aquanaute 3:30 p.m.

an album by ariane moffatt. i like it very much. they were interviewing her this morning on tv5, that's how i discovered it. she was plainly attractive and had a very soothing voice. i would imagine that it's very good crying music, this. but let's not indulge that, shall we?

luxuriating 2:46 p.m.

my sister is coming tomorrow and staying with me for six weeks. my mother warns me that she doesn't wash dishes and watches television endlessly. i am of the opinion that the satellite to basic cable transition will find her being a little more active.

that's us in the picture, at my father's house. luxuriating in our sweats, as i imagine we'll do quite often in the next while. in the background: a painting of a bench with a sign that reads "nacionalizado de fresco" (freshly nationalised) - a daddy favourite. the sofa we're sitting on is an eighties brown curduroy ikea number that he just can't let go of. and on the table, my faithful laptop, source of unendning distraction and portal to the blogging world. oh! and let's not forget the laura secord cream egg, waiting nervously to meet its end.

a good one 11:17 p.m.

patrice desbiens was born in timmins, ontario and first published in the mid-seventies. if you want to read the english translation, go for it, but it's not nearly as good.

Je me souviens d'une station wagon qui coupe la nuit
qui ouvre la nuit du nord comme un couteau de chasse
ouvre sa proie
Nous sommes tous là
ma mère ma sœur son mari et ses enfants tous
dans cette voiture c'est
Johnny B. Good Leblanc qui conduit son visage vaguement
éclairé par la lueur du tableau de bord
Je suis le seul des passagers qui ne dort pas tandis
qu'on continue avec un océan de vert meurtri de
chaque côté
Ma sœur dort sur le banc d'en avant
la noirceur qui rentre et sort de sa bouche ouverte
La nuit est longue et sans plis
La nuit est longue et sans plis
La nuit est longue et sans plis
La nuit est longue et sans Soudainement
quelque chose déchire le tissu quelque chose bouge
là et
le pare-brise devient un écran cinémascope les phares
de Twentieth Century Fox et Gulf Western éclairant
l'animal l'animal l'orignal en plein milieu du chemin
qui fige et
fixe son destin qui roule vers lui à 60 milles à l'heure
Ses yeux ses yeux ses yeux ô dieu son regard jusqu'à
la dernière minute et le choc sourd-muet de fer contre
chair
Et ma sœur qui se réveille en criant un grand cri
fou et
final comme si l'âme de l'orignal avait passé dans
elle en
mourant et enfin
le silence
le silence de notre silence dans
le silence entre
Timmins et Toronto.

a fountain of sugary fun 10:49 p.m.

david letterman in putting mentos candies in big bottles of diet coke. i'm entertained, and nearly distracted. now if only i could stop listening to wonderall and get on with it.

the world's biggest ball of twine 7:52 p.m.

he is a good man and a gentle man 6:44 p.m.

and i am crying now, to the sound of an old song, because we won't speak anymore. i'm quite sure he meant it when he said it. what i remember: his toothy smile, his clammy hands, his blue eyes, his manner. the way he said, "ooohhh, girl..." i swear that he knew the name of every foreign dignitary ever born to this earth. he spoke as though he'd been born in the slums of kingston but was whiter than sudbury snow. and he knew it, too. and didn't care.

he watched me while i was slept, he said, more than once. i watched him sleeping many times, too. he was a cute sleeper. made me a picnic once at runnymede station. drank vodka with me in high park. sat next to me at matriculation and made me melt. he hurt me tonight, though, walking away without parting words. fair enough he didn't give them to me. i probably didn't deserve them.

he is a good man and a gentle man. i will not be angry because it is not best. i will be sad, instead.

in some grand procession of ignorance 10:35 a.m.

to tease out the truth in something takes a long time. it is difficult for everyone, but particularly hard for me, i think. imagine that ideas were paintings. if you were me, you would feel as though you were an inch from the thing, your body pressed close and casting a shadow, your proximity preventing you from making sense of the small pocket of colour on which your eyes were fixed. there would a wobbly memory of something similar you had once observed, under the same conditions. you would recall, without intention, the sound and tone of the other voices you'd heard. the voices that sounded most like those of your parents, of your first love or of a favourite teacher would be remembered best: their patterns speech, their choices of words, their taste. amidst the commotion you would do your best to piece together an understanding. you would appeal to the voice you respected most for guidance: you would swallow foreign impressions, unfamiliar sentiments. you would strain with your own eyes to see more or more clearly and you would fail. but amidst the commotion, the conviction of your borrowed words would be enough to find you passing the test, moving on to the next piece in some grand procession of ignorance, burdened with the definite guilt that some young thing might hear your voice trustworthy.

