An ode to me

I often think about the overall narcissistic nature of this blog. I mean, it's really just a big blank page for me to write about... well me. Po says that all art is self-aggrandizing. I'm quite sure this isn't art. As of late I've been pondering why I do this. Yes, I get joy from the occasional bit of non-fiction (and yes, I will complete the Streetlights story soon), but the majority of this blog is just me rambling about the inane things I do. I've been feeling the need to justify the very existence of the blog, and to root out the reason, sordid that it may be, that I continue to post to it daily. The following are the paltry excuses that I offer up as to why I do what I do.
1) it helps me make sense of my day. It's a summary, a recap of the fucking incredible things that happen to me from moment to moment. It's a chance for me to roll certain happenings, ideas around in my muddled little mind and, if they were shitty happenings, it's my opportunity to try and deal with it with a bit of humour instead of killing myself. And if, like me, you subscribe to the idea that life is somewhat of a giant educational exercise, it's a chance for me to wade through the rubbish and try to extract the little nuggets of meaning that might otherwise be lost. And yes, I shall recap my day later on.
2) it's a yardstick that I use to measure the progress (or lack thereof) that I am making in my life. I frequently refer to my old blog (if anyone wants access to it, please let me know and I will send you an invite) to see what exactly it was that I was doing a year ago on this particular day. So today I wrote an angry letter regarding the proposed Pitt River power project and sent it to three newspapers and the premier, and then I met up with my AWESOME friends for dinner (which I had to cook myself). Today (well, March 1st) of last year I met Typewriter for the first time. It was my first "date" after breaking up with Michael towards the end of 2006. Let's all pause to consider if I've evolved since then...
3) the possibility exists that I have no one to talk to. I mean, I have friends, and I have family and I have Michael, but essentially I come home to an empty apartment every night. Maybe this is some form of (horrifically) one-sided communication. Remember: I don't have cable. And I really hate the current James Joyce book I'm reading. Moo-cows. Fuck. Off.
Okay. So I think I've sold it sufficiently. I will continue to blog for the time being. Yes, I realize it's totally self-centered, but hopefully I've pointed out a couple of half-assed excuses as to why I should continue to perpetuate this hopeless mess.

Alright. My day. Worked. Went for lunch with some coworkers, one of whom randomly mentioned that he had been considered for a menage a trois with a couple of his female friends. I almost choked on my gomae. Not that he's not worth considering for a menage a trois, if you're a menage kind of person (which I'm not... at least not at this particular moment). But it was just quite random. I kind of lost my focus for the rest of the afternoon. Stupid, sexy Flanders (ten points to anyone that got that reference). Then I wrote my angry letter to the premier. Okay, maybe not the best use of company time, but everyone was kind of milking it this afternoon. Accused my boss of theft, squirmed a lot in my chair, discussed harnessing the exuberant energy of small children with Mr. Menage, then left. Witnessed this guy running for the seabus and he dropped his car keys and this woman who was running a few steps behind him sort of slowed briefly and attempted to scoop them up on the fly, but they fell apart and she sort of laughed and apologized and I thought: what a really nice lady. I don't know if I would have been that kind if I was running to catch the seabus. Although at that time of day they depart every 15 minutes, so I guess it's not a huge loss, but I'm not stopping for nothing if I have to wait 30 minutes for the next boat. I think that's why they opened up the Transcontinental in the terminal: got 30 minutes to kill? Have a drink.
Had a shower, turned around and went back across for N's 8th birthday! Happy birthday, N! Learned that sukiyaki is Japanese for: cook your own food, roundeyes. Ate a lot. Went to a dessert place and polished off my dessert like I was starving to death and then starting jitterbugging because of all the sugar. Blurted out random tidbits about my sex life and my relationship. When the bus didn't arrive fourteen seconds after I got to the bus stop I determined that I could likely run home in about an hour and a half. On the bus home there was a guy that was either severely handicapped or so high that he was in a world unto himself (replete with his own language, and I'm not making this up). He was aggressive to a couple of people and I got weirded out and headed to the back of the bus and, as he rambled on and made odd, choking sounds, I decided that if he was totally stoned out of his gourd, it was amazing that he had the wherewithal to be able to figure out what bus to get on. And if he was handicapped, then I hoped that he was well looked after and that someone was waiting for him or expecting him and he wasn't alone in the world. Then a cute guy was checking me out and I pointedly ignored him like I do with all cute boys. Then he started talking and I assumed he was talking to the woman sitting near him. It would appear that I had assumed wrong and that he was, in fact, talking to himself. Then he walked backwards to the bus doors, bumping a couple of people out of the way and when the bus came to a stop he walked backwards off the bus. I'm not lying, I swear. Then I noticed this young-ish guy sitting on the bus (it was hard to discern his age) and the left side of his face was horribly burned. And I thought, no matter how crappy my day is, I don't have to face it with a disfigured face and I felt sorry for him. I mean, that's probably not what he would prefer, and if I had been sitting next to him I would have certainly looked him in the eyes, smiled and said "hi", but it's just a little unfair that he has some freak accident and will have to go through the rest of his life looking markedly different than the rest of us, when other people are born looking like Heidi Klum and get paid for it. It's a little cruel, no?
Then? Totally bizarre. Last night when I was coming home around 10pm on the bus there was this guy that was totally knackered and he sort of blundered his way off the bus. I remember him because when he walked past me on the bus he looked totally out of it. Maybe it wasn't simply alcohol, but drugs as well. Anyways, this same guy was on the bus again tonight. I just thought it was really weird.
I love Central Lonsdale, but I do have to say that the bus rides back to Kerrisdale were never quite so colorful. I must admit to being a little weirded out from time to time, but I also have a theory that most people aren't as bad as they look, and that by being afraid you make yourself a victim. Also? I can run faster and farther than, like, 90% of the population. And when I'm half cut (which I usually am if I'm taking the bus home at 11 at night) I'm amazingly flexible. That really has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I would point it out. So, say, if a bad guy was able to catch me, I would just bend into a pretzel, and while he regaled my yogic prowess I would kick him in the nuts. I've got it all sussed.

Okay. So going back to excuse #1 for having this blog: have I made sense of my day? No. I'm kind of drunk, utterly stuffed full of more food than one would think possible and I'm totally fagged. Yes, fagged. I forgot to tell you: I'm reintroducing this back into the mainstream vernacular. I'm not simply tired, and the term exhausted sounds too precious, like I'm about to faint or something. I totally fagged. I cannot process anything. I haven't slept a good night's sleep for a great long time. Excuse #2: all my self indulgent rambling aside, I do think I'm in a better place than I was a year ago. I spent the evening with my fantastic friends, had some great conversation and I think the inklings of a wine club are percolating in their minds. My place, Friday at 7ish, my pretties? Excuse #3. Well, clearly I have no one to talk to because it's quarter after twelve and I'm sitting alone in my apartment again. Michael has to get up early tomorrow for month end, and is then running a 15k trail run at 1pm. I saw him for about 90 minutes this week when we effed around with the whole HDTV antenna thing. Then we kind of made out but were too tired to get into it. And a menage a trois was right out of the picture.
Okay. I'm totally going to bed now. Ironic that my attempts to explain away my narcissism ultimately ended up with me producing the most narcissistic blog ever, but whatever. I've told you once and I'll tell you again: get your own blog.
Fagged, I tell you. Absolutely fagged.