white rabbit, white rabbit, white rabbit..

it's common knowledge that i don't exactly make a concerted effort to go back to my hometown of cayuga very often. i usually pop in about once a year for christmas at my mom's and that's IT. so it's all the more suprising/disturbing to report that i was out there for my THIRD visit of the year last night. the occasion was dinner at my mom's with the rest of the family. in the middle of the year. on a non-holiday weekend. with no presents.

there was wine though- otherwise i surely would have bailed.

after dinner we had a bonfire with the kiddies where we instructed them in the ways of safe marshmallow toasting. auntie tabi reminded everyone that if your marshmallow catches on fire, you should NOT wave it around frantically causing it to fling into someone's face. five minutes later, i was engrossed in a conversation with my two year old niece when my sister said, "see kids, auntie adria's marshmallow is on fire and she's not waving it around. good job auntie adria!"
of course as soon as i noticed that it was on fire, i was waving it around like a maniac in an effort to extinguish the flame before too much damage was done.

what?

i don't like the burnt ones.

attache

i said i wouldn't fall into another well.

but its too late. too late too late.

the sunshine is beautiful- all the murals of light painting their way in through stone and cold.

i'll never be the same.

a smile like a strangler whose hands have found a neck

i'm a planner. always making plans, all these plans- here, there, under the carpet, folded up on top of my pillow. some i stick to and follow to the smallest detail- others forgotten, off sulking in some corner toward the back of my mind.

it's spring now- so it's a good time for new plans. a good time for ben harper and jack johnson and construction and reconstruction.

the latest plan is to not get lost again- to not get so far gone that i cry over all the missing scraps of self, torn off or dropped along the way.

a good plan.

never be the same

spring has sprung.

today was beautiful- but the night air is still clinging to that winter bite. i walked to the internet cafe tonight and as i was rounding the corner, i burst into a coughing fit. my throat was so constricted from the cold air (the cigarette smoke i was inhaling could ostensibly be factored in as well) that i sounded like a toy poodle with its voicebox removed. it was ridiculous/hilarious/tragic.

anyone who saw me on the street tonight owes me money for the show.

so today is the day.
the day where my head fills up with water again and you float in with the tide. away at sea for three weeks, believe me- i noticed you missing.

there is a mark.
underneath my skin. deep down, beneath sheets of muscle and tissue. there's the outline of your fingerprint. this blueprint, this imprint, this fingerprint- every line and curve, each unique ridge pressed in and tattooed on my spine. left behind from the first time you held me by the waist and said, "careful, or we'll get attached".

too late
too late
it's too late.

i'll never be the same.

a million days, a million ways, a million little lies to pass the time

i try to pretend that i'm not counting the days, but i am counting the days. i'm counting everything. it's in my nature to take inventory, or so it seems.

six months
five months
three weeks
two weeks
three days

also...
i went to indigo last week and was looking around at books. i picked up one that sort of caught my eye because there was a photo of what appeared to be a vanilla dip donut from tim horton's on the cover. being that i love donuts, as well as colourful sprinkles, i picked it up and read the back. the little blurb told me that the book was about some guy's six week stint in rehab. always a sucker for reclamation projects (just browse the archives for my romantic history, that's all the proof you need), i decided to buy it. i read the 430 pages in three sittings, all of which found me awake and in awe at 4am+ in the morning. while reading it, it occurred to me more than once that no matter how bad i think my life is, at least it's not as bad as THATGUY's. page after page of brutal, blunt, deadpan language describing the absolute horror show and complete loss of self that occurs in the midst of powerful, all encompassing, life-swallowing drug and alcohol addiction. the story and the style of writing had me in a trance. i've never read a book where i sympathized more or cared more about a central character who was so volatile and just down-right BAD. when asked to describe the book, all i could muster up was, "it's just...unbelievable".

