Rejection, After Rejection, After Rejection

The excuse I get from people is always essentially the same. “It’s hard.” You know what’s hard? Going through life without anyone saying “yes” to you. I am tired of being rejected. I’m tired of applying for jobs I never get, sometimes because I’m “overqualified.” I’m tired women ignoring me. I’m tired of waiting for people to get back to me who never do, so I just feel like I’m waiting for Godot. I’m tired of writing about it. I’m tired of being tired of it. I’m certainly tired of talking about it, because people just say the same damn thing like they don’t know any better. “Cheer up, things will get better.” No they won’t. “You just need to lower your expectations.” To what? I’ve already come to expect nothing now. Isn’t that fuck up? I don’t know why I keep trying when I just expect to fail. I don’t WANT to fail, but I expect to. Or they say “you’re trying to hard,” or “you’re not trying hard enough,” or “you expect too much” or “you don’t have enough confidence.”

The theatre I was volunteering for kicked me out for no reason. They’ve made a ton of excuses, none of which have anything to do with me, but I’m the one who gets rejected. That girl that kissed me ignored me all week-end. I haven’t been with a woman since 2007, and that woman rejected me after a one-night-stand. I got laid off from my last actual job.

I suppose I’m not being entirely fair. I was accepted into a grad program. Unfortunately, that doesn’t start for two more months, so it isn’t much of a distraction.

I lost count of how many new messages I’ve composed to women various dating sites over the last 3 or 4 days, and I’m usually careful to consider that I’d be what THEY want. How fucked up is that? That I don’t even think what I want is relevant anymore. And they just ignore me. Even though I know some of them have been logging in every day for years. Obviously Mr. Darcy isn’t coming along.

Two women got back to me, and one of them won’t even be living in Ottawa for another month. The other one gave me a one-line response to a question about her own interests. I was reminded of a crappy response I asked Scrapbook Girl when I asked her what she was working on these days. “Lots of things.” What kind of an answer is that? It’s a blatant I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you answer. Which is baffling, really – a poet who doesn’t want to talk about her own poetry. So I told this other girl sorry for asking her a dead-end question. But what the fuck does she want to talk about? I asked her what she made of the G20 summit. If people can’t talk about what they like, get them to talk about what they hate. She said she’s been down ever since a bad break-up, and now she hates her job. No we’re getting somewhere. So I asked what cheers her up, and she says, “singing.” Then she asks what makes me happy. And you know what I did? I agonized over what to say to her until I passed out from exhaustion. Because you know what I’ve realized. I don’t know what makes me happy. Nothing really does. Every now and then I see a spark of something that would make me happy in a woman I know, but she’s usually pretty quick to put that fire out. I meet so many people who want something, and they have this sense as to what it is. A dream, if you will. Some people want to go on a dream trip, some want to write the perfect song. Me, I get discouraged from writing my own screenplays and poems, and from my other obsessions because I just don’t see anything happening anymore. I start asking “even if I succeed, what good is that going to do me?” In five years, I could really be somebody, in some field, or I could not, but by the end of my life, it still isn’t going to matter. Nothing really matters. And the know this from the outset, well, it kind of makes the whole journey seem pointless.

You know what I spent my week-end doing? Moving old furniture around and watching my grandmother Depressia potter around with old garbage that she should just throw away. Even she said she wanted to just throw it all away, so I insisted that she do so. And I drove all the way out to our cottage with my dad and auntie Flo, just so we could move an old, ugly piece of furnature into storage there, instead of just throwing it away. My dad has this hope that his uncle, now 82, is going to come and take it, because he says he wants it. He lives in another province; it’s never gonna happen. What we should have done is leave it on the curb. Let some poor student take it. Fuck!

