On my way back home from Will's and watching The Aviator, I stopped on Claremont not far south of Westmount and pissed in an alleyway. Christ, it was magnificent. Then I walked over to my Royal Bank branch and deposited my mom's winter-coat cheque and floated on home.
Today's session with Jamie was interesting. This might not get me anywhere—it hasn't so far, but I feel like maybe he's still feeling me out a bit—but it's nice to have someone listen to me while I talk. I guess that's one of my main problems at this point. I don't feel comfortable telling anyone how shitty I feel about things. No wonder being my girlfriend is no fun. At least Jamie gets paid, and he only has to deal with me 50 minutes a week. On the other hand, he says "wizout wanting to..." and it makes me laugh. Whizz out. I dunno. Wizard?
I just watched Juno last night. I told myself I was going to wait until I had someone (you know, someone) to watch it with but that's going to take forever. I'll let Atonement be my waiting movie. Anyway, Michael Cera was fantastic and I enjoyed it a lot... so much so that I watched it with the director/writer's commentary on right afterwards. And... Olivia Thirlby is hella cute.
The Habs suck. It is frustrating to be a fan of theirs right now. It could be worse, I guess. I could be a Washington or Boston or Calgary fan. I guess all the other teams' fans have had a bit more time to get over their heartbreaks. Anyway, we'll be better next year, I think. With a core of these guys, maybe a free agent or two and some grit for the playoffs... who knows. We could make it to the third round, even.
I guess the post-Seder party malaise has died down a bit. It burns bright and then pooft there's no more wick to burn. I hope? I know that's not true. But it's just gonna be embers for a bit, I guess. Until next party. I wrote like two-and-a-half songs and I listened to Piazza, New York Catcher a lot and school is over so I can sleep whatever. Plus, the apartment monkey looks like it might be off my back. That would be super. Now for a job and a place. Presto hey chango, I'm functional. (Let's not get amibitious. Semi-functional. I still do my banking at 3 a.m., for Christ's sakes.)
I'm so torn as to whether I want to be more or less like Howard Hughes. Oh for a time when 352 miles per hour made you the fastest man in the world, and you could crash land in a beet-field without fear of rap jokes from Alex Manley.
P.S. Next time I'm out at 3 a.m. I think I might bring some sidewalk chalk and some poetry. No sense in sitting around not adding to the surrealism of everyone else's lives, right?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment