Last year, I went to a Halloween party dressed as a Super Trooper with Aaron and Wheaties (I have only recently acquired the image), and wound up being drunk out of my skull. I tried not to make the same mistake this year, and seeing as how I don’t really drink anymore, it wasn’t much of a problem.

Instead, Aaron and Karen hosted a small gathering, which I attended, where homemade chicken pot pie was served, and no one dressed in costume.

Tim Hortons is doing its seasonal doughnut, which is a funky looking doughnut with bat and pumpkin sprinkles.

Unfortunately, I had to miss out on a pumpkin carving party, due to a fairly stressful week causing a lack of desire to socialize. Trolley did the Cheat from Homestar Runner, and it turned out pretty well.

Many a one cannot deliver himself from his own chains and yet he is his friend’s deliverer.

—Of The Friend, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

What is it about ones own problems that can be so difficult to overcome? What blinds someone so much that they can’t help themselves? Why is it only our friends that can bring us out of the worst situations?

I’ve come to realize that I fucking HATE crying in front of almost anyone. Pat, Aaron, John are the only people I’m comfortable crying in front of. I’m comfortable around them enough that I don’t have to worry about boring them, or feeling weak, or thinking that my problems are petty. All they care about is the state-of-mind of a friend in distress, and nothing else. I can relax, be myself, concentrate on my problems, instead of fretting over how worried I might be making them, something I find extremely difficult to do.

I remember once, Trolley was having coding problems at work that was causing him to stay late and go in on weekends. I explained the situation to Aaron, and we both agreed that we wanted to show up at his work and help him out. Unforutantely, it was eventually decided that we would hinder more than help, due to our inexperience with the software, and the fact that learning the necessary code would take longer than the time we could save.

Even though Aaron and I could do nothing to help, I remember feeling good about the zeal with which we sought solutions. Not only taking great pleasure in the fact that I could do something to help a friend out, but the fact that it came so easily. That my first reaction was to drop everything, and sharing the exact same sentiment with Aaron.

Knowing I have friends who are willing to do the same for me is what makes me stoic. Knowing that I have people I can relax around when I’m crying, sobbing, at my most vulnerable, is what keeps me sane. Knowing that I have people who would put me before themselves when necessary, while not having to worry about them at the same time, is what makes me stronger. Knowing that I have people I can trust enough to depend on, is what gives me courage. Knowing that I have people to fall back on is what keeps me from falling in the first place.

And perhaps this is why I couldn’t do this alone.

I’ve never been against any form of (non-permanent) self-mutilation, as long as it’s not considered a solution to a problem. After all, some people watch TV to get their minds off things, others pull out carving knives and make designs on their arms. Neither activity actually helps a situation, but are just ways to deal with things that can’t be helped.

I always make sure that I don’t have any razor blades handy. I figure that if it ever gets to the very rare point that I want to cut, I’ll be calm again by the time I go out and buy some, sort of like a cool-down period for firearms.

I’m proud of the fact that I’m strong enough now to resist, that if I did have a pack handy, I wouldn’t reach for it as a release.

I’ve gained a certain notoriety amongst some as being a crier, but today was the first time that I actually had a breakdown. The first time there wasn’t just a single thing that brought me to tears, but several, which, by themselves, would have been tolerable. And even though I’ve long known and been an advocate of the practical aspects of lachrymology, today was the first time that I still felt like shit when I couldn’t cry any more.

This song in my head is telling me about how the stars keep shining down, the world keeps turning ’round, not to let these hardships bring me down because times like these will come around. I believe him, because I’ve been there. I’ve been to the point where I wished my interest in suicide was just a cry for attention, and I’ve been to the point where it felt like nothing could bring me down.

All I know right now is that I’m going to get through this week, but it’s not going to be easy.

Sometimes, if I happen to be walking somewhere, I’ll walk next to someone just to see how they handle the awkwardness. I find that most people are so uncomfortable with it that they will actually slow down. Sometimes I’ll also match their pace, and they end up slowing down so much that it becomes very obvious, and I can tell that they start to wonder if I’m doing it on purpose.

This morning, I was walking next to a woman seemed so distressed by it, that after a while, she feigned running for a bus that she had absolutely no chance of catching.

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle
Sourit toujours et remercie la vie

—Jacques Prévert, Les feuilles mortes

The leaves shuffle past on the sidewalk, and all I can think about is how, every single day, the weather can be so different, so uniquely beautiful.

An accoutrement, she calls herself. An intelligent, energetic, passionate accessory, what better bijou? So I wear her on my arm, along with my ribbed sweater and dependable jeans, while walking along the streets on a comfortably cool afternoon.

The autumn days are ours.

When I made the decision to journey into this lifestyle, I knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, although I suspected that it would be easier for me than for other novice dominants, just from the fact that I have a very clear of idea of what I want in life and know myself well (or believe it at least).

The hardest thing has been stepping outside of my comfort zone, or what Warren describes as, “the psychological barriers to undertaking such a politically incorrect activity.” It’s ironic; he warns, “…keep in mind that by admitting her desires, [the submissive] could be seen to be rejecting gains that women have slowly and painfully made over the last 20, 50, 100 years”, something I understand completely, but it’s not Loo who’s worried about rejecting these gains.

It’s me.

After all, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been programmed by society to a certain degree. No violence against women, females are to be treated as equals, et cetera. And along with this are my own programmed morals and beliefs. Expect nothing from anyone. Punishment does more harm than good. The list goes on in varied and inconsistent ways. What makes it all harder is the fact that breaking out of the bubble must be done out of self-interest. As much as I’d like to keep reminding myself that this is not only what Louise wants, but needs in a relationship, I have to forgo the reinforcing of any such idea. To acknowledge it is to ruin the dynamic between Dom and sub.

