Montreal is weird.

I just got bitched at for trying to take a woman's chair. I'll admit it was rude to take it without asking (I was distracted and the chair was just far enough from her table [she emphasized for me that it was HERS] for me to not immediately think about it), however I do not think I deserved the dressing down she gave me for it, even after I apologized and offered to put it back (again, I admit I'm guilty of perhaps eventually making a face when she would just NOT DROP IT). "Luckily", there was a "nice" man sitting nearby who "kindly" intervened and caused the thing to escalate into a shouting match between the two, ending with him calling the woman a cow.

The only positive side in all of this is that while they were verbally duking it out, I was able to discretely slide the chair back to its original spot (where it has remained, untouched) , slip back to my seat and put my headphones on mostly unnoticed. Added bonus, I think I was the only one of the three who didn't come off as a complete asshole to the rest of the coffee shop.

Throughout the whole thing, all I could think of was that I have 6 pages to write on my essay. I DONT CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING CHAIR LADY.

artsy fartsy stuff

So that's my bastardization of a Mark Rothko painting. The little one on the side is just to give you an idea of scale... We had to chose an abstract painter and try to learn from imitating their style. Actually, we had to chose two. The second one I chose was Paul-Emile Borduas. You can find that one bellow.

Nothing more to say for the moment... If your interested, it's really easy to find information on both these artists online. Or just ask me personally. Or if enough people are interested, I'll post a little info.

That is all.

In light of recent events...

I've reconsidered... Maybe it isn't Montreal that fucks you up, but rather art school.


My drawing TA engaged me in a conversation about theology and how his faith keep philosophy from making him crazy. Of course I'm paraphrasing, the point being I really disagreed with a lot of the things he said but my mind was running 5 minutes behind his and instead of a coherent discussion, he got a blank stare. Of course the minute I left the building, I had lined up about 3 or 4 points I had wanted to make. The fault lies entirely on myself for getting zero hours of sleep the night before and the whole thing made me disgruntled and unsettled. Within five minutes down the street to the metro I had convinced myself that I would never make it in the arts and that on top of that, the art were bullshit to begin with. This clearly lead to intense existential angst and a near tearful breakdown at the fact that I was now direction less and useless.

All while waiting for the metro!

Luckily I got home, took a nap (if 3 hours of sleep can still be considered a nap...) and went to karate which got my head back in gear. Being up for 25 hours is a lot like being drunk; you stop being able to filter the crap common sense generally ignores.

My number 2 is sticky... I think there is something under the key.... Fuck.

Rhonda and I lose at life.

Rhonda says:
emily - i failed my UWT
Rhonda says:
HOW DID I DO THAT
emily says:
WTF????
emily says:
holy shit Rhonda....\
emily says:
so the results are back?
Rhonda says:
yes
Rhonda says:
all it says is that i did not meet the requirments
Rhonda says:
i am pretty sure i can write
Rhonda says:
and i didnt half ass anything...I WROTE ALOT urgghhaaahhhh
emily says:
This is only funny because I know you can write
emily says:
wait... you already missed one... do you get another chance?
Rhonda says:
I BETTER
Rhonda says:
oh wow
Rhonda says:
actually i don't think the one i missed counted
Rhonda says:
because when i checked it just said i still hadn;et taken it
Rhonda says:
OMG
Rhonda says:
anyway i need to e-mail
emily says:
WHAT THE FUCK????
emily says:
NOT MET - SEE CALENDAR SECT.16.2.4
Rhonda says:
EMILY WE CUCK
Rhonda says:
I MEAN SUCK
emily says:
...
emily says:
...
emily says:
...
emily says:
FUCKERS
emily says:
I can totally write!
Rhonda says:
I AM SO MAD. I know we can write. What the hell did we do wrong?
emily says:
...
Rhonda says:
if we have to take an english course i will totally blow something up
emily says:
maybe there's a mistake...
Rhonda says:
...sure. fuckers marked our paper. That is the damn mistake
emily says:
OH fucking hell
Rhonda says:
...did you do a standard essay format?
emily says:
okay, we're supposed to get a score
emily says:
from 1 to 6
emily says:
I think they havent graded them yet
Rhonda says:
but whenever i checked before it didn't have that.
Rhonda says:
ok true maybe i am freaking out for nothing...
Rhonda says:
maybe i made you freak out for nothing
Rhonda says:
but emily that was never there before(
emily says:
http://universitywritingtest.concordia.ca/UWT_Results.html
emily says:
read that
emily says:
douchebag
Rhonda says:
LMAO
Rhonda says:
woot woot
Rhonda says:
...
Rhonda says:
sorry?
emily says:
lol
emily says:
I hate you
emily says:
but that was hilarious
Rhonda says:
Just a little.

About time I suppose...

You know, I think that in some situations I like being told what to do. I find it comforting to have guidance. To a certain extent I've always felt safest with people who have taken control of situations. Looking back on it, I can see I've always felt this way.

I'm not sure what the difference is lately... either I'm rejecting out of hand what people tell me what to do or I disagree or I'm finding myself in more situations that others can't guide me through. I think it's good for me to try and make my own decisions. Of course I've always made my own choices but it was generally within the advice of my friends and family. Going outside that advice makes me anxious, unsure and probably defensive. I'm just talking myself in circles here...

I can't decide what's worse... Decisions that are 100% within my control or one completely out of my hands. I'm just thinking out loud here. I don't really know.

Montreal is a special place, it reaaaally knows how to fuck with you. And no, that's not a statement I care to elaborate on. Move here and you'll figure it out yourself.

And this is why I've kept this blog for so long. I want to look back at this in two years and think... what the fuck was she talking about?? I read back at my posts from 3 years ago and am thoroughly embarrassed of them. But that's why I keep them around. Whenever I feel like shit about my life and where it's going I just read a few old posts. It's amazing how much I've changed in so short a time. I want to know who I'll be in 5 years. I want to know what things I'll stick with and what things I'll drop. I want to know the events that will affect me. But most of all, I want to know that I won't be the person that I am today. Not because I have a big problem with me, but because I think growth is one of the most important things a person can do.

Hah... I want to know if I'll think that that last statement was total bullshit.

This thing is good. I like this whole thinking dump business. I feel better.

Mack and John

***EDIT*** I posted an unfinished and unrevised version of the story last night. This is the final copy***

This is something new. I'm taking a creative writing class and I have to write the first to pages to a short story.
Any comments are welcome.

Mack and John

I was sleeping, so I probably answered the phone with a mumble. It’s possible that he caught me in the middle of a good dream, in which case I might have managed a slightly more polite “Yeah..?”. What I do know is that it was a Saturday morning. I know this because I distinctly remember wondering who in their right mind would call on a Saturday morning when everyone knows Saturday morning directly follows Friday night.

“Mack”, the breathless voice on the other line began, “You have to help me…”

Of course. I knew right away that is could only be John. I’d say that his voice was strange but John always sounded a little queer. I could only blame the hangover for not having thought of him sooner.

“Last night”, he went on without waiting for me to say anything, “I don’t remember what we did but, like, I was wearing this coat. You know the coat, the one with all the pockets. You know what coat I’m talking about right? The red one? With the pockets?”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead in a useless attempt to massage my headache away. “John, if you called me to talk about a damn coat…” I rolled over in bed to see if I could spot a glass of water anywhere within arms reach.

Again, he rushed on, ignoring me. “So I woke up this morning, right? With the coat? And, like, I was looking in the pockets for a stick of gum because we’re out of toothpaste and I found this note..” Here his voice dropped to a tone I guess was meant to be conspiring, “The note said”, he paused, “bread, peanut butter, honey, margarine and a knife”.

He paused again. I could hear him breathing slowly into the receiver. I waited with my face buried in my pillow until it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t going to speak again until I gave him some sort of answer.

I guess I could have been surprised or confused that a scrap of misplaced paper could get a guy so agitated. But when you’ve been around John for long enough, these things become not so much expected as… well… accepted.

Once upon a time, I had a brief relationship with pet fish, probably to impress a girl with my tender caring side, that required a trip to the pet store. While I was in the store staring in confusion at the various fish paraphernalia, a young man burst through the door with a wild jingle of the bell installed on the doorframe. He took three quick steps into the store and stopped abruptly with his arms held out by his sides. His eyes were bulging, his forehead was slick with sweat and his breath was heavy as he swung his body around once or twice looking as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. The store clerk had not moved from behind his counted and flinched as the young man screamed in his direction “A cat! I need a cat!”

I don’t know what came over me at that moment. Maybe my short experience as a caregiver for the fish had inspired some previously untapped nurturing instinct. Maybe I just liked his style. Either way, I felt it necessary that I take him under my wing. I boldly stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder and said “My friend, what you need is a drink.”

So there I was, two years later, laying there with my headache to keep me company, holding the phone to my ear, listening to John breathe and I realized that I could use that drink right now… I looked up from my pillow again in yet another desperate attempt to find water. Failing, I sighed deeply and made no attempt to hide the irritation in my voice as I finally gave in.

“And? What about the list?”

“Well… What do you think it means?” He sounded afraid.

“I have no fucking clue John! It just sounds like a damn grocery list!” I don’t normally swear and I regret it in hindsight, but I just needed some damn water…

“No Mack!” He was becoming agitated “The knife! Did you hear the part about the knife? You don’t put a knife in a grocery list, it just doesn’t make sense! Why would there be a knife?”

The headache had gone from bad, to really fucking bad, even by my standards. The water was now becoming very, very important and I had almost resolved to actually leave the bed. John had been rambling about a knife. I didn’t know what he was talking about and I knew that if I let him go on like this I would never be able to get back to sleep.

“Uh… John? Hold on a second…” I chucked the phone onto the bed as I lurched myself into a standing position. While I stood for a moment, trying to not fall back onto the bed, I could hear a tiny voice from the receiver saying “Mack? Buddy? Where did you go? Are you there? Mack?”. If I was lucky he would hang up, but I knew he wouldn’t. I found my way around the clutter on the floor, wincing and holding my head the whole way to the kitchen. How could I get rid of him? Shoving dishes around on the counter I checked out the various glasses until I found one that probably wouldn’t contaminate the water I was about to pour in. I knew that he could drag on the conversation about the knife for hours, so I’d just have to find something he didn’t want to talk about. I downed my first glass in a few gulps and poured myself another before shuffling my way back to the bed.

When I picked up the phone he had stopped talking but I could still hear him breathing into the receiver. “Hey John?” This was my chance to catch him off guard. “I was just thinking. Do you remember that ten bucks I lent you? About a month ago? Well I kind of need that back. Like… Soon.” I was already getting back into bed, congratulating myself on my brilliant strategy. If there is one thing that could get rid of John, it was the mention of an unpaid debt.

-----

Of course this is unfinished. Like I said, he only wanted the first two pages. I'll probably write the whole thing one day.

This just isn't that day.