Note: This entry was not written in London, England. It was written in London, Ontario ... population 426,000, home of the University of Western Ontario and uh ... that's about it. Just wanted to clarify.
So I've been gone for a little while. And now I'm back. And now you get to find out what I did in London for a month. Some of it may depress you. I admit it. My diary is becoming more honest ... I maintain the funny, but sometimes I divert from it. No more separate diaries for the brooding thoughts I have. Nope. It all goes here from now on. So brace yourselves ... and read on if you dare.Wed, Sept. 19, '01 5:17 pm
I thought it was about time I did some more entries, but the whole lack-of-computer thing kinda got in the way. So here we have it ... Ripe Tomato on Paper. Exciting, hmm?
Some very brief updates which I will elaborate on later:
1- Brendan and I have broken up. The plan is to remain good friends.
2- I've passed out 15 resumes in London, all to places with "HELP WANTED" signs. I've gotten zero interviews.
3- I'm bored and lonely as hell.
OK, now I have to go catch a bus to the mall ... because, well, it's something to do. I'll be back soon with more detailed updates.
Wed, Sept. 19, '01 6:50 pm
I just got back from the mall, and it was a total bust. It's cold and pissing rain out, and the bus was late both ways. There's nothing more uncomfortable than walking around a mall in wet clothes, feeling all cold as the wetness from your jeans soaks through to your friggin' underwear, for chrissake. Stupid invasive rain. I felt so violated.
So now I'm home, dry, in my pajamas making Kraft Dinner. Actually it's not even Kraft Dinner, it's that no-name macaroni and cheese that costs like half as much. Oh yeah, I'm a true 20-something-who-just-moved-out-of-her-parent's-house type now. There's no going back. At least I hope not. If I can't get a goddamn job in this city, I might not have a choice. *Sigh*.
OK, so I suppose I should elaborate about the whole Brendan break-up.
We broke up. A week ago. The same day the World Trade Center went down, disturbingly enough.
It was nobody's fault. He broke up with me ... things weren't the same between us anymore. I noticed it too, but I was hoping they'd be amazingly good once again ... as soon as we lived close to each other again.
Since I'd only been here a week and hadn't seen Brendan in London at all, I don't know what would've happened if we'd stayed together. So never mind that. We broke up.
Now we're doing the whole "being friends" thing. I've never done that successfully with a former boyfriend, so now every time I talk to Brendan I start shaking and my stomach knots up from being too nervous. Blecch.
So yeah, I was upset. I am upset. I miss him. I miss us. But I figure I'll get over it in time, provided I don't see him cavorting around with a new babe for the next couple of months. I don't even know how I'd handle that, so let's change the subject, shall we? It's times like these when I wish Brendan were less *cute*. And *funny*. And *appealing to women*. Life just blows sometimes. Really.
So here I am in London, living by myself with no job and virtually no friends. Hence my being "bored and lonely as hell" like I said earlier.
The thing is, I don't want to move back. Now that I've lived alone (in the pits of despair, no less), I know I can handle it. I want to be independent. I want to get work here and get a place near Western where I can hopefully meet more interesting people. I want to make a living and pay my own bills and buy my own stuff.
I know London now. I'm familiar with the bus routes. I know where shit is. I like it. Toronto's too crazy for me, I think. If I could just ask for one favourable twist of fate, it would be finding a job so I can stay here. That's all I want right now. Honestly.
And so I will continue to pass out resumes. Where there's a will, there's gotta be a fucking WAY.
Thurs, Sept. 20, '01 11:26 am
Getting up in the morning is soooo tedious.
I crawl out of "bed", which is really a couch made entirely of foam. It's brown tweed upholstered. The curtains are also brown tweed. The carpeting is brown, and the phone-booth-sized kitchen & bathroom area is floored with brown tiles. It's brown-a-licious. Really. Who on Earth ever thought brown was a good base colour for home decor? Honestly. It has a most depressing aura to it.
