Addenda

Re: this post



Re: get your licence reinstated. we're getting a car.

I agree. No fuzzy dice.

Pompoms are okay as long as they're squids. I like squids today.

I saw a lady the other day with a crocheted purse that looked like a squid. The tentacles were straps and the head was the bag. It was so damn cool.

Love,

Erin

Ps. I love you and I'm out of milk.

No subject too taboo for the table

Rather pleasant waiter approached our table mid-meal to announce that "he was cut" and that someone else would be serving us.

What? Cut? Surely he didn't mean instead that his shift was ending? If he did, then why did he say cut?

"But he's not bleeding," Gina said, "shouldn't he be getting bandaged up or something?"

"Well, that phrase can mean a lot of things," I said.

He could be off the team, or fired.
Or injured.
Or denied access to money or booze.

"Maybe he's circumcised," I concluded.

The conversation more than made up for the crappy food.

Next week we don't eat out. We're playing drunken wii instead. Should be fun.

I like those historical signs by the highway too

"Well, not really a roadtrip. More like just going to Seattle."

"Alright," I said, "Can I take lots of pictures?"

"Yep, and we're finally old enough to buy booze in the States."

"And we can go to the public market and watch the guys throw fishes?"

"What?"

"The last time I was in Seattle I saw the guys throwing fishes."

"What?"

"In the public market there's a fish place where they throw fish in the air. Then people laugh and cheer. It's lots of fun."

"More fun than drinking in a hotel room?"

"Well, yeah."

We're brilliant

Let's see...

Kathy and I went downtown today on errands and hatched a brilliant plan to visit every single brewery and brew pub in the city and sample every single type of beer that they offer.

But we can't do it alone. Well, we can, but whatever. Just come with us, please.

Psst. Dressew has a special on right now: 22 lbs of chocolate hedgehogs for $9.99. Dressew is awesome.

Gina called and asked if she could invite boys to our super duper boardgame night of fun tomorrow and I said sure. I like boys. Boys are fun. Boys can come even though they'll eat all our nachos.

What do you call my cheese?

Nacho cheese!

Late breaking news

This sounds soooo cliché. The shop teacher at Centennial is selling his grandmother’s car: a 1985 Plymouth Caravelle 128,000 original kms. Apparently grandma bought it in 1985 when she was 75 years old.

I haven’t seen the car but you can google 1985 Plymouth Caravelle to get the idea. Dad says it’s yellow with a gold vinyl roof and lots of chrome; one small ding with a tiny rust patch; four cylinders, not a gas guzzler, bench seats!

What do you think? I say, those little pom pom things around the windshield but no fuzzy dice.

Mom

Critical acclaim for my decorating

"Oh, you put a picture up."

"Yep."



"What did you stick behind all the photos?"

"The blue pages from the phone book."

"I see."



"If you need a sheriff or highway conditions or something, just let me know and I'll make the call."

I can read upside down. I'm cool.

Spanish claps

Oh, hi blog. Nice to see you.

I bussed my last paper downtown today, and straight into the hands of my ta. He's still talking about my uncle as if they're old friends. I haven't the heart to ask him if he's heard the story about how I "ate" granddad yet.

Knowing my uncle, he probably has. Symbolic cannibalism has everything to do with political science, you know.

Afterwards, I thought I'd reward myself and at the same time avoid a particular person by heading on down to Deluxe Junk and getting myself a new sweater, and then another, but not another because that other one didn't fit. It was actually kind of nice because I haven't bought myself any new clothes since last October or so, and chances are I won't be for a while again.

Oh, I saw Eric Clapton on Friday. I got the tickets for Christmas as a I'm sorry I got distracted when I was about to buy Rolling Stones tickets for both Vancouver and Regina and they both sold out and I could only get two tickets to see them in Seattle and I'm really regretting saying that I won't buy tickets to see the Who at GM Place because I think the acoustics will suck present.

The acoustics at GM Place actually aren't all that bad for an arena kind of setting. It's the Pacific Colosseum that is bad. Tons of echoes.

Clapton plays a pretty decent concert, if I might say so myself. None of this talking stuff and the full unabridged version of Cocaine. Actually, the full unabridged versions of a lot of songs. He played for two hours, but he didn't actually play very many songs, because each song had big long solos for practically everyone. I didn't catch the names of the people in his band but they're all quite talented musicians as well. It would have been nice if they had turned up his mic a little bit though.

