SERIOUSLY, WTF?

I got a new top yesterday that says, "Seriously, WTF?" And it was SO APT.
Sherway Gardens flooded yesterday due to the downpour. Kia didn't believe me until he saw it with his own eyes. Apparently, it wasn't raining "at all" in Sauga.
5 high-five's later, we'd met Georgia downtown, gotten some grub, wandered the streets for a good hour, and gotten sufficiently tipsy to be pleased about the general state of affairs.
Then I started whining (again) about the fact that *Beautiful Boy* still hadn't called me. So Kia suggested I send him a text. "Hi, it's Dunja. Work got cancelled. Wanna hang out tonight?"
In my tipsiness, I forgot all about sounding needy and desperate, and decided to give it one more shot. After all, everyone is always telling me that you have to be super direct with guys, and what's more, if he thought it was needy or desperate, he wasn't the guy for me anyway. Better to find out now then later.
Not even two full minutes later, I get a call from HIM. He says he's refing a soccer game, but that as soon as that's over (he estimates around 8:40pm), he'll give me a call.
2 high-fives later, Kia and I are in front of my house, and he's wishing me luck, and telling me not to act like a dolt on my date.
8:40pm comes and goes.
So does 9:00pm.
So does 9:30pm.
Seriously, WTF?
At 9:45pm, I call Kia to yell, "I'm being stood up!" and ask him what HE'S doing, so that I don't end up sitting by myself in my house, all dressed up with nowhere to go. He says, "Don't worry, he'll call."
Not even two minutes later, HE CALLS.
Seriously, WTF?
"Sorry, I got a little side-tracked. I'm going camping tomorrow and I just thought I'd pack up before we headed out, 'cause we're leaving super early."
Oh.
I'm not sure if it's a good enough reason, because, how long does it take to pick up a phone and say "I'm just going to pack up a few things for camping, so give me another hour, and then we'll get together"? (When I do it, it takes five seconds). But whatever. He's beautiful.
He (finally) gets here, and I'm a spaz. Running around turning lights off, the tv, checking the stove, finding my jacket. I say a few dolt-ish things, he acknowledges that they were dolty by laughing, but it's not like, "Wow, you're a dolt" laughter, it's like, "Oh, it's kinda cute that you're nervous" laughter. I hope.
As time passes by, I start to compose myself a little bit better. I stop fiddling with my hair and start thinking about what I'm saying. He asks me a few good questions that set me off on rants, and soon I'm comfortably and easily telling him my life story. He seems interested in what I have to say. He laughs at all the right parts, and we seem to have a lot in common. When he talks, it's in an amusing way, about interesting things. He tells me an unfortunate childhood story involving a ski-lift, and makes me promise I'll keep it between us. I make a few jokes about *that* being the reason that he's so slow. He takes the beating good-naturedly; says that he'll deal with me when we get outside. "They have cameras in here," he explains.
We laugh. At each other. At ourselves. Occasionally together. There is no crying.
At one point, I'm tempted to give him a high-five, but I restrain myself.
I also don't shout, "Ranch!" at any time.
When we finally look at the time, we realize hours have passed, and that he has to be up soon to make his trip.
He walks me to my door. We wave to my sister who is sitting up in bed and spying on us through her window. We say some stuff, I don't remember what it is, something about thanks and I had fun and whatever, Call me. And then we hug. And then we kiss. And it's like, "Whoa".
I want to shout it from the rooftops, but it's late, so I settle for hissing, "Yessssss".
"Raise your hand if your sister's a HO-MO!" my sister shouts from her room in reply.

Yeah, seriously, WTF? I'm preeeeetty homo.
But he gives me butterflies. And I'm loving it.

prognosis: negative

It's worse then I thought.
Maybe it's just because I don't want to write my paper, and so my mind keeps trailing off to anything tangible that's *not* my paper, but for the first time in FOREVER, I actually really want this guy to do what he said he would.
And that is to call me.
I think that if he was to call me right now, I'd hit the ceiling with excitement and bubbly happiness. How wretched is that?
And if he doesn't call? Well it'll just be more ammo for the cynical battle I'm waging against the dark and forboding world, not to mention that it'll add pounds to the non-destructible protective shield I'm working on building around myself so that no one can disappoint me ever again.
The Chinese have it right: Confucius says: Everything in moderation. They don't get ecstatic when random boys phone them after they said they would, and they don't break down and cry when things don't go their way for a while. Balance. Harmony. Good follows bad, and for the Chinese, that's just the way life is. Accept it.
But no, not us Westerners.
All I can think about is how amazingly cute he is when he smiles, how pretty his eyes are, and what a dolt I was the WHOLE NIGHT. Why on earth did I attempt to tell a joke?
I really really really really really hope he calls.
I'd pray to Baby Jesus, but that seems almost as futile as me trying to write my paper right about now.

what i did with my summer vacation (hint: not papers)

Yesterday's Street Party proved to be a learning experience.
I'm living on possibly the whitest street in all of Toronto. When Paul, Zeebs, and Nelly showed up, the natives were exposed to more cultural diversity then they had been, cumulatively, in the last 20 years.
The only brown family lives, aptly, in a brown house. And they didn't come out to the party.
There is one black man, and one biracial child on my street.
Everyone else is a caker.
And then there's us. The Eastern European connection - the pathogen that slips through the cracks and manages to make a home in even the most sanitized and distilled (unhospitable) environments.

There was one comment, as Zeebs and I stood together on the street, "We're more progressive then I thought! A biracial lesbian couple - on our street!" that just said it all.

Besides that, I still haven't finished my paper due last Tuesday, although I did manage to squeeze in three parties, a four hour game of basketball, a field trip, work, cleaning my entire room, uploading pictures onto Facebook, reading two books, and class. There is just no time for papers.

The visit to the Trampoline place was possibly the funnest thing I've done in months. And yesterday, that cute guy I met at Tish's asked me if I'd ever been there. Go figure, eh? I do something for the first time IN MY LIFE - something so utterly out of character and so unlike anything I'd ever do under normal circumstances, and someone asks me about it not even 2 days later! Which just goes to show that you should do random shit often. You might even like it. And then you can do it again.

Anyway, I'm back on the rack of love, as Georgia Nicholson would say, because I am developing a hopeless crush on my neighbour, which is destined to go nowhere because Nelly said so, and I'm actually getting to be deluded enough again to allow myself to hope that that cute guy *will* call because I'd like to hear from him and see him again and go rock climbing. Or something.
He was really cute.
And nice.
And he seemed smart.
And I didn't act like a total dolt. Except for when I walked into the door. And almost fell over on the deck even though I hadn't had anything to drink. And said, "Giant landing pad here" referring to my lap when Nelly was looking for somewhere to sit... oh never mind. I was a total dolt. But maybe he likes dolts.
I hope so. I hope he likes them A LOT.

Frosh leader interview today, Gay Pride, and J.D. from Montreal. Busy busy busy.
No time for papers. Awