I am awake. I should not be awake, but I am in a self-questioning mode right now and it woke me up with a feeling of worry and regret in my gut. Not about the apartment, I am okay with that (I think), but rather issues of definitions and classifications. I am a firm believer in the power of language to rectify uncertainty.
I walked in to school yesterday. It took forty-five minutes and was awesome. It was a beautiful day and my t-shirt and jeans were appropriate. I watched many Westmounters out walking their dogs, saw a bunch of policeman guarding the flowers outside Dawson, and got to school feeling pretty pleased with myself.
I skipped a class because in a very fortuitous event, I ran into an old friend from CEGEP, Lorne, as I was walking by the metro. He was killing time between a dentist’s appointment and his scheduled tattoo getting session and we went out for coffee for a little more than an hour and shot the shit. It was great to see him more than once over a summer.
But class was on Proust, and as my current MSN display name indicates, Proust is god, so I ended up going to the later session of my class and, despite my sincere remonstrations of myself to not be as obtrusive in class as usual, I still was the only person other than Bryan to talk more than once. I love Proust. I am hoping he can put me back to sleep after this with his long-winded narrative.
Lisa’s mother made fried chicken and corn on the cob for dinner. Yum. I managed to convince her to drive me home and was sent with a week’s worth of cucumbers, tomatoes and apples. The glass of wine from dinner was starting to put me to sleep and I don’t think I lasted very long before passing out. I woke up around 10:30 to get into bed.
A couple of times the same snippet of conversation came up yesterday. It is related to my status as ultimate disclosure girl in a periphery way (as an aside, I am thinking of retitling this blog “ultimate disclosure girl: an epic adventure” any thoughts?). I hate lying. I embellish stories a lot, but no longer consider that the same as lying but rather a love of narrative getting the better of me. Outright lying and concealing of the truth bothers me. I purposefully craft scenarios to permit me a way out. I am doing this right now with my ex who suddenly showed up on MSN on Saturday and wants to go out for breakfast soon to catch up. I am avoiding truly updating him on my current status and doing so with tons of loopholes. When these loopholes close, I am going to be one unhappy person because I do want to stay in contact with him, but have no idea how. Six and a half years is a very long time to say good-bye to. Who am I if I deny the experience of those six and a half years? That is my entire adult life that I am reneging. I just can’t bring myself to do it, though holding on is bound to cause me considerable suffering. I guess I am a masochist at heart. In the words of a Silverchair song we used to listen to in Veronica’s basement incessantly but could never completely understand: “abuse me more…I like it.”