There was much debate as to who the grey haired man kneeling behind the drum kit was, what he was doing and whether he looked more like Einstein or Bill Bennett. Which Bill Bennett, I'm not sure. There seems to be a lot of them kicking around. One that has grey puffy hair.

Finally I decided that the guy was switching up the drum kit right from under the drummer, because they didn't take any real breaks from playing, but the drums were tuned differently for a couple of the songs.

There was a guy behind us who kept screaming ERIC as if Eric could hear him and he was so fricken loud. He reminded me somewhat of Alex trying to wake me up at 5:30 am by shouting under my bedroom window. He also had some of the loudest, most enthusiastic clapping until someone asked him to tone it down a little.

Spanish claps, please. Or clap like the queen.

He was a nice guy though. Just really excited. Kind of close to my age too, which was incredibly young compared to a lot of the rest of the crowd. The blue rinse set was definitely out in force on Friday night. Not that there's anything wrong with that. They need concerts too.

Twa corbies

What the hell is that noise, sa I, sa I. What else but twa corbies on me balcony, chatting it up about piken the bonny blue e'en from a new-slain knight or a McDonalds happymeal.



Skittish corbies though. They wouldn't let me photograph them head on.



And yes, I'm aware that they're actually crows, not corbies, but I ne'er miss a chance to use it in a sentence, ye ken?

Things I thought were a good idea but weren't

At Schmutzie's invitation:

1) Salting my afterschool snacks with alum so that my sister wouldn't want me to share with her.

2) Taking a friend up on a dare that I could eat an entire pound of butter in under ten minutes.

3) Going into the bottom of the Ape Caves at Mt. St. Helens without backup flashlights or extra matches and turning off our propane lantern just to see how dark it would get.

4) Eating an entire can of Habitant pea soup in one sitting. (Looks and smells just the same coming out as it did on the way in.)

5) Running across a slippery floor to catch the phone buck naked in the morning before I was awake and/or coordinated.

6) Deciding when I was 5 years old that I was invincible and didn't have to wipe myself after using the toilet. (Which lasted all of about five days).

7) Holding on to the metal attachments on the electrical beater while trying to find the eject button.

8) Standing on the roof of the lodge at Guide camp, yelling at some guys so they would come right up to the fence, and then telling the considerably younger girls inside that they all had axes and chainsaws and wanted to murder us.

9) Saying "surprise me" when Ryan's mixing drinks.

Look for my name in bright lights

What can I tell you?

I got interviewed for a student video today because apparently my position in the student union makes me an authoritative, celebrity source. I got to answer questions about the future of Craigslist. "What will Craigslist look like in ten years?" she asked and I said "Craigslist, a Googhoo! company."

Goo goo g'joob.

I'm in the middle of writing a paper about mommyblogging and individual and collective identity and since I've been able to find absolutely no previous research on that specific topic, I've been looking at a lot of sociology, psychology and women's studies stuff. And since I'm just itching to use all those lovely boring as hell research methods I learned in my classes last semester, I've picked myself a random sample of blogs and I'm doing content analysis.

Though the topic fits quite well into the themes of the course and some of the stuff talked about in lecture, I'm finding that none of the assigned readings are particularly applicable. I went to talk to the ta about this which was probably a bad idea, even though he's the one marking it.

He's the sort of person that believes that everyone on the internet is pretending to be someone that they're not and that we are all fakers, hackers and trolls. Because everything is anonymous, there is no accountability and no morality on the internet, so he's morally opposed to it.

"Talk about Turkle," he said. Turkle studied interactions between players of online multiplayer games. In them she found many instances of people playing one or more characters that could be very different from their owners and from each other, and allowed them to experiment with being different genders, races and ages.

But is a middle-aged man who plays a lesbian in a game just pretending, or is he also, in part, a lesbian too? And is a college student who plays a mute rabbit really a rabbit? She cited an example of a cyber 'rape' that happened to a character in a game, where the real life user who owned that character felt hurt and violated. She also talked about people who said that their online identities were quite important and very real to them. If your computer is a window into another world, then real life is just another window.

She related all of this to a bunch of French postmodern philosophers who argued that identity is fluid, decentralized and opaque and decided that these games prove those theories, because some of these game users experience their online made-up lives as if they were another facet of reality.