sweaty apartment sunday 9:44 a.m.

relegated to the IT room 10:02 a.m.

there is a cpu humming very loudly next to my head. two green apples next to my laptop are the only organic things in sight. i hate being relegated to the IT room. clement, the small chinese computer man, doesn't speak to me or smile. he likes keeping the window open so we can hear the lovely sound of traffic from finch avenue but he insists on drawing the blinds so that the only light in the room is fluorescent. i'm staring at my green apples and thank god they're such pleasing colour. the walls are grey, in here. so's the carpet. so are the cubicles. grey, all of it. grey, for heaven's sake! the man in the office next door keeps birds, because it's a marketing company, and people in marketing are quirky like that. the birds chirp and chirp and at first it was endearing but i'm just about ready to kill them now. the quirky marketing man also has an axe and several knives sticking out of his door, as though someone had tried to break in. it's a quirk thing. i have fantasies about using those knives. don't turn your back on me, clement.

afternoon anxiety 3:13 p.m.

my mustard stained legs and body a wrapped sweaty
pretzel typing away in frantic heat and hearbeat
commercials and cigarettes swirling mad colour
storms unpredicted and mean in their acute
emptiness torture porcelain responsbilities, woes
cracked and left to steep in soft ash powder

shit and shit and shit and failure tempts
knocking at the animal door loud pounding
echoes tremble my hands and quake my life
aspiring to nothing but tomorrow and the next
happy breath

pat methany group - first circle 1:12 a.m.

there is clapping at first, a few scarce notes and then, after long moments, a voice. no words, only sounds and promise. believe, reader, that we can truly make promises. he will smile in confirmation as you shrug in resignation, my father. rich proletarian methods drop into seemingly inadvertent, but altogether natural, chords of terribly deliberate genius.

and he sits, listening to it all, caught up in his heart. blue eyes wide with pink skin around, smiling stubble and remembering us as children. when we pulled at his worn shirt, tugged at his hands, begged to show him the fruits of days.

working hard to work hard, he is. breathing deeply as though in exercise, meters from a gentle , spotless, vegetarian kitchen.

he knows, but he's had years to know. i am a muddled person. grow me up? i don't know, couldn't possibly know...but i want, i try, i am upset.

he is not near and he seems never to be so. the inequality keeps him busy. the lost years.
the workers and his work.

how i would like him to be happy! truly happy...

that, believe it or not, is me 8:56 a.m.

in the backyard of my grandparents' old house, since sold, in edmonton. that's their garden and the sandbox of my youth. it was a great sandbox. i learned to bake there. donated by my grandmother's kitchen: several bowls, a few good mixing spoons, a cake mold and two muffin tins. my grandfather, the venerable thomas loudon leadbeater, always puttered about the garden while i was cooking. do you see the cement circles leading to the back? i used to leap from each to each. as i got older and my legs got longer i could skip every other stone and later i only needed every third to make it back to the house. the bush on the left grew raspberries and behind the white gate was the alley. it gave out on to 148th street. i think.

my words are cheap 12:35 a.m.

his are not

six reasons i won't leave the house 5:26 p.m.

(1) my clear pastic mouse flashes in red, epileptic fury and it is alive, requires attention (2) the futon remembers the shape of my laziness and the smell of my anxiety (3) i cannot bite my nails in public they way i'd like to: i would be embarassed (4) there is no soundtrack to my life outside these walls (5) the doorframes know my height and respect it (6) i am comfortable here

culprit 'coons 5:08 p.m.

i left my kitchen window open last night, when i went out. it gives on to a fire escape and i came home to find little dirty animal prints on the floor, the garbage can open and my unfinished breakfast lying victim on the floor. those furry bastards. i thought i could hear them all day, ruffling in the closets, although i'm almost certain they must've come and gone late last night. they've done this before, those criminal creatures, last time it was to rob our cat (now departed, see i miss this cat) of his few worldly possessions: half a bowl of whiskies and a plate of dry kibble dinner. i will remember to close the kitchen window. i will remember to close the kitchen window.

microsoft paint says, "pride is coming!" 3:22 p.m.