Interestingly enough, the only way I’ve been able to get past these personal boundaries has been to not intellectualize them, to act without thinking. To expect a woman to ask for permission to leave my side, or come to bed. To have her sit at my feet instead of next to me. To hit her until the point of tears, but not stop. To know that her body is mine, and not her own.

To live this life for me, and not the both of us.

Know what I hate? No, fucking hate.

I fucking hate it when a girl reduces me, or any guy, for that matter, to a sex. When some PETTY-MINDED FUCK generalizes someone as belonging to the group of “males” because of a few characteristics shared with the stereotype. Or brushes off any traits she sees as unpleasant as simply being the fault of having both an X and a Y chromosome.

What the fuck. I don’t place the blame on ‘being female’ when a girl happens to be late getting ready to go out. Or when a girl ends up in the middle of a geek talk, I don’t condescend to her and say, “You wouldn’t be interested cause you’re a girl”. I understand that girls can be geeky, or prurient, or cerebral, the same way that guys can be interested in ballroom dancing, or chaste, or emotional.

I don’t do guys nights or any shit like that cause I choose not to judge. I don’t automatically assume that a girl wouldn’t understand what happens when the guys are together. I’ve had girls at my LAN parties, I know girls who go to strip clubs. And I choose not to act or do anything differently if my girlfriend isn’t around, cause I have nothing to hide. I don’t want to be fake with either her or my friends.

Not every male is a slave to someone with breasts. Beer commercials are not an accurate representation of the entire male population.

FUCK. God.

A few years ago, while we were still living together, Pita and I passed by a restaurant called Social that was along the market. We looked in at the elegant, minimal atmosphere, the nicely dressed people, and the intricate dishes that were being served to them. Looking at the menu posted outside, and noting the lack of decimals in the pricing (everything was in flat dollars), it was mutually agreed that going there to dine without a reason to celebrate was out of our budget. Just walking inside was something that we would have to earn, and we made an agreement. For the term, if I could manage all As (anything from an A- to an A+, or a GPA of over 8.0) and if he could win his next competition (for both standard and Latin ballroom dancing) than we would walk in one day and order anything we wanted.

The term came and passed, and in the end I only managed a bunch of measly grades, while he got bronze at the competition. We never spoke of it again.

Until this week. After traveling abroad for more than a year and working in his native country, Pita came back to Canada to settle down. He decided to live the rest of his life in Montreal, but he was able to visit for the weekend. We agreed on lunch at Social, not needing any justification between each other. After all, we graduated, found jobs, started to settle down. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.

He had the duck, I had the lamb. Both were unbelievably succulent, tender, and came with fresh salads in a light dressing, along with super-thin fries. Even though we weren’t dressed as well as what some would call the “regular” patrons, we were served well and with respect, something can’t be said about all the restaurants I’ve been to. To be honest, I’ve never been given a choice of water (regular, mineral, soda, or sparkling, the man told us). I paid this time, and Pita agreed to treat me when I visit him in Montreal.

The half ounce. Financed by one, shared by many.

I have to say more about DFA 1979’s debut LP. I’m amazed that two young guys from Canada could come up with an album that’s as funky, loud, raw, and developed as this. They aren’t the White Stripes, as some have tragically compared. What’s the difference? DFA 1979 doesn’t have shitty vocals, shitty drums, or shitty songs (although they also don’t have a moderately cute female drummer). THEY DON’T EVEN PLAY THE SAME INSTRUMENTS. A BASS IS NOT THE SAME AS A GUITAR YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. WHAT THE HELL WAS YOUR BASIS OF COMPARISON? THE NUMBER OF MEMBERS IN THE BAND? LET’S JUST COMPARE NIRVANA TO THE BRAD MEHLDAU TRIO CAUSE THEY BOTH HAVE THREE MEMBERS.

Anyway.

Listening to Romantic Rights can make anyone feel like a million bucks just walking down the street. I know I do.

I tried on Cool Water by Davidoff yesterday. It smelled great on the sample card with its distinctly refreshing scent, but had the unfortunate effect of turning into an odor reminiscent of paradichlorobenzene as I learned in chemistry, or what is commonly referred to as “urinal cake”, when applied to my skin. It was an effort to not micturate on my wrists for the rest of the day.

Prolongs pleasure with climax control lubricant.

• Contains heat activated climax control lubricant on the inside and silky-smooth lubricant on the outside
• Fitted shape for easy-on and great feel
• Low latex scent
• WARNING: Premature ejaculation may be due to a condition requiring medical supervision

I wonder what the target market is. Men who can’t seem to last longer than eight seconds, or sensitive guys who just want to be better lovers for their woman? I’ve been led to believe that they’re for men who don’t enjoy having any feelings in their cock after sex. (I apologize for the use of the word cock in the last sentence. My entries have been commented as being strongly penile, which bothers some women. The word itself makes some women uncomfortable. Penis.)

They remind me of this trip to the dentist I had when I was young, and had been a bad boy for letting a cavity develop. Before cleaning the site and cementing the filling, my dentist stuck me with three needles of local anesthetic. 15 minutes later, he came back and started to work sore, fully sensational, mouth. I left his office, and shortly after I got home, my mouth went completely numb and I stharted to taalk liyke thith.

In ten minutes, the redness of the sky and the morning fog are gone. The day resumes.

Sometimes, living just means being at the right place at the right time.

Nala has been coming into my room when Loo is here. I think she trusts girls more and might even go so far as to be curious about them, possibly because it was Kate who adopted her. For the first time this morning she accepted food from me. It was a Whiskas Beef Temptations.