Wednesday, June 29, 2005

red girth of a deserted sky
tumble forth over a wine soaked tear
its the fourth breath of the heavy heat
--
i just realized it's 2005
signing checks and looking at calendars have no effect on truly processing that it is 2005
that makes me wonder what the hell happened in the last 5 years
or 10
july 24 is the first day of the mayan new year
and for as long as i can remember, there are more endings and beginnings around that time than there are around january the first or whenever the chinese new year happens
2004-2005 is the year of the storm
and i think my life should be some sort of poster child for the mayan year of the storm
i think i am going to insist that everyone
and i mean EVERYONE
read up on mayan astrology.
then make sure you check this to figure out your signature.
each day has a specific signature and people born on those days bear those characteristics.
the calendar is based on lunar cycles which has real siginificance.
not like the calendar that the world functions on which has stupid months named after egotistical roman emperors.
i mean, if it weren't for that julius cesar character and that other guy, september would actually be the seventh month.
logic was clearly lost during the roman times, which are ironically credited with inventing the fucking concept of logic.
bring it back to the moon man.
--
apparently my syntax is impactful and familiar to many people.
it happens all the time.
either i take up more space than i realize
or i have a twin who gets around.

Saturday, June 25, 2005

they don't call me queenprocrastinate fer nuttin

it's official

it's too blasting hot.

i am supposed to be packing but i can't
i do two boxes and then my arms start sticking to my sides and i become afraid to move my legs lest i rip the skin off my inner thighs
im not a fucking barbie doll folks
my thighs meet and say hi all the fucking time
and when its hotter than hell they really get to know each other
this aint purdy

i finally got a hold of my asshole landlord who told me that i can move the morning of july first
so i was elated and ran downstairs to rub it in my friendly neighbourly assholes' faces
and they freaked right out at me
apparently they had some 'appointment' to move at 6am that morning
but i don't know what the fuck they meant
why they would need to hire a moving crew to move up ONE flight of stairs is beyond me
besides
i get fucking priority cuz i have to move down 4 flights of stairs and then across town
and my parents are going to be here
and if the assholes have learned anything, it is that they can't win with me
and if i have learned anything, it is that my parents are tougher than me
so bring it on
i am gearing up for a fullout rumble at dawn next friday
cote-des-neiges style.

nigguh wut? i won. that's right. i won yet again.
send the cops for a noise complaint? they leave smiling and laughing and i get no ticket at all.
send the landlords after me? they gossip with me about crazy tenants.
i win.

and if anyone has a windows xp cd lying around, send it my way. i want my music back. im so sick of these crappy house mixes i play off the internet cuz this laptop sucks and can't handle a filesharing program.

Summer '05 Chronicles Issue 3: Blame it on the lunar cycle, or, Griffontown

Ed. note: 'Issue 2: Highschool Hell' was never published, partly because the experience was so scarring and partly due to the hangover. More time is needed before publication because upon reflection of that awful weekend, the hangover appears to return.

Yesterday was la Fete Nationale, and I promised to myself to not get lost in the francophone follies that took over Montreal. I failed miserably. After I last posted, the phone did ring, and I decided to meet my friend downtown to embark on an adventure. This friend was last seen in Issue 1, where we meandered down to the bout de l'ile and nearly didn't get out.

Before I left my home, I sensed something ominous in the air. It could have been the litter box, but I knew it was more than kitty doo-doo. I blamed it on the moon that was burning a dusty yellow hole in the sky. When I was getting ready to go out, I kept having these flashes of deja-vus, and everytime I reached for something to put in my purse, I would have this voice in the back of my head telling me "get a flashlight" or "get scissors". I tried to ignore the voice, because I could not rationalize bringing a huge maglight with me to go on a low-key hang-out with a friend.

When I got downtown and met A., we started walking south. No particular reason, other than I felt drawn to that area. Eventually we ended up in Griffontown, on the corner of Murray and Ottawa Streets and I was hit with the most chilling feeling. It was thrilling and scary, yet I felt that I had fulfilled something by getting to that point.

We kept walking, we played by the tracks and wandered around on the south side of the Lachine Canal. I lead the way based on following that chilling feeling. I could sense where to go, where not to go and everytime I went the "right" way, something was satisfied.

