Your gut knows something you don't.

In spite of my best efforts today was pretty much a wasted day.

I had a design project that I needed to get printed and I headed out to the copy shop where I printed the student union magazine. Their prices are not the cheapest but I thought their service was good and I was happy with the finished product so I figured this would be a good place to print school projects.

Apparently not. I arrived to find it closed, and inside it looked pretty empty and dark.

I had planned to go downtown afterward to take back some library books so that's where I headed, and on my way to the library I stopped off at another place. We opened the file on my flash drive together, and then I left it with them so I could go get some books at the library.

But as I left I had an inexplicable sinking feeling.

You know how you get that feeling in your gut sometimes? Listen to it. Secretly it's trying to tell you that someone at the copy shop is about to reformat your flash drive and lose your file without printing it.

And of course I'm too stupid to have carried a backup with me.

Gah.

Erin: 1, nasty gross wart: 0

For the longest time I had an annoying little wart on the inside of my right middle finger. It took me quite a while before I identified it as such, several weeks before I noticed that there was something there, several more weeks of wondering why I had a blister in such an odd place on my finger and then after suddenly realizing that it was actually a wart, a good two weeks of denial.

After that I tried several home remedies for warts, none of which worked. They always seem to be effective for a few weeks and then inexplicably they stop working. Then each time you stop one the wart comes back with a vengeance. It's like pruning bush to make it grow better.

After a while I threw up my hands and decided that I would just go to the doctor and get it burned off. But to do that you need to go see another doctor and get a referral. This means two or more phonecalls to make two but probably more appointments in order to go through a really unpleasant little procedure possibly multiple times until it was gone.

Well, I'm lazy. I have a habit of forgetting to call and make appointments during work hours. Or I put it off, or I don't have the time. I never bothered to make the appointment.

Now all of you people who are sitting here wincing at how gross this all is, don't you fear!

Three weeks ago the nasty little lump suddenly got little black spots all over it. I watched with morbid fascination as the spots grew and became more numerous and within a few days the whole thing got kind of dry and began to disintigrate.

Then inexplicably the whole thing fell out of my finger, leaving a bit of a hole that has since filled itself up with some scar tissue. I may be jinxing myself by saying this but I think it's gone!

The only reason I can think of as to why it's gone is because it is no match for my super mind skillz.

Magic beans

More yumminess from my garden. Yay.

My not very eventful afternoon

It figures that when I arrived at the lab this afternoon the only computer in use was the one attached to the graphic tablet. It's amazing how quickly I've become dependent on that thing. I love it. I hate when I can't have it and I hate even more when the person who's using the computer isn't even touching the thing.

So needless to say I sat and stewed and worked on a project for about half an hour and then I left.

Grargh.

I went to catch my bus and just barely missed it. I decided that standing and waiting for the next one was boring so I'd go wander. I wandered a little too long and missed my second bus so I went wandering again but kept a better eye on my watch.

My life is horribly interesting, eh?

A while ago I thought that since I like alt-country music that maybe I had secretly warmed up to country music. I turned on the radio to hear a song with classic, timeless lyrics:

"Hold my beer while I kiss your girlfriend."

Yep, my aversion to country still stands.

Destiny awaits

My tried-and-true paper survival tip is when in doubt, invoke Marx. That time you had to read the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts was probably the best thing you ever did.

I just wrote a whole paper in which I illustrated alienation with a paperclip. That will either go over well or it won't.

I don't have much time for a lot of things today. Blogging is one of them. Random spam messages from semi-literate people is another one:

Hi! ;) I am lonely pretty girl who is looking for chat with you.i am talkative and funny... i need you... maybe you my future?? Email me back at CAROL@planetflh.com and i will reply back with some really nice pictures ;)...and you will see that maybe I am... your destiny...

Fuck destiny. I am... busy with school...

98/365: Hunnings

Hunnings was the English teacher who told the class that he and all good people are feminists, if not in name, because it wasn't fair that I (he singled me out) am destined statistically to make 70% of what my male counterparts would make in wages. He then went back to finding phallic imagery in our readings. He was really good at that.

Study snack break

I'm up studying because I have an exam tomorrow. I didn't get nearly the amount of school work done today that I was hoping to do, but at the same time I achieved enough that I won't have to shoot myself because I'm behind.

I made myself a wrap with melted cheeese. It's like a quesadilla only microwaved and therefore not as cool. The wrap itself is one of those novelty flavours with spices and tomato in it that my dad brought home because the Costco free sample ladies got to him.

Right now I'm feeling very ambivalent about the thing. It's quite tasty and oreganoey, but at the same time it's not whole wheat. This brings me to a question that's been nagging me for a long time.

Why is it that the cool flavoured kinds of wraps and breads are always made with white flour? Who are those rotten bastards who decided that they'd make one healthy whole wheat kind, and then eight delicious looking white death kinds to tempt me with? I'm feeling penalized and marginalized for making the conscious decision to not eat ultraprocessed crap that will give me diabetes.

This is a deep and angsty trip into my psyche, I know. I think I will go have some tea now.

What I'm not liking about all this being busy with school is that I seem to miss out on filling my paper journal with all the drivel I've become accustomed to filling it with. I find that the amount of verbal vomit I put in there is somewhat correlated with the quality and creativity of the posts on this blog. The more crap I put there, the less you have to read here.

Not that this post was crap. No, you just watch. In fifty years they'll be assigning it in English courses along with James Joyce's Ulysses.

Smells I like

Hydraulic oil. I hate the smell of gasoline, but there's something I like about hydraulic and machine oil that I just can't put my finger on.

Tar pitch, pickle and flux. All things that are used in metalsmithing, smells that used to fill our basement so they make me feel really nostalgic. The pickle I'm talking about doesn't smell even remotely like the vinegar stuff you stick cucumbers in.

Fresh bread. This one doesn't really need any explanation because so many other people like it too. There's something warm, delicious and wholesome about it.

My mom. I think she smells good, not that I go around sniffing her or anything. Grandma used to give her perfume for her birthday and she used to wear a light dusting of it. She never put it directly on her skin. Once a week she'd spray a bit into her underwear drawer so the smell was never overpowering. She stopped wearing it when she found out that someone in her office was allergic.

Sterile bandaids straight from the package.

Darkroom fluids. Part weird, part nostalgia. My mom used to work at an art school and I spent the greater part of a couple summers there, alternately taking classes and spending time alone, amusing myself. I made several pinhole cameras and spent a lot of time in the darkroom.

Old family recipes. Because recipes written out on note cards by grannies with accents are the best, especially because they're high in fat, cholesterol and sugar.

97/365: Anita

She had a long, Russian sounding name that sounded exotic and cool to my seven year old self, and my fascination with it embarrassed her. Her parents constantly hovered around. When I invited her over to my house her father followed in his car as my mom walked the two of us home, and then parked outside for the duration of her visit. "You don't understand," he said, "You have two. We only have one, and if we lose her that is it." Mom was deeply offended at the suggestion that either of her children were expendable in that way. Anita never came over to my house again.

96/365: Matt

Matt and I met in kindergarten and went to the same schools until we graduated. His parents were military people and very involved in the Legion and the Royal Elks. He was often in trouble at school, but he was not a bad person.

One day in grade 12 I was feeling really crappy and he was standing by my locker. He didn't say anything but he gave me a hug. That's the last time I remember seeing him.

It suddenly occurred to me the other day that there's a good chance he's getting shot at in Afghanistan or Haiti right now. I hope he's well.