Friday, September 25, 2009

President Blackheart

Yesterday, I went to the first ELS (English Literature Society) meeting for students in my program. It turns out I’m the president.

Actually, there are three of us. The way this all transpired is this; one of the first orders of business was to select a president to help organize events, motivate students and spread the word. You’re probably thinking, “great; three things Blackheart is bad at.” Well, when one of the two organizing profs asked who would be interested, there was silence. I waited for someone else to put their hand up, because I didn’t want to do it by myself. So a fellow student I’ve been in class with since I start English put her hand up, and then I was glad to.

At the exact same time I threw my hand up, another girl put her up as well. We hadn’t seen one another until this point, and I was pretty much overjoyed to see that it was this really brilliant (and admittedly gorgeous) young woman I’d met at some functions before.

We were given the option of working together or going head-to-head in an election, but I would be crazy to turn down the opportunity to work with them. Both my co-presidents are beautiful, in mind and body, so I’m happy. I love the male-to-female ratio in this department!

After the other thirty or so students left, we three “presidents” sat with the two teacher-advisors to discuss the coming year. I won’t give anyone names just yet, but one of the two profs is Professor Mom, which also makes me happy. We’re trying to come up with some fun literary or non-literary themed events, as well as maybe establish a blog. One event coming up is the PEN Canada recite-a-thon, which is the event at which I read “I Like Cheddar, I Like Brie” last year.

I laugh when I look back at my last entry. You’d think I was bipolar. And you might be right.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

One of Those “Moods”

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel totally worthless? Well for me, that’s every day. On most days I am okay with it. Today, not so much. That’s right. Today is going to be another one of my rants, so if you offend easily, please, PLEASE, keep reading. I’m glad if it can make you laugh, but I’ll enjoy it all the more it offends your shabby sensibilities.

I’m in one of those “moods” that women get to pretend is PMS. Not that I’m jealous of ACTUAL PMS.

I’m sitting in the university library, just after a 3 hour lecture on Renaissance Drama. I’m not going home because it’s pouring rain, so I set up in the library foyer. I have another class in three hours time anyway, in Victorian Literature.

I keep thinking, “What’s the point of all this work I’m doing? Why can’t I just find a decent job and move out of my parents’ house? Why does the government only hire mindless assholes?” But I’m the one with no value. No economic value, anyway.

I suppose I could just level with you all and admit that this “mood” probably started last night, just before I went to sleep.

I was chatting with Wolverine online, ranting about women, specifically my weariness of trying to date them – really it’s the same as with looking for work. It’s too much work, with no payoff. Women on the site can get hundreds of messages with no effort, and in fact, no picture. So I didn’t really feel like she understood. Anyway, I think I may have offended her, because she said, I probably shouldn’t say that to women I’m interested in. So I told her that I normally don’t, but in her case, I saw no reason to hide. She either already liked me or she didn’t. So, in short, she said “not that way” and I said “good to know” and then neither of us said anything. So it goes.

It struck me as odd, though, because all the evidence suggested otherwise, but then again, maybe I was only seeing what I choose to see. So it goes. Maybe I should stop stealing Vonnegut’s mantra. Bah, he’s dead, he doesn’t need it.

I keep trying to tell myself “who cares? You can’t have been serious anyway.” There are so many other signs against too. All those scars, the creepy ex-boyfriend, her fickle treatment of my own friend. She thinks circumcision is a good idea. She has no female friends. She barely has ANY friends. Just suitors. And anyone can tell you that male suitors are cheaper by the dozen. I keep trying to tell myself, “Malice Blackheart, you’re too good for her.” But still, I’m bothered.

I feel like I’m trapped as one of those guys who just gets ignored, and nobody has the heart to tell him he should just give up and accept that you’re out of the gene pool. I feel like I was never really in it to being with. They say, “Don’t worry; you’ll find love. You just have to stop looking.” Right. I stop looking, and I stop dating. Then I’m just doing nothing. They say “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” and I say, “Have you seen how many God-damned hooks there are in the sea too? There’s six of the motherfuckers sticking out of Wolverine over here!” They say “you just have to lower your standards.” Right. Look at the women I’m dating now! They’re mostly civil servants, for Christ’s sake! The scum of the earth! If my standards get any lower, I’ll be fucking slugs in my back yard!

