oh why oh why would I want to be anywhere else?

Well, I'm up in the morning, it's true. I've approached it from the wrong side, however, so it's not precisely a success. I stayed up all night reading The Blind Assassin; I have that scraped feeling that comes from not sleeping, and the queasiness that comes from putting black coffee on top of that. I had to get up early this morning for an appointment anyway. At four am I decided that I would read just one more section, and then call it a night. Now it's nearly eight thirty, and not only am I done the book, I've eaten breakfast. I don't know that the coffee made a substantial dent in my vertigo, but next on my list is a shower, so maybe I'll be able to face my adoring public after all.

I really enjoyed the novel, but there's something about Atwood that always makes me slightly desperate. Her heroines are unnervingly human; they make mistakes, have regrets, are cowardly--and their ends are plausible, rather than happy. But they do have passion, which (or so I feel from the ripe old age of 24) I had when I was younger, and am now missing.

It's weird to read a novel that's so intimate with Toronto. Before I moved here I had only the vaguest understanding of the geography of the city; coming in from the 'Saugs, you get off the subway (after picking the stop closest to where you were headed by uncomprehendingly scrutinizing a map full of street names that meant very little), and become passingly familiar with a few blocks in the immediate radius. These unfocused blotches were only knitted together after I spent my first few weeks here roaming the city on foot. Now I rattle off directions and intersections with slight condescension--I guess I'm becoming a Torontonian.

you were racing in a car/ beside a boy you just don't know/ if he is up for what you have in mind

I just ate a bunch of popcorn, and now I feel pukey. But in better news, I spent way too much money on books today! Hurray! The problem with buying books is it's so easily justifiable. And then, eventually you'll be found, unconscious, in a huge pile of literature. I don't know. I just assume all excesses lead to unconsciousness in piles of things. We're lucky I'm here typing, and not buried in popcorn.

I blame my sister. She wanted to go to used book stores, and that meant I went in, too. So, having no will power, I'm now the proud owner of Cryptonomicon (Neal Stephenson; go read it immediately. I'm serious. Just be warned, it's a commitment novel... once you get into it, there's no getting out until the end), The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood), and Lady Susan/The Watsons/Sandition (Jane Austen's unfinished works). I also bought the DVD of Coffee and Cigarettes, which was one of those movies I read a review of and really wanted to see, back when I didn't live a short jaunt away from the Cumberland. Speeeaking of which, I should really go and see Paris, Je T'Aime, before four years pass and I end up picking it up randomly at a store on Bloor.

The movies I didn't buy (and it was a close thing) were The Saddest Music in the World and The Gods Must Be Crazy I and II. I'm racking up quite the list of things to blow my money on once I actually start working. Ooh, and I'm going to be putting aside portions of my tip money to save up for a Vespa and my next trip to Europe. I suppose I'll have to pay rent and buy food as well. Bummer.

As some of you may recall, I was briefly obsessed with getting a Vespa a while ago. I kind of forgot about it after I got back from my Europe trip. I can't remember why. Maybe the crushing disappointment of not being swept away to a charming villa by a gorgeous Italian man on a Vespa did it. Anyway, I walked past one the other day, and I couldn't think of one good reason why I shouldn't get one. I'm sure there ARE reasons, but that's later's work, after I've saved up the money. Probably by that point I'll be shacked up and be forced to put it towards a down payment on a house or maternity clothes. GOD, that's depressing.

I am trying, once more, to get to sleep before two am. I'm out of sleeping pills, but all they seemed to do was make it really hard for me to wake up.

I sympathize with Pig, but I'm totally Pigita

like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir

My iTunes library has a lot of strange things in it. Before I moved out of my parents' house, I decided that, perhaps, one day I'd NEED to have The Monkees' Greatest Hits, the soundtracks to Four Weddings and a Funeral and You've Got Mail, and the Canadian cast version of The Phantom of the Opera (here's an embarrassing confession... at least once a year I go through a phase where I listen to the Phantom soundtrack over and over again. Another inexplicable mystery concerning yours truly). I also snagged more useful things, like the greatest hits compilations of Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and Gordon Lightfoot, and many of the Beatles' albums. So far few of these songs have shown up on my favourites list, but for some reason today I've got the master music list on shuffle. Which means that I'm suddenly going to recognize that I LOVE some of these tunes, and my favourites list will swell unnaturally. Perhaps not so much this Wallflowers song that's playing. But probably a great deal of the Cake I swiped from Emo without bothering to preview.