So right now, I feel like my purpose is to wait around for all my relatives to die, one by one, so I can help them move around all their junk into less and less space. I don’t get to start a family or career of my own, because no one wants me, but my family wants me, because I can drive them all around. (My dad can’t drive anymore, because of his eye problems.) My grandmother even want to give me money towards a car – but I know it’s just so I’ll visit her more often, which I wish she’d thought of before moving to that lodge on the other-ass end of the city. My life until 30 has been a series of school, volunteering for people who just use my good-naturedness, babysitting other people’s kids, helping make their family life easier, and moving old garbage around when I should just throw it away! That girl, (or should I say woman of 27), asked me what makes me happy, a question I asked myself 8 years ago when Karma Chameleon dumped me. And I still don’t fucking know. All I can think of is either all the bullshit that I have but don’t want – the endless about of clutter in the warehouse that is my (parents’) house, and on top of old relatives dying or moving to smaller rooms, my father and sister continue to buy assloads of junk. And yes sis, you know it’s junk. I know you do – or the things that I want but don’t have – namely a girlfriend and paid work, inching towards the whole family and career goal. And why would I even want either of these? Well how should I know? I barely remember what they feel like. So I can’t even answer that.

I Kissed a Girl / Awkward Moments

I can’t decide whether I had a shitty week, or an uneventful week. I feel like I lost a hero. For nostalgic reasons, let’s call him Big Daddy. Big Daddy was my hero in my teens and twenties, because he was a sort of city hero, filming crappy movies, but funny crappy movies, and he rapidly rose to stardom as a cult hero in the Capital City. Well, recently Big Daddy came down on Ema Nymton and me for reasons I already covered in a previous entry. We volunteered for him because he was our hero, and he and his little henchman the Hambuglar just spat in our faces. Yesterday I saw a made-for-tv horror he directed, and I must say, it was great. I would tell him what a magnificent job he did, and what a great movie it truly was, (I mean, I loved this movie!) if I didn’t think so little of him right now. The way he treated us has made him look callous, cheap, petty and small. But I’m not writing at this hour to report on that. He’s the loser in this situation, after all, which I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready.

Tonight I went to a party I’ve been looking forward to all week. It was a cast party for a short called “Spoon” that a pair of competitors from the 72-hour film challenge made. It’s about an awkward accountant who hires a first-time hooker, and their awkward outing to a diner the next morning. We all dressed up for the party too (I was an awkward accountant), the hostess was an awkward hooker and the host was a Shakespearean hobo. To see the significance of the costumes, you’d have to see the film. I’d love to show it to all of you, so I will when I get their permission.

It was a great evening and I made some nice contacts. I told my two former competitors about a sketch comedy group I want to put together. I think the host is perhaps the only man I know with the technical skill to pull off a David Lynch spoof. I met an actor who also looks just like Kyle MacLachlan, and both these guys completely LOVE Twin Peaks, so we went about the show for awhile, and we will talk more about it in the future.

As the party quieted down a little, we watched a movie called “The Room.” I must tell you, this movie is a great bonding experience, because it is absolute shit. It is easily the worst movie I have ever seen, and that includes “Decoys.” Do not watch this movie alone, and preferably not sober. Otherwise, this shitty movie could drive you completely insane. It’s that bad.

Anyway, the reason I’m blogging at this crazy hour is, as the title suggests, I kissed a girl. So what, you ask? Why bother telling you something so insignificant? Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but there hasn’t been much going on in my life romantically since 2007. Well, not outside my own messed-up head, anyway. That’s before I started this damn blog, which has, of course, been nothing but trouble on that front anyway. But this girl, or woman of 27 I suppose I should say, seemed to like me from the beginning of the party. We just had a very easy time talking to each other, even though we’d never met before. We sat next to each other through the whole movie, and, as she’d been drinking, she didn’t want to drive home, so she wanted to bus. I offered to drive her wherever she needed to go, so she happily obliged and stayed for the rest of the movie. Then I drove her to an all-night diner where she meant to meet some friends. I might also mention that throughout the evening, she kept mentioning how tired she was of this guy she kept breaking up with. Cliched, I know, but I found it endearing. After dating a girl like Karma Chameleon, I can certainly relate. Anyway, as I drove her home, we both discovered we were cat lovers, among other things, and then when I parked by the ESD to let her out she leaned in to thanks me, and I tried to hug her, but I realized her lips were coming towards me, and she said “kiss me.” So I did. And as I kissed her, I thought to myself, when is the last time I kissed a girl? What does this mean? Is it just the alcohol kissing me? How drunk am I going to get off this kiss? And then she smiled and said “I like you” as she got out. I’m not sure what I said as she got out, but I’m pretty sure it was something stupid like “I’m gonna definitely add you on facebook.” Talk about your awkward moment. I felt great, and like an idiot at the same time.