So what does this have to do with women who post pictures of their children on their blogs? Absolutely nothing. How many women who post pictures of their baby and talk about how well it's getting along with the cat and how colicky it is are actually elderly black men exploring their personalities and stealing someone's photos? Probably none.

I think we're going to have to agree to disagree, and my ta is going to have to give me a good mark anyways, because frankly, I'm awesome.

Oats

I wrote a story for you all about this box of oats which even now is sitting on top of my television for reasons that escape me.

I would share it but for the fact that I deleted it soon after it was written. It was a tad bland.

Today was absolutely beautiful. It was sunny and windy. Perfect for kite flying. There's a man down at Vanier Park that can operate three of those stunt kites at the same time, one on each hand and then one attached to his waist and operated with a foot pedal. I bet he was out today.

I wish I was.

Oh yeah? Well my granddaddy's Martin Luther!

I was invited to go to my cousin Les' birthday yesterday, so that was where I was. Did you know that I had a cousin Les? That makes two of us.

He was 60 years old yesterday, and we all celebrated with his kids and grandkids, none of which I had previously met. I must say that I'm so glad to finally know that I have some people in my extended family that I think I might actually like.

The real reason why I was there though was because my father's cousin said that she had written a book about our family and had traced the "matrilateral" line all the way back to 1066 and Admiral Nelson. Frankly I think it's all bullshit because first of all, there's no such thing as a "matrilateral line" and second of all, the matrilineal line is almost impossible to trace because women get married and change their names.

Not to mention, just because someone's last name was Nelson doesn't mean that we're all related to the one that's famous, as much as it would be nice to think that I'm related to Admiral Nelson, Nelson Mandella and Horatio Hornblower (who happens to be a fictional character). The sad and often ignored truth is that all we've ever been is nobodies, but cousin Bernice likes to exaggerate a lot.

Thus, she's a 'school psychologist' even though schools in BC don't have them, she's travelled the world even though really she was a snowbird for three years and she wrote a book about the 'matrilateral line'.

In her world book means four pages of poorly formatted text, photos and convoluted descriptions, including some random people who I'm not sure we're related to.

If anyone is actually interested in my family history, my grandparents wrote a 300 page book on it and it's in both the Burnaby Public Library and the National Archive of Canada. It's called Up the Creek Without and it's red. Skip the chapters my grandma wrote. They're boring.

But not all was lost. We have pictures now, including the famous picture of Pappy:



He sailed the Great Lakes, and then the Great Slave, and then all around BC. Either he was born under a wandering star or he used to piss people off all the time. Either way, it's a great picture, I think.

We are truly blessed

So the plan was that we should go back to Gina's and watch a movie or something because we were kind of tired and we'd missed the 10:30 movies, and with them we always end up watching either sappy chick flicks or shootemup thrillers, neither of which are my thing.

I showed them the farm tour back route through Pitt Meadows and they were surprised to find out that it's nearly 20 minutes faster, even when there's no traffic on the freeway. We were halfway through Poco before Gina realized where we were.

But at the same time, Kathy had to acknowledge that if I hadn't been in the backseat, she would have gotten horribly lost, mostly because the back route involves a lot of driving two blocks in one direction, one block in another direction on two laned roads that make sudden 90 degree turns and are completely pitch black at night.

At one point in time we ended up at an odd four-way intersection where the roads don't quite match up. You stop at the stop sign to find a big yellow sign and a telephone pole directly in front of you and two roads, one to the left and one to the right. Kathy, being the responsible driver she is, asked me "left or right?"

To which I replied, "straight."

"There's no road there."

"Yes there is. Just keep following the one we're on."

"Erin, there is no road there!"

"You must cast the devil out of your heart and accept the gospel of Erin, sinner. The gospel of Erin is love and salvation. So onward and repent!"

And what do you know? There was a road there. A miracle, I tell you! Praise be to the Lord!

We got to Ginas only to find that she didn't have her keys and we were locked out. Luckily Brown was there to let us in, but that involved waking him up first, which proved difficult because his phone was off and the only window we could reach to knock on was the kitchen window.

We beat his window with a snowshovel until he finally opened the door. "Sorry for waking you," I said, with a smile. Evidently not charming enough because he looked at all of us, smiled, muttered something under his breath and then locked us out again.

"We're not drunk! Honest!" we screeched until he finally let us in. Another miracle. We are truly blessed.

Four years ago todayish

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.



