlin, Barcelona, Rome and Copenhagen. Shortly after, it was whittled down to just Berlin and Barcelona. After some soul searching, I decided that conquering Europe would not solve the problem at hand.

I dislike driving.

Be it childhood trauma or negative self talk, I find the thought of getting into a car terrifying and the act of long distance highway driving leaves my chest feeling like a bomb went off. Steeled with variables t, b, h, I plotted to drive myself across America.

Once the decision was made I stopped thinking about it. Unfortunately, with most things (and especially travel) the devil is in the details and all sorts of details began popping up. Have you rented a car? Who are you going with? Do they drive? Where will you stay? How much will it cost? What about food? A gps? Do you need to buy a cooler? Have you saved enough money?

Overwhelmed with these thoughts, completely lacking in communication with my co riders and somewhat overshadowed by an en masse lesbian exodus to New York City the week before the trip was slated to begin I decided to reevaluate one more time and alter the plans. I will spend a few days in NYC and a few days in Chicago at a grand total of 9 days away from home.

Having said that, I cannot rent a car as I am not yet 25 and have no credit card. My options are as of this moment, fly or drive. Obviously I would rather fly but to some spectators of my journey this defeats the purpose of facing a fear of driving. I would prefer to fly but I would prefer not to talk myself out of something once more because the resulting guilt hurts more than anything else and it's a hard path to walk if you keep letting yourself down but refuse to pick yourself up.

And I'm starving for victory.

blah blah blah anxiety

home root symptom carpet dim blinds corn saucepan crack bed plastic bag archie comics car grandparents london mom dad reverse wave knex no how 401 turn back rue sleeping bag apple sauce green navy expectation guilt raw pain red peppers frosted flakes strawberries elevator doctors office bagel car alison help duncan rachel get out escape fly control tums vicks cancer shit puke fart green lungs water smell nerves voices shape dizzy howl

i'm sick i'm sick i'm sick i feel sick.

i need my home. the root cause of my anxiety has blossomed into a mighty web of symptoms. from the childhood memories of vomiting on the carpet beside my parents bed with my father beside me to the dim slatted blinds in their bedroom and my sick bed. corn eated from a saucepan, regurgitated into a plastic bag in the middle of the night when bending over a toilet made the experience feel "too real". reading archie comics in the car with my grandparents on the road to london- the ultimate trauma. playing knex, thinking "no" and "how do i get out of this"

i have a chainsaw in my brain and a wail in my heart. my stomach inverts and my eyes pull back further in my head away from the probing fingers of reality. stop drinking from my cup, stop touching my mouth, stop eating my fries. don't breathe on me with your mouth open. don't tell me your parents have anxiety. the future is bleak if i must exist in this way.

Phantom Limb

There's been a lot of talk recently on the many subtle components of what constitutes the WORST DAY EVER. For example, if you hit your funny bone on a door frame and burst in to tears, perhaps the onlookers will think "sure, that looked like it hurt, but is it really worth sobbing over?"

Sometimes, yes. Yes it is. Because maybe those onlookers don't realize that before hitting your elbow you also got splashed by a garbage truck on a side street, dropped your cell phone into a toilet (with POO in it) got fired from your job and missed the bus. So you hit your elbow and that was the straw that broke the camels back, but really it could have been anything.

So I had kind of a shitty day today because I was late for an appointment, got the wrong building entirely, ran into an acquaintance who apparently works in the office I was never supposed to be in in the first place (which was embarrassing because of the personal nature of said appointment) hit every single fucking red light on the drive over and was trapped in the above ground parking garage behind an ancient woman driving a massive car at such a slow speed that it did not even register on the odometer as movement. And cost about $5 in parking time just finding a space after she gently tucked her heaving beast of an American car into a spot so slowly I am convinced time stood still so as to avoid distracting her to the point of complete and utter inertia.

But that wouldn't have sucked so much or been so annoying if I hadn't spent the time I did today on a paper covered bench having a dour Russian ultrasound technician harumphing over the massive breast lumps projected on her screen.

Now I do recall hearing stories of people discovering anomalous growths (malignant or benign) in their body and feeling a sense of disconnect. Of not recognizing the things existence and/or wanting it gone.

