Thank you to all the sympathetic souls who voted for my utterly immature, miserable daylog yesterday. I really don't deserve it.
You see, it didn't turn out to be a bad day at all. From here on in I promise not to dump my inside-the-head funk on y'all unless it's absolutely necessary.
And perhaps that was how I really felt just then, but I really was lying to myself. While it's true that I don't have a clique, I do have friends scattered here and there, and I eventually scared up two of them, both of whom cheered me up and gave me some great treats.
First off yesterday, when my mum woke up, she expressed her desire to go shopping - first time in six months she's done so - so off we went to The Bay. I bought some clothes off the clearance rack: two skirts and one cardigan, all for the office. I was still in a mood, and pissed off that I couldn't afford anything better, and petulant that my mum wouldn't fork out for the stuff I did find.
I really am a spoiled little bitch.
I think, really, that the root of my upset yesterday was about my decision not to go back to school. Like I said yesterday I'm wondering how wise it was to defer, stay in Toronto with my parents and work instead. This was, I hasten to remind myself, a choice made entirely by me. It's too late to go back now, so I might as well make the best of it.
Mum bought some stuff for herself and we went to catch the subway. I was still feeling lonely and terrible and we missed the departing train because she was tired again by then and couldn't run. I was so fraught and impatient with my mother's constant fatigue that for a split second I considered pushing her on the tracks to put us all out of her misery, before I immediately stifled the thought and became utterly overcome by self-loathing. Then I tuned in to the guys who are always there playing violin and synth on the Bloor platform - they were playing, with the help of the synth, Hayden's Emporer Quartet. I went over and gave them a dollar and listened.
Listened and tried to forget about my pathetic, self-absorbed misery. Tears filled my eyes and started streaming down my face. Then I noticed an old Chinese guy watching me and looking at my mum, who by this point was obviously nauseous and needed to lean on my arm. His eyes were so full of concern it stopped me crying right then and there. Mum didn't notice I was snuffling, but I didn't mind, because an absolute stranger did and silently acknowledged it, and somehow that made things better. Then the next train came and we headed home.
None of us felt like cooking so we ordered Pizza Pizza pizza.
I went online on E2 while I ate my pizza from a tray and caught a question in the chatterbox that started me on the way to recovery. Mary_Magdalen asked if Richard Simmons and Gene Simmons were related. A vision of a Simmons family reunion popped into my head and made me laugh so hard, for a second I was gasping for air.
After dinner I called a friend who I've been out of touch with - mainly because he has a slightly possessive long term girlfriend, who since becoming his fiancee has become a bit more friendly to me. Guess she thinks the threat is now passed, which is funny because there was none in the first place - anyway I digress.
Note to self, before I go on: just because there's nothing to look forward to doesn't mean there's nothing to look forward to.
We hung out for the early evening, him showing me some new music and plying me with hash brownies (yay!). We watched Iron Chef with his roommates and girlfriend (theme: Codfish; best line, describing a codfish roe and vodka ice cream dessert created by Iron Chef french and presented in a vaguely rabbit-like shape: "there's something cute about that fishy little rabbit.") After Iron Chef my pal had plans to help some dj friend I didn't know select records for a party he is playing tonight, so I took my leave and went home.
Got back to the sounds of my parents obviously having sex. Errrrrggh. Usually when I come home and they're still awake they come out to greet me, but their door stayed shut and from its general direction one could discern bed-squeakings and sheet-rustlings - ugh! They hadn't expected me back before midnight. I didn't want to mar their post-coital bliss so ventured up to the apartments down the street, where I know a few people.
Jo, one of two registered massage therapists who live together in the building, was home and just as bored as I. Jo is not perhaps a genius, but she's a really nice person, and great for girl-talk. We gabbed about how we were starting to fear that we weren't the marrying type - she, because she was too fussy, and me, because I'm too worldly. Then she read me a Glamour magazine quiz to discern my sexuality. I scored mostly 'c's which apparently means I should embrace my inner dominatrix - whatever.
Best thing though was that she offered me a free massage, which wound up being a two hour job. She did this thing with my shoulderblades where she worked her fingers underneath them and lifted them up like wings. It felt really weird, but amazing. I hatched a plan which she enthusiastically agreed to - I'll do her laundry once a week if she'll give me a massage - yayyyhoo! She hates laundry and coin-operated machines, and I kind of like doing laundry and our flat his its own machines. Can't beat deals that work out well for everyone.
Got home and by then parents were sleeping. It was 3 a.m. so I hit the sack too.
Today, today is just the same as yesterday, minus lack of endorphins. We're going to church at 4 - I have to ask my parents to go 20 minutes early so that I can confess. New nodes coming up: Rudyard Kipling: GUNGA DIN and whatever I feel like. Maybe some fiction. I haven't written a story in ages.
Why do I include a synopsis
, and worse, why did I refer to myself in the third person? Both are now deleted for everyone's relief. Appy-polly-logies.
No time before mass to confess. I am still a scarlet woman.