When in Verona, grope Juliet.



I wanted to eat here but there wasn't enough time.

My brain is mush

Stupid daylight savings. It doesn't feel like six at all. Or seven. I wrote this an hour ago.

I have papers to write.

I am making UBC rise and shine muffins, the exact same kind that they used to have at the UBC bakeshop. Remember the UBC bakeshop? It was where the bus loop is now, I think. We used to wait for my mom there while she was doing her masters. They had the absolute best cinnamon buns in the whole wide world and I've got the recipe for them as well but it's never worked out for me. The muffin recipe always works though.

My middle school foods teacher always cautioned us against overmixing muffins because they would get "madonna boobs" on the top, but no matter how much you mix the batter for these suckers, they always seem to turn out right. They're magic, you see.

Not to mention, the batter tastes good in large quantities, which is the real reason why I'd be caught baking anything anyways.

Nothing says study break like a mixture of raw eggs, vanilla extract, sugar, flour and miscellaneous chopped nuts, zuchinni and carrots.

And tea. I've become a compulsive tea drinker lately, which has my friends upset because apparently that and the fact that I need one of those walker things to skate means that I am ageing prematurely. Not to mention that I knit, crochet, play cribbage, love antiques roadshow and more often than not, bake my own bread.

You may recall that when I was in grade 7 or 8ish these were the same people who decided that my odd hairline that was only visible when my hair was french-braided was a receeding hairline because I was secretly a middle aged man.

So, pressing this to its logical conclusion, I'll be dead by 25. Sure I could aim high, but I like results.

Either that or I could get new friends.

Not that I want to be mean or anything

Dear certain guy in my class,

Just because I'm kind of sort of almost your neighbour, doesn't mean I am your girlfriend.

When I say "I am going to the washroom. I will see you in class." That does not mean follow me to the washroom and wait for me outside.

I hope this clarifies some things.

Thanks.

It's widescreen

Usually it's just my sister and I renting movies but I ended up at Rogers with both my parents without any clear indication as to what she meant by "bring home a movie or something".

We started at the foreign films and found that alas, everything we wanted to see was out, including a film described as "a black comedy with dire consequences". I can't remember what it was about exactly, or what it was called, but it had a picture of a hospital stretcher with a crumpled pile of clothing and a bunch of cats on it and that means that I have to watch it. Definitely.

Mom grabbed The Illusionist and began to read out the parental warnings on the back. I don't think we really bother with the plot synopses anymore, mostly because what's on the original packaging is always horribly vague and whoever writes the ones on the in-store packaging is clearly an idiot. These days we go by the picture, the name and how much sex, drugs and violence we are warned about. Murders and suicides and sex - it's all good.

Down to the checkout, where the girl who rang us through made the mistake of telling us what we already knew and were keeping secret from dad: it was a widescreen dvd. "What? Pardon me?" he asked, "I didn't hear you..." and she had to repeat it three times while he frowned and got upset that it wouldn't work in the tv. We had to assure him that it was fine before we could pay and leave the store.

So the movie: visually excellent, but it just didn't quite grab me in the beginning. Maybe it was just that the opening flashback sequence was kind of a boy meets girl, boy loses girl cliche. Regardless, not a bad movie. I don't know. I'm notoriously bad at reviewing films.

Keep me away from photoshop please

Ancestral arborite

This would be the arborite on my kitchen table. The garish chrome screams '50s and it predates my father a bit, being the table that was in my grandparents kitchen when he was born. My best guess is 52.

Legend has it that some of the grunge deep in its cracks and crevasses it is actually the remnants of the first real food breakfast my father ever ate, but I'm willing to pin that on my aunt Gay.

But then again, there was always a thin layer of almost inperceptible-yet-slightly-sticky grunge on certain things at my grandparents' house, mostly things my grandmother touched. The table, the inside corners of the drawers, the TV remote, the phone... It's not like she never cleaned. The only source that I can think of is the nasty habit grandma has always had of giving food that missed her mouth a little flick with her finger to get it in. It has always grossed me out.

Sometime in the summer I'm going to soak it in lysol and attack it with a toothbrush to try and get the grunge out. Not that that hasn't already been tried unsuccessfully by several people over the past fifty years, but I haven't done it yet and like them, I want to say I tried. Until then, the ugly tablecloth stays on.

I was thinking that it's about time that I start taking pictures of textures again. I love them.