I didn't feel that way.

Seeing those big black coal like lumps on the screen was a highly personal moment. Feeling so helpless looking at your insides and knowing that you're there alone and you'll leave alone and you're lying there (and maybe you forgot to shave your armpits for a week) knowing there's no point in worrying because you can't know the results yet but finding yourself worrying anyway because what if you're looking at a death sentence and maybe the ultrasound technician is being professionally stoic or maybe she's just concentrating and that's why her features are so composed (and maybe this is just my worried self projecting,) but WHAT IF SHE ISN'T SMILING BECAUSE SHE'S LOOKING AT SO MUCH CANCER SHE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY SO SHE JUST KEEPS TAKING FUCKING PICTURES WITH HER FUNNY LITTLE MACHINE???

There's blue gel in my armpits and I wanna go home.

My first grey hair.

I need to start thinking about this now. I'm not one of those beautiful brunettes from Party of Five. I'm not Matthew LeBlanc. I'm not one of those people with gorgeous shades of mahogany framing their face. When I go grey will I fight it a few years with the bottle or the salon? I'm feeling despair at the fact that I. Have. No. Hair colour! Is it blonde? No, not really... Is it brown?! Certainly not! Is it see through??? Well, quite possibly you're just now getting somewhere... I don't have a hair colour! When the greys come in there's no diguising it! I'm screwed. Me and my washed out indecisive tint.

I understand that most people reading this will question the validity of my mourning the passing of time due to my youth, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to pause to acknowledge this here benchmark, see?

I haven't felt this way for some time. I suppose symptoms of age accumulate gradually over a number of years before presenting their irrefutable evidence. I remember certain moments; being old enough to ride the big kid rides at the CNE, my first armpit hair (yeah, I know, gross) my first period (grosser). But puberty aside, I haven't really noticed any specifics in my early twenties so far. Until recently. I feel cold more intensely, my teeth are falling to shit with some degenerative horribly acidic saliva thing that people usually get before early adulthood (so why do I have ten cavities at all times no matter what I do?!) caffiene affects me, I can't bounce around all night in uncomfortable shoes, my muscles hurt, I'm stooped. I know I'm not painting an accurate picture of a twenty two year old, and none of these things are acute (yet) but they are there. And these are the physiological idiosyncrasies I will carry with me through life more and more with each passing year.

A few weeks ago I remember feeling startled when I looked in the mirror and could recognize that my face had changed in shape and bone structure in the last five years. Those are the moments I dread, actually. The times when you can examine yourself and physically experience (and bear witness to) the fact that you're different and you can't help that you're on this train headed in one direction, and one direction only.

So I find that it is fitting that a few short weeks after I noticed a change in my face, this grey decided to sprout. And it isn't relevant whether or not I was greying before this evening when I first noticed it. The important thing is that I noticed it and it has me feeling considerably shaken. Being a nostalgia buff you've seen me run through an abridged account of adolescence leading up to this moment in time where I wonder what my time here is and what should I use it for? Maybe I could patent some 20/20 foresight for those of us who are tired of having such a preternatural picture of what was and no ability to percieve what will be. Yeah, I could try that. It would be a welcome alternative to my current solution, which was to stumble out of the elevator (that possesed the guitly mirror that started all this) with my pants half done up (don't ask) clutching this grey hair in my hand and holding it under such intense scrutiny I'm surprised I didn't blow it up with my mind. I shoved it in a cough syrup wrapper and stuffed it in my wallet. Like it's an umbilical cord or some other seminal thing of sentimental value. It isn't! It's just a stupid fucking piece of hair that I pulled out of my goddamn head and wrapped in plastic and held on to like a raving fucking weirdo lunatic! Fuck!

On Preparation

What does it mean to be prepared? Not in any practical sense... I'm not referring to packing your lunch the night before or laying your clothes out for the next morning. I'm talking about the act of steeling yourself for a daunting task. The shower pep talk, the mirror affirmations, the rambling crazy talk while pacing a waiting room or lobby or what have you. Maybe there's a rabbits foot nearby you could squeeze for good luck? Perhaps some sort of personal totem that makes you feel powerful and safe.

