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Pre-Scheduled Sanity Hiatus

January 12, 2010

On the pself-psychoanalysis front, I now completely understand how and why I let all that crazy shit happen in Seattle four years ago. Loneliness and unfamiliarity and excitement and free time are a dangerous blend. On the surface, everything seems normal. I get the bus downtown or wherever, I go buy what I have to buy and do what I have to do, then I come back to the house and read and write and hang out with my cat. The usual, except not quite, because where the fuck am I? What’s that big thing of water a block down the street? Why is it +10 outside? Where are my friends? How will it be possible for anyone to make the “Your cat is bigger than your TV” joke if the people who make the joke and the 12″ TV with built-in VCR are in Calgary and the 15-lb. cat and I are here?

I’m exhausted from the packing and flying and transition but at the same time there’s this holyshitimactuallyfuckingdoingthisbitches! feeling keeping me adrenalized and assuring me that I can and should go after whatever I want in life from now on because I am invincible, the business, CanLit’s long-overdue female nemesis (tautology), etc. Confidence is a thing I’ve never known what to do with so I usually step on it or ignore it or feel guilty for feeling it on the rare occasions when it puts in an appearance, but maybe I should use some of my free time to come up with a fourth option, quiet self-assurance or terrifyingly uncrackable ambition or gangsta-style contempt for “sub-par ma’fuckas” (Jay-Z, “Hola Hovito”) or something. Each of those sentences contained not one but two ascending tricolons.

In other news, my brain encourages me to get a dramatic haircut and pursue certain tattoos. One plans to resist all such urges until one feels stable enough to avoid inadvertently turning oneself into a caricature. And until one is in a financial position to ensure that zero percent of the hair choppings and flesh carvings, if any, will be DIY successes failures. One suspects that one’s birdlike frame and starving-mistrustful-Cosette-from-Les-Miz-type eyes are enough to ensure that one will always come off as an elf maiden irregardless of any such aesthetic alterations anyway. You can’t argue with irregardless.

I don’t know if getting a job immediately is a good idea, but maybe it’s not up to me anyway; maybe I won’t be able to find one even if I start looking this afternoon, which is the plan. Let’s all cross our fingers that there will be an opening at a dominatrix parlour I can get to easily by public transit. I need to look up whip and corset stores, too. There must be one downtown. The Big V is a very open-minded city and we belong to each other now.

5 Comments leave one →
  1. Sleepless in TO permalink
    January 12, 2010 2:53 pm

    Don’t forget piercings.

    • Kate permalink*
      January 12, 2010 3:45 pm

      I’m so far behind on piercings, I don’t think I can catch up. All this shit should have started happening 15 years ago.

  2. Sleepless in TO permalink
    January 12, 2010 7:00 pm

    Yes. You could now have been marketing yourself as a dominatrix with 15 year’s of whippings behind you.

  3. Sleepless in TO permalink
    January 13, 2010 6:35 pm

    Whoops I mean YEARS. Not year’s, because that is grammatically incorrect.

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