We passed by so many interesting things along the way that my flashlight and scissors really would have come in handy. As would have my camera. I am too poor right now to buy batteries so sadly, I have no pictures of the evening.

We sat down for a while outside the Costco and for the first time all day, I felt calm. Whatever had been ruling the journey or the day had passed. I looked to the moon and it was no longer that dusty colour of yellowy-orange.. it had turned white again.

On we went, after a few more smokes and some random discussions about the nature of humanity, and we came across the most magical place I have seen so far in Montreal. From far away it looks like a park that takes up an entire triangular block, with the only trees occupying the north end and the park benches are lined up in two rows facing the trees.

When we got closer, we saw that there were old stones in the ground, that seemed to outline a building that was once in that spot. There was a little historical background write-up on one of those hideous tourist signs and I learned that this was the site of St. Ann's, one of the area's biggest Irish Catholic Church.

There was gravel in the park marking where the aisles would have been and the park benches seemed to represent the pews. There was a sense of calm in that space that I always find in old churches, even though I am not catholic in any way, shape or form. In fact, sometimes, I feel like some churches want to burn me alive for my sins whenever I walk through the entrance.

The strange thing about this was that although the calm existed and could not be denyed, the open air and the exposure to the wind seemed to give the space a sense of unrest. The energy that defines that area was made when there were walls surrounding it. Now, with no real boundaries, the energy has been changed in a remarkable way. I have never experienced anything quite like it.

When I stood under the trees, my friend A. whispered to me, "do you feel like the trees are watching you?"

He was right... the trees were blowing in the wind and peering down on us. As protectors of this spiritual ground, they had so much to say to us, and I wanted to stay all night and listen. My legs had to keep going though, so I said my farewells to the trees and we carried on.

A few blocks away, we found ourselves in a sort of warehouse district and I could hear music off in the distance. A. chalked it up to overnight garage workers but I knew what was really going on. We followed the music, which got worse and worse as we got closer to it, and found ourselves a little warehouse party.

Riiiight, it is St. Jean Baptiste Day....

So we acquired free entrance, bought a couple of drinks and reveled in the sheer randomness of our evening, that was not quite over yet.

This party was the lamest party I have ever seen. Bedroom DJ's were given a tolerable sound system to play with and non-dancers who were far too drunk were dancing to the awful noise. One girl was dancing with a punching bag that hung from the ceiling. (nice decorating job there)
It was horrifying.

I deemed that the only thing to do was get my dance on and show these lame-ass francos how to shake your booty. I jumped in the "crowd" and within 5 seconds I had the attention of nasty trolls who were hooting and whistling at me. I guess the francos were all bottled up with unused catcalling after being surrounded by icky, uncoordinated females all evening, so I took one for the team and was hollered at.

I think one of the reasons that the music was so consistently crappy was so that the bad dancers could dance to something that matched their style. Whenever the DJ would start to pick it up a tad, everyone would stop moving and not know what to do with themselves. It was pathetic. I deemed that the type of music they were playing was FrancoFunkCore. It was made by francos for francos, had a bit of funk in it and well, anything that ends with 'core' just sounds super lame, which this was.

After I could take no more of this bizarre event, we left quickly, wondering what the fuck that was. I still don't really know.

Anyhow, we found Guy St., caught my night bus and jumped in a sprinkler that was running across the street from my apartment.

And that was how I spent my first St. Jean Baptiste Day in Montreal. It was the sober day that should have been drunk. It was the sober night that should have been high. Next time I know to bring a good supply of beer, vodka and MDMA to carry me through another adventure like this one. Or maybe not. It was magical, touching and spiritual without any additives. So maybe sobriety can have its moments afterall.