I really did feel a little drunk on the way home. Whether it was from the kiss itself, or the alcohol on her lips, I don't know. I asked myself how this happened. I suppose I invited it, but I didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t expect it. But I think I wanted it. I think the trick is to make her feel completely comfortable with me. Something I completely failed at with, say Nurse Betty or Scrapbook Girl, or any of those other losers I met on the internet. She was certainly comfortable enough to get into a car with me, even knowing I only have a G2. She’s gorgeous, by the way. Just gorgeous. I just hope she remembers this in the morning. At this point in my life, I’m prepared for anything though. I’ve certainly been conditioned not to expect much.

Swapping Body Parts

Sometimes I wish we just swap body parts. Then if you met a racist guy, you could just steal his arms and replace them with two different colors. Then you could steal his memory so he can't remember what color he started out as. And then you could finally steal his nose and say "got your nose!" And he would laugh, because that gag never stops being funny.

Men Are Stronger, Women Go Longer!

Men are stronger than women by far. Yet women are the ones who have to give birth. That doesn’t seem very fair, does it? Then again, women do get to live 4.5 years longer on average. Then again, if a woman has 6 kids, those 4.5 years are spent pregnant. All things considered, I guess I’d rather spend those years dead.

Grad’s Cool!

I went to speak with my grad supervisor today about what I’m going to be doing for grad school in the fall. He started by asking me my areas of interest, and I told him American literature and Diasporic lit were of particular interest to me. Then he asked what I’d like to do with my teacher’s assistantship, and repeated again, probably American literature, but then I realized that of course, half of us probably wind up teaching the 1000-level class, which is mainly a survey course of all kinds of periods and places in literature. That’s probably by first choice, but he also asked if I’d be interested in being a TA for the writer’s workshops. He says he only puts TAs in those for whom it’s their first choice, so I told him I’d think about it. Now that I’ve thought about it, I should probably follow-up by asking him what this might entail. Still, I think I might greatly prefer teaching literature and theory than grammar and essay structure.

Then he asked me about what classes I want to take, and I told him the one I was most excited about was a class on King Arthur. He remarked that this deviated somewhat from my areas of interest, but then I told him it was a book that I’ve been working on, using the Arthur legend. I’ve been reading a number of books around the legend, but what I’d really wanted up until now was a chance to study it with an actual professor, and this opportunity just sort of sprung up. I told him I wanted to renew the legend with a code that today’s generations could get into – I didn’t really explain this properly at the time, but I really wanted to layer it with gender and racial tolerance, with the main character (alongside Arthur and Gawain) as a female, “ethnic” knight. It sounds weird, I know, and it’s not even the selling point of the book, but it’s part of my whole vision. The selling point is the zombies part. I told him I wanted to put zombies in Camelot, given the appropriate background I’d have in both the Arthur legend and zombie movies. He asked my favourite zombie movie, and I told him, easily, Shaun of the Dead. Because Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright – everything they make is a brilliant all-encompassing send-up of a different genre. And then we got to talking about how that’s what people like – modern revisions of the old ideas, like the Arthur legend, which is constantly coming up in literature, movies, and other forms of art. He said that after 12 Harlequin Romance novels, people get a bit tired of it, and I laughed and admitted that I’m essentially writing the movie equivalent, a MOW, with an actress friend. It’s generic, I know, but dammit, networks buy them, people watch them, and they generate revenue. And I need my foot in the door. We’re hoping to sell this script in the fall.