Anyway, where was I? Oh right. I crawl out of bed. I take various pills from the medicine cabinet: allergy pills, Ritalin, a vitamin or two (when your diet consists of little more than Kraft Dinner knockoffs, uncooked Mr. Noodles packets, and boxes of Five Alive, it's reassuring to pop some dried, capsuled nutrients from a bottle now & then), and an iron pill to fend off the anemia I may or may not yet be afflicted with.
Then I get in the shower with the non-adjustable head, cringing as the ruthlessly rough water pressure bruises my delicate skin. I squirm as the plastic shower curtain migrates toward me and gropes my wet body like a drunken frat boy, and attempt (fruitlessly) to push it out of the way so that I can properly wash myself.
I shower with the bathroom door open because I discovered that the rusty vent they call a "fan" is completely useless, and if the door's closed the steam gets too heavy, causing water to drip heavily from the ceiling after the shower's done; yellow, slimy drops of water tainted by whatever lies on the ceiling of the mysterious lavatory I use.
Then I dry off and search my half-inch of closet space for something to wear. I want to look presentable so I can go out and pass out resumes, but alas, I seem to lack appropriate attire. So I settle for clean, non-fraying-at-the-ankles jeans and the least faded, least ill-fitting shirt I can locate (this is getting harder because my current depression has caused my weight to plummet, leaving all of my clothes looking baggy and shapeless on my now-less-pudgy frame).
I head back to the dreaded bathroom and dry my hair, fussing with the odd tuft of hair at the top of my scalp which is about 7 inches shorter than the rest of my hair because I had this nasty habit of yanking hairs from that part of my head once (am I a classic obsessive-compulsive or what?), and though I'm relieved to no longer have a bare patch on my head that requires a deep side part (a female comb-over, if you will), I wish the half-grown patch wouldn't levitate off the rest of my hair, looking as though a clump of matted cat fur somehow entangled itself within my hair.
Then comes the makeup. The concealer gets piled on thicker every day as I try desperately to camouflage the increasingly dark, haggard circles under my eyes that no amount of sleep will lighten. The mascara clumps stubbornly to my eyelashes, reminding me to buy a new tube that isn't past the standard mascara expiry date of a couple of months.
Then it is time to catch the bus to one of three virtually identical malls (as in, they have the EXACT SAME STORES in each one ... Thrifty's, Smart Set, Reitmans, Aldo .... because what do we need variety for anyway?). Maybe they'll have new hiring signs out today! Must be optimistic! *Sigh*.
So off I go, for another day of hell. The thing that keeps me going? The thought of having to move back in with my mom ... my entire move to London being utterly pointless.
Gosh, I'd make an inspiring motivational speaker.
Fri, Sept. 21, '01 11:59 am
Once again it's pissing outside. I am someone who normally enjoys rainy weather (my dad attributes it to my living in BC until the age of seven ... I'm a west-coaster at heart I suppose), but when I have to stand at a bus stop with no shelter waiting for a bus that's never on schedule, getting soaked to the bone, just so I can pass out resumes, well, I don't appreciate it much. I can't show up at some place looking like a drowned rat and expect to be hired. An umbrella only does so much ... it won't protect leather shoes, long skirts, or my only pair of respectable, non-denim pants. So that is why I'm sitting at home writing this entry instead of heading off to the mall to give my resume to a certain clothing store (that doesn't sell jeans) like I'd planned. My dad and his girlfriend, Dawn, are driving down here to visit me tomorrow anyway, so I'll have to just get a ride there from them.
It's not like I can't go out today ... I just won't go out looking for work. I don't think anyone else will care if I look like the cat that got left out in the rain while I do my shopping. Just the prospective employers. So it's all good. The last thing I wanna do is spend all day in the brown chamber.
I'm reading a book called Fat Bald Jeff by Leslie Stella. I quite like it. I think you need to have a quirky sense of humour to appreciate it, though. It reminds me of drag queen humour. It's a tad surreal ... or maybe it's just post-modern. Whatever that term really means. The narrator is this 26-year-old copyeditor at a bank who loathes her job and everyone around her. She's also incredibly neurotic and paranoid because her emotionally absent hippie parents totally screwed her up. Anyway, I'm not finished the book yet. But so far, I'm liking it.