Yesterday, as I lazed about in my hungover haze, I ended up watching Smoke Signals, which I remember being vaguely interested in when it came out. I missed the very beginning, and I was doing my cross-stitch while watching, so it took me a little longer than usual to pick up on why they were going to Phoenix. Or I'm slow because of all the brain cells I killed. Anyway, Adam Beach looks ten kinds of ridiculous after his impromptu haircut, but niiice bone structure, buddy. The movie was pretty good, but not earth-shakingly amazing. Maybe I'm missing the chromosome that makes me appreciate male-bonding flicks.

Speaking of killing brain cells and my drunken antics on Saturday, I managed to give myself a good scrape on my foot through the sheer gracefulness that usually accompanies my drinking. Not, as one might assume, from when I fell right smack on my ass on the dance floor (I warned everyone that I always fall when I wear those heels, but just because I was expecting it doesn't make it less ridiculous). No, it was after I was back in my apartment, alone and barefoot. Rounding the corner to get to the bathroom, I caught my foot on the strap of the shoe abandoned forlornly by the door, managed to twist it around, and the spike heel gouged a few layers of skin right off my arch. I know, you're wildly impressed. It's only by paying careful attention to my limbs that I avoid being a slapstick punchline every day.

I still haven't made a decision on Mr. Dick-in-the-Box. I feel like the longer I leave it, the more likely it is that I'll just decline the overture in a fit of pique one day. Oh well. Que sera, sera.

we talk to our women; we do not drug them with plants

OH MAN, now Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is on. Yessss!

I bet you look good on the dance floor

ADMITTEDLY, I am extremely drunk right now. But I just want to reiterate the fact that I am tragically and unironically in love with Dave. I have loved this movie since I was a young lass of ten, watching the previews for it. I distinctly remember them. When I finally saw the actual movie, my love was confirmed. Oh, Kevin Kline. Can you do any wrong?

By the by, we ended up at the Wreck Room. Tom managed to get red wine all over his brand new, expensive shirt (purchased that very day by his girlfriend, Nicole), and the time we spent cleaning and then drying said shirt made us quite late for the busy Madison. I'm drunk, so I'm not feeling super bad about what I did on the dance floor (which was to imitate all the bad dancers on the floor... two of them noticed. One came up to me and claimed I was an amazing dancer, and the other just seemed amused and kept going... as did I). Good solid times.

and if you want roses, you can go buy a bouquet

I added a couple new links.

That was all I was going to write, but I GUESS I could tell you which ones, in case you HADN'T memorized my list of links. There's the Toronto Star's site, which is fabulous because, unlike the Globe and Mail, they don't require you to sign your life away to access all those articles. I do miss having the paper right here with me, but as my erstwhile roommates doubtless remember, I tend to only read it sporadically when I get it delivered specifically to me. The internet is quite the paper saver.

Also, I've linked to George Stroumboulopoulos' site, because I've recently become somewhat addicted to The Hour. Hmm... I should stick that link in there, too. Well, once I'm done this post.

Finally, there's Nerve.com, which is one of those lifestyle/culture/urban kind of websites. I just discovered them, and so far I quite enjoyed the Dating Issue. Plus, it links to a Pickupedia, which is good for a few laughs. I think I'd actually end up having a conversation with the guy who tried, "Hey, does this smell like chloroform to you?" on me.

In totally unrelated news, I've just cleaned my apartment. A few newcomers to chez Susan are dropping by tonight before we head out to the Madison, so I thought putting my bras IN the laundry basket and taking out my recycling was in order. I really do need more posters. I got used to having one big old blank wall, but now it's depressing me.