come hither, super 2:53 p.m.

living alone and working from home is getting to me. the toilet's been leaking for months and all of a sudden i decided to call bill, my super, to come and fix it. he showed up and i offered him a beer, a glass of water. "tell me about your day, bill. how're things in the building?" he was anxious to get home and didn't take me up on any of my offers. the toilet got fixed, though. and he talked to me briefly, enough to get me through the day.

it's too hot to walk to the mail box 1:19 p.m.

and so here, with sincere apologies, is my letter:

monsieur benjamin,

ça va? je suis contente de savoir que tes tableaux vont bien. je suis certaine que tu réussiras tes examens. est-ce qu'il fait chaud dans ton coin du monde? 31 degrés ici aujourd'hui. je crois avoir déja (je n'arrive pas a trouver l'accent grave) mentionné que mon apart n'est pas climatisé. je n'ai pas dormi hier soir, même qu'il y avait un peu de pluie. en plus, il commence a être difficile a respirer. l'air est très épaisse a toronto durant l'été. la job va bien, par contre.

c'est drôle, j'avais sincèrement l'intention de t'écrire une vraie lettre en blogue, mais je n'y arrive pas. il me faut une plume et un papier.

a bientôt. bises.

kate.

i really hope it's pms 1:12 p.m.

because i'm crying a lot these days, not sure why. not even a combination of bobby darin and pasta salad is fixing me. apples with peanut butter either. i guess there's always wine and cigarettes but that doesn't really fix, it just blinds. maybe blind is better.

a list of my favourite candy 8:15 p.m.

i know i've said that i don't like sweet things, but that's not entirely true. i mean, i don't like them now, but i used to. despite my parents' best efforts, i lived almost exclusively on a diet of sugar and citric acid for the better part of my pre-teen years.

• nerds (the tiny coloured ones in complicated boxes)
• hershey's cookies and cream bars
• the haribo candies that looked kind of like jube-jubes but had poppy-seedish thingys on them
• red skittles
• sour watermellons and grapefruits
• worms of all kinds
• some french sucking candy
• wunderbars
  

i miss this cat 7:31 p.m.

as though he were my child. professor puffy pants. mister flashlight eyes. major hijinx. mister love store. are you open for business? he's in new west minster now, with his grandma. my former roommate's mother. and by the way, he is eating tulips. he loves flowers. almost as much as i love him.

can't let go of ani difranco 7:17 p.m.

it's terrible, i know. so nineteen ninety-five. but there's something about her music that makes me comfortable, keeps me coming back. i'm listening to fire door. here's a poem that i wrote when i was nineteen. not so long ago, i know. but long enough that you're not allowed to judge me on it. the punctuation's all wrong. thanks in advance for looking the other way.

we were standing in a bathroom doorway
when you asked, smiling cagily if
i’d ever been gay and if
it had been (here, you winced)
in that ani difranco way i heard
footsteps creaking closer and i think
you did, too because you smiled
and closed your eyes the way

you do sometimes and i was deseperate to say
that no pop culture reference could ever

convey my sincerity, sarah
but i faltered, tripped over my own words
and somebody else’s footsteps
fell to the pavement with a thud
and barely managed to mutter
that i didn’t think so
not in that way, i mean

the country game 5:25 p.m.

it doesn't necessarily have to be about countries -- it could be capital cities, or animal names or, well, a lot of things. if you're ultracool you could use indie band names. point is, whatever you choose to use, it's a handy distraction when waiting in line somewhere with friends. each person has to offer a word that begins with the last letter of the previous word. as in:

A: canada
B: argentina
C: armenia
D: does every damn country name end in A?
A: no, dumbass
D: um...hint anyone?
A: think sand. the war against terror.
D: iraq?
C: it has to start with A, moron
D: oh, right. um...
A: afghanistan. let's get on with it. nigeria
B: not fair. is this line getting any shorter?

seriously, it's fun. especially if you prepare ahead of time.

tuna pasta salad = yummy in my tummy 4:21 p.m.

take (a) half a big bag of pasta -- the shell kind, you know, the ones that get stuck inside eachother, spooning (b) a couple of green onions, a.k.a. scallions (c) a few stalks of celery (d) more mayo than i'd care to think about (e) two cans of tuna --> don't get the skipjack, come on kids, splurge! (f) half a yellow pepper, chopped because the red ones were sold out (g) s & p (h) a table spoon of dijon (i) tender loving care and two hours in the fridge...best served with beer, and lots of it!

the world's biggest spreadsheet 4:14 p.m.

for those of you (like me) who spend hour upon hour agonizing over excel, i thought you might enjoy this, even though it's a tad ancient:

http://www.informationweek.com/story/IWK20021217S0006

the jcb song 11:31 a.m.

http://www.jcbsong.co.uk/jcbvideo.asp

our summer project 2:09 p.m.

i like sitting naked in my apartment when it's hot. my body sticks to the cotton-blend case of my three year old futon. the wooden frame creaks when i adjust myself. my legs are smooth today, men in suspenders were giving away razors on the street. but my feet are dirty, as always. i walked to the laundromat wearing sandals. my mother called when i arrived home, told me she'd found a novel at the library that'd been written by a mother and daughter team. they made a killing, she said. new york times bestseller. she's asked me to draft an outline and email it to her. it'll be our summer project, she said.

tricky blue: a poem to the sound of mozart's requiem - XIII 4:54 p.m.

the place is dark, carpeted with latex,
walls painted red with blood. enter to
staircases and ominous hallways
which widen and narrow like the
hot, fleshy throat of a swallowing beast.

there is an escape from the smell of sticky
love consumption - the swimming pool. it is out
of doors: a severe concrete rectangle filled with tepid,
tricky water which appears blue but isn't. women
are collapsed supinely on wobbly plastic chairs.
folds of them inhabit gloriously temporary furniture.

they splash about in the infancy of their freedom:
breasts are on display, creases and folds of skin
barely towelled press them for exposure.

and there is music. a decided beat eminating
from behind half-closed doors finds silhouettes
dancing to a different rhythm. and what

could i say to her? she smiles with her entire
face, this one. white skin taught around her soft
stomach, she walks like a boy. has a serious jaw bone.
swim trunks and beautiful breasts above them.
i see her dip beneath the water's surface and watch
as she shakes her hair free of tricky blue water.
she is no boy. and as she swims toward another
body i notice that's it's no boy she's kissing, either.

i don't look myself 1:27 p.m.

when i'm fucked up 1:02 p.m.

i can't feel
words, can't
remember
them. they
look all wrong,
all of them.
beethoven.
jitterbug
perfume.
beets.
beer.
save
me.

beethoven, my lover 12:55 p.m.

i have a tear running down my cheek, it's in my mouth now and i can taste it. salty water. moonlight sonata is on repeat. i'm smoking. i wiped my face, cleared the tears and am still breathing. but barely. each note is so deliberate, so perfect. there is nothing more satisfying than brilliant, sparkling music. the method is calming, linear. i can see him now, playing, touching, laying a finger on a ivory key. a black one. beethoven, my lover. my long lost lover.

christ, he's going to harvard 2:26 p.m.

and here i am eating mr. noodles out of styrofoam, drinking instant coffee and pretending to know about trunk groups and clli codes in my patch-painted village apartment which, by the way, has mice. i discovered them (their droppings, to be precise) yesterday. they are not my friends.

medicate me, someone 5:28 p.m.

my mother recommends bathing with gershwin, light
some smelly thing and soak, she says. breathe. my eyes
dart about the room without permission. they like
the crown molding, the piles of dust cowering at the feet
of objects, the stain on the side of my antique refridgerator.
it's intricate. ice cream, i think. i haven't the attention span

for this.

not nearly as funny as moo-shoe pork, but funny nonetheless... 10:21 a.m.

list of my favourite movies 9:49 a.m.

• chariots of fire (1981)
• searching for bobby fischer (1993)
• show me love (1998)
• dirty rotten scoundrels (1988)
• sabrina (1954)
• the secret garden (1993)
• a little princess (1995)
• reach for the sky (1991)
• the cutting edge (1992)

sound familiar? 9:34 a.m.

Definition

Passive-aggressive personality disorder is a chronic condition in which a person seems to passively comply with the desires and needs of others, but actually passively resists them, becoming increasingly hostile and angry.

Psychiatrists no longer recognize this condition as an official diagnosis. However, the symptoms are problematic to many people and may be helped by professional attention, so we include it here.

Causes, incidence, and risk factors

The causes are unknown, but, like most personality disorders, a combination of genetic and environmental factors are probably responsible.