Anyway, so far I’m having a great day. Unfortunately, right when I got home, Ema Nymton delivered some rather interesting news involving a certain movie theatre that shall for now remain nameless. Apparently the Hamburglar wants to permanently get rid of us both. However, like an unwilling prostitute, I’m not going down without a fight!

But I can deal with him later. In the meantime – GRAD SCHOOL! Yay! I’m excited!

E-Mails You Should Never Send #2

Ever get an e-mail from someone, and just think, “bitch, think before you send hate to people.” Well my auntie Flo does that to me every now and again. I thought she was the only bitch in my life until Ema showed me an e-mail from The Hamburglar. (It was a toss-up between Hamburglar and Clambuglar, but I chose the former because I can’t imagine this douche ever getting laid, even by Grimace’s ailing grandma.) Anyway, he’s the manager at the cinema I work for. He noticed that my friends all seemed to have one free movie pass. When he said those passes were for the businesses in my district, I told him I always give them to these businesses. When he asked how my friends got them, I told him I gave them to them. He told me not to do that, and I was fine with it. I was under the impression the actual owner told me they were to be given to the employees at these businesses, and then any extra can go to anyone else I want to recommend this theatre to. Anyway, he told me to bring the extras back to him when I’m done distributing for the month, and I was fine with that.

Ema Nymton, however, was not. You see, when The Hamburglar took me aside to speak to me, he also included Ema, his girlfriend, and another friend we often go with. I thought The Hamburglar’s behaviour was fine, and I thought he brought up an important point, assuming good faith on my part, as a good manager ought to. I’d never have thought this a problem, but apparently I’m very naïve. Ema sent him an e-mail about it, because he found the whole system of free passes a little confusing too. Here’s the exchange: (with Ema’s permission of course!) The names have been changes to protect the innocent (and the asshole)

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Hey HB,
After you spoke to Malice this evening about not giving out the free passes to our friends, it occurred to me that no official policy has ever been given as to who we can and can't give the passes to. After I gave one of my passes to [my friend], Lee did tell me that I should make sure to give them out to people around [campus], but he never really specified who (as I mentioned, I've just been giving them to the work study students in the Audio Visual Resource Centre). Maybe it would be beneficial to you guys (and us guide distributors) if you made a clear list of who should get the free passes, if only to reduce any confusion as to what groups are a-o-k and which are off-limits. I know that you have also mentioned in the past that ideally the passes should be given out to non-members, but Mayfair membership isn't something that one can tell at a glance. I think that the free passes are a great way to market the Mayfair, but since they cost you guys in terms of ticket sales, maybe there should be clearer (or just more) restrictions surrounding them. Maybe only you guys should be able to give them out? I'm just spitballing here.
Anyway, it was a thought I had. Kick-Ass was great! I look forward to the secret VHS sunday movie!

Cheers,
Ema Nymton

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dude - i'm sorry, but your email is bullshit.

malice lied to my face tonight right in front of you, if you care to remember or not. in one breath, he says to me (and i quote) "i only give the passes to the stores where i drop off guides"... and then i say, "well, how did your friends get these passes?"... and then he says "i gave them to 'em".

so, if malice already knows our policy and you already know our policy (after lee spoke to you in the past), could you please explain the point to your passive aggressive email... you know... beside pissing me off?

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I keep rereading this email over, and every time there’s something new about it that strikes me as odd. Let’s see how long this list gets.