Swan song

Arnie could have been a really excellent graphic designer, but instead he wanted to be a rock star, which was sad because he couldn't play guitar worth a damn. No matter. He wasn't the sort of person to take direction from anyone, and couldn't handle criticism so he never bothered with lessons.

Instead he dropped three grand into a titanium alloy guitar. He and that metal monster of a thing moved up to Tofino, because naturally, if you want to attract the attention of the majors, you move away from the city, not towards. This was his logic.

The beautiful thing about titanium is that it has a fairly high melting point so when his shack in the woods burned to the ground three years later, we assumed with suppressed giggles that the guitar had survived, though we never asked.

One time he bought a large sheet of red glass - about a metre square - and set about painting a pair of black swans on it with India ink, shaded completely with Led Zeppelin lyrics. He spent hours on it and it was beautiful. I wish I had a picture. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like that, but that one was the best.

After he was finished, he packed it up carefully and paid a horrendous amount to ship it to Jimmy Page in England, because apparently he keeps black swans on his estate, or at least, he did at the time. I don't know what happened to it after that, but I'm sure that it was definitely a change of pace from the regular, run-of-the-mill fanmail.

Red glass is the most expensive glass, because it has gold in it. I know because I designed a window almost exclusively of red glass once, red and sky blue glass and lead and black ink, but through the tiniest bit of carelessness and a large amount of bad luck, it ended up shattered on the basement floor, and cleaning it up felt a lot like mopping up the blood of a loved one. At the time, at least.

I went to Smith's Glass in Victoria and spent about $200 to replace the glass, but my motivation was gone and now it sits out in my parents garage, underneath the silversmithing bench. I never finish anything anyways.

Goo

They're starting to build a new house on the corner across from the boat at the edge of the elementary school playground. I was shocked to see it come down last month. It was Michael Kerr's house. I think we went to kindergarten together.

Every year for Haloween his parents used to turn their garage into a haunted house with lots of streamers and cobwebs, flashing lights and sound effects. Once you had managed to get through to the back of the garage, you got the standard handful of candy and then your pick of creepy crawlers that Michael had made himself.

You remember creepy crawlers, don't you? They were kind of like easy bake ovens for boys. You filled the moulds with purple and green goo and then waited with eager anticipation for the oven to ding so you could peel rubbery cockroaches and spiders out of them. They were the absolute coolest toy, because what child is immune to the infinite charm of goo and bugs?

I certainly wasn't and I needed my own creepy crawlers kit. I needed it. I NEEDED IT because it was so damn cool. That'd be about the same year that I was Dracula for Haloween and frightened that people would recognize me through the disguise because of my very distinctive squarish-with-receeding-corners hairline, I dictated that my mom should make some facepaint modifications to my face which resulted in the most retarded black triangle in the middle of my forehead, which, for whatever reason, was in no way connected to my hairline at all.

Long after the candy was gone, the rubber bugs remained and I finally convinced my parents that I too needed to be able to fill the world with my own gooey creations. I opened my presents on Christmas day only to find that I had gotten treasures and trinkets instead. It was practically the same thing as creepy crawlers except that it was coated in pinkness. Instead of using green goo to make centipedes you used pink goo to make hearts, stars and birds. This was clearly not the same.

As far as girlie toys go, I only ever had a cabbage patch doll. No barbies, no my little pony, no polly pocket or whatever everyone was playing with at the time. I had, however, a full set of mutant ninja turtles action figures and a large assortment of books. The only explanation as to why I got the wrong gift was that they were out of the cool version, maybe. Because otherwise it makes absolutely no sense.

I am not a lost and found, people. Kindly leave your assasin scarves somewhere else.

So last night when I got home I found a silk scarf draped over the handle of my door. My initial thought was that someone had left me a gift or something and that that was really cool. I took it inside only to find that soon after touching it my hands were permeated with some of the most disgusting perfume - the kind of stuff that reaches right to the back of your throat and chokes you with its stench and then lingers in your nostrils for hours.

I am plagued by a sensitive nose. I tend to avoid the cosmetics sections of department stores and craft/hobby/gift shops that sell things like scented candles and oils, mostly because they tend to rob me of my ability to breathe, an ability that I rather enjoy having.

