The End Approaches!

I think I am almost done being sick. And for that, I am glad.

The cats are in heat, and so, are at war once again. Becky and Beast fight every time they see each other, and that kind of sucks. I expect the only answer is to get Beast fixed. Apparently, in the city, it costs like, 200$. Which is insane. In Antigonish, it's like, 75$.

The original plan was to take her home and get her fixed there, but now she has a boyfriend (a giant black and white cat that lives up the street) and the fact that she's getting the shit kicked out of her on the daily by Becky, means that it'll probably have to happen sooner than later. And cost double the amount I was hoping to pay.... However, paying 200$ definitely beats following my cat around like a parole officer, fighting off rapist boyfriends and crazy Becky.

It must be customer appreciation day today at Cafe Dave. Not only do you get coffee, but you get ice cream in it. Fantastic. Not exactly healthy, but hey, when you eat out of the garbage most days, health goes by the wayside in favour of deliciousness.

The couches are all filled up. When I woke up this morning, there were some feet sticking out of Sarah's bed. I stared at the feet for like, ever, trying to figure out who it was. And since there were no identifying marks, I couldn't figure it out. So I just got up and left. Turns out it was Clohe. Hahaha. From now on, I will be pushing feet tattoos. As a means of identification when friends are sleeping.

Got a phone call this morning from one of my friends. They were like, "Thanks for being a good friend." So I was like, "Thank you." What does it mean when your friend calls you to tell you that? I always try and be a good friend, but seldom does anyone actually thank me for it. It was weird enough to warrant me thinking that perhaps I was not being a good enough friend, and that maybe them saying that to me was their way of calling me out? The only thing that can be done in such a situation, I think, is to make even more of an effort to be a good friend.

Goddamn. There must be fleas in the G. I am getting bitten. Curiously enough, just on one arm. Today I will make flea collars happen. And probably force everyone in the house to help me search and destroy. There will be no repeat of last year.

Beast is growling. This is getting out of control.

It Is Morning.

I am in Cafe Dave.

Katie Chisholm is transplanting some vegetables, which we hope we can use to bribe Mr. Kim into forgiving us for locking him out and generally being shitheads. It's hard to say if it will work. But that guy likes vegetables, and he likes Katie, so hopefully the plot will equal success.

In the dead of night, a mysterious traveller appeared on the threshold of the G. Led by Spoon, who, curiously enough, did not explain where she found him. He is asleep in the tattoo studio right now.

Which might have been a bad thing, except for the fact that my first appointment canceled for today. Lame. I was going to finance Katie Chisholm's accordion. And now I can't. Gragh.

Does it make sense to blog first thing in the morning? I don't really know. There's not really a whole lot going on, other than kittens ripping down the curtains in Cafe Dave, much to the proprietor's dislike.

Today on the menu, we have Iced Coffee without the Ice. And Racist Coffee, which my dear mother purchased from Giant Tiger roughly one fortnight ago.

Both are a unique taste experience, but only one will change the way you think about things.

Now I only have one tattoo appointment today. What a bummer. I should be charging for people to cancel their appointments. For serious. People be doing that waaaaay too often (much to the proprietor's dislike!!)

Beast has been singing all morning. I think she has been snorting crack.
Goddamn kids these days. No respect.

This is pure unadulterated insanity. I think it's best if I just leave.
This is why people don't blog in the morning.

-fin-

So, I Went Back And Read

a lot of my old writings. Specifically, diaries and journals, and also some of my other blogs. Spanning from now back until about mid-2006. The most striking part of all of it, is that I often felt all of the things that I had written for the public were terrible, and non-representative of who I am as a person. But the things I wrote for nobody else to read but me, were all right.

It's almost comical for me to realize the disparity between how I felt in highschool (exhibit A: journals), and the image I projected to the public (exhibit B: numerous stupid blogs with supplementary instant messages). I wonder why I bothered, and I wonder if they all saw through it anyway? As they say, Hindsight 20/20 -- that shit was SARAN WRAP.

It's like, 10 pm now. There are kittens fucking with me. Dave and Katie are laughing about something. Someone's cell phone is dying.

We made root beer earlier, and it didn't suck.
Imagine that.