Friday, June 24, 2005

bored yet?

last night i dreamt that i went back to my old hellhole work cuz i forgot that i quit. but my dream version of that bar put it in the first story of a vampire-brothel house from the seventeenth century. i was the only one dressed for the times. everyone else looked like morons. then one of the owners attacked me and i ran out with alot of money but left behind my shoes like cinderella. if cinderella wore black velvet corsets and fishnet stockings with a big poufy black skirt that was ripped in all the right places. okay, so i looked like a old english prostitute. whatever. i was rocking the look.

then i tried to have a nap just now cuz i got bored of packing my stupid apartment and feeling sorry for myself. i dreamt that i heard these words:
i ahm zee mahdonnah.

i have fuhqd up dreams.

so i came back to this little laptop, armed with a nutella sandwich on white bread cuz its the best and don't you try to tell me otherwise. leave me alone granola crunching hippies. i don't eat your crazy hippy food very much. the other crap i can buy tastes way better and i don't have to have cooking rituals to make it taste good. i had a bulghur wheat incident a few months back that i don't want to repeat. and couscous? fuhgeddabouddit.

i am now going to go back to bed and try to sleep. but i have a feeling that my stupid phone will ring a bazillion times tonight because i made a kagillion calls this afternoon pre-self-pity-fest looking for something extravagant to do.

i dont know how to turn my ringer down. i think i just might burn the phone. and kill my cats for being nocturnal assholes. if i can train myself to be nocturnal then i can train my kitties to be dayturnal.

if anyone has some spare vocabulary there is a empty void in my brain that needs to be filled with new words. and old words that noone told me existed.

this blog really sucks everyone and i wonder with all my might why anyone actually bothers to read it. i was getting about a hundred hits a day and i really want to know why. i'm back down to my 30-50 hits a day and that seems rather high considering the vapid nature of this thing.

hell i don't even really know why i called it i plead sanity. i think im gonna call it something else.
like 'i ahm zee mahdonnah'. i can go from no meaning whatsoever to some subconscious cryptic meaning. hold on to your hats folks its getting crazy up in here.

oh and visitor from rhode island... why did you google queenprocrastinate (my email address) to get to this blog? that makes me wonder if i know you and if you might be a stalker or something. let me know. i swing from egotistical to deflated so if i knew i had a stalker, it would give me that extra boost in times of need.

gnight dearest readers. i wish you all the best in whatever the hell you do with your time outside of indulging me with being my ever-present yet eternally silent audience.

Growl.

I hate my landlord for telling me that it is up to ME to organize my moving date with the assholes that are taking over my apartment. My landlord neglected to tell me that they arranged to move at 6am July 1st. The people taking the assholes' old apartment are moving in on the afternoon of July 1st.

I hate my new landlord for allowing the tenant of my future apartment to move out on July 1st.

I hate my roommate for refusing to come back to Montreal until a day before we have to move. Which leaves me with the task of dealing with my parents, her parents (because she is, I assume, not speaking to them), the landlords, the tenants AND with packing everything in the apartment. I am obviously not touching her room, but some help would have been greatly appreciated with packing the kitchen and the living room. Maybe even an extra set of hands to carry home boxes to pack with.

I hate landlords for not returning my calls. I hate Sprint Canada for not processing moves on statutory holidays. Thank you Sprint Canada for ignoring the biggest moving day in this lovely, albeit smelly, city in which I dwell.

I hate my computer for crashing. I hate my cats for all their noisy antics. I hate not having air conditioning.

I hate being the only one to deal with all this stuff. I really really really need a personal assistant. Pronto.

Oh, I nearly forgot... happy fucking French Day. I hope you all are barfing in the streets and making St. Jean Baptiste proud.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

A Plea to the Pigeon People of the Plateau

Walking in the plateau, I passed a church. People-sized pigeons were everywhere. Loitering on the steps. Begging for food from the Real People that passed by. Some were grooming themselves, others were chattering.

Pigeon People, stop treating some no-name church like the St. Mark's in Venice. Maybe you feel that there are not enough pigeons in the city to cover all the church steps, but honestly, is it really that necessary to fill in for them?

I would greatly appreciate the cessation of this asinine activity.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Free

I finally did it. I quit my job.

I'll be curled up in bed, sleeping, for the rest of my fabulous day off.

I finally did it. I quit smoking cigarettes.

Today is day one, so please wish me luck. The sleeping my way through a day off is also a brilliant ploy to avoid nicfits.

I finally did it. I got drunk off rum and coke.

