So this guy I know, having apparently gone through and dismissed all of his other options, told me that he wanted to enlist in the Canadian Armed Forces. Fair enough, right? When I asked him (innocently enough, I thought) why he was doing this, he cried, “What the hell else am I supposed to do?” with a grating combination of exasperation, fear, and genuine need-to-know. I thought he might be onto something.
Recently my brother confessed to me that up until now (e.g. registering for postsecondary studies) he’d just assumed that every adult was exactly what they wanted to be. That fireman had always wanted to be a fireman, that janitor a janitor, etc. But now I think he knows better. You don’t ever, pretty much, end up being what you want to be. You just end up being. That janitor wanted to be a concert pianist, for example. Then of course there are the thousands of others who never knew what they wanted to be - so they may not like what they are, but nor do they particularly want to be anything else.
In response to this thought, a prick I know told me “Well, you deserve to be what you are if you could stand to get that way.” But that’s not fair. Really. Is it?

Feeling a little despondent this morning, I decided to do something productive and clean my room (or, to be more accurate, sort of chase this incredible mess counterclockwise around it). While scouring out the back of my desk drawers I discovered a folded wad of paper bearing an unmistakeable hand - that of the so-called “cute” Mark McIntyre. (Cute, that is, if you believe random people who comment on his blog who might, just might, be his mother incognito.) Anyway, surprised and delighted that I’d kept a note from so long ago, I unfolded it and began to read.
The opening line? “You are an supersonic idiotic chocolate-covered jerk.”
The moral of the story is… umm… actually, I don’t know. It’s either something about cute people not being cute when they’re in grade eight, or cleaning my room more often.

I feel a strange new sensation towards the indoors, a feeling one could easily get away with calling ‘love.’ Yes… it’s true. I love the indoors. I’m not sure, but it might be a by-product of spending about six hours today cavorting around Elk Island National Park in the rain and the mosquito-fog, tripping violently over tree roots and choking on DEET, chasing wasps out of the truck and accidentally breaking a chunk off a Ukranian Heritage memorial site. Just a hunch.
Is it just me, or does this not really bode well for my upcoming afterdegree in Environmental Conservation?
In other news - as everyone knows, I’m not exactly agnostic or atheist so much as vaguely anti-religion-especially-Christianity, but I did a wordcount this morning on my latest novel and got quite a shock: 66,666 words exactly. Yikes. Maybe it’s time I returned to the bosom of Mother Church and atoned for my sins before the Prince of Darkness himself crawls out of my PC and eats my brain. Or whatever the Bible says he’s supposed to enjoy.

My bad vibes confirmed, I recently got the ‘Nuts to you’ notification from the U of A regarding grad school. And although I had been expecting it, I still spent a couple of hours moaning and bitching and whimpering and eating peanut-butter cups till I felt ill. But now I feel ready for some kind of new beginning.
What to do, what to do… get a job? Yeah, nuts to that, too. Join the army? Sounds hard. Start a cult? Holds a certain appeal but, mm… no. I’m seriously considering going back to school and taking something actually useful to society. Hey, you never know. It could be a real winner.

Ah, sweet bliss. I love giving enemies the finger while we ‘chat’ through clenched teeth on ICQ. It’s like… hatred, sight unseen! And all the while the characters appearing on the screen swear that I’m an angel and a saint. Muhahahaha. If he only knew I was flipping the bird at my monitor… muhaha… maybe I should just go to bed now.

Today’s adventure falls, as usual, in the realm of things only done by the happily unemployed: cleaning out my computer. Half a can of pressurized air, most of a box of Q-tips, and a roll of paper towels later, I’m coming to a fairly obvious realization (yes I know, folks, I’m slow) - computers don’t like to be set up in front of open windows. I came to this realization after cleaning practically a pound of that ghastly yellow spruce-tree pollen out of my fan. Great days.

So as most of you know, I’m awaiting the results of my grad-school application to the U of A with a certain, shall we say, impatience. (This normally takes the form of me jumping up and down in front of the mailbox screaming “You can’t NOT tell me, you stupid bleeding bureaucrats!!”) Come on now. They can’t not tell me. They have to tell me eventually. The e-mail that I got when my app was complete said I’d be notified by mail in four to six weeks. This is the sixth week. Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth. I’m getting some bad vibes… maybe I’ll just spend tomorrow hiding under the bed instead of scaring the neighbours.

Hot diggity. If there’s one thing cooler than digital cameras, it’s the folks who own ‘em, and then post great pictures on their blogs, such as Rob.

James and the watch in the stress-ball… so classic.

OK guys, the official winner of the $11 promised in the last post is: Daniel “I’ve Got 4.72 Gigs of Bowie Stuff on my PC!” Aronyk. However, he owed me $13.50 for a movie ticket, so technically I don’t have to pay up. (Y’hear that, Aronyk? So, like, quit sending around your goons!)
The two runners-up will both be bought one drink each, of my choosing, next time we’re at an estimanet that sells alcohol. And with that, the contest is closed. :-) (In addendum: I still hate Blogger with a burning passion that will never die. Stupid archives.)

Returned at last from a lovely evening at Yianni’s on Whyte feting the soon-to-be-Bostonized James B. Sadly, I wienered out before I could get to see him really plastered - the brainless, adorable, affable drunk we all remember from Megan’s wedding last August.
Carmen: Hey, I’m… err… Alotta Cleavage.
James: Ooh, that’s a coinshidensh, I’m a Whole Lotta Desperate.
Dude… seriously… stay slick, best of luck, and ‘don’t let me hear you say life’s taking you nowhere.’ Eleven dollars to whoever e-mails me first and identifies the song that quote is from. Opa!