you used to be my girl


kenya '99


divide by zero

angie pitas
pushplay pitas
fatduck pitas
buffalo pitas
curried pitas (yum!)
femme fatale pitas
cowgirl pitas

the sims
age of consent
feels like
emily : still strange
angrybob apostrophe
red balloon
disgruntled housewife
chickclick network
atlantic unbound

l < subversive > ?
boys [suck]
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I've been
The current mood of at
since March 1st, 2k!

gratuitous link
Friday, September 29, 2000 @ 08:54 p.m.

to the always-and-still-famous jeff. I never meant to hurt you with my wayward guestbook entries. Please like me again.

This has been a public service announcement.

I am really going to have to archive soon.

they came from Canada
Friday, September 29, 2000 @ 05:03 p.m.

oh, joy! No seriously, I'm delighted with this!

Meghan: since when was Fairuza Balk in Almost Famous? I knew she was in it, and then I totally forgot all about her supposed presence as the movie progressed. Help me out here.

oh, never mind. bless the internet movie database.

Today Becky, Angie and I had a reallyd detailed debate about whether it's more important that the Backstreet Boys are cuter or that the NSYNC boys are better-- like, musically. I'm sorry, but have you heard the BSB new single? It SUCKS. I mean, Kevin Richardson can show me the shape of his heart anytime he wants, but musically, it's... well, let's just say it's no IT'S GONNA BE ME.

He's so completely unlike me, and when I'm with him I can't think of anything to say... and yet, I really like him. I'm suspicious of anyone that might like me for no apparent reason... and yet, I can't stop thinking about him. i mean, explain this to me, please. i could really use some psychic ability right now. damn!

two polaroid pictures of the back of my head
Thursday, September 28, 2000 @ 03:58 p.m.

i'm even sexier when i'm not sick
Thursday, September 28, 2000 @ 02:03 p.m.

yeah, i know. i promised i wouldn't update. but... well... did you ever have a secret so delicious it made your stomach upset-- something you want to gush about even though you know it might make you seem ridiculous?

that's me. you guys...


some days i don't think of you at all
Monday, September 25, 2000 @ 10:40 p.m.

merciful heavens, guys. ouch. do you ever feel like you've given the people around you everything you had, but they STILL didn't understand you? i mean, what have I ever done to any of you? do you ever feel like you've been the best friend you could have been, and you didn't get karma credit for it-- like, i gave this group my all, and the petty vulnerabilities and quirky fights have finally consumed us? i feel like i have so little left.

i didn't want to fight with anyone. lord knows, i love all you guys. maybe this isn't my fault, but everything always feels like my fault. i like to be able to control what's going on around me, like to be able to make sure all the people i care about are doing ok. i'm sucking at it this month.

i think i'll be taking a break from deletia for a couple days. i was going to say "while i sort all this out," but i'm not sure what that would mean, exactly. like, even dean is pissed at me, and he's only met me once! if a near-stranger thinks i'm "repugnant," imagine what the people who actually know me must think!

some of you guys must still like me... i mean, i refuse to believe i'm a bad person, and in a logical universe, good people get rewarded. sure, all this might mean more if i had a boyfriend to post it for me... but i don't, in case you haven't noticed. hey, there's another relationship i screwed up, another former friend who now (it seems) can't stand me. add him to the fucking list! by extension, all of this must be my fault... so fire away. i mean, really, i'm in a great mood right now... so please, tell me how you've turned on me.

deletia: same great content, bitter new taste!

the doktor is in
Saturday, September 23, 2000 @ 10:07 p.m.

for the reader who did an infozoid serach for "how to self-circumcise":



the memory of earth
dated december 16th, 1997

Saturday, September 23, 2000 @ 09:46 p.m.

It strikes me that the one moment that defines my life comes from my childhood. It was an evening in November, the eleventh or thereabouts, and it was nighttime. I couldn't have been more than six or seven, and it was past my bedtime. So the lights in my room were out, and my eyes had already adjusted to the darkness I could see out my window. My curtains were drawn, and so from the outside my tiny head in the window must have resembled a jack o lantern- like some child cursed with resembling a carved-out pumpkin, a very seasonal thing. This image was heightened by the fact that I was holding a flashlight as far inside my mouth as I could make it go without gagging- my neighbour, Susie, was watching me out HER window, flashlight in a similar position, and we were making faces at each other, spelling out things in what halting Morse code we knew. Suddenly, though I heard the screen door directly under my window slam. I couldn't see who it was, not right away, because it was right under me and a floor below, but then I realized it was my mother.