I drank too much rum throughout high school, so I gave my poison of choice a little rest. Well, clearly a year or two break is enough, because I'm back in the rum game. Just in time to rotate off vodka before I drink myself sober with martinis.

OK.... whatever. I'm hungover and didn't want to work this morning. And when I was hammered last night after work, I had some good revelations about my job. It makes me smoke too much. To solve that dilemma, either I would have to quit smoking or quit my job. Both are equally damaging to my person, so I just quit them both. I was going to stick it out for the week, but... I was also going to leave on good terms, but... who the fuck cares. It's not like I will ever go for drinks at an overpriced snobby bar anyways.

Now if you will excuse me, I have a hangover to nurse, feet to rub and cravings to stave off with water, carrotts and tomato juice.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Dear Barstaff of Montreal,

Stop buying me drinks.

I may have "the best ass in Quebec". I may cause you stop and think to yourself, "why is this great girl working in a place like this?". I might flirt with you so that you will change my ashtrays. BUT, my ass.ets and my friendly demenour must not invite you to get me drunk.

I may like a martini or even a vodka and soda, but 7 shots of vodka will only turn me into the girl that you didn't fall into lust with. I may like to get drunk, but please, not at work. Noone needs a drunk waitress.

Drunk waitresses only piss off customers. Especially repeat customers. You see, last night I served a bachelor party and needless to say, they adored me. So much so that I became afraid that they might request my thong for a souvenir. After I got drunk off your evil vodka tonight, they came back for more overpriced drinks and cigars, and I told 8 out of 10 of them to "go suck your own cock"... in marginally more polite terms.

After that angry and cockteased table left, I was left with two choices: Go home and sleep off my drunk, or sit at the bar and drink my face off at the expense of the regulars, the bartenders and the bouncers.

Now, I'm hammered, and I blame you, Barstaff. Please, no repeats of this evening. As much fun as riding piggyback on a bouncer's back up and down the stairs is, I don't think I can ever do it again. And yes, the busboys may give great massages and the the bartender may overpour my drinks but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I'M SCHMAMMERED AND I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I EVEN GOT TO WORK TONIGHT!!!!

And here's a little tip for the Holy Owners: Split shifts only mean that I show up in the morning hafl-asleep and that I show up in the evening half in the bag. If I have 3 hours off, I'm not going home. I call a friend and I end up on a patio drinking sangria until my face falls off.

So, dear Barstaff, if you see me out on the town, and I happen to mention my lack of sleep and the fact that I open the bar tomorrow morning, don't pour copious amounts of alchohol down my throat.

Thank you.

With much love and affection (and only because I'm shtfaced and can forgive anyone in this state),

septima.

ps: I might need a hair of the dog that bit me tonight, so if anyone is out and about tomorrow, come see me on Crescent Street. I don't want to get drunk, so lay off the shooters, but one or two drinks would be spledid. Thanks.vc

Friday, June 17, 2005

I have the skills of a superhero

I was napping on my couch when someone knocked on my door. In my confusion, I stumbled and walked into a doorframe. I actually have no idea which door frame I hit. In fact, all I know is that I was stumbling and staggering towards the door and my head connected with a hard object along the way.

My landlord was on the other side of the door, and to keep up with the status quo, he only comes to see me when I am at my absolute worst state. There I am, trying to have a french conversation with someone who has the thickest spanish (?) accent I have ever heard, while wondering if I had blood trickling down the side of my face.

Back on the couch, safe from my landlord, I dared to touch my forehead and not only is half of it tender, but there is a bump. A big bump. One that will no doubt be colourful by the day's end.

Ice packs are no use... I have no choice but to show up to work this evening with a bump on my head.

The worst part of this whole thing is, is that all I can think about is the girl I saw walking down St. Laurent in a helmet. I made fun of her at the time, as anyone would have done, but now I see that she had the right idea all along.

Actually, the fact that I have done something similar to this a few years ago, might just be the worst thing. Another head-doorframe incident, but that time, I blacked out. If only I blacked out today... it would be a grea excuse to get out of work.

Damn me and my inability to learn from previous mistakes.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Secrets

I read Post Secret once a week to see all the new postcards and sometimes I go to that site to just immerse myself in other people's secrets.