turns out "unbelievable" was more accurate than i could have anticipated. with a mere forty pages to go, i had to put the book down to go and greet miss vic, whom i was meeting for dinner. before we left, i told her that i was reading "this incredible book...!" and i showed it to her. she asked me if it was one of oprah's book club books, to which i replied, "yes, but i peeled off the oprah sticker before i bought it so i wouldn't look like an IDIOT reading it in public". she proceeded to let me in on a few things, which many of you may already have guessed at this point. the book is "a million little pieces" by james frey and, as it turns out, a lot of it is bullshit. frey apparently is standing by his book, however- all kinds of interesting little factoids have popped out of the woodwork alledging that the book is full of lies and embellishments. so it looks like i'll look like and IDIOT with or without the stupid oprah sticker.

long story short: i bought this book knowing nothing about it, other than the fact that it was non-fiction. i read this book knowing nothing about it, and believed the words of the author. it's like reading someone's diary. you are made privy to the intimate details of a person's life and it's as though you know them or something. in light of all this, i can't help but feel tricked.

and, oddly enough- a little bit heartbroken.

man, i'm just so gullible sometimes it hurts.

i keep telling myself
i keep telling myself
i'm not the desperate type
but you've got me looking in through blinds

now i'll teach you a lesson for keeping secrets from me...

can't forget the scent
of your fingertips
like cigarettes
until you slide them in me
and all the while
i hum the tune
better living
through chemotherapy


i hate it when i'm at the internet cafe, partway through writing a post, and i realize that i forgot my cigarettes at home. the resulting horror is that i am forced to go without my celebratory post-post cigarette. i just might cry. right here. right now. so get ready.

i read alex's blog today. he is such an affected person- his reactions to things are always so beautifully intense and immediate and full of emo force/feeling.

also- i've been listening to 'my heart is the worst kind of weapon' by fall out boy in the sort of repetitive fashion that is typically reserved only for those suffering from autism. i don't care what anyone says about fall out boy- that song gives me the best stomach ache in the world.

only nick understands.

you wouldn't know a good thing if it came up and slit your throat...

the push of a button

i bought a new fancypants umbrella today. all i wanted was one that was small enough to fit in my purse and the sales lady talked me into getting a pimped out london fog one that opens and closes by the push of a button. for some reason, i thought that 'automatic close' meant that it would fold up completely when i pushed the button. i tested it out in my living room when i got home (yeah blah blah seven years, seven schmears) and to my dismay, 'automatic close' apparently just meants that the umbrella collapses itself. i still have to fold it up and shit. whoopedy doo. cheap umbrellas do that for free.

so i bought a sudoku book as a consolation. sudontgetit, more to the point. this whole business of retail therapy has gone horribly awry today.

oh man.

even when i try to spare you all the usual piss and moan fest, it turns into a piss and moan fest anyway.

after all this time
in my arena
your tower is still standing.
in my mind's eye
you will never die
in my mind's eye
you are imortalized.

and the swing kid hits the lights

yesterday was your birthday.

i'll blow you a kiss... it should reach you tomorrow...


i went to absinthe last night for their wednesday night motown thang. it was a good time. being the only sober person in a gigantic group of girating bodies made me feel a bit like alice in wonderland. everyone was talking and walking in half-time and i couldn't hear them or understand them. it's like being in a dream. i saw a lot of people that i know- which is one of the things that's so weird about this city. it's not that you're friends with any of them necessarily- but you see them EVERYWHERE; the grocery store, the cinema, bars, clubs, in the park... hamilton is the real-life twilight zone.

today i slept until three, for no reason at all.

you know- it's hard to feel like you're living life to the fullest when the day is already half over and you're just waking up. i probably would have stayed in bed for longer if my sister hadn't phoned me to tell me all about her awful day at work on tuesday. i said maybe five words in the half-hour that she was talking. she's so hilarious- it just kills me.

tomorrow: lunch with kelly.
saturday: euchrefest at tabi's.

12 days: until you're back on solid ground.

fantasyland

i have an obsessive personality.

this has always been so. it started when i went to see 'the little mermaid' in 1988 and was mesmerized by ariel's beautiful singing voice. for years (and i mean YEARS), i re-enacted the scene on the rocks in the tub- to the never-ending dismay of my mother who had to mop up all the water off of the floor.

back then, it was ariel.
these days, it's you.

i hope for more.

unfortunately, i've recently discovered that i may be suffering from an additional ailment...

i call it "poorly adjusted to reality".