Speaking of civil servants, there’s this girl in my renaissance drama class who asked me to be in her performance group. This was yesterday. So this morning, after class, she says to me that she’s going to go “print out all the plays on government money.” That irked me a bit, but I asked “what do you do there?” She said, oh, nothing. It’s the department of Justice, so nobody there does anything.” Right. You’re one of the deadweight people in my father’s department who doesn’t do any work so that he has to do extra.

She’s in another one of my classes too. She’s yet another estrogen-powered wonder in my increasingly over-estrogenated Literary theory class. I swear to God, I feel like I’m about to sprout a pair of ovaries! She’s the sack of sour eggs who sits behind me and talks about how much she hates the other stupid people in our class. At first, I thought it was cute, but now I just find it annoying.

Now all I can think is, “you fat, ugly, self-loving sack of liposuction extract. How dare you profane my classes your presence?” Lazy bitch probably gets paid more than my prof to do nothing. I’m in such a fowl mood today that I’ve decided I hate her and I’d rather work alone.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Paradise… Found?

Hey, did I mention that Parasite Eve is in one of my classes this term? Well, she’s in my Literary Theory class, the same class as Bright Eyes. Truth be told, that class is full of beautiful, bright young students. The female-to-male ratio is probably something like 5-to-1, no exaggeration. The same is true of my class with Professor Mom. Anyway, apparently Parasite Eve saw my name on the presentations sign-up sheet, so she came up to me after class and says will be working together I’m excited. She didn’t even know what we signed up for, but I guess she chose to trust my judgment. So I told her we’d be presenting on Roland Barthes. She asked if he was any good and I was honest with her, I told her I couldn’t remember. But his name kept coming up in Film Studies, so I should probably make a point of reading him. There is another girl in our group, but neither of us knows her yet.

Also, apparently Wolverine put the Mendicant back on her friends list on facebook, so I guess this means we can all be friends again.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Cutting Ties

Later on, yesterday, I got an IM from the Mendicant saying that he caught Wolverine sneaking out of his apartment. Apparently she told him she never wanted to see him again, and has already removed herself from his facebook friends list. He wanted to know if I could remember what she might have been upset with him about, and I told him that they both had seemed in high spirits when we parted ways at 2:30 in the morning. Evidently something happened between then and the time she snuck out of his apartment for the early morning bus home.

So I spent a bit of time chatting with Wolverine yesterday, never touching the subject of the Mendicant, but getting to know one another a little better. I asked her if she perhaps wanted to hang out sometime minus the other guys, to which she responded.

“Right. You say that, and then you never actually do anything with me.”

And then I remembered saying that night that this happens all the time. Every day I run into somebody I haven’t seen in years, and we say “we should totally do something,” and then we both immediately forget. But neither of us cares enough to make it happen. So I assured her that my offer was genuine.

Ema came over today and we chatted a bit about what’s been going on. Apparently he foresaw an event like just like this happening, almost to a T. Knowing that the Mendicant and I have similar taste in women (i.e. the sexy and dangerous ones, the femme-fatales, though I think the actual word he used was “crazy”), Ema predicted that the two of us would fall for the same girl, and hang out more. Lo and behold, this has come to pass.

Ema warned me that the Mendicant will probably start asking me what’s happening with Wolverine, and I suppose that’s when I’ll decide what to tell him. But who knows? I may never see her again. But if she wants to see me, it will happen.

Ema suggests that what happened was, the Mendicants worst fears came true. Wolverine likes me better, and that’s why she won’t scratch me. The Mendicant wanted a relationship from her, but she reacted by saying that wasn’t part of the deal, and pulling out. Now he has nothing left to remember her by, but the scars. I also noticed that she brought him back all of his bondage gear. I thought it was odd that she would bring that stuff, given that she planned on sleeping on his couch that night, but evidently she planned on returning it so he wouldn’t have an excuse to come looking for it.