I think it's time to trek off to the bank to see if my cheque finally cleared. Five business days my ass. They just don't trust young people with fat cheques. Money-grubbing, government-whipped yentas. So I'm off. Bye.
Tues, Sept. 25, '01 sometime in the late morning
I've discovered a few advantages to living alone in a city with no friends nearby. That's me, always positive. Oh yeah.
For one, it's like living in my bedroom (OK, nevermind the fact that this is a tiny bachelor so technically it is my bedroom). As long as the curtains are drawn, I can walk around wearing as little clothing as I want. Clothes are for going out, as far as I'm concerned. Who needs 'em? As I write this I'm sitting on my couch/bed wearing jeans and a bra. Nothing more. And The jeans & bra are only on because I'll be leaving to catch a bus in a while. The top won't come on until I'm ready to step out the door. That's right baby.
Last night I cooked dinner (Mr. Noodles isn't half bad when it's cooked. Who knew?) in my underwear. That's how I ate it, too. That's what I call personal freedom.
In the morning when I roll out of bed naked, I no longer have to put on pajamas or whatever so that I can get up and do morning things, like make breakfast, or coffee, or read the paper (though I did get a dirty look from the old lady next door as I stepped outside to grab the newspaper one morning. Now she's never out on the balcony before noon. Oh well.). It's the ultimate bonus.
Other benefits? Well, I can choose my own food (so what if I die from malnutrition?), I can eat whenever I feel like it, in front of the TV, without getting in anyone's way or being barged in on by my mom and her latest boy-toy. I can pick out my own decor. If I want to adorn my walls with rows of Five Alive logos in some cheap-ass imitation Warhol fashion, who's gonna stop me?
I guess that's about it. I won't get into the disadvantages of living alone, because I'm depressed enough as it is about that shyte.
But hey, at least I'm able to look on the bright side, right?
Sat, Sept. 29, '01 7 pm-ish
"Saturn" means "seven". Saturday is the seventh day of the week. Saturn is the seventh planet in the solar system.
Do you feel slightly more educated?
Or did you already know that, and wish I would shut up?
Ever notice how so many people have 7 as their lucky number?
Do you have a lucky number?
What about unlucky numbers? Everyone knows 13. And apparently the number 4 is unlucky in China.
I once asked my basically non-superstitious mom if she would've rented the Toronto apartment if it had been on the 13th floor instead of the 16th.
She half-frowned/half-smiled, paused, and then said she didn't know.
I don't recall ever having any misfortunes related to the number 13. OK, so it was a bad age for me ... but so was 14.
Seems odd to me, all this lucky/unlucky number hype.
Here's a totally random scene from my life I remember (that has nothing to do with lucky numbers):
I was sitting in a car with two guys from Milton, the hick town you can't drive by in a car full of people without at least one person making a joke about inbreeding. I was seventeen. One guy was Rob, my 21-year-old boyfriend. First guy I ever dated. Lasted six weeks. He was macking with his ex-girlfriend the entire time. He was also, well ... umm .... incredibly stupid. But for some reason, at the time, I liked him. Or maybe I just liked having a boyfriend. I don't remember.
The other guy was Derek, a friend of his. He wasn't stupid, and he was even good-looking, in an understated sort of way. He was also in a really bitter mood most of the time. I think he was nineteen. Anyway, he'd gotten dumped by his girlfriend, Michelle, a few weeks back. He was really depressed about it. His parents kept kicking him out since he never worked or went to school, so he basically lived from house to house with whichever friends could put him up. So anyway, we were sitting in Rob's car in this dead-end road that stopped at the lake. We were stopped but the engine was running. It was raining. Sudenly Derek broke this suspended silence we were experiencing and pointed up at the windshield, which was covered in little rain droplets.
"You see that there, that tiny little dry spot on the window with no raindrop on it yet?"
I looked at the miniscule space between drops that Derek was indicating, watched it closely, and waited for him to continue. Even Rob seemed vaguely interested. Derek went on.