1. I think Ema was nothing but polite, and if only he’d simply ignored the e-mail, it probably would have been fine. As it stands, he’s declared a fuck you to two people in one e-mail, and sign that, much to the contrary of my initial impression, he did not assume good faith on anyone’s part, even though.
2. My initial thought was “misdirected anger”
3. When he says “(and i quote),” he’s simply lying and completely misquoting me, to make it sound like I’m the liar. That’s personal, buddy. If I wanted to lie to you, I could have, and I’m deeply insulted that you would insinuate that I would even need to bother lying to the likes of you.
4. I think another sign of mental illness is never using capitals. Yes, even in an e-mail, but I admit am a bit of a grammar-Nazi. At least it wasn’t ALL CAPS.
5. When he says “if malice already knows our policy and you already know our policy” he insinuates that either one of us has any idea what his policy is, when by the way, isn’t really his policy, and at this point, is convoluded as all hell, because not only am I getting mixed messages from different higher-ups, but I’m getting mixed messages from him. In person, I had no idea how hateful The Hamburglar really was.
6. He called my friend “passive aggressive” for expressing genuine concern.
7. He’s basically saying ‘shut-up. You know the rules. No giving passes to friends. Designated people only.’ Except it isn’t all clear who is or isn’t designated – for instance, a number of my friends actually do, in fact, work for these designated business, and I do, in fact, sometimes show up together with them. It didn’t even occur to him that these friends of mine might work at some of these places. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was a liar and a cheat.
8. Any response that starts with the word “dude” proves you’re being an asshole, especially when the last word of the first line is “bullshit”

That’s eight things already, and it’s only eight lines long. I honestly feel like a loser for dwelling on it so long. Next time I see him, I’m going to ask the Hamburglar if he has anything he’d like to say to me. Because I don’t like being called a liar, especially by someone who doesn’t have the courage to say it to my face. I thought everything was fine when I left! He’s the liar, pretending like everything is cool! Now I’m half expecting to see him lurking in the shadows outside my house. This is psychopath behaviour.

I also noticed, after I left the Mayfair, that he’d obviously waited through the entire movie just to ask me that on my way out. It wasn’t just an afterthought. He was waiting there for me. That did, in fact, set off a silent alarm in my head. I just didn’t know what it meant. Now I do.

The problem with this sort of, (dare I say it?), “passive aggressive” behaviour, is that, well, first of all, I had no problem with this guy before that night. Even when he took me aside and told me to bring the extra passes back to him, I was fine with that. But then he later showed his true colors to Ema, and I think they’re as ugly as all the colors of the puke rainbow. (Sorry if that analogy doesn’t quite work, but I made it up for just this instance.)

I think he owes my friend an apology, don’t you agree?

Stuff

George Carlin once said “why is it that everyone else’s stuff is shit, but your shit is stuff?” Collecting “stuff” has become somewhat of a mental illness in western culture. My parents’ house is so filled with junk now, that some rooms, once meant for living, like the “living room,” for instance, are now just storage areas. This includes the basement recreation room. Now if you watch TV there, you wonder if you’re going to be crushed to death by a random box avalanche. I can’t seem to get anyone to admit that this stuff is junk with no value. It’s just a fake attachment my family has created for themselves, and it goes back generations. All my grandparents’ stuff is there now too. We’ve been “emptying” their houses for years now, unable to sell them because of all the stuff! My parents and uncles keep trying to figure out who it should go to, like it’s some kind of fucking heirloom! It’s just junk, and nobody else wants it. On top of that, you know my dad actually saves all our old newspapers? It’s like living in a rat’s nest! People need to stop chaining themselves to shit they don’t need. So fuck stuff. Go put on a backpack, fill it with a few essentials – some clothes, some water, some granola bars, and some porn if you need it, and go out and hug a fucking tree. Amen.

E-Mails You Should Never Send #1

It has come to my attention that there are a lot of people who don’t use their friggin head and think before they send e-mails to people. This blog I have, while it has humiliated the hell out of me for the past two years, it has also functioned as a means of venting my frustration without hurting anyone’s feelings, except when they find my blog. In this first installment of my “E-Mails You Should Never Send” series, you’ll see me write stuff to this girl I like that I should absolutely not say. In future, I’m going to focus on shitheads who’ve sent nasty e-mails to me and my friends, and then analyze. Sound like your thing? No? Then fuck off.

Well, my woman woes never cease. That’s why you’re all reading this, right? If I’d known when I started this blog how much trouble getting a girlfriend would be, I’d have called this blog “Can Malice Blackheart Get the Girl? Probably Not. He should Go Gay.”