Not only that, I have hands that seem to lend themselves well to carrying the smells of anything that I touch - money, fish, oranges, onions etc. After making dinner, my hands can smell like onions for days, no matter how much I wash them, and when they smell like something other than nothing at all, I have a habit of sniffing them often. It's a dumb thing that I do.

On realizing that the scarf was full of such an offensive perfume, I dropped it on the floor and washed and dried my hands four times to get the smell out before returning with salad tongs to dump it into the laundry basket.

That would be the end of the story except that I woke gasping and choking in the middle of the night to find that the scarf had crept all the way across my room from my laundry basket to work its nasty little fingers around my neck and was pressing its thumbs deep into the soft spot at the base of it, just above my collarbone.

I banished the damn thing to the hallway so I could get some sleep.

What kind of rotten people would do that to me? Honestly.

Erin woss here

My grandma doesn't remember what my father's name is, which isn't anything new. "Did you have lunch today?" my aunt asks.

"Yes," grandma replies.

"What did you have?" Gaynell continues.

"Well, I had you!" grandma states, matter of factly.

Sometimes I think that when I'm old I want to be really senile so I don't have to really know what's going on. Grandma isn't aware that her roommate died a couple of weeks ago, and in some ways that's really sad, but in others, it's probably better that way.

But then again, for her every day for the past week has been the day after Grandad died, which isn't so good, so I don't know.

Yes, I'm still using photos from last November. This is a photo of a train that is falling apart in Woss, BC. Woss is a little logging town and aside from houses and logging-related things there, it has a small community hall, a trailer that serves as a library and a general store, which is pretty much the hippest place in town. It's a gas station that doubles as practically everything else - movie rentals, grocery store, fishing tackle, giftshop, hardware store.

All this is really immaterial. All that really matters is that in the washroom in this particular store people have written all sorts of graffiti:

I woss here!
Wossup!
Woss eating you?

♥ animation

The Faint - Agenda Suicide



Matthew Good - While We Were Hunting Rabbits

The hangar

I think I may have fixed the irritating double window problem with the comments on this blog.

I took some pictures today and I was going to write a post about them but they all managed to be blurry. I'm not entirely sure how that happened.

So, for lack of anything better to say or post, I'm going to dig up some photos from Thanksgiving last year. There's an old WWII aircraft hangar up at Coal Harbour, I believe, on Vancouver Island. Why Vancouver Island? Well, to protect against the Japanese invasion plan that never really existed in the first place. At the time there were no roads in or out. Everywhere you look there is a concrete slab, so I guess that's how the poor bastards kept busy.



But anyways, what do you do when you find a kind of run-down building that you're probably not supposed to go into? Go inside and take pictures, of course. Seems to me I've already posted some pictures of holes in the windows on this blog, maybe around early December of last year, if you care to check. Here are some that I haven't posted before. The third is my favourite.

My name is macaroon

The object of the game is to see how much you can smuggle into the movie theatre without being caught. The more unorthodox the food the better. This time it was three packages of pudding cups, two bottles of pop, a package of cookies and miscellaneous things that we bought from the bulk bins, including half a kilo of macaroons. Maybe next Wednesday we'll try a cheesecake.

It's not that hard, really. They don't even look twice when your friend walks in from the snow in a tshirt with his jacket wrapped up in an oddly bulky bundle or at your friend who has a huge, huge purse. Me? I'm just chubby. Or pregnant. We're not sure.

Anyways, we got in there only realize that we didn't have spoons for our pudding so I got them from the food services people. Since there was no one else really there last night I couldn't help but think that they noticed that we got spoons and no food but the guy behind the counter thought I was cute. Pfft.

We saw Smokin' Aces. Not my kind of movie on the best of days, but not bad, I guess. Lots of guns and blood and shenanigans. Colourful characters, but I thought there were too many of them and too many flashbacks and things happening all over the place to really focus on anyone but the guy who they were all trying to kill/save but mostly kill, a man who, unfortunately for the movie, I didn't really like. All in all, it was missing something, somehow. I'm not sure what. But like I said, it's not my kind of movie.

Something about today put me in a good mood. It may have only been the weather, but I hope it stays. Whenever I feel good I secretly hope that it's here to stay, which makes it that much harder when it turns out that that's not the case. Sometimes I get the feeling that if I just accepted that I will always feel crappy the majority of the time that I wouldn't get that little pang of despair as I'm falling into it again.

But today I was in a good mood. I'll leave it at that.

Is that pudding in your pants or are you happy to see me?