"You watch that one little space, just watch. No drops on it. You wait for a raindrop to hit it ... it's still dry. You become focused on that one little spot. You wonder when the hell it's gonna get hit. You get obsessed. Meanwhile, all these other tiny little spots on the window are getting hit, spots just like this one here, but you don't care. You're too busy eyeballing this one lousy dry spot, waiting and waiting for it to get hit. Nothing else matters."
I stared intently at that spot above Derek's finger in anticipation. It was still dry, but the rain was still going. Then Rob cut in.
"Yeah, so?"
Derek's eyes were still glued to this one spot. He didn't let Rob's impatience pressure him to get to the point. Finally he said:
"That's how it was with Michelle. That's how I felt. Like I was sitting there, being all patient and shit, just waiting, watching. Wanting to touch that one part of her, get her on some profound level. Totally fucking connect with her, you know? I was too busy staring at this one stupid little spot to even notice the other shit going on. The other ways I'm connecting with her. It all became about this one fucking dry spot that I couldn't get. That's how it was with Michelle."
We all sat in silence, still staring at the spot. Finally, a raindrop landed there, random yet purposeful.
*plip*
"And there it is." Derek said.
This odd, connected moment was ended as Rob switched on the windshield wipers. Derek turned and glared at Rob but Rob didn't notice. Finally Derek turned away and said:
"Let's get the fuck outta here, man. I gotta take a piss."
And all was back to normal.
Weird. There are so few scenes from my life I can recount in so much detail, vivid like a novel. But that was one of them.
Rob dumped me a few weeks later, and I saw Derek maybe once after that. A year later I met Rob for coffee and found out that Derek had stolen his bank card and made off with $5000 or something like that. After that, I lost touch with Rob completely. No loss.
As for Derek, I have no idea what became of him. He could be dead. But that one car conversation is etched in my brain for some weird reason. And I have no idea why.
Why do certain memories stick out in one's mind, year after year, while others fade away or get traded for new memories? Then there's those memories that sort of get lost in the shuffle, forgotten, only to be pulled back to mind at seemingly random times, making one go "Hey, I totally forgot about that until just now. What the hell made me think of it?"
Those are the memories I find most interesting. I think I'll write about them whenever they pop up in my brain. Maybe I'll be able to make some sense out of them. Then again, maybe I'll just sound like a fruit, as I'm sure I did with today's drivel.
Maybe if I could compile a whole bunch of memories, I could make a short stories book of sorts. Just for my own reading and pondering. Or maybe they'll all just go in this journal, random yet purposeful. Just like life.
I sound like a new-age flake.
Sun, Sept. 30, '01 1:30 pm-ish
I'm sick. I don't know what I have ... it's either a cold or a flu, or something worse, like strep throat. I'm hoping it's not the latter, since that would mean I need to see a doctor and get antibiotics or something. I'b all codgested ad schtuffed ub. Dis ish how I soud. I whated to gib you all ad idea of by coditiod.
Anyone wanna guess what I just said?
So yeah. I feel gross. And I look worse than Keith Richards after a binge. How I can go from looking like the picture of hot ripeness one day to a mouldy, withered tomato the next is beyond me. Even makeup couldn't improve my appearance today ... not that I have the energy to put it on.
Ugh. I never get sick. Rarely, anyway. When I was younger I used to take advantage of my impenetrable immune system and fake being sick at appropriately-timed random intervals throughout the school year, staying home for days at a time. Hey, we're all entitled to sick days, it's expected. I wasn't about to give up any of mine just because I was healthy. No way.
But this is for real. I'm a sick tomato. I wish I had someone to make me chicken soup, bring me ginger ale, and stroke my head until I feel better. No one ever really did that for me in my life, and I never asked. Now I feel like I missed out. I wish I could be five years old just for a little while, and have someone read stories to me until I fall asleep.
But no more kindergarten. That place was pure evil.