Signs and tests

Personality disorders are diagnosed by psychological evaluation and a careful history of the extent and time course of the symptoms. Some of the common signs of passive-aggressive personality disorder include:

• Procrastination
• Intentional inefficiency
• Avoiding responsibility by claiming forgetfulness
• Complaining
• Blaming others
• Resentment
• Sullenness
• Fear of authority
• Resistance to suggestions from others
• Unexpressed anger or hostility

Treatment

Counseling may be of value in helping the person identify and change the behavior.

Expectations (prognosis)

The outcome can be good with treatment.

Complications

• Stunted career development despite good intelligence
• Alcohol abuse or other drug abuse or dependence

450TeL Communications Inc. 12:59 p.m.

HOT CLOUDS 2:38 p.m.

“But as long as the hot clouds do not reach us, we won't go,” said Supriatun by mobile phone from Indonesia. The hot clouds wouldn't reach you in Sudbury. Everything here is slowly cold. Residents smile the graduation of a season, only to greet the next, to burn leaves, to be cold again. Lives soothed by scheduled cups of Tim Hortons coffee, measured in pay periods, in rounds of bar-born unprotected sex. The landscape's rough: rocky, I'd say.

There is a very tall smokestack in the West part. I used to have a plan to paint it pink with flowers. Yellow ones, I think, the big symmetrical hippie kind. My parents thought it was adorable. The stack's a symbol, I'd say. It looks like a penis, a cigarette...The postcards prefer the nickel. The giant nickel.

Things are lonely here, I'd say. The pick-up truck engines, the mosquitoes, the beat-up kids, their dirty hands and pocket change make lonely noises. So do the bingo halls and the bowling alleys. The strip malls by twilight, that's where you'll find love. Those dirty hands fondling the young parts of cleaner bodies in the Silver City parking lot. Or behind the Subway restaurant. They call them restaurants here.

googler interrupted 8:55 a.m.

i've been having a serious amount of trouble with google's beta apps recently: gtalk is blinking, gmail is blinking, blogger is practically blind...the desktop app, though cool, has been unreliable and a monster drain on my poor comp's day to day. then, as though the frustration of trial software weren't enough, someone close to me introduced the possibility that google isn't the innocent novelty i would have it be. stuff about caches, metabots, world domination. as it turns out they're keeping everything on a server somewhere, so that when i search google, i'm really searching google's stash of info, not the web. i must've been living under a rock because everyone seems to know this but me. sitting on my father's 1973 corduroy ikea sofa (which miraculously still holds its shape) i experiment with the idea that google is god. it knows everything about my life, is everpresent, omnipowerful, mysterious. it will most definitely outlive me. maybe i should start praying to google. maybe i should ask it for a job.

poetry in public 12:06 a.m.

i read tonight. i stood up in front of a microphone and a room full of people and managed three or four hundred syllables. it was at the victory cafe, second floor: art bar. i was trembling and darted off stage, once it was over, to the sound of hearty applause. encouraged in large part by my admission that i'd never done it before, i'm sure. they like first timers, some kind of pretense of community or something. anyway, you're not allowed to read two weeks in a row but i think i'd like to make a repeat appearance. what do you think? are you proud? you know me enough for that.

my sister needed help (that's her) 11:28 p.m.

with some highschool creative writing course...as though six verses in iambic pentameter actually mattered to the canadian canon...she's much wittier than i was at her age, i think. lazier and more inhibited, though. a bottle of wine later, i proposed something. i think i'm a glass away from correct rhythm and real aid:

My days are long and hard and filled with heat
They stick and stink and hurt with no relief
Laughter seems to blind me through the night
So that I might maintain or feign good sight

Their trays and ways find me wanting a break
As though that were enough to stay awake
I’d like to think that work means more than this
Although right now I’d do much more for bliss

Red stains, blue stains, green stains and work tonight
I thought I’d once had soul to make a fight
But truth be told I’m too damn tired for that
And dream I’d quit right now but for that rat

He makes me think I’ve got no good to me
Makes me want to change the things I see
Makes me want to do something much more
Much more like a good thing and even more

The night is dark when I am done as though
Things were so great so bright without a row!
As though this weren’t the only thing there is
As though I had much more to bring than this

But truth be told it’s just words now are left
And words we know aren’t much but lower cleff
Versions of the thing we’d rather say
And what better to do on this bright day

something i was supposed to do earlier 10:03 p.m.