I love the idea of writing down a secret and mailing it in, for the chance that it might be shared with many other people who no doubt feel the same way. Some secrets resonate with me, others I don't understand at all, which is exactly why we have secrets. I don't want some of my secrets to resonate with other people, I want them to be my own. Other secrets, I wish I could tell, so that someone might come to me and tell me that they understand.

So this morning I sit in front of my computer and wonder, what secret would I send in? How would I express it? So, I'm going to start getting out some of my secrets right now. I have a lot to wade through before I get to the big ones.

--

When I was 8 years old, I carved my best friend's code name and my own code name with a heart around it, into a piece of my parent's furniture. Whenever I am all alone in the living room, I go look at it, and remember what it felt like to be 8 years old.

--

I told the guy I lost my virginity to that I had slept with two other people before him.
(okay, that one is fucked up. i always had a disdain for those magical 'losing-your-virginity' fantasies. i didn't want him to worry about being my first, or worry about me getting all fucked up about it... i just wanted to have sex with him. so i did. and i don't really regret it. i made sure that my first experience with sex was with someone i loved, and i made sure that it was just that. i didn't leave room for any bullshit. from that i learned that sex is great with someone who you love, but it can also be just sex. don't worry, i am honest about my number, now...)

--

Well, getting those secrets out didn't make it any easier to get to the bigger secrets. It just made me think of the myriad of secrets I hold inside and how hard it is to share them. However, it does feel nice to open myself up. There is a certain security in vulnerability. If anyone dares to hurt me in a vulnerable state, it is on their head and not mine. People who prey on weakness should not be in my world, and when I am vulnerable, it allows for those preying assholes to show their true colours.

It's not all fair at work

Two busboys were fired without notice on Monday morning. These two guys work their asses off and on weekends, they sometimes make more money than the waitresses do. I have no problem with tipping them 3% of my sales because they deserve it. Especially the two that no longer work there. Intelligent guys, hard workers and fun to work with.
On Sunday, they were overheard by a Holy Owner discussing labour law, and how this particular place of employment does not obey those laws. Monday morning, they were no longer employees. We only have one busboy now, excluding the bouncer who is now doubling as a busboy. Which makes no sense to me whatsoever... can you imagine an extremely large and intimidating man squeezing behind the bar in the middle of a rush to restock the fridges? Or can you imagine a man of that girth manouvering on the packed patio to change ashtrays? I think busboys are called busboys for a reason.

In Quebec, waitresses have to claim 8% of their nightly sales as tips, which is then taxed on each paycheck. On Friday and Saturday evenings, we must tip out at least 7%. If a customer tips me less than 15%, I still get taxed for what I did not make. On top of the fact that I end up tipping out on what I did not make. No wonder I am still strapped for cash, even though I have been working full-time for 2 or 3 weeks now. At any other job, I should have been able to pay my bills and start saving for next month's rent by now. I just recently got my phone cut (it came back with glory last night, so don't worry too much) and my hydro bill is a week late. I have not even been able to worry about rent yet, let alone moving expenses.

Today I have a job interview at what I believe is the exact opposite of where I work now. I can wear jeans and comfy shoes. They serve good food. They have good prices on drinks. A casual atmosphere with good food, good beer and good service. Hotness is an asset, not a requirement. I hope I get this job because I could really use a change of pace. I could also use more money, and I have a feeling that this new place would pad my pocket more than a snobby, over-priced lounge with slave-drivers as the owners.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