Sun, Sept.30, '01 5:57 pm
Man, going grocery shopping really bites when you're sick. Do you know what it's like to stand in a 3-mile checkout line with a splitting headache and sinus congestion behind little kids who squeal sadistically as they ram into you with their mini-carts (Valu-Mart's worst idea EVER)? Where's little Tommy's mother while all of this is going on? Oh, there she is, arguing with the grocery checkout girl over the price of a jumbo family-sized box of Froot Loops ("That sign says $3.75, not $3.89. Scan it again." Because ... yeah, maybe the exact same item will scan in at a different price the second time. You never know.). But I got my revenge. I sneezed on Tommy's Lunchables while she wasn't looking. Too bad kids have such fragile, virginal immune systems. Oh well.
So I came home with some Halls and a whole lotta chicken soup.
I'm bored, sick, and alone. Blehh. I guess I'm alright though. I'm not dying, and I have books to read. I miss Brendan, but I'm trying not to think about it too much.
Oh, to be young, healthy, and ripe once again. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some illness-induced flem to hack up. Bye!
Sun, Sept. 30, '01 10:16 pm
I just ate a container of Jell-O vanilla pudding. It's surprisingly tasty. Not like the instant packs of pudding you have to make yourself where you can never stir out all the lumps. Factory machines do a much better job.
TV Reruns I've Been Watching Lately
- Who's the Boss
- Roseanne
- Golden Girls
For some reason, I feel no shame in admitting this. Yeah, Who's the Boss was a lame show, but that Alyssa Milano is hot. Even if she is doing ads for 1-800-COLLECT now.
Remember when shows all used to have big theme songs? Not anymore. With the exception of Friends, today's shows have little more than a few riffs or notes at the beginning and between scenes. I think Seinfeld started the minimalist theme with its opening base line.
I sort of miss the campiness of TV's opening themes. Then again, it's only really "camp" if the shows are at least ten years old. Otherwise it's just embarrassing. Unless it's Daria or The Simpsons. So I guess cartoons with theme songs are OK.
I'm gonna go get another vanilla pudding and watch the rest of Who's the Boss.
"There's a time for life and a time for living, so take a chance and face the wind ..."
Ugh. CheeeeeeeeZEE.
Mon, Oct. 1, '01 11:59 pm
Just wrote "Sept" instead of "Oct" up there. Whoops.
Purchased and drank Neo Citran. When I say it, it sounds like "Deo Citrad".
I'm halfway through Microserfs by Douglas Coupland. I bought it at Chapters last week when I needed something good to read. And it is good. Brendan introduced me to Douglas Coupland books. Therefore I don't want to tell him I'm reading this one.
I'm not sure why that seems logical to me. It really isn't. Maybe I just don't like people knowing that I absorb them and their interests like a sponge. I feel I have nothing to offer them ... I'm just a leech. I've never gotten anyone into a band or artist or author or anything. Never. Even though I have good taste. All I ever offer people is myself ... for them to laugh at, maybe? That is the essence of me, and this diary. "Look at me, aren't I pathetic? Ha ha." I am nothing if I am not self-mocking. To some people, it's endearing. To others, it's tragic. And to others still, it's a pain in the ass.
I'm such an "I'll have what he's having" kind of person.
I think I like myself underneath all of this. But I don't know where the "myself" stuff comes in. What makes me me?
Ehh ... maybe we're all just bits and pieces of other people we've met. Maybe the things that make us us are more soulful things, things that could never be described in words. The feeling each person gives off, the vibes, their energy ... maybe that's where we're all different. Everything else is just clippings and soundbites and accessories, all messily taped together to form our more solid, tangible selves.
I don't fucking know.
Thurs, Oct. 4, '01 9:31 pm
You know what?
BREAK-UPS SUCK ASS!
That's all I have to say about that.
I'm watching The Golden Girls right now. I don't care what anyone says. That was a damn funny show. God bless Prime. Except when they're playing Petticoat Junction, McHale's Navy, and the incredibly overrated M*A*S*H. Ugh. A comedy about war? Yeah, barrel o' laughs. Morality sure makes things funny to watch. Seriously, no one wants morals and tragic scenes thrown at them when they're looking for a laugh on TV. I think M*A*S*H fans were just closet drama lovers who were too ashamed to watch All My Children. A pseudo-comedy was the perfect cover.