Or at least, I realized later it was. But immediately I didn't recognize this woman- there was a vague SOMETHING about her which smelled of my mother, but more likely it was someone else- but I didn't honestly believe it was her.

This, of course, is ridiculous. What other woman, exactly my mother's height and size, would be running around in my backyard at night? Some lover of my father's? No, I think not- my mother, my real mother, had tucked me in only minutes before. Besides, I recognized the plaid pants and white tank top she wore to bed- the white shirt was almost luminnescent in the moonlight- and her long, tangled brown hair. Also, this stranger was barefoot, just the way my mother would have been- she never remembered shoes, not until it really snowed. She was thick-skinned, my mother.

As the door closed behind her, she took long, running leaps across the low deck and jumped off the end, onto the cold ground. She hit the hard cememner running and did not hesitate. This was something she was always telling me not to do. There was a cement walkway there that lead to the garage, and I cannot imagine the pavement could have felt pleasant against her cold feet. Still, she ran- fleeting, hair jumping in the night. She set off the motion detector light attatched to out garage as she ran- and then disappeared in through what we called the 'people door', as opposed to the car door. A few minutes the engine of her car roared to life, and swerved slowly out of our driveway.

You are probably thinking that the reason this was so formative is that she never came back, but that's not so. As young children do, I fell asleep, and she was there again- back- the next morning when I woke up. I crawled into bed with my parents, and remembered nothing of the night before until much later.

Why, then, does it matter? If she returned, who cares if she ran off one evening, having forgotten her boots? Well, I don't know. Except I never considered that my mother might have anywhere to go barefoot, and in her pyjamas. And I never considered she might leave, without telling me.

If I were to die right now, slump over my keyboard and hit random keys, gzdljhdlgrfzjlkhjdfgzlkhlkjhrtjyuhkgfdnh, a thud and then nothing, this is the memory of earth I would take away with me. My mother, something very insouciant about her bare feet and sexy pyjamas, her long, messy hair, jumping off the end of our deck and jumping into her car and driving away, one moonlit night in November. Like Batman.

Saturday, September 23, 2000 @ 07:05 p.m.

somehow, my bad experiences always turn into someone else's "i told you so"s. it's true that the people who suggested the anonymous function could be used to hurt feelings were right... but i mean, i'm still here, aren't i? so i had to experience the worst of it. i stand by my initial opinion that the anonymous login is neat. besides, how do you guys know i didn't post those messages myself... out of boredom?

Well, I didn't. But If I had... well, that would be kinda cool, don't you think?

i'm realllllllly pissed!
Friday, September 22, 2000 @ 07:46 p.m.

First I got a strange phone call... not obscene, too WEIRD to be justly called obscene. more like psychologically obscene. the person on the other end just kept saying "pretty pretty pretty pretty," over and over again, getting louder and louder, and when I said "HELLO?" for the third time, they hung up. It sounded like a girl. Actually, the voice was familiar, but I don't think anyone I know would do anything like that... anyway, it freaked me out in a way that only weird phone calls can.

Then, someone using the anonymous posting option was (and still is) verbally abusing me in okposthere... which i would normally shake off, except the fact that i'm home on a friday night actually DOES make me feel like a loser. i was feeling like a loser anyway. i didn't need someone with bad grammar to boast to me about their sex lives. You know how usually you can just shrug it off, but sometimes it feeds into a larger shitty mood you've had all day and you just don't have the energy to deal with that kind of shit?