I don't disapprove of any of these things, and, one could opine that I am personally reliant on habits and good luck charms and well... superstitious mojo.

However, while I was preparing for my NYC trip I started to get this feeling like I was wasting a lot of time preparing for events that were to happen regardless of whether or not I had prepared myself. It's interesting to me that we spend time thinking about, imagining and fortifying ourselves in anticipation of moments in our lifetimes. When it comes down to it, the moments that we fret and prepare for are happening all the time. My guess is that we are missing the moments we strive to prepare for by consuming our moments with preparation.

The Architect of Anxiety

I am the freaking Gaudi of anxiety.

In dealing with aching decades of anxiety, I have developed a marvelous repertoire of coping mechanisms; from small, obsessive habits (like repeating phrases endlessly as though they would avert the projected impending disaster) to forming intensely close, codependent bonds with one person at a time, pacifying my scared little ego's need for unconditional constant companionship.

I carried around a block of wood for a year, knocking on it every time I feel the need to. I had an order with which to dress myself, to eat gum, to have my back rubbed.
I had rituals where I would mill about my room busily preparing myself for a panic attack- I would get 2 1/2 liter bottles of water and line them up beside an industrial size bottle of extra extra strength tums, dentyne shiver gum, vicks cough drops, calvin and hobbes comics, pens, a book, k'nex toys and a bag to vomit in (which i only did twice in my life and never due to anxiety. I still have yet to throw up in a toilet this decade because it feels "too real". Knock on wood.) Finally, with all these things in place and just the way I wanted them, I could relax. Let go. Let it take over for a time, but only after I had established I was still the boss.

I half realized slowly over the years (though it has really just dawned on me now and this is why I'm writing it down) that in preparing myself to surrender to anxiety I actually made it so very much worse. People with anxiety shouldn't be architects. They shouldn't design these massive labrynths. Instead, what ends up happening is you build yourself a prison. By masking the symptoms of a panic attack all these years, I mainly succeeded in strengthening my compulsive need to control something, anything.

People with anxiety should not be architects building prisons. We should be MacGuyvers, cleverly espcaping hairy situations with a ballpoint pen and a stalk of broccoli and a dildo. Or whatever. We should be immersing ourselves in the experiences that define a life well and fully lived and should a problem arise, we should navigate through the rocky waves of the mind to stiller waters in a boat made of plastic wrap and apple cores. Or whatever.

Every day that lapses I am more ready to tear down these useless walls I built.

Mid night fear

This is just for me. This feeling is completely and wholly mine.
I am lying in bed. I went to bed at 8 on a Tuesday with nothing pressing to wake up early for. This is a panic attack. Panic attacks differ greatly from anxiety attacks. I differentiate the two in one major way; anxiety attacks are triggered by a phobia or worry, panic attacks are not. Panic attacks are brought on by seemingly nothing. They attack the body with a succession of symptoms mimicking terror borne of nothingness.

Here I am. My face is hot, burning, flushed. My left side aches (it always does when I'm nervous) Under the blush I know I'm pale and I can feel my feet sweating. My breathing is shallow and erratic and my stomach is flip flop with each new thought introduced into the churning vat of sludge my brain calls fear. And it's driving the car. Too late to go out, too sick to get up, too early to sleep. I am prone waiting for the megavideo to time out and the silence to overwhelm me. Can't get up, mom's in the next room. Can't release the tension. help me help me help me help me. I move in slow precise increments. Can't fuck up, drop anything because that'll be the end.

Ever notice how whenever a part of you malfunctions there's always a moment where you realize how important that one thing is and how fucked your life would be if it didn't work all the time? A chest cold gives way to the revelatory perspective that if you had cystic fibrosis you would be 100% more miserable than that chest cold made you feel for 2 weeks and how glad you are that your lungs ordinarily work. Anxiety can be like that too only it's fleeting moments of calm that make you appreciate every single part of yourself because panic attacks feel like small, all encompassing rebellions. Nothing works. Your mouth, your throat, your skin, hell not even your ass. Your mind decides to save itself and skips town, chased away by the thing that has no name because it doesn't even really exist except in the cartoon fart skid mark cloud your mind leaves behind. Anxiety is like sanity's afterbirth.
help me help me help me.
I don't remember how to stop thinking about this. I don't think I ever learned another way. Our minds are our own and to a certain extent we teach ourselves and inform ourselves as to how to percieve what surrounds us. Did I just do a really shitty job? 10:00 on a fucking Tuesday, nothing at all to wake up for and I'm not going anywhere.

