Moot Point

We were standing in the EB.

They’d started to wander away, talking animatedly about some game. I looked vainly around the store for something to amuse myself looking at for a few minutes while I indulged the boys.
There was nothing there. The store seemed even smaller than it was. Dingier too.
Déjà vu. All the times I’d hold one hand or the other. The times I’d patiently waited or played the display Gameboy, feeling vaguely neglected.
I don’t feel neglected today. I don’t mind stopping in, since we’re here. They don’t owe me anything.
What’ll I do? I don’t really want to listen to them; this location doesn’t have a display gameboy; I can’t just stand here; but.
But nothing.
I realized: nothing’s holding me to these people. I don’t owe them anything.

Without a word, I walked across the mall to look at bestsellers.

Things are different now.
Not worse; different.

Because I am the biggest freak of nature ever, I managed to lose weight this summer while working at an ice cream shop.

So my pants are suddenly too big. Which means, of course, I get new pants. And even better than new pants, I get to be able to wear pants that I loved but had gotten too tight. Best ever!

(Also now fitting is my knee-length herringbone tweed skirt that makes me feel like Lauren Bacall, just in time for the apparent second coming of tweed. The whole mall is like tweed-city. I’m in preppy-fashion heaven.)

Tonight I had one of the best nights since I’ve come home from Toronto. My brother and I went music-shopping, drank tea at a tea-shop, and found an anniversary card for my parents. Because of their impending anniversary.

We wound up getting a comedic anniversary card. It features a cartoon husband and wife unenthusiastically thrusting gifts at each other. On the inside it says something like “We’re glad you’ve kept the magic alive.”

We did seriously consider buying them a sympathy card.

I love my brother.

Where I am, in case anyone’s confused:

Today-August 31st: Home, Calgary
August 31st-September 6: Alex’s house, Toronto
September 6 and onward: Residence, Toronto

I would tell you more, tell you more but I’m sleepy.

Last night I was charmed to learn that he has a saved away message on his IM program for my house.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

It’s no secret that this has not been the awesomest of months.

I have worked way more than any young person should work. I have done very little else. Reading and movies and social life and fun and all the things that I actually like have all had their asses kicked by work. Which is sad, because work is, on my actual list of priorities, pretty low. However, it must remain high on my list of necessities, because I need money to live and read books and enjoy myself and educate myself.

I’ve endured the last month or so on the basis that things would get better when. I just had to get through this weekend, I told myself in the days leading up to the weekend.

Now I’m down to one job, but I still have the stress of moving and am working something like full time at the job I still have. I’m still tired and I still have no time for anything but work and packing. Things that I have to do. As opposed to things I want to do.

Part of me is comforted by the fact that I’m getting shit done on my own, taking responsibility for my life - though with a large parental loan, I don’t kid myself that I’m self-sufficient - I know I can take care of myself, that I can handle whatever’s thrown at me. But this is, I guess, the first time I’ve felt like I’m a grownup and it also scares the shit out of me.

I sound like such a brat.

Part of me is convinced that it will never get better. That my entire life will be eaten up by jobs that are fine ways of making money but that don’t really matter to me, by errands and chores, by GROWNUP RESPONSIBILITIES. Stop the world, I want to get off.

Said two goodbyes today: to the ice cream shop and to Dan.

Actually, said goodbye to Dan in the ice cream shop.

He decided spur-of-the-moment to catch a night bus, so he came by work to say goodbye.

I’m just going on my break, so I get a cone for him and we sit and chat for like two minutes before the owner’s son starts yelling at me, I think because they have orders up so I go to help, but it’s actually because he saw me make a cone for my friend and not ring it in.
He has checked up to see that no one has rung in a cone recently.
He gives me a lecture about how I’m not special and I can’t give away free things. (I know this.)
I explain that I was planning on ringing it in after because I didn’t want to make a big production of paying for Dan’s ice cream cone. One of the girls pipes up with: “She did that the other day.” This is true; no one of authority was watching the other day. I’m just honest like that.

Dan, I’ll miss. The job? Not so much.

This has been a long, long week.

It has included: an essay, a test, about 50 hours of work, a visit from Dan (ongoing!), the always-exciting meeting between ex- and current boyfriends, my boyfriend going out of town to his friend’s cottage but not being able to go because I’m working (sucks), finding bruises after going to sleep alone, a movie (in 3-D), pancakes for dinner, not enough sleep, and insight.

“Rocket Robin Hood” is the gayest show on TV. Possibly ever. “Little John, I don’t care how big you are, you can’t lift a rocket!” Everything is shaped like a penis. Everyone has electrified staffs. And tights. And boots. His gun shoots white blasts, but fizzles when he tries it a second time.
Someone had to be doing this on purpose.

Partly because I’m writing an essay on the weakness of the teleological approach to the passage of time in this novel, I’ve started to re-examine a lot of the things we say that get us though bad days and the like.

You know what’s bullshit? “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I can tell you right now. This isn’t making me stronger.

PS: Who wants to buy me custom-made underpants? (A friend pointed me at this site and was all “They make custom sweatshirts!” But I couldn’t stop looking at the hot pants. I can’t think of anything good to have written on my hindquarters. I already have a pair that say “I SOLD MY SOUL FOR ROCK ‘N ROLL.” Can you really top that?)

I just realized that “Like a Prayer” is about blow jobs.

Now that I’ve got an end in sight to ice cream shop job, my resentment of being there has grown to a new high. I just do what I’m told, am cordial to the supervisors I don’t like and pleasant to everyone else, and sing little songs to myself as I go about my work.

I’m sort of in the throes of end of summer doldrums. Basically I’ve done nothing this summer. Not because I haven’t wanted to. But working full time and taking a class and worrying about money takes a toll.
I’ve worked basically every weekend since June (ie every weekend I haven’t been too broke to do anything or go anywhere). The only time I’ve gotten out of town was to a family reunion. I haven’t been to one concert, because of the copious number of nights I’ve worked and how worried I’ve been about money and the fact that Alex (who I would presumably go to these concerts with) generally winds up working the nights that I don’t work. There have been a million cool things in town and I’ve missed almost all of them.

The other night were were basically talking about how much our summers have sucked and how much better things will be once school starts again. We’ll both be less busy. Many of my friends will be in town again. (Not that I’ve seen much of the ones who have been here; it took me about a month and a half to plan hanging out with the person who’s actually living closest to me.)

It’s not like there’s anything wrong. I knew I’d be working a lot.

I’m just sick of always being tired. I feel like I’m wasting my youth. Next summer, I’m going to be done school. This is my last summer vacation. Last.

Next summer I’ll be in a better financial position, maybe I’ll actually be able to afford to do something cool, or at least get away for awhile. But that’s miles away.

Everything past next May is basically this big blank nothing. I’ve talked about grad school, but I don’t know where I’m going.

Here is a pop song that seems to reflect my feelings both in its lyrical content and angsty delivery: More For Me by Tegan and Sara.

Note on Tegan and Sara: I’m probably the only girl in the world who got into them because of her boyfriend-at-the-time.

Edit: I lied. I have been to one concert. I saw Bela Fleck and the Flecktones at the Ottawa Jazz Festival. That was pure luck. And I did also go to a play. Which is like a concert without singing. Or booze. Or dancing.