I had Darren over from Toronto for the weekend. We were going to do a movie marathon at the theatre — three in a day — but the movies all sucked. Disturbia? Georgia Rule? Please. Instead, I bought the first season of Six Feet Under, and we finished the roughly 11 hour season over two days. Now I can re-watch it with Bronwen and lend it to Pat. To be honest, I’d seen up to the second season before, but I was too stoned to remember most of it.
Darren also gave me a nice tea container. It’s rather large, since I buy my tea 50mg at a time, but better too big than too small. He also got me some chai tea, considered a wellness blend. When I asked him what for, he couldn’t give me a reason. I love gifts for no reason.
We shared our tattoo ideas, and his was the Chinese character for love on his back. Darren and Bronwen are the some of the few people I can talk openly with about love. We’re such hopeless romantics. We tell each other that we’ll never be married, not to be self-depracating, but to be honest with ourselves. We have our ideals, and we’ll never settle for anything less. It’s comforting to know that we’re not alone in our quixotic beliefs.
I spend my time squaring away everything in my room so that I’m comfortable enough to write. The extra cables are gone, as well as the random receipts and bus transfers that somehow end up on the carpet. My mirrors are all in place, making the room seem twice as big, but I when I look I only see myself, slouched comfortably in my chair, hood over my head. Even Dolly has wondered in to lay herself flat on the empty floor. By the time I’m done cleaning, I’m at a loss for all the things I’ve been trying to get into well structured paragraphs.
A new episode of Trailer Park Boys is playing on Showcase, and I’m watching it with the sound off because too much information would ruin the fourth season, something I’m determined to see in order from the beginning. Ricky’s in a high school, completely out of place as a thirty-something man in shop class trying to make some hash or grow some weed or harvest some kind of narcotic, and this only adds to my amusement.
I’ve been letting my hair grow out, à la Matt Heafy in the video for Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr. Somehow, I’ve only now discovered that my hair naturally grows towards the front, and by brushing it forward, it still looks respectable when I haven’t had it cut in a month and a half.
I’ve been in an odd mood lately. Thoughts branch off in my mind, but nothing seems solid enough to follow through. Inspiration always comes the day after today.
With work hours, gaming with (or against) John, and extra-curricular computer activities in most of my free time, my right arm is developing a reoccurring random ailment. Some days it’s a pinching, some days it’s a numbness, some days it’s a weakness. I know that they’re all bad signs, and I’ve been stretching regularly (the exercises that Loo showed me), but I can’t really seem to give up my computer time. I never understood why she wouldn’t take a break from her massage therapy practice, even though it was busting up her wrists, but now I do.
I have the entire long-weekend to write, but it’ll be in a water-logged notebook getting close to retirement, to take some stress off my arm. I’ve had this notebook for over five years now, but the wear has long started to show.
The original plan was to head to John’s cottage for the long-weekend, but it turns out that it would be almost 12 hours of traveling, which isn’t even worth it if I took an extra day off. Trolley went home for the weekend, so I’ve got the house to myself. There are some Canada Day activities going on, but recent dealings with bullshit people have left me anti-social.
I’ll also have the chance to watch the first season of Battlestar Gallactica, which Jeff thoughtfully gave me at the housewarming party. I’ve been extremely impressed by what I’ve seen so far. Most of the camera-work, even the scenes in space, are handheld. It’s gives the entire show that reality-tv feel, as if we were innocent observers standing on board the ship. The music is beautifully tribal, as opposed to the dated orchestral scores of most other sci-fi series. Especially well-written are the characters in the crew; alcoholics, cancer victims, bootleggers, but most of all, they’re human.