I cannot say for sure whether this is the case, but that does seem to be the case from my angle as well. It’s just been such a long time since anyone has wanted my badly enough to ditch who they’re already with. In fact, this has happened once before, in high school, and a year later she would dump me for the next hot guy she wanted – our tae kwon do instructor I think, but at this point who can be sure? And who cares? I did, however, get the sense that Wolverine resented the Mendicant for being there, trying to touch her, when she wanted me to move in. I think she feared that he was ruining her chances with me, and I think my leaving them abruptly that night confirmed that fear. So she immediately cut ties with him. It’s the only story I can think of that fits.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Hangover Hang-ups

It is amazing how much an altered state of mind can bring new perspective. I drank more last night than I have in years, and it took me to a dark, dark place, thinking and feeling in ways I thought I no longer could. I wonder how much brain damage one has to receive before worshiping invisible assholes seems like a good idea.

My brief explanation for the preceding poem is that it was inspired by a trip to synagogue with the family. I did not want to go, but I did so to humor my mother. Natural the three wasted hours I spent there reminded me of why I never want to go. It was three hours of prayer, all in Hebrew, but essentially the same prayer said over and over again, saying that God is eternal, and we are not, and that we will die. This morbid fascination with death is a waste of life. And this solace in an eternal god who will live after us is a delusion we don’t actually need. I also gather that worshipping an invisible guy who never helps you is supposed to be a bonding experience, but there is nothing more alienating than sitting in a room surrounded by people who are told not to question ideas that obviously don’t hold together. That was Yesterday morning.

Last night, I went out to play pool with The Mendicant, Wolverine, her two friends, Mohawk, (who has a Mohawk), and Thor, (a stout, bearded, powerful fellow, who looks like a thunder god aught to), and three other male friends who will remain nameless, because before long, those three bonded, and left together. It was what guys like to colloquially call a “sausage fest,” which is always fine by Wolverine, who revels in being the only girl.

Now, I had said two weeks ago that I was worried I might be a little jealous of The Mendicant. Well, after that night I had pretty much forgotten my crush on her, but in the two weeks to follow both she and The Mendicant kept reminding me about a big pool night coming up, and I decided that I like the game, so I was interested in going.

Early in the night, before we had left the pool hall to go on our drinking binge, Thor, Wolverine’s oldest friend caught his buddy Mohawk ogling Wolverine, so he said to him, “don’t hit that.” He’s a man of few words. Actually, they both are, but anyway, I overheard this, and I knew what he meant. He knows, and I know that she has a history as a man-eater. The Mendicant has the scars to prove it – for the most part, they’re healed now, but the scars are there to say. If you’ve seen Rambo, his scars look just like that. And I think it’s only now setting in what he has really done to himself. At this point, Mohawk muttered something noncommittal, but I took Thor’s warning to heart, as well as the others who have warned me against her – such as, The Mendicant, Ema, and her ex-boyfriend, Nasty Nick. On a side note, Wolverine told me that after my run-in two weeks ago with Nasty Nick at “the Dom,” he sent her a long e-mail detailing why she should take him back. I can see why he would miss her, though, and why The Mendicant would be so gaga over her, and why she gets so much other male attention. She is what men like to call “a 10,” she has a body that is total poison to a heterosexual man’s better judgment. And she knows it.

The Mendicant spent the night trying to find excuses to touch her, and she kept finding excuses to touch me. At least that’s how it seemed. Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not the touchy-feely type, even when I’ve been drinking, but there was a lot of that going on. She flirted with me a lot throughout the night, and I won’t lie, I liked the attention. The Mendicant and Wolverine both seemed to have an agenda for me last night. At first, I thought it was only to get me drunk, but I later gathered it was more, at least for Wolverine. Actually, I believe only she wanted to get me drunk, but he wanted to get her drunk. Why not do both?

The eight of us staggered through the streets for awhile, before we came to our next pub. That’s when the three amigos who bonded took off, leaving our numbers at five. Come to think of it, those three probably gave up on Wolverine’s party to go find some girls they might have a chance with. Well, that’s what I’d like to believe, but they probably just went home.