This Place Is Grate.

I want to go find a grate somewhere and spraypaint that above it.

Just so when people walk by, they might laugh at it.

Mr. Kim attempted to rear his scary head today. I locked the doors and we hid in silence for a good hour, waiting for him to go away. Then Dave came home and was like, "Did you guys lock Mr. Kim out?" And it was true, we did. And it dawned on me that living in fear of your former landlord is particularly silly. Because technically, I don't even live here anymore, so there's nothing he can say to me....

So next time, I'll probably let him in.

I've decided that by the fall, I'm moving out of this house and into something else. I don't know where yet, but hopefully somewhere good. I don't know if I want roommates or not. I tried to get Dave on the bandwagon, but I think he just wants to move back to Moncton. No idea why, but to each their own, I guess.

Today, one of the people staying with us purchased a 90-year old antique banjo from a man who really loves banjoes. The man came to our house in the morning, and he played some songs for us and told us about the history of the banjo, how he got it, and why he was selling it. He loved it, but he had too many, and he wanted it to go to someone who would play it and also love it.

The person who bought it, threw the money down for it, around 200$, which was a ridiculous deal for an antique, fully-functioning instrument, with the original (irreplaceable) skin head, then proceeded to pack a bag and hitch-hike to Cape Breton. With no case.

Needless to say, the entire house collectively vomited.

Maybe there is something romantic about doing something like that, but I can't say I understand it. And she didn't check the weather. And she also does not know how to play the banjo.

We expressed these concerns to her, and she didn't take them well. Basically, just got pissed and stomped out, claiming that we talk to her like we think she is an idiot.

Quite frankly, such behaviours can only warrant the title of Idiot.

Fucka You, Jacob Lekas!

I got a new bicycle, and it is fuckin' sweet. And it was free.
And I'm not even lying.

We got it out of a dumpster in Bayer's Lake. We originally went up there to see if we could get some pants out of the Mark's dumpster, but by chance, decided to look in the Sport Chek one. And lo and behold, BICYCLES! Needless to say, I almost died right on the spot.

But I didn't have time to die, because we had to get that shit out of there A-SAP, so we wouldn't get arrested for stealing stuff people were already throwing away. Doesn't make much sense to me, but cops are shitheads, and I guess they don't want people to get free bikes, or have any fun, for that matter.....

But I am having so much fun. They can't even stop me now! HAAHAHAHA!

Shit, I am just losing it. It needs a new chain, and I have to paint it because it looks dumb as fuck. (Has flowers and stupid color scheme.) But it is serious business. So so serious.

Jacob Lekas now has nothing over me. He may have taken my bike and my mittens, but I have a new one now, and it's summer -- so mittens are useless anyway.

Victory is mine!!!

Also, someone who was hating my guts for a long time, but I was incessantly trying to befriend, finally decided to apologize for treating me like garbage. I am ecstatic. I suppose there's some sort of metaphor or something with that.

It's like dumpstering. You think trash is trash, and it's worthless, but then maybe you realize there's fucking GOLD in there. I think that is what may have happened between me and said person. (Not to toot my own horn or anything, saying I'm gold and whatnot...)

I am very happy. And I'm going to sleep.
Goodnight Earth, you have been a cool place to be today.

I Often Say,

"Sleep when you're dead. "
But right now, I think it's a pretty good idea, just curiously unattainable.

It's midnight. And I'm restless and I feel like I'm not getting anywhere with anything.
And being awake obviously is only going to contribute to the problem....

Yet here I sit. Or flop, really. Because flopping is what I'm doing.
I tried going in the shower to see if it would help, but it didn't. Our tub is fucked now, so every time you go in there, the water just collects in the tub until it reaches over your ankles. And then you have to take the grey water out of the tub with a bucket when you're done.

It's really not a relaxing experience. It's more like seeing how long you can stand in there, while contemplating how long it'll take to get all the water out afterwards, and determining exactly how long you want the frigging charade to go on....

Then you get to dump all the water out. It makes me think of peasants, naked in the kitchen in a washtub for their monthly bath, or something. It's good sometimes to feel like a peasant. It keeps you humble. At least, it keeps me humble.... And I can't complain too much, seeing as I don't have to boil the water on a fire or stove before even putting it in the tub.