Oh, incongruous

Do you ever feel cheated?

I do.

I feel cheated when I think about how I made this ability out of blood sweat tears and countless hours of lessons and practice and repetition and thought and just.. work. I worked so hard for so long to be able to play music like how I do now. And hey, it's not that I'm better than anyone else out there. It just takes a lot to be "good enough" to do this for a living and not seem like an avril lavigne, strumming a g chord once per song while maybe lip syncing.

So I have this skill set and guess what? I am completely lacking the life skills needed to do it for a living!

I am so afraid of traveling.
I hate it. I hate it on principle, in practice, in anticipation. I hate the weeks leading up to it when I have trouble functioning with sweaty palms and eyes lidded with ruminating thoughts of fear and self doubt. I hate the night before when I'm packing and I can't seem to placate myself no matter what I put in my suitcase! I hate the morning of when I can't eat and there's nothing to do but let myself be pulled along. I hate being away and knowing the world is continuing in spite of me. I hate entering a new city and not knowing where anything is. I hate arriving at the place I'm staying and not feeling at home. I hate setting off my first morning somewhere foreign to find food or coffee that doesn't suck and failing miserably. I hate feeling trapped by having so much free time and not knowing what to do with it, only knowing i don't know what to do or where I am. I hate not being in control. I hate counting sleeps till I get home. I hate not knowing where the clean washrooms are and above all else, I hate the hours between 8 and 11pm when the city shuts down and it's too early to sleep.

This is the last time I hope to write such a list. I'm trying to rewire my mind so that I can do things like go on tour. It's hard because I'm stubborn. It's hard because in addition to fearing travel I also fervently dislike it. Fear and loathing (I know, I know) create a perfect storm of avoidance I don't know how to get around. How do I get around this?!

I really mean this.

Lets not use such strong language, shall we? We won't say words like "existential" or "crises". We will use other words that suggest a subtler feeling. Instead of "existential" we will say "funny" and we will consider replacing "crises" with "matter".

I'm having a funny matter. Do you know what a funny matter is? I'll explain.

A funny matter may consist of, but is not limited to, a special feeling of neurosis. The kind that swims in circles in a downward fashion until you reach a ridiculous low, sitting somewhere starting a hole in the back of a chair wondering if all cab drivers have esp and if your life's work is valid enough to be referred to as your "life's work" or should you be putting more time and effort in to your work and if you do that, does it really make a difference in the end and what is the end and does it justify the means and if cab drivers are indeed psychic than did you say anything dark or evil when you were sitting there or were you just humming your own song in your head like a whelp?

You come to just in time to find yourself rolling pennies in your mothers apartment thinking about the logistics of depositing all these hundreds of rolls in the bank and you realize that the only reason you're even rolling these coins is to distract your mind from the way your family makes you feel at christmas time, all fond and vulnerable and annoyed like when your best friend tells a joke you made up at lunch and gets a huge laugh for it and as you roll and as you ruminate and fall deeper and deeper into a depression padded with food and darkness and forced smiles and small talk and subtle annoyances and temperature shifts and germaphobia you realize...

...we all feel this way once in awhile and it's ok.