We went to a pub called “The Highlander” – a place from which she had apparently been banned sometime ago – I didn’t really get that full story, sorry. But since the waiters there don’t last long, it didn’t matter. We had a few more drinks, and The Mendicant and Wolverine sat me between them. They had jokingly decided they each had ownership of one side of me for humping purposes. Apparently I did no get a say in the matter. The Mendicant complained that he still hadn’t recovered from Wolverine’s tearing at his flesh. He asked me to feel his back, which felt pretty bumpy. Wolvering said that he had healed by then, so to contest, this is when he showed the rest of us his back. That’s when I said he looked like Rambo. I thought that’s the nicest way I could put it.

I do not remember at what point in the night I said this, but it would make sense for it to have been here. I said to her, “You may absolutely not scratch me like that, ever.” And she said, “I would never do that. I like you.” And then she touched my arm in a really gentle way. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. But I got the sense that The Mendicant felt like he was losing. But he still smiled and tried to play along.

At the Dom, (which is perhaps an ironic name for the pub, given this particular context), the nails came out again. She had cut them, and they weren’t the vicious claws they were two weeks ago. Still, she could scratch, and so she did. This time, Thor was in on it. He’s a bit of a macho man, which I’m in no position to judge; a man of his build can certainly make it work. He held out his arm and told her to give it her best shot. So she drew blood, and his arm looked pretty hellish. Then Mohawk, starved for attention I suppose, insisted that she do him as well. This made no sense to me. She asked him first if he had a girlfriend. I remarked that this was a sign that she was mindful of such things – she said she would be furious is some strange woman left marks on her own boy. (Toy?) Then again, she immediately proceeded to tear the living hell out of his arm, as soon as he assured her that he had no better half.

As we prepared to head home, all of us very tipsy, The Mendicant and I went to use the bathroom, and he said to me,

“I really like her, man.”

“I know,” I told him. “Everyone knows.”

“Mal, be straight with me. Do you like her?”

“I don’t know,” I lied, after a paused. Maybe it wasn’t completely a lie, but the truth would have been too difficult to explain, and he is an open book, who cannot keep a secret. If she’s going to learn that I like her, she’s going to learn it from me.

The truth is, I had not been thinking about her. For the past two weeks, I have been crushing after another woman I met at a friend’s party. In the end, I suppose you always know who you really want, by who is on your mind. Alas, I don’t even know if she’s single, or if she is really interested in me, but her actions and words seem to suggest that she is. I won’t be able to find out until she confirms a date that we can go have pho and talk. If she does not give me the opportunity soon, then I suppose I will have my answer.

But after all we’d been through last night, and seeing how good she looked that night, my resolve to hold out for the other girl was wavering. And I saw something else in Wolverine too – something I hadn’t seen the last time, and something the other guys seemed to miss, or at least seemed not to acknowledge. She seemed to be more than just… a woman who scratches. Perhaps she felt ashamed, or perhaps she was smitten with someone. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps it was nothing.

Afterwards, Wolverine came out and got into an argument with The Mendicant. I overheard my name, and the word “threesome,” and I gathered that it’s something she wanted, and something he did not. Again, I apparently had no say in the matter.

But I did. As soon as we parted ways with Thor and Mohawk, I made an excuse about it being late, and I left. If The Mendicant had felt he was losing, this was me resigning before things got ugly. I knew they had issues to work though, and I had my own too, and I just wanted to go home.

When I got home, I cried. Not over Wolverine, or the other girl – who I still wish to give a fair recount of, but for now she’ll remain nameless. I thought about N/A, and though I haven’t cried in years, or seen her in years, I cried. This is what the bottom of a bottle gets me – my worst fear, which came true, because I made it so. If this is what alcohol gets me, then I’m through drinking. I never want to feel that way again.

A Hymn to God, Who is, Well, Just So Much Better than Us Wretches, And I Thought He’d Like Even More Shameless Groveling.

O God,
Compared to you, I’m so lame.
I don’t feel worthy to utter your name.
I’m just very sucky, and you’re just so very great!
I feel so very lucky I can call you my mate!

Compared to you I’m small,
Smaller than a fly,
Smaller than a kitty to a six-foot guy.

Compared to me you’re big.
Bigger than house!
Bigger than a lion to a really small mouse!