photographic evidence that i am a stupid lush

bad idea bad idea bad idea

stay away from that beer

it can only bring bad things

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Don't drink 10% Black Label

Naaahhh
I'm happy I'm twenty.
The other night I ran around my neighbourhood in adidas track pants and a fur coat. Can someone please email me some double A batteries for my camera so I can document these ridiculous things I do??
I bought a 40 of Black Label 10% on Sunday night. The last time I drank that poison, I fell down repeatedly and ended up with scabs on my knees like a 7 year old child. This time, I split the stupidity 50/50 with my crazy roommate.
After the 40, my roomie and I went to this ghetto bar and ordered two pints and decided that the only thing to do was run away without paying. So I went down into the basement where the bathrooms were and found a fully stocked bar. So I grabbed a couple bottles of Beck's, hid them in my pimp coat and ran upstairs to tell my partner in crime to do the same.
We left our pack of smokes as payment. By accident.
Now I had two beers in my pockets, which were dragging my pants down a lil too low, had an open one in my hand and the best thing to do in that situation was to steal tomatoes from the market.
If anyone was on Cote-des-Neiges late Sunday night, yes, that was me running down the street leaving a trail of tomatoes.
Then we tried to hit the grocery store to get some more smokes and got kicked out. Apparently, drinking beer in public looking like a total sketch pot does not go over well with local merchants.
Everything was great until yesterday, after we cleaned our apartment and decided to have the beers to celebrate a sparkling apartment. The Beck's I stole were non-alcoholic.
Next time I steal things, I really need to take a closer look at exactly what I am not purchasing.

Monday, June 06, 2005

get it all out and you still find more

Forget anything remotely positive I said about my job. I'm quitting. I worked 20 hours in two days in heels. I am done. Fuck closing the place at 4am and then getting up for work the next day at 9am. No fucking way.

I don't even make much money. I upsell everything, my tables adore me and I walk out every night with less than 10%. The owners get 2%, the bartender gets 2%, the busboys get 3% and the hostess gets 1%. So, if each table I have gives me 15% tips, I only see 7% of that.

If I am scheduled from 11am to 4pm, and it takes me an extra half an hour to clean up for the next waitress coming in, I don't get paid for that half an hour. This weekend, I am scheduled from 11am to close, three days in a row. When did 16 hour shifts become legal? When did unpaid work become legal? And in what cruel world is it okay for the owners to receive a rather large cut of our tips?

To pour salt in my open wounds (and empty pockets), I am expected to work those long hours in heels and short skirts. I was so resistant to it because I knew that it wouldn't really affect my tips much and it would just make me feel like a carbon copy image of the other Barbies I work with. No my chagrin, the second I arrived for my shift in a little black skirt, the owners were soooo nice to me. Slurpy sweet, in fact. The yelling didn't stop, but instead of ignoring me in between rants, they would drool. I played off of it, to avoid looking like a prude, and it took a lot of effort to not run to the bathroom to vomit.

This job is devaluing me as a person, day by day. I realized that my feelings of inadequacy at work stemmed from the fact that I'm not good at just being a pretty face. I'm really bad at being some dumb animal that takes orders when barked to and hangs its head in shame when yelled at. I was taught that being kind, considerate, hard-working and trustworthy will get me places. In this job, none of that matters.

People have been telling me I'm gorgeous since I was a little girl. At 15, I was a model. Guys and girls of all types find me attractive. Yes, I might use that to my advantage in many situations. But I do not like situations where your clothing and your pretty face is the most valued thing. Needless to say, I despised the modelling thing.

How did I ever manage to work in the service industry? Where did my tough skin go? All this shit used to just roll right off my back. Now, it is all really unsettling. Pretty things on pretty people don't fascinate me as much as they used to. As I grow up, I tell myself to stay connected with what really matters in life. And I did a hell of alot of growing up this past year, and with that, I think I got closer to what really matters to me. All I want in life are happy, healthy, meaningful relationships with the people in my life. Anyone who does not meet those requirements are cut out from my life. I don't want to waste my youth any more than I already have on people who do not deserve me.

And I do realize that I will be forced to be around people I don't like, throughout my life. Jobs, schools, depanneur owners... whatever. In those situations, you just have to deal with them. But it's not just the cunts I work with or the cocksmokers I work for. It's the whole atmosphere of the place and what is expected of me.

At age 15, as a hostess in a pub, I concluded that serving is only one step away from stripping or prostitution. Servers sell their smiles, their personality, their cleavage, and whatever else that makes them desireable to look at and to talk to. They are there to be whoever their customer wants them to be. Sometimes a couple just wants someone to bring them their drinks and leave them the hell alone. It is the server's job to be quiet and invisible and prompt. Other tables want you to be their stand-up comedian. It's all too similar to sex-trade.