Remember Vampirella? She’s my current female frustration. I’m going with alliterations today. (Probably because I’m concurrently working on a superhero script). I’ve been talking to her on msn for the past few weeks, constantly trying to make arrangement to “hang out” with her, and having her constantly break them, but with stupid little happy faces and frowny faces so she can act like she doesn’t like that she has to postpone. I’m just not sure I buy it.

The worst part is, I’m also not sure I even care. I mean, I keep working by butt off trying to get her to laugh, and come out of her shell, and say something about herself that demonstrates some actual insight, you know? She simply doesn’t talk much, but I’m not sure what it is – maybe it’s because she said she’s never had a boyfriend and I find myself attracted to a challenge – maybe I’m in desperate need of a distraction from the other women that I want but can’t have – maybe she’s simply the modestly hot girl that I read too much into – I don’t know, but I’m convinced she’s got something in there worth getting to know. She wants to direct. I want to write! We like the same kinds of shows, and in a way, we have the same ambition – to one day be making one of them. Granted, it’s a pipe dream that’ll likely burst, or at least be rerouted several times though sewage until getting dumped in the ocean (what is with my analogies today?), but you’d think shared dreams could spark something. I feel no spark. But I’m sure it should be there. I’ve only met her once. ONCE! Why should I care? Am I really this bored?

Anyway, the reason I’m making this entry, aside from need to vent a little as usual, is to write out a few responses to her last messages that I sort of mean, but should probably not send her, because they probably make me sound crazy or desperate. Oh, and let’s start with her message.

--

hey!
hate to do this but i'm going to have to postpone our hangout. My mom wants to throw me a grad lunch tomorrow so I wont be able to make it to the movie. Sorry! :(

--

Really? Last time you blamed germs. This time it’s your mom? Don’t you LIVE with your mom? You couldn’t maybe go out with her some other time? I mean, it could still be tomorrow. It could be brunch. It could be dinner. You’ve known about this for a week! Why couldn’t you just tell her we had plans? Wait – you’re not afraid of your mom, are you? Wait! Should I be afraid of your mom? Is she some kind of psycho. Oh wait – do you already have a boyfriend lined up, and you don’t want your family to find out about me?

--

You know what? Last summer, I put up with constant disappointment from a woman who kept insisting she wanted to see me, but can’t have really. And you know what? I eventually gave up and stopped talking to her. And she was much prettier than you!

(Okay, that’s a lie. Vampirella is gorgeous. I was talking about Rose, by the way. Fuck! She wasted so much of my time.)

--

All right, look. I’m trying really hard here. Too hard, in fact. If you have no interest in me, as I suspect, just say so. Honestly, honesty is all I want anyway, just tell me you don’t like me, and I’ll never bother you again.

--

You suck. :( It’s just excuse, after excuse with you. I offered to buy you food, I offered to take you to the movies for free, and I even offered to drive you here and back. What is it with you women? It’s like the more I do, the less you care. It’s idiotic. All you women seem to want is that douche who doesn’t give a shit. He will make you cry. I will not do that, and I refuse to waste my time with women who put up with it. You do not deserve me. Why should I even waste my time responding? Your excuse is bullshit, and I’m not very happy about it. :(

--

Whatever. You’re boring anyway. Bitch. ;)

(Oh, God! She’s so nice though! I can’t call her a bitch, even if it’s clearly a joke. She actually does make me smile when she talks to me. I just wish she’d come out of her shell a bit more.)

--

You’re sorry, huh? Well don’t be. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear. Have a nice life.

--

What? Are you shitting me? I have to go to the movies alone now, and I’m gonna eat some worms. That’s right: worms. They sell worms to losers who can’t get women to like them, even though all my “female friends” tell me “I don’t understand. You’re such a nice guy!” And then I’d tell them to put their money where their mouth is, and ask them out, but I want to keep my friends. The last time I asked a friend out, she stopped talking to me. She hasn’t really spoken to me in six months, and we had a class together, not to mention a lot of mutual friends. I still try being friendly to her, and she still ignores me.