Compared to me you’re cool.
Cooler than can be,
Cooler than ice, or iced tea.

Compared to you I suck,
Like a little leech.
I suck like sand-in-the-eye sucks, at the beach.

O Lord, we thank you,
For allowing our people to continue to grovel in your presence,
And kill one another in your name,
For thousands of years,
And for thousands more,
Our actions being their own reward,
As it is written.

You are a wise god.
And we all suck.


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Year Four, Day Four, Class Four

Yesterday was my first day of Canadian Literature, with the same prof I had for Can Lit last year. She’s pregnant now, and expecting in early January. It’s like she’s timed it perfectly to go on leave for the second term. I’m very excited for her. She’s gonna be a cool mom. Know what? That’s what I’m going to call her. “Professor Mom.”

The focus of Professor Mom’s class is “Loss and Mourning.” Sounds like a real up-beat class, huh? It’s a pretty small class – only 15 students I think, so we’ll have more time to present. Each of us has to teach the class for 20 minutes, either on one of the five books we’re reading, or on one of the supplemental readings. We were allowed to choose our own dates, so I took the very first one. I met as well get it over with, right? So in two weeks, I’m presenting on The Disappeared by Kim Echlin. This means I should probably buy it and read it ASAP.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Fourth Year, Day Three

Yesterday was the third day of school, though I didn’t have any classes. So instead I went to buy books and go to a poetry reading hosted by the English Literature Society. I can’t say whether it was bad or good, because I didn’t understand it. It was a Nigerian poet describing his experiences in new places, like Germany and Toronto. Now, I used to live in Toronto, so I recognized the landmarks, but that was about it. For the most part, I was glassy-eyed, and trying to stay awake. I only went to this meeting because a cute classmate of mine said she was going too. And two of my profs were there too, so that was cool.

At what point in our foojed-up history did poetry become about alienating your audience completely? I swear, this poet reminded me of Joseph Conrad.

At one level, I understand there’s a desire to generate and read a text that is densely packed with layers and symbols, to be decoded and interpreted in a variety of ways. But when it gets to the point where anything could mean literally anything, and it takes ten times as long to make sense of the poem than it did for the poet to actually write it, then it begins to remind me of two things: religion, and bullshit. Yes, despite their similarities, I’m keeping those two things separate today. I have enough to rant about.

I just believe that things should make sense as you read them. It’s all well and good that it can make MORE sense later, after much cogitation and reflection, but for the love of Jebus, and all that is Boly, it should make SOME sense when you first read it. But no – it’s about that feeling you get when you hear the words. The sights matching the sounds, and the sounds matching the sense and all that. Those associations you may, or may not have. In my case I almost never have them. I’m all for the sound matching the sense, but my question is: Where did the sense go?

I think, in the end, I did find his poetry inspiring, (as seen in the poem published a half hour ago, but perhaps only in spite of it. Actually, there is one thing in his poem that I liked. He compared the 9/11 terrorist attack on the twin towers to the circumcision of a baby’s penis. That’s right. Osama circumcised New York!

I Found an Angel by the Bookstore

Last night,
The rain came suddenly heavy.
I had no umbrella, no coat, no warning.
Though myself I was silently scorning.

The rain fell, erratically stalling,
Sometimes stopping, sparsely falling.
Sometimes heavy, heavy, heavy, cold.
I stood where student’s books are sold.

I found an angel standing there,
On her cell, to borrow a car.
She was a vision, to be sure.
Her eyes blue as the sky,
Her hair gold as the sun,
I asked of her a favor, and in a word it was done.

I knew her through a friend.
He left her late last year.
Why he did this, I don’t know.
Her complexion’s white as snow.
Her smile is always full of cheer.
It drives me ‘round the bend.

When he gave her the keys,
And made a joke at her expense.
I thought of the girl I left,
And could not recompense.

Now that his money is his own to spend.
He shows off his new game controller.
It’s childish, and stupid.
But I understood.
Baffling, laughing.
Crafty packaging.
We left him to his devices.

There we sat, driving home,
Sheltered from the rain.
She says was glad she caught me.
I was glad of many things,
But saddened by them too.