As much as I've been trapped in here for the last little bit (and the latest on the work front is that they're going to open VERY SOON (although I've heard THAT one before), so my lack of usefulness should end shortly), I have not gotten sick of my apartment. I am still madly in love with it. It's simply glorious to have my own space. I'm not as happy as I thought I'd be, but that's only because of the work thing stressing me out. Once they finally get their damn acts together, life will be fabulous again.

it wasn't just the gift-wrapped penis, although that was the major reason

I returned from my jog this afternoon to find a friend request on Facebook from none other than Mr. Dick in a Box himself. My first reaction was, of course, "GAAHHHH!!" I retired to stretch and think it over. I have a couple of options, of course. I can ignore it for awhile and continue to think it over. I can decline, and even block him. I can allow him to see my limited profile, or I could hold my breath, take the plunge, and just approve him fully. Do I really want to be petty about this? But, more importantly, do I really want to allow him access to the cyber side of my life?

This is the weird thing about Facebook. As Jo and Tim have said, it's just unnatural. We are meant to lose touch with these randoms from high school or whatnot whom we have not thought about in years. I mean, sure, it's fun at first to find out that a girl you had at your seventh birthday party is getting married tomorrow, but when you start approving friend requests from people because you vaguely recognize their name and then have to quiz your actual friends about whether or not you DO know so and so, it's a problem. And in that same vein, if you stop returning phone calls from a guy because he gift-wrapped his genitalia on your third date, you should be able to wallow in the luxury of never having to hear from him again--once he takes the hint, of course.

Yes, I am feeling guilty about not manning up and telling him politely that he should find some other tree to put his presents under, but it just seemed easier at the time to ignore it all, and hope desperately that he didn't show up at my workplace. I guess this is karma. For the record, he's apparently in a relationship now, so I can safely assume that he's not going to be offering me any more gifts.

Anyway, for now I'm sitting on it, but it's going to be there, bothering me, everytime I open Facebook from now on. Avoiding people in cyberspace is hard. I leave my MSN messenger signed in and set to away pretty much 24/7, just so that if people I don't feel like talking to message me, I can pretend I'm not there plausibly. I read this today, and while it's not precisely the same sort of situation, you just have to think that all this access is... not good.

"You realize that 'slut' is just code for 'I'm jealous of your sex life.'"

Inspired by a talk about book-purchasing with a friend of mine, I ventured forth to my local Indigo Books and hunted down Full Frontal Feminism, a brand-spankin' new manifesto by Jessica Valenti, one of the bloggers from Feministing.com. I wanted to read it since I read about it on the site, but it was on my "later's work" list. And now, despite not only planning on going to bed early, and also having planned to finish The Barmaid's Brain before cracking its spine, I've finished it and am all riled up and raring to go.

Just as a sidenote, it was a bitch to find... call me naive, but I thought that perhaps it'd be on one of those handy display tables. I couldn't remember her last name, which I thought was what was hindering me; really it was just that the women's studies part of the Community and Culture section was on the other side of the shelving, so I missed it completely. After I commandeered one of those handy computers and searched the title I scoured the area and was victorious.

Sometimes, it seriously made me nauseous--and I ain't talking about the writing. I self-identify as a feminist and freely get angry about stuff, but I had no friggin' CLUE about some of the shit that goes down. It's mostly State-side stuff, but they are our elephant, so it's best that Canadian girls know what the hell is happening to women's rights south of the border. Anyway, now I'm all pissed about things that I was peripherally aware of, but too damn lazy to look into myself.

Also, I'm feeling super bad about a snarky comment I made about the chick in Disturbia. I said I just didn't believe that she read anything; our hero (who I WILL refer to as TheBeef) charmed her by having noticed that she reads books... although he finds this out by spying on her doing yoga and swimming in skimpy bikinis. Oh, I'm still torn on this issue. They never make it entirely clear if she knows TheBeef has been spying on her when she first goes over to his house. Having an ass like that pretty much means you can get straight guys to do your bidding. It shouldn't be like that, but it is; hell, I'm certainly guilty of using a smile to get what I want. Anyway, deepest apologies to that fictional character: rock your improbable body and (plotwise) un-utilized smarts. If I had your legs I'd probably wear stuff like that too. And hopefully still read books. But I think I'd have gone for the Asian guy instead of TheBeef. He was much more hilarious, and cuter (I don't care what you say, L.Ro).