The Stall

Pissing in the ancient, 24 hour single stall of the women's washroom at the lakeview restaurant. 2am. Tired and mullish. I didn't lock the stall because the metal latch looked bent and i didn't figure on anyone bursting in. Voices loud outside the door. A young woman preocupied with fun opened the door to the restroom proper.
I fumbled with the lock absent mindedly with one hand while i rested my chin in the other hand, nearly done pissing.
"Fuck it", I thought when the lock wouldn't slide closed. I put my hand against the door to prevent her from barging in. I grabbed a fistful of toilet paper and began to wipe when i felt her shove against the door. It opened a crack. I pushed it closed. This goddamn woman pushed back even harder and caught a rewarding (and unfortunately prolonged) glimpse of my ass, mid wipe. She closed the door as I said, "what the fuck?!?!".
Humilitation was sinking me down the toilet with my own urine. "Well who doesn't lock the door??", she asked rhetorically, aiming to point out my own idiocy and how all of this was really my fault. Fair enough.
Once I was standing pants pulled up, I managed to lock the door no problem. I took an extra moment to allow my mortified shoulders to relax after stiffening with surprised embarassment. I didn't look at her when I left, but thought to myself, "Who the fuck shoves open a door in a washroom that has just been agressively pushed closed against them?!"

The Parkdale Coke Wizard

It's time for another "Stories from Parkdale"

So check it. Last night a spirited group of youngsters (myself included) gathered at the Rhino to play some pool. Standing against the wall closest to the pool table, in a black leather Neo-from-the Matrix-meets-Count Dracula-meets-priest get up was who we refer to as, the Parkdale Coke Wizard.

Here is a man of no discretion. A man who constantly held a glass of whiskey in one hand while half heartedly masturbating with the other. And every so often he would stop beating off, do a huge bump of cocaine, sip some water from a pint glass and then grab his dick again. At one point during a game I had to make a shot right beside him. When I got the ball in he let out this quiet "aahhmmm" moan thing. I stared at him for a sec and was going to say something to the effect of "is your hand on your dick right now, man?!" but one of his eyes wasn't fully open and it looked like he was getting snow blind so I just left it.

Anyway, dude stood there for upwards of two hours, just repeating the same motions while we played around him. Not sure what that says really, I guess if you do something and refuse to apologise for it, sometimes you get away with it. Like masturbating in public while doing hard drugs and moaning at strangers.

Days 14 and 15

I kill roaches with a vehement disinterest. I am indifferently disgusted. It's not a hatred, or a fear, or a pleasure. I simply Do Not acknowledge their right to exist in the kitchen bathroom or bedrooms of the apartment and every night around 2:30am when I come home I do my best to eradicate them. Some days I only kill a couple. Some days I kill like, 25. Most of them are so small... baby roaches. But the (fuck I just killed one running across my keyboard) worst kind are the huge mama bear roaches with their floppy ecru coloured egg sacs. So nimble.

This isn't so much a preamble (though I will make a weak segue) as it is an entry in itself. Roaches. Ick. No court would convict me. Except cockroach court and ain't no way in hell I'm going anywhere near there!

The point is that I called my ex tonight on my way home because her bedroom light was on and I didn't want to put my squashing gloves on just yet. I was greeted with the sound of a phone being dragged though (what honestly sounded like really comfy) sheets, a soft murmur of voices and then a disconnected signal.
Oops.
Completely owning up to it being my fault for calling. Completely. And also acknowledging how crappy I felt after she hung up on me. And that feeling you get when you've relinquished your place in someones life and you find that their whereabouts are a dismal surprise. Or not a surprise per se, but certainly dismal...

But then you shrug your body and go home to take it out on the roaches.

Days 12 and 13

Ok so fuck yes.

I wanted to call a few days ago and I didn't. Like I REALLY wanted to call. But I didn't. And this is the payoff! This is it! I woke up today and was reminded of what having a life felt like. Of how being alone can be really good and spending time with people that think you're awesome can make you feel yourself becoming more awesome.

I am aware of the downer reputation this blog has gotten. It IS a fucking downer. It isn't meant to be upbeat because this is the salvation army of my mind where I go to donate all my unwanted crap.

Suffice to say my life isn't deadly blue all days. My love is now an echo and I'm listening to it fade. With each dimmed call my life looks a bit brighter and that ain't so bad, is it?

I even wrote a poem.

In this crucial time I stay away.
I want to posses you in the night and
be held accountable for
your swollen legs in the day. But
I think I know what love is now-
I am making broad strokes,
wanting it to appear.
I can tell you aren't
the love as I sense your heart's
a liar.
I wait for the day to come when
we can be content as strangers.