I wanted to say something nice.
I wanted to know what happened.
I wanted to ask her about it.
But I did not.
I know well enough not to open old wounds.
Especially when they’re my own.

But last night,
With beauty like Helen of Troy,
She became my angel on four wheels.

“Helen Wheels”?

Monday, September 14, 2009

She Says

She says, “Can I walk home with you?
I want some time alone with you,”
She says.

She says I’m meant for such great things.
She loves my witty ramblings,
She says.

She says that I waste too much time.
To waste my talents is a crime,
She says.

She says, “Don’t make me wait too long,
‘Cause I’m not feeling very strong,”
She says.

She says she hates my ramblings.
“You laugh at very stupid things,”
She says.

She says she’s sleeping with my friends.
She feels she need not make amends,
She says.

She says I can’t just leave it there.
She says she’s sick of my inaction.
She says she needs to know I care.
She says she just wants some reaction.

She says “How dare you look amused?”
She says I make her so confused.
She says she wants to be refused.
She says she wants to be abused.

She says “I’m so in love with you.
“The problem is I hate you too,”
She says.

Waiting for the Big Cripple

We amass scars.
Big and small,
Physical and emotional,
Ugly and uglier,
We amass scars that remind us of how stupid we were.
Forever, they remind us, as if we could forget.
They remind us that one day, the big one is coming,
The life-shattering one,
The big cripple.
And when that day finally comes,
We’ll say, “I told you so.”
And we won’t cry,
Even though we’ll want to.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Blackheart of Darkness

Today was the second day of school, and the second of my five fall term classes. I didn’t even know I had registered for Post-Colonial African Literature until I got to class today, which was a little embarrassing, since it’s a fourth-year-seminar, and our prof asked us all to introduce ourselves, explain what African texts we were already familiar with, and tell him what induced us to take the class. I chalked it up to a night of heavy drinking and a torrid fling with a hooker from Botswana. Okay, no I didn’t.

To be honest, I had only stuck this course in a place-holder, hoping to get into first year history, just to see if I want to do a minor, but now I’m thinking of sticking with this class.

Our prof, I believe, is originally from Ghana, and then got his degree in the US. He seemed to be very excited to be in Canada, and particularly praising the fantastic libraries we have in our two major universities. (Those in this city, that is. Canada has more than two universities. This may come as no shock to you. We also don’t all live in igloos. Unless absolutely necessary.) He smiles a lot and seems to really enjoy books and literature, and wanted to impress upon us that he doesn’t want a master-slave relationship with us (his words), but rather to be the oldest student. (And the one who gets paid.)

So he suggested some supplementary readings to give some background for the books we’ll be reading, Joyce Cary’s Mister Johnson, Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, and, (ugh), Joseph Conrad‘s Heart of Darkness. (It seems like I just can’t escape that bloody book!) The three African authors we’ll be reading, in case any of you care, are Chinua Achebe, Ayi Kwei Armah, and Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Apparently in 1975, Achebe called Conrad a bloody racist, which caused quite a bit of controversy. Now, I don’t know about Conrad being a racist – I took HOD to be an anti-Imperialist text, but really, I don’t much care for Conrad’s writing either. He wrote Heart of Darkness in this weird fairy-language that he invented himself, and fits nowhere in history. And I don’t necessarily mean that as a gay joke. I just mean it belongs with the fairies, wherever fairies live.

“Some people say that the novel originated in Africa, others disagree. I say it does not matter. What matters is, does African literature bring anything to the form? We are all interconnected, into the same cultural stream. No culture is free from the influence of other cultures. Achebe was a student of Joyce Cary, and he wanted to write about Africa with his own voice. Do you think Things Fall Apart is an honest text?”

Anyway, there was one major point he wanted to leave us with, or perhaps more of a key term: “Narrative.”

“We all have a narrative,” he said, “or a story if you will. But who tells your story? If you let other people tell your story, they will tell it to their advantage. And they will destroy you.”

Thursday, September 10, 2009

First Day of Fourth Year

If was my first day back at school today. It doesn’t really feel like I was gone, cuz I was there all summer. My strategy is working though. I’ve jumped from first year to fourth in only one semester.

