Word of the Day for Wednesday, November 12, 2008

soiree \swah-RAY\, noun:

an evening party or social gathering

J’m'enligne pour une soirée ce soir avec les filles. (:

C’est dommage, parce que deux vpeuvent pas venir. Je trouve ça extrèmement moche, et un ptit peu… comment dire? Cowardly. Je sais pas. Ca me donne le feeling qu’elles s’en calissent de nous, comme si ça leur tentaient pas de faire l’effort en venant nous voir, nous, leurs amies depuis le secondaire. Mais bon; restez ensemble, à part si ça vous tente. Je ne vais pas courrir après quelqu’un qui n’apprécira pas l’effort plus tard. I had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but I guess we can’t help things sometimes.

Il pleut; tu devrais écouter Les Eaux de Mars, par Monica Freire et Ariane Moffat.

I like how Jo really meant it when he asked me if I wanted him to kick his ass, as if he and I had ever talked for more than five minutes straight with each other doing something other than pretending that we hated each other, even though we hardly knew each other briefly enough to even make assumptions.

I like how Amanda came to the pharmacy with me, and how she joked around with the condoms and was patient as we sat at that bench in front of that ugly Chinese shop, and insisted on reading the instructions to me.

I like how Winsane stood faithfully by, listening to me as well as her own wants. That girl- she’s healthy.

I like how I told Sammy and Boris, and how they acted like predictable clowns but managed to make me smile anyway, and let me lean my head on their shoulders.

I like how I could still tell Carmen everything by the end of it. Is it lucky or unlucky, to only have one such friend in life?

 

I’m tired.
You should go watch Running with Scissors, and go listen to Benny and the Jets.
Also; get over your ex’s and ho’s.

colorant (contient de la tartrzine)

Becca has pointed out how obsessed I am with lists.

I’m thinking… there might be more than enough truth in this.

Lists:
(in alphabetical order whenever possible, of course.)

 

Christmas party gift exchange

• Amanda
• Becca
• Carmen
• Jessica
• Me
• Sylvia
• Winsane

Things to do this Christmas Break

• see Amanda
• Boxing Day crazies ♥
• work thirty hours a week
• read John Green’s books
• read handwriting
• Kamikaze with Joelle
• send Emy some love
• meet up with LA people at one point or another??
• DIAMONDDD.
• organize all my school books&shelves
• Nanowrimo my ass off. (You in, Becs?)

Top 5 emballeurs to work with

• Christian
• Jordan
• Michael
• Peter
• PierOli

Top 5 casier/es to work with

• Alex
• Aurélie
• Becs
• Marie
• Kassandra

Places I need to go to do my Christmas shopping

• Omers de Serre
• Indigo
• Jean Coutu
• IGA
• Couche Tard
• other?

Ze’end.

longface.

I love Winsane.

Because she asks me why the long face, and she’s persistant, but she’s quiet too, so she’s not pushy, but enough to get the message across that things will be okay, only without having to use those exact words which have been used so many times that they have grown old and worn and so see-throughtransluscent it’s like you don’t even hear them anymore when someone says them to you because they’ve lost their meaning.

And she talks about CDs of silence which would sound retarded&stupid if anyone else came up with it, but it makes sense when she explains it.

And we talk about the future and how we’ll have kids and cookie crumbs and bedtime faerie tail stories, and other comforting things like that.

And it all flows together and it makes me feel kind of happy again, which is good because being long-faced is bad.

So.

All this to say;

I love Winsane, very, very muich.

(Muiche? Much. LEARNENGLISH!)

Jtm.♥

“I’m actually only wearing a shirt.”

And all it takes is one text message – one single message – to press a button and be shot back to a hot summer’s night, where the only thing that matters is a good time. Everyone holds hands into the crowd, and you can smell the city around you spell out Quebec. It becomes one of those rare occasions when eavesdropping is okay, because you’re laughing with strangers as if you were old friends, when really all you have in common is that you’re here. And tonight, for a couple minutes, it’s okay to sing out loud and to have your voice heard. Tonight, you don’t want it to go unnoticed, because you want to be part of the crowd, you want to all have the same pulse. And as your heart beats in time with infectious smiles, you can’t help but look up and laugh at the sheer nowness, at how perfect everything looks, sounds, feels. The song’s final chords are played, and the crowd starts to wake up. You shuffle through twisting, improvised, non-existent rows, hands no longer clasping one another because we all know that everyone is alright- that we’ve lost each other, but that we’re still all here. And as soon as you break out of the crowd, we all start running. Towards what, it doesn’t matter. But we rush back, ignoring the ice cream on our fingers and the sand in our hair, only thinking about moving forward, our thin soles pounding uneven pavement. For a moment, we don’t worry about how we’ll be separated by unfamiliar walls of concrete in a matter of days. Because this is what it’s all about. This is all we want. And this is all we need.

Merci Winsane.

The sound of thick air and drugs swell, guitar rifts swaying her head back and forth. She turns the volume up, letting the thick, pounding drum skins drown her lungs. She tugs at her shirt, sitting on that raspberry rug in front of the radiator with the wind, letting her chills blow away. The turquoise sweater is more like a dress, swimming on her dark skin with fervor, clinging to her bones before dancing away again, and never growing tired of teasing her angles with the feeling of possibility.