So, yes. I was arguing with this person in real-time, and if I were a little more wily and energetic, I could have ridiculed them into the ground (in a dorky, esoteric kind of way of course), but I'm having a bad night, okay? So I just left. Sorry. I let my friends in okposthere down. Lost opportunities to make other people look stupid.

better living through technology
Thursday, September 21, 2000 @ 08:38 p.m.

today my spanish teacher greeted us with feliz navidad. ha, ha. edmonton weather is a laugh a minute! My fingers are so cold, i originally typed, a laugh a minn ut.

in the next few days i am likely to zoom around, staring at my toes, aimlessly crashing into people i don't know at full speed. i'm the happiest i've been in years. university makes me into a happy girl although i'm not sure why. but, my imood indicator still says "ambivalent"; and, everyone in the universe has a boyfriend except for me. it's very frustrating.

i wrote a bad teenage poem, my best work in some time:

i'm terrific and you fucked up big time
[bitter xgirlfriend poem XVII]

all you people who aren't dating me?
yes, YOU.
you suck.

then, i decorated it with pictures of glenn the astronaut in his space suit. i want to date an astronaut! i want to go to moscow! actually, i think what i want is an internet relationship-- or the opposite of an internet relationship.

it's really difficult to know on the one hand that you're above-average if not downright great, but on the other hand, to experience this nagging sensation that you will die completely alone and no one will ever love you again and no one will even notice you're dead until your grey deathy juices start to drip down into the apartment below yours [staining the ceiling] and the tenant reports it to the landlord. i mean, think how much that would suck.

it just occured to me that, for a change of scene, i could change the name of this site to 'deleria'. would that be....

award me one point for each gratuitous update
Wednesday, September 20, 2000 @ 09:54 p.m.

award yourself one point if you started your paragraph with a word other than "I".

award yourself one point if your paragraph was more than seven lines long.

award yourself one point if you told the truth when answering the first two questions.

The Roving Pirate Queen to save the day
Wednesday, September 20, 2000 @ 06:54 p.m.

I bought another book today, THE LEXUS AND THE OLIVE TREE. We walked through HUB right after I paid for it, and Meghan, examining it, asked: are you reading this... like, for fun?

I walked out of English with the guy from my Phil 120 class (I swear, that made so much sense to me in my head) and found, to my disappointment, that he's from Stony Plain. I was hoping he was from... I don't know... somewhere good.

After class we all went to Great Canadian Bagel and ate nine bagels and about 3/4 of a small tub of zesty cheddar cream cheese. Every day I run into about a million people I know. Every day no cute guys introduce themselves to me. Do you ever get the sense that everyone around you is a cardboard cutout?

Today in Anthro my prof asked us to think about whether progress is necessarily a good thing, and it reminded me of a funny scene: standing on the railway tracks in Kiberra, Nairobi, Kenya, with the slums stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction-- cardboard, mud- and tin houses, the population of Edmonton squeezed into ten square kilometres. Everything, as far as the eye could see, was this dity red colour, the same colour as the soil-- but stretching above the single-storey houses were dozens of satellite dishes, for televisions that ran on car batteries because none of the Nairobi slums have electrical power. It's insane how we define progress according to North American standards and end up with aid programs that don't help anyone. My anthro prof ended class with a funny story about a friend who was working on an aid program in Chad, describing how frustrating it was that sometimes "Chad has their fax machine turned off." Chad's fax machine-- I mean, that's a country.

Image for the day: sitting in HUB, watching Jeff and Cam holding their Palm Pilots a foot apart, beaming their business cards back and forth. It was a very strange, rainy day.

Tuesday, September 19, 2000 @ 09:43 p.m.

You know how I spend all my time complaining about how I spend significant portions of my life selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and beanie babies, three products I am morally opposed to? Well, I am SO GOOD AT IT, my boss is getting ME to train our two new employees. The responsibility... the opportunity to mould young minds to my own vile purposes.

Check out the groovy feud taking place at okposthere.

i'm not crazy and you're not nice
Sunday, September 17, 2000 @ 03:47 p.m.

things i ate between waking up yesterday and waking up today:

  • one croissant
  • one macintosh apple
  • 250 mL of skim milk
  • coffee caramilk bar
  • macdonald's wedge fries

does it ever scare you that you spend a lot of your life putting food into your body and it somehow controls what you look like and how you feel-- but you are ultimately unable to control this transformation at a chemical or molecular level? i mean, as far as i know the reason i feel like death on a stick is the crap food i ate yesterday-- or it could be something else-- everything that affects you occurs on such a miniscule level, it could be ANYTHING. seratonin receptors. sunlight. it's all too nebulous.

books i bought yesterday:

  • war and peace (no back cover)
  • life after god
  • julius caesar
  • the two towers
  • the mists of avalon
  • the forest house
  • the lady of avalon (it just became like a contest... how many marion zimmer bradley books can jocelyn find in the jumble of tables?)
  • best american short stories 1992 (a short story is just the right amount of story for me)
  • best american short stories 1993
  • what's bred in the bone
  • the god of small things
  • jazz

i brought these books home from the sale in the stanley milner library parking lot in a fantastically sturdy box, and it made me kind of sad to realize that as a child i would have made that box into something really GOOD. there are not that many really good boxes in my life anymore, but what's worse is that when i find them i don't do anything good with them.

die-nasty soap-a-thon was too funny for its own good:
"never put down a mime object!"

who's game for the whole 53 hours next year?

i think intravenous drug use is kind of sexy.

alex told me that russian historians have suggested our perception of history might be wrong-- that is, that everything might have actually been more compressed-- and it's weird to realize that actually, how we think about history barely affects how we live our lives. at least, not me. i was trying to explain how i feel about logic on the way home-- to fill up uncomfortable silences-- only to realize that i can't explain this sense of-- errr-- pedagogical alienation to anyone else. it's another construct, which we establish and then teach each other about, something we keep altering and revising-- and yet whether you understand it right or wrong, whether you GET LOGIC, doesn't really have anything to do with your life. i feel like logic is another universe, created by men, into which i can be initiated-- and it might be interesting-- but what one learns when one studies logic is logic, nothing else.

maybe logic is some kind of alternate culture-- or a complex and so far unerwarding way to meet men. i always blame men for creating these kinds of interesting, diverting, but ultimately unrewarding parallel universes.

can you tell i've been reading LIFE AFTER GOD? everything is in these little paragraphs tied together with candy necklaces and skipping ropes.

"My mind then wandered. I thought of this: I thought of how every day each of us experiences a few little moments that have just a bit more resonance than other moments-- we hear a word that sticks in our mind-- or maybe we have a small experience that pulls us out of ourselves, only briefly-- we share a hotel elevator with a bride in her veils, say, or a stranger gives us a piece of bread to feed to the mallard ducks in the lagoon; a small child starts a conversation with us in a Dairy Queen-- or we have an episode like the one i had with the M & M cars back at the Husky station.

And if we were to collect these small moments in a notebook and save them over a period of months we would see certain trends emerge from our collection-- certain voices would emerge that have been trying to speak through us. we would realize that we have been having another life altogether, one we didn't even know was going on inside us. and maybe this other life is more important than the one we think of as being real-- this clunky day-to-day world of furniture and noise and metal. so just MAYBE it is these small moments which are the true story-making events of our lives."

-Douglas Coupland in LIFE AFTER GOD

Douglas Coupland is the reason I started keeping a journal. He's not even one of my favourite writers (shakespeare, garcia marquez, fitzgerald, and john irving), but occasionally i just need my gen-x fix. the main character in microserfs, daniel, starts keeping a journal because he has trouble sleeping; later, he suggests the process is rewarding as a means of recording these moments, which seem to be a lot like joycian epiphanies in their status as apparently everyday events which somehow hold special significance. [the term "deletia" even comes from microserfs, with the explanation that when you reply to an email, you delete everything the other person wrote and then replace it with, in square brackets, deletia.]

this happened to me the other morning, when i took the dog for a walk at eight and saw a mist rising off the river valley. seeing this sight always takes my breath away-- particularly during the sunlit hours, when the whitemud freeway off the the east doesn't attract attention with its endless strings of lights, and the forest looks endless, like a virgin world, unseen by anyone else but me.

una noche de deletia
Friday, September 15, 2000 @ 09:05 p.m.


new snobby-paper journal
solid jasmine/vanilla perfume in a tin
"traffic signs" stickers
midnight in the garden of good and evil
the talented mr. ripley
the maltese falcon
wild strawberries- twist
one slushee (mixed flavours)
cherry halls cough candies
raisin-flavoured lipstick (!)

maybe we should just ask those nice men with the rifles?

fozzy, those are the bad guys!

don't hate me because i'm beautiful...
Thursday, September 14, 2000 @ 06:20 p.m.

hate me because i'm so much smarter than you!

if you want to see me you're going to have to come find me in the language labs in the basement of the Olde Arts Building tomorrow morning. I plan on pitching my two-man tent there and watching Spanish soap operas (Destinos-- first aired on Access!) until further notice.