after i'd read a random blog promising that the following meme (As defined by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene (1976): "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation." "Examples of memes are tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches. Just as genes propagate themselves in the gene pool by leaping from body to body via sperms or eggs, so memes propagate themselves in the meme pool by leaping from brain to brain via a process which, in the broad sense, can be called imitation.) was propagating itself through the blogosphere: (1) find the book closest to you (2) flip to page 161 (3) find the fifth sentence and publish it, complete with these instructions. the book closest to me at the time was a thick telecommunications binder which didn't have page numbers just some weird section, sub-section way of seperating sentences. the next closest thing (several hours later) was "mots de passe" by pierre desruisseaux, a collection of poetry i picked up in grade 12 when i still wanted to like words but didn't really. i've read it since. the next book, the important one, the one that passed the 161 test was john key's "sowing the wind," given to me by my grandfather after he'd read it. the inscription reads:

Ex Libris: Ven. T. L. Leadbeater D. D.


To Kate

From Grandma & Grandpa
Spring 2004

I haven't read it. I'll sleep with guilt tonight. Here's 161, sentence 5: "But Philby rightly declared that for Iraq this was not a happy introduction to the democratic process."

if i had to ask... 9:22 p.m.

each of my boys a question, navigating the space between rhetoric and wondering, without worrying about form (punctuation demands response):

ben -- how far away are you...exactly
re -- what happened to you
marc s -- what next
marc r -- was i imagining
joel -- did you know
scott -- how did you invite me
nat -- are you happier
graeme t -- what if
andrew -- what would satisfy you
graeme j -- is it perennial

rambling -- i've run out of titles 9:09 p.m.

i am reading lynn crosbie's poetry on a patio tonight, it is light enough still. she uses oxford commas and sounds like a poet. her words are like breathing as though i'm not reading (rhyme) but tasting her last meal instead. or various meals, particularly the ones after big events. they are exactly like breathing, don't you agree? : : : try writing in a very small notebook sometime, it'll keep you honest. curbs adjective use, apparently. : : : i read the blog of a harvard girl who was torontonian and liked palestrina. found her on facebook. i think we're in the same chapter with a few pages of beer and experience between us. loads of books she would say, i think. important ones. : : : i wonder how much poets lie. the good stuff is inebriating and i don't often bother to ask because i'd rather smoke in that state. (you understand). really though, it must be thick with lies. love is never so desperate, colours so vibrant, scenes so perfect, men so angry. dogs don't curl up in corners, they collapse. everyone collapses. you, poet! writing life in cursive while the rest of us are lazy, uninspired, (oxford comma) and faster at typing. : : : i blame the public school system for my need to list, to alliterate, to tie up loose ends. i've to blame someone. what's with the chip, you ask. get over it, kate. it's gotta be the divorce, the drugs, the circumstance. anything but me. (you understand).

if i were a proper animal... 1:24 p.m.

tired but not sleeping 12:07 a.m.

jonathan doubled me on his bike. i'm used to the handlebars, but he preferred peddling standing up. we rode up church street and were waived at, i felt like a float. COMMA SPLICE. we have plans for martinis on tuesday and he's promised to lend me a russian novel starring the devil. best book ever, apparently. sounds right up my ally. i'm stressed about money. relieved to know, however, that most music is still free. say i am you by the weepies.

beer and commas: in the interest of encouraging the appropriate use of both 2:04 p.m.

the oxford comma: an optional comma used before the word "and" at the end of a list, in case you were wondering...

i like to drink white beer, blonde beer, red beer, and dark beer. all beer, really.

the comma splice: a punctuation error in which a comma with no conjuction is used to join two independent clauses. i'm a big fan.

it's nearly ten to nine, we won't reach the beer store before close.

for those of you who know me 11:10 a.m.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=kateleadbeater
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=kateleadbeater

these last few days 7:19 a.m.

have been worse than most. there is a nice song playing on the cbc, called "take it from me." i am quite tired and wish the song would've lasted longer. they're talking about a terrorist plot now. my cell phone is in the process of exploding: the screen is a mess of colours. i blame the terrorists. you should try blaming the terrorists, too. i want to throw something breakable across the room and watch it shatter. like a sideplate or a vase or something. i hope the week improves. i'm not doing well. really not.

major anxiety 7:49 p.m.

should be a cat's name. not mine. cats, cats, cats, people. cats, cats, cats, crazies. crazy cat people. crazy me. crazy, crazy, crazy.

moo-shoe pork! 11:01 a.m.