Oh, modern conventions. You both aggravate and enthrall me. I have to say, if I had to boil my own bath water on our stove, it would take all day.... I'd probably go outside and roll in some dust instead. In the style of a peccary.

Hm.

I wish I was as pleasantly surprised by myself, as I often find I am with others. And I wish I could forcibly learn the method of expressing to others how that makes me feel, exactly. How come other people seem to know how to do this? I am hesitant to put myself out there, because I never really have, and since I never have, I'm not very good at it. And tend to say things that get misconstrued. And I always tend to let people draw their own conclusions, which are usually false, and everything ends up fucked -- and I just live with it. I think I've been so wrapped up in the "Wait and see what happens!" mentality, that I often wait too much and forget to participate.

Why am I so weird? Is the first step to dealing with this issue, identifying it? Is this Socially Inept Idiots Anonymous? Should we meet here every week?

I feel like over the winter months, I was a bit more stable. I wasn't as cheerful, but I think I was generally doing okay, more so than now. It's hard for me to say whether it has to do with goings-on in my personal life, whether I'm just like this always (it doesn't ever seem that way, but maybe I just don't know myself well enough?) or the weather, drinking, or hormones, my diet, or the recurring devil Depression....

I had to stop smoking weed. It was starting to freak me out. Where it used to be something that usually made me feel better, now it just makes me anxious and paranoid. Makes me feel like I'm wasting my life away. Maybe the cessation of sedating myself constantly is adding to the mental stress load? Now that I'm thinking more clearly, perhaps I'm spending too much time thinking about things -- exacerbating the problems, which aren't even really that problematic?

I'm going to label this post "scooters, vacation, fall" and nobody can stop me.
I'm done with the internet. At least for now.

Every Day is Like Sunday

And today is sunday. And it's pretty fuckin' awful.
Call me negative, but man, I haven't done anything all day.

People are pissing me off, as per usual.
I feel alone, even though I'm fucking swimming in people, always.
I guess I should chalk it up to being hungover, mentally distressed and coming down with a cold. Ugh.

I think I've gotten myself into a place where I don't want to be. It's not fair when you're supposed to be happy, and all you feel like doing is crying. I feel like I'm a stupid back-up plan, and that's probably the worst feeling in the world. At least, the worst one that I know of.

Feeling sorry for yourself never helps anything though.

I'm Pissed.

Because my old blog disappeared.
Because my house is full of people and I'd rather just be asleep right now.
Because people be ragging on me to use my computer.

I didn't even have a computer until a number of weeks ago. Now I know how annoyed everyone else must have been when I asked to use theirs. On one hand, I'm glad to have my own, so I'm not bothering anybody -- on the other hand, I'm pissed because now people are bothering me.

However, a little bothering never killed anyone. And I doubt it'll kill me.

I failed at quitting smoking. Now every time I smoke, I feel as though I'm wasting time. I don't know if that's good or bad. Obviously, I'd still like to quit smoking, and resenting cigarettes is a step in the right direction, but I'm pretty much a spaz as it is, I don't know if I need one more thing to worry about.

Worry. That is a subject I know too much of, as of late. The haunting question of what will happen.... is pretty shitty. (Just when you thought I was going to get seriously wordy, I whip out "shitty". High-five to my salty speech.)

I'm supposed to be drinking the Dr'ice and talking to guests. Instead, here I sit. I raked in the dollars today. I feel as though my day is over, hence wanting to hide away from the public that constantly pervades my living space. I love you guys, but dang. Y'all don't know when to stop pouring in.

It's not their fault though. They all come separately, for different reasons, it just ends up that there's an interesting mix after time, and they all want to talk to each other. We are just required to stay and make sure shit doesn't get outta control. Blah.

I don't know why I'm writing this. It's not for any particular reason.

On Myspace, people read my blogs, apparently. But I think I am sick of writing for that audience. I think at this point in my life, I should be writing for myself. Yes! the internet: home of the selfish bastards!

All of us are. Selfish bastards. That's the whole gimmick about blogs.
I think I'll go now.