Back to the informal book review at hand: go read it. It's an easy and fast read, and it'll change your perspective. I wish I'd read it when I was younger; being a feminist is no cake walk, but having a guide like this would have helped me cut through some of the bullshit that influenced me (and still does, really). I've been trying to get into The Female Eunuch for a little while, and my inability to do so was vaguely making me feel like a bad person. But Full Frontal Feminism was straight-up awesome and incredibly current. I just wish it were in hardcover, so I could whip it out and beat a couple people with it. I've got a mental list.

me too, Pig... me too

there's a man assigned to me / he checks on my stability

I don't know why I bother talking or listening to myself. I'm not very nice. I mean, besides my tendency towards being melodramatic, sometimes I'm straight up mean. Sometimes I wish I had voices other than my own in my head, just for a change of pace. And I mutter to myself on the street anyway; it'd be nice to have an excuse.

Bombing auditions always makes me talk to myself even more than normal. And I'm stuck with myself until Toni and Jo come down. I'm actually considering calling my mother; that's how desperate life can become in the span of an hour and a half.

Hey, do you even know if you're delusional? No, right? Is it possible to be completely deluded about one part of your life, and no other? But I guess someone would have to say something eventually, so if I were sitting here saying, "Fuck so and so. I'm not delusional! So and so's delusional!" that'd probably mean something. And no one's said anything so far. Unless I deluded myself right out of having heard it.

I read this thing somewhere about physical deformities being the most frightening for humans in the medieval times. Leprosy and all that. But now it's mental illness that's scariest. It has to do with needing physical prowess to survive then, and mental acuity for now. I started watching ER again a couple weeks ago, and one of the characters just got horribly maimed. I actually gasped when they finally revealed the extent of his injuries. I can't think what would be worse. Either way, systems you've depended on for years have just suddenly gone haywire and will never be quite right again.

Re: the ER thing... I only saw the last three episodes, and I'm suddenly a Neela and Ray 'shipper. This romantic streak I have hasn't died yet, dammit.

Speaking of season enders, I downloaded the song from the end of the Scrubs finale, and now I've ended up with Say Anything's entire album. New love!

only one out of one hundred... I hope I was doing something good with the hours I didn't waste

So I'm going through Rotten Tomatoes' list of the 100 Worst-Reviewed Films of all time, and I got to number 25 before I ran across one I'd actually seen. I was IN one of the previous ones (well... supposedly, but I don't know if I made the final cut in the background, because I refuse to watch it. Cheaper By the Dozen 2, if you're wondering). Anyway, #25 is Down To You; the only thing I remember from it is Freddie Prinze Jr.'s conversation with a spider. I get sucked into watching these random rom-coms disturbingly often. I feel like that one was the fault of my high school friends, just because most of the instances in which I see terrible movies can be blamed on them. Except for Greendale, which was possibly the strangest thing I ever saw on a big screen. By the way, Jo, Glitter was on the list, but Honey was not.

On a somewhat related note, I saw Waitress tonight with L.Ro. I friggin' loved it. I had an irrational thing against Keri Russell (based pretty much entirely on the fact that in the first episode of Felicity she gave up an amazing school for a BOY. As a nerdy tenth grader, I was outraged, and refused to watch it. What do you want from me? I was fifteen), but she's back in my good graces, and I think I might have to buy it when it comes out on DVD. This was a purely Pajiba-inspired choice; a while ago they posted the trailer, and my interest was piqued. After they gave it a rave review, how could I miss? Also, as a sidenote to those of you who have never worked in the restaurant biz... what Joe does to her in his first appearance is the reason we drink so much. Cussies who do stuff like that. But I guess the ending is reason enough to be nice to them.

L.Ro and I toasted to not being pregnant afterwards at the Bedford Academy. I've been wondering lately what it must feel like to be in the kind of mental place that would allow one to get married and seriously consider spawning. A couple of people I've reconnected with on Facebook are engaged/married/knocked up. I've been on a three date maximum for the past year.

for Toni, my little photographer

yeah, I'm cool... deal with it