The difference between me at 20 and me at 15 is that I no longer think that being skinny, beautiful and popular is the key to happiness. Maybe I'm being a little extreme or dramatic here, but waitressing is really detrimental to any personal growth I have made over the past 5 years. When I walk to work, I feel the need to tell myself to lose everything that makes me who I am. Just become a cute little perfect girl in a short skirt who giggles when her male customers tell her how cute, little and perfect she is.

I need a new job. Somewhere where I don't get treated like a donkey. Where I can wear comfy shoes and pants if I want to. A place where my boss will let me have a glass of water when it is hotter than hell.

Is it too much to ask for a job that doesn't make me cry after every shift? I'm sick and tired of sitting on my bed at 4:30 in the morning, peeling off the bandaids covering my poor wounded feet and crying. In those moments I feel so inadequate, so worthless, so ugly, so useless. After deciding years ago that I was going to be self-assured and never let anyone tell me I am a lesser person, why am I working at a job that is the sum of everything I vowed to stay away from? And were all the bars and restaurants I worked at like this one? Was it just me who changed or is this bar just exceptionally awful?

I thought that high school was the toughest time of your life. I thought that once I was in university, everything would be fabulous. Freedom at my fingertips and creativity all around. In reality, it's harder than I ever possibly imagined. I can't help but feel like everything I ever prepared myself for, is not happening. Everything that I ever chose for myself no longer matters. Everything that has happened this year goes against everything that I was taught. And I was not prepared for a single thing that did happen.

I am more stressed out than I ever have been in my whole life. I have overcome a multitude of challenges in the last year and now, this job, of all things, is making me rethink everything. My hands are shaking all the time, I have nightmares and I'm unbelievably lazy. I love my life, I love my friends and my family but I am so anxious. I want to jump on a plane and get the fuck out of here, if that would help me. I want to drink myself stupid, if that would make me feel better. I want to do tons of drugs and dance for hours on end, if that would change how I deal with the next day.

When I was 14, all I wanted to be was a really cool and happy twenty year old. Now, at twenty, all I want to be is 30. I want to be married and financially stable. I want 2.5 children and a fucking SUV. I want to be a great actress who is respected by fellow artists. I want to skip whatever stage I am in right now and get straight to the easy, settled-down part of my life. But does that even exist? Probably not. Which is, by far, the most depressing thing I can think of right now.

Sure, things will get better... they always do. At least I still have my uncurable optimism. On days like today, I wish I was a pessismist. Because those little ideas that are full of hope are starting to piss me off.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Grand choices

Should my hard-earned tips go towards:

a) My phone bill, which is at the moment collecting some interest.

b) My hungry fridge, which is at the moment collecting dust.

c) My need to dance all night long, which is at the moment a pressing need which surpasses both my hunger and any sense of responsibility.


My co-worker asked me to go to Stereo tonight and I replied "It's either I party or pay my phone bill". I look upon both options as equally valid ways to spend my money. Would my mother be proud? Definately not. But I still cannot help the fact that I am only twenty years old, thus rendering all on-paper obligations unimportant.

It's all about feeding the soul right?

Would Sprint Canada accept that excuse?

Friday, June 03, 2005

Better than hell

In the past few days, my job has become infinitely more tolerable. When I caught myself cursing the blisters on my feet and bitching about my crappy cheapo tables, I realized a valuable point. When you start the "woe is me" routine about the mundane, things must not be too bad after all.

I'm selling martinis with premium vodka at 12.50$ apiece, I'm turning glasses of water into 6$ Perriers and the Holy Owners now gaze at me with slightly less disdain.

I don't even bother talking to the Waitress Goddesses because they are too busy stressing out about being maintaining their holiness. Besides, I still have not been given any reason to consider them part of the human race. Until then, I am more than happy to ignore their prescence unless absolutely necessary.

The only nagging concern I have is the fact that I am being encouraged to wear short skirts. That would be no problem if only I didn't have to squat down to the low coffee tables to deliver drinks. I have recurring nightmares about customers complimenting on my thong du jour.

Or to ensure myself some comic relief to get me out of a crotch-flashing crisis, I could push martinis that are the same colour as my underwear.

Wish me good tips and cute customers tonight... and pray for no indecent exposure.