I'm still sick. But I'm in that "getting better" stage ... so I go out every day with the resumes now. But because I'm still sick, I'm constantly sniffling and coughing on buses and stuff. I wonder if I'm annoying the other passengers. Today I had my discman on, and I was sniffing away like, um ... [insert name of notorious celebrity cocaine addict who's been snorting so long they no longer have nose hairs here], when it suddenly occured to me that I might be sniffling at an embarrassingly loud volume, unaware due to the headphones. I actually removed my headphones briefly and did an experimental sniff just to be sure. I heard nothing, as my sniff was drowned out by the man several seats back, who was coughing up what sounded like a small rodent lodged in his throat. I figured I was safe, and put my headphones back on. I'd forgotten that buses are just germ traps on wheels. Hell, that's probably how I got sick in the first place. Lousy public transport.
I have an interview tomorrow! Whooeee! Wish me luck! Wish hard, because I'm blaming you if I don't get the job.
So yeah, I'm done for today. Goodnight to all.
Oh, and one more thing ...
BREAK-UPS STILL SUCK ASS!
Night night. It's Deo Citrad time.
Sat, Oct. 6, '01 12:20 pm
I just realized that it's been a long time since I last laughed so hard I cried.
I think I'm moving back in with my mom in Toronto. It's too lonely for me here, with nothing to do but pass out resumes ... I have no friends here except for The Guy Who is No Longer My Boyfriend. And he's usually busy anyway. And I guess I'm just hurting too much, and I don't know what else to do. I called my mom yesterday and told her I wanted to move back.
I have a year before I can get into university. Western will likely admit me as a mature full-time student next September, so I'm applying. And I'll apply to York as well, just in case I decide I'd rather stay in the Big T.O. when the time comes.
I'm visiting my uncle's family in Windsor for the weekend. Thanksgiving & all. My mom's picking me up in an hour or so. I'm glad I'll be with family.
I just finished reading Microserfs. I actually cried. I don't know why. But then, I cry at everything these days. Talk about anything deeper than the weather and I'm in tears. I never used to be like this. What gives?
Tues, Oct. 9, '01 2:02 pm
I'm back in Toronto. I just need to go back to London on the weekend to get the rest of my crap from my apartment, and then I'm officially moved out.
I made the right decision, and I feel somewhat better now that it's been made. Yeah, I still feel lost, I still don't know what's ahead, but such is life.
Most importantly, I have my computer back! And you know what that means. Oh yeah. This diary has officially recovered from its coma. Aren't you excited?
Well I am.
I was unable to check my e-mail while I was in London, since I didn't have access to Brendan's computer like I thought I would. Can you believe I lasted an entire month with no internet access? Yowzah.
But now I'm back, and there will be no shortage of entries. I feel the urge to write much more often these days, as you can see, considering I actually resorted to a pen and paper to record my thoughts while in London. Imagine that! How archaic.
I must say, I missed having an (albeit small) audience for my ramblings. Just knowing that there are people out there reading about my life who actually give a rat's ass is ... well, it's kind of a nice feeling, you know?
So that's it for this entry ... I'm sure you've had enough to read to last you quite a while. Pour yourself a cup of coffee and take it all in ... that's half a month's worth of entries you just read.
I'll be back soon.
last entry
-
next entry
older entries latest entry profile notes guestbook cam diaryland
Comments are temporarily out of order until I can afford to get a SuperGold membership again. Yes, that is also why all the images are broken. I apologize. In the meantime, please use the guestbook for anything you may wish to say. Thanks.
Ripest entries on the vine
Huh. - Wednesday, Jun. 21, 2006
Another Diarylander jumps on the LJ bandwagon - Tuesday, Jan. 17, 2006
Moving on? - Thursday, Nov. 24, 2005
Because how complicated can elephant hunting be? I mean, they're so BIG and SLOW! - Friday, Oct. 28, 2005
Busted - Tuesday, Oct. 25, 2005
� Ripe Tomato 2001-2005
Don't steal my shit. I'll send thugs. Oh shut up. I do
so
have thugs. Quit laughing! Look, just don't steal my stuff, OK?