I haven’t heard back from Rose in awhile, and I suppose of sort of forgotten about her, but not completely. I’m wondering why the hell she hasn’t called me back since she genuinely seemed to want to. I’m really mad at her for this, because she was either stringing me along, (which I suppose should seem obvious to me), or worse, she is interested in me, and she’s just incompetent.

Anyway, in my first class today, literary theory, (I know, - *puke* - but I have to take it to complete my requirements), who should arrive and come sit next me, but Bright Eyes. She was looking well as ever. She still hasn’t finalized her courses, so I recommended her my favorite prof for Victorian literature. Our prof divided us up into groups at the end, to discuss what our most hated book was. It didn’t take Bright Eyes and me, and the rest of the ladies in our group long to single out Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. There’s something about the language that is used – nobody talks like that. Every third word is some strange word no one need ever use, much less know. It was like a Ukrainian with a thesaurus gone wild. Also, his use excessive of ellipses makes the book frustratingly…

My hero though, was the girl who presented the bible as her all-time most hated book. I’ve thought of her as a bit of a hero ever since she made an ass out of a student rep who came to speak in our class last year, a woman who was totally asking for it. Basically my hero pointed out that she was drinking bottled water, which directly conflicted with the issue at hand. Oddly, I forget what the issue itself was – I think it was having water fountains on campus. Anyway, she made me laugh out loud, and I had to shake her hand then and there. Well anyway, she did it again with the bible. I immediately wanted to change my answer, but I had already gone. There has never been a book quite so popular, and so badly written, that has done so much damage as the bible. None. Not even Harry Potter, though according to yet another group in our class, it comes close.

Anyway, there are a number of my old favorite classmates back for this class, so I’m looking forward to the coming term.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Two Dates in One Day

Sometimes I think if I give myself enough time to think and make sense of it all, all will become clear. Sometimes the more clearly I think, the less sense it all makes. This will turn out to be a long one, but it’s juicy.

I went out on two dates on Saturday. Neither of them were exactly date-dates, but rather hang-outs. I met both of these women online.

The first woman, 34, I met for scrabble in the park. I’m going to call her “Ugly Betty,” not because she was ugly, but because she looked like Ugly Betty. We hung out in the park for perhaps two hour. She told me about how much she hated her boring government job but how much she loved having the benefits and pension and everything. She wants to leave after she has her mortgage paid off, but she likes the pension too. “They call them golden handcuffs for a reason,” she said. Civil servants make me sick. I’ve probably mentioned that before. Perhaps I’m just jealous. Anyway, I kicked her ass at scrabble a couple of times and then took off. Actually, she did have one interesting story – apparently another date showed up with a gift for her – a loot bag that said “congratulations on the baby.” Whether this was re-gifting, or symbolic of a brand-new relationship, I cannot say, and anyway, I’ve since lost interest.

The second woman, 22, I’m going to call “Wolverine,” not because she’s ugly, nor because she bears any resemblance to Wolverine, but because of the following story. I had actually already named her Cue-T in my last post, but I hadn’t met her yet, so this is a much better name. We met at a pool hall that evening, along with an old friend of mine. Let’s call him The Mendicant, because, he is a bit like a mendicant. Sometimes. Anyway, I met the two of them at a pool hall, along with two other friends of hers, and I got to know her better. We played a few rounds of pool, all of which I won, despite not having played pool in five years, and despite how wickedly-good everyone else purported her to be. I might get the feeling she was letting me win, but then again, I think my ego prefers to think of it as prowess. Likelier still: it was just dumb luck, but I digress.

Almost as soon as I arrived, I noticed some rather nasty scratches on The Mendicant’s arm. When I asked him what happened, he responded that he nodded toward Wolverine, who was engages in another game, hinting that “she did.” I told him it looked like he had come in second in a fight with Wolverine, and he said that wasn’t far from the truth. So I followed him outside as he went for a smoke, and got some more details. He told that he and Wolverine are into the same “scene.” He asked if I knew much about it, and I told him, not in detail, that yes, I was, and once dated a professional domme. He told me then: “I’m playing with fire, my friend, and I think I like it.”