(I’m talking about Scrapbook Girl now. Seriously, SBG, what is your beef with me? I was always nice to you. And we always had lots to talk about. And I still essentially like you. I just can’t talk to you anymore, because you have me almost convinced that you hate me. When you’re around I find myself wishing I was invisible. That’s fucked up. I hate feeling that way. You know you do too. There’s no reason for us not to be friends. Unless there is. But how can I know if you never talk to me?)

--

I give up. Sorry. If you were just hoping I’d chase you so you could see how much I care. Or maybe you’re just looking for validation.

(That’s all Scarlet the Spy wanted, I finally got her to admit. She just wanted to know she could have me if she wanted. That’s what psychopaths do. They also stalk people. Yeah, Scarlet, I know you’re still watching. Good luck with the baby. That’s right, I know about the baby. Now who’s watching who? Spy.)

--

That’s fine. Maybe I get just show up at your work sometime and you can beat me with something from the frozen meats section. Then you can dump me in the trash. That’s where this is going, right?

--

You amaze me. Is this the real reason you’ve never had a boyfriend? You keep blowing them off with some lame excuse? I know you told me that you want to avoid the drama, but I don’t think you seriously realize what you’re missing. I dated the girl from hell in high school, and then her mutated, more sinister form in college. You need experience with a shitty guy or two so you can appreciate the good ones. Should I sit back and wait while you date a few assholes first or what?

(I don’t know that I’ve ever talked about my first girlfriend on this blog, which is odd. N/A used to complain that I brought her up non-stop. Of course, she compared me to her exes all the time, but whatever; she’s a girl, so she’s entitled I guess. I’m not sure whether to call her Groinkicker or Hell Girl. She used to really love kicking men’s groins when she was angry. Or happy. Oddly enough, even when it was me she was mad at, it would usually be someone else’s groin. That’s a weird train of thought. She made me chase her for an hour through the snow once. She damn near froze to death. And so did I. Now that I remember why she stormed off like that – because one person was giving another person a handjob, neither of whom was either one of us, I’m so glad I’m no longer with her. That girl, Hell Girl, made me feel guilty for things I didn’t even do. She accused me of cheating on her with some other cheerleader. It turns out she was the cheater. I suppose it takes one to accuse one, or something like that. I can’t BELIEVE she would cheat on me with THAT loser. The evil mutant form in college was, of course, Karma Chameleon.)

Wow. So many useless memories. You know what, Vampirella? You are absolutely right. Just buy yourself a nice vibrator and forget all about men. We are all fucked, and so are all you women. We need to be kept apart. In futuristic domes.

--

You know how many false responses I’ve written you know? I’ve lost count. The short of it is, I’m pissed off that you don’t even seem to be trying. Instead you’re giving me just enough hope to keep trying, but if you’re not serious, quit jerking me around! This “drama” that you say you want to avoid with guys – you’re creating it!” Just do something with me, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.

(Of course, now I’ve come to never expect anything to happen. This isn’t good – I get depressed before I even get dumped/rejected now, in anticipation of it, as if it’s the only possible outcome anyway. If that’s all I seriously expect, it makes me wonder why I bother.)

--

I’m tired of rescheduling. You think of something.

--

Boo! I’m writing you a prescription for LAME! :b

--

I’d say that I understand – that moms are important, but so’s a sex life. Mom is who you’ll be getting to occasionally babysit and spoil your kids, and who you’ll eventually watch die. So why get too attached anyway? You can miss a lunch or two. I mean, god, people graduate all the time. I’ve graduated four times now.

(I have seriously graduated four times now. Two of which were four-year degrees and one of which was five. How old are you again, you ask? Ancient. Okay, only thirty. Now I’m on my fifth.)

--

Just admit you don’t wanna see me again! Get it over with so I can start getting over it. Because these games you play are just humiliating.