She pops the pills to the beat of the bridge, images of a never-ending night road running through her head like a toddler who understands urgency, but not the mechanics of its own legs. Tired, drunk voices echo through her head, and she pushes them away. They pile up like dry sand. She grits her ivories together, purses her desert lips, closes her vaselined eyelids. One more for luck.

She opens the cabinet door open, its corner nearly leaving an angry crimson across her cheek. Bottles and jugs are pushed to the side, until she finds what she didn’t know she was looking for. She nods with polite acknowledgment to the skull and crossbones. The first swig is taken. The guitar fills the air her throat just gasped for, its tissues burning for sanity. The next one goes down smoother, her eyes twist shut, her chest heaving, her white-knuckled pianist fingers gripping the white handle. She imagines her insides turning white. She’ll set the jug down carefully, so as not to spill anything. The cap lays in her calm, porcelain hands. They will find each other again in a few hours.

The parents will check up on her later. They heard the bathroom door click shut; they will know she’s been in there too long. They will hope for creativity, the red roads having become tiresome; a chore to clean up. The whole act will have grown stale, to be honest. A little blah; a little lackluster. They’re hoping to have  a more interesting story to tell this time.

She speaks as if it were a Saturday picnic, telling the girls how to divide the jewelry when she’ll be dead, looking at them through black eyes, calculating who will get what with a proud smile. She says she doesn’t want anyone at her funeral; her family won’t know what to do when the time comes.

He’ll come in kind-hearted, wondering if he’ll be getting a good hug or the cold end of an impatient shrug. He’ll leave, the door ajar, hoping it’ll be kept open. The slightest sign of affection…

It’ll be slammed shut before his feet will have reached the other end of the hallway, and he will sleep with bloodshot eyes, wishing boys could cry and men could sob.

She’ll get home tipsy. Or mad. Or tired.

Straight to bed, not bothering to turn off the hall light that was left to show her the way. It’ll always be there, and it’ll always be silent by dawn. It’s these little home comforts that she’ll never notice, but that will always prevent her from leaving.

She’s just getting started by the time everyone has fallen asleep, typing away as quickly as she can without making a ruckus. She’s been impatient to turn her real life on, knowing it’ll be over in a few hours when the world starts to wake up again.

It’s nights like this, I wish I could write.

Zusammensetzung. (Formaldehido)

1. I don’t know what it is, but I always feel better after talking to Saam.
   I dunno. Random.
2. &sometimes it’s scary how alike we are. Urgh. I’m glad I kept this one a (relative) secret.

3. :

I think I have a tendency to walk away without saying goodbye. I wonder what that means? I’ve only noticed it more recently. I did a handwriting analysis thing. It said I have extremes: I can be really happy one moment, and sad/mad the next. I think it’s true. I’ve only noticed that more recently as well, since being in college. Especially around the LA kids. I don’t know what it is, but I just get impatient with a situation in a split second, and I get the hell out without looking back. I think I’ve only just started to see that part of me, because I’ve grown up with the same people throughout high school. As that trait has developed; so have they. They’ve learnt how to deal with it, for which I’m thankful. But these new people…

I pretty much stormed out of philosophy after receiving a less-than-satisfying mark on my final essay. Couldn’t stand being around the buzz of competition and of voices echoing all the same thing:

“What did you get?”

Couldn’t stand to be around resonating laughs, boasting late nights and high grades. Couldn’t stand to be around never-ending curiosity, quenched only at the sound of double digits before thirsting for more.

So I left. Only looking back at one pair of questioning eyes, answered with a tight smile which didn’t add much more to the shrugging shoulders.

I went downstairs, away from the sounds of a sleepless LA. Rushed towards the cafeteria, with no intention of going anywhere…

… and ran into JF.

1.

Called Jordiana up; he had just finished class, was already at my locker. Went to pick him up.

2.

On the way to the cafeteria: spotted Becca. Convinced her to sit with us instead of going to the cash machine.

3.

&the rest can be boiled down to laughs&flicking lighters. Felt good to hang around people I wasn’t forced to be with; forced to laugh with. They’re so funny, so new: I never know what they’re going to say. It’s refreshing to have life, even if just for an hour, be less predictable than it normally is. My foul mood lifted, but I felt far from robbed.

4. I love my job.Gym class is hilarious, with special appearances from David, laughing like lesbos with Cristina, teasing Pete non-stop. I especially loved how no one really talks to each other; interacts outside of different ‘groups’, yet we all randomly sang along with each other, in time with the radio and the laughs.

5. I’m really sad Melissa is leaving IGA. It may not be immediately, but… I’m really going to miss her. She was my favorite supervisor, and even though it freaked me out at the beginning, I’m getting used to her upclose&personal approach. I’m going to miss how she asked me how I was doing, and actually wanted to know. All those times she was concerned about my health (bra strap issues, lack of exercise), my well-being (José, boy1, boy2), and avoid getting into trouble with the other bosses. I wish her the best. <33

I have a dream now: Capri. Hope I'll make it.