We went out to a favorite pub of his, we three, (the other two friends dispersed), we shared a few pitchers and got ourselves nicely buzzed. As the night progressed, I had a thumb war with each of them, at the same time, I guess as an excuse to touch her hand. She dug her nails into my hand, and as I said something about how sharp her nails were, The Mendicant doffed his shirt, revealing an entire torso of scabbed-over scratch marks. He looked like he’d been tortured, and everyone at the bar noticed. I’m pretty sure those marks will be permanent, though they’ll fade over time. I looked at my hand again, and picked off the bits of skin she’d loosened, and then I grabbed her hand to inspect her nails. She actually sharpens them. I had never seen anything like it, save one kung-fu partner I once had, who was perhaps a little nuts. But that’s a different story.

The two of them got up to go to the bathroom, so I got up to speak to another friend of mine that I recognized, who shares my love of chess and Final Fantasy Tactics, among other things. With him was a plump guy with an unkempt beard wearing an Evil Dead T-shirt. You know the type, I’m sure. Great big B-movie nerd. So I struck up a conversation with him about crappy movies, as I have a soft spot for them myself. I asked him if he has seen a movie called Die You Zombie Bastards!, which had come by the recommendation of Wolverine perhaps a week or two prior. Well, he’d seen it, and he proceeded to ask me about the woman I was with.

I’m going to call him Nasty Nick, because I found him rather nasty, and his name was Nick. You’ll have to forgive me if my creative juices are running a little low. Nasty Nick did what I like to call a psychopath move. Perhaps several. At first said he vaguely recognized the girl I was with, and ask me her name. When I told him, he added the last name and asked if it was her. When I confirmed, he laughed and told me they had dated. I found it odd that he would give the pretense of not recognizing her, and I can’t remember if I called him on it or not. Anyway, he decided to tell me that “since things don’t seem to be going so well for [me] tonight,” that he’d tell me it was just as well. This is the second person that night telling me she was a dangerous girl. When my friends came back, they both got me away from him. When I tried to talk about him, Wolverine asked me not to. I gathered she wasn’t proud of having dated Nasty Nick, and I can’t say I blame her.

After that we three went back to The Mendicant’s place. They both dry humped me along the way, and also when I got there. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was being molested or mocked. I suppose I didn’t care.

My grandmother Depressia just called me to remind me to eat breakfast. Or I’ll get swine flu. Even though it’s night time – I can put a box of cereal out to remind myself in the morning to eat. Because otherwise I’d forget, right? *shakes his head*

Throughout the night I felt like Wolverine was speaking to my dark side, and I was probably also speaking to hers. What really weirds me out is that The Mendicant seems to be goading her on to do this, when I would expect he would want her for himself. Perhaps that’s because *I* want her for myself. He had told me days before that he liked her, and I’m painfully aware that he’s already far more familiar to her and intimate with her than I’d be willing to get this soon. Then again, I did sleep with that pole dancer the very same night I met her. God, I hope my mom isn’t reading all this. Also, he kept trying to make out with her that night, and she kept pushing him away. I got the impression it was just about scening, and not necessarily dating.

What I really want is not to be jealous. Anyway, as for what will happen next, I’ll have to see. I know that The Mendicant wants her too, and at this point, I’m inclined to say that his antics have earned her. The Mendicant slept over at her place last night, and was still sleeping behind her as I spoke to her on msn this morning. I decided to outright ask her: “So, are you two an item, or do you just need a scratching post?” She replied smartly that she supposed she needed a scratching post, and that The Mendicant, in turn, needed to be one. Poor boy.

Anyway, that’s enough for now. Well, one last thing. I met *another* woman at a party a few days back – a culinary student, who is studying with a few other Chinatown friends of mine. She doesn’t speak to my dark side, but she does speak to my humorous side. When I went on my usual tangents of making silly conversations even more silly, she played a long. She just seemed to get me. And she seemed very maternal – it’s difficult to explain without sounding cheesy, so I won’t bother. Let me just say that I’ve just asked her out, and I’m hoping she doesn’t have a boyfriend and/or freak out on me like Nurse Betty, or Makeup Girl, or Lilith, or whoever else thought a simple “no” wasn’t good enough.

Later, voyeurs! (You know I love you.)