--

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re just trying to be nice and not tell me you think I’m a loser. And I don’t know any better.

--

Whew! Glad I got that out of my system. All right, time to compose the real one. Wish me luck. Or tell me I should give up. Say whatever the hell you want, actually. I mean, what’s stopping you?

Slam Stories

Be it resolved that handcuff accessories are sexy! I found a pair of handcuff earrings on Social Girl’s table, and immediately guessed they belonged to her Goth-girl friend from out of town. Now that that’s out of my system, I want to talk about the slam finals.

I saw some of my favourite poets compete at Capital Slam last night. One of them in particular performed a poem about his Chinese grandfather surviving an assault in 1937 by Japanese soldiers. It inspired me to gather more details about what happened to my own grandmother, whom I lovingly/jokingly call Depressia. You see, on a number of occasions, I have asked her about how she got out of Poland just in time to avoid the Holocaust. I know that she had to make a deal with someone, but she can’t talk about it without crying, still, after over 70 years. I want her story to be told, but in a way that doesn’t have to break her heart.

She wants to get me a car now, apparently. Last night, I drove totally by myself for the first time. It took me half an hour to figure out where I wanted to park. The city planning that went into this city was… not ideal. I can’t think of another city for instance that has this many one-way streets, or this many forbidden left turn. Or forbidden RIGHT turns. I mean, seriously, it isn’t hard to turn right. But I had fun driving around, and playing chauffeur for Social Girl, and later some of her friends, visiting from her hometown.

Scrapbook girl was there at the slam finals, and I think for the first time, I realized that it may not just be her avoiding me, because I seem be avoiding her now too. A few months ago, I thought she was trying to maintain this awkwardness, giving me hateful looks when I tried to say something nice, or just avoiding eye contact altogether. Now I’d just as soon forget the whole damn thing, because it brings the whole experience of the slam scene down. Sometimes I don’t even go if I think she’ll be there. I am tired of feeling like there’s a woman out there who hates me for no good reason. The thing is, I see her everywhere, and as far as I’m concerned, we should still be friends. There is no reason we should not be – that I know of, anyway. For all I know, maybe she has a really good reason, but she never talks to me, so how the hell should I know? We have tons of things in common. We have tons of friends in common. You know I actually waited for her to go to the ladies room before heading towards one of my friends to commend him on his performance? Then she came back out, and I felt I needed an excuse to fuck off. I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t know what else to do.

There was one other poet who really inspired me last night – the one I had to avoid Scrapbook Girl to talk to – I’m going to call him White Jesus. I’ve always found the concept of a white depiction of Jesus a bit odd, not to say offensive, or at least self-indulgent on the part of Roman Catholicism. This poet, however, standing on stage with his long flowing hair and his shirt undone, really does look that Jesus, or possibly Jim Morrison, but with straighter hair. He didn’t make the final slam team, but he is one of my favourite poets. Like Jesus, he preaches, calling for people to wake the hell up and start changing this world for the better. Like Jesus, he’s not about following the law of the land, but following your heart. He has a son, and part of his rhetorical style is to ask how he’s going to explain to his son why things are the way they are, why rich politicians feel they don’t have the budget send medicine and food to those who need it, yet have loads of money for hotels, private jets and buffets. He’s not the only poet who did this last night – I just find him the most inspiring. Another poet, (let’s just call him Prufrock because that’s what he calls himself), recited a slam about getting medical advice from his cab driver. His point was, despite having a shortage of doctors, when our doctors come here from Nigeria, or Iran, or wherever, they wind up driving cabs. Some of the doctors we have born and trained here are already callous shit-head psychos. It’s not like it could get any worse. His slam called for standardized education. We have the same anatomy everywhere. Kenyans don’t have a completely different set of arteries – it’s the same the whole world over. At the very least, they should be allowed to intern when they get here. People don’t necessarily have the time or money to repeat 4 years of pre-med and then 4 years of medical school, and THEN intern. Again.

Damn. I need to finish more of my poems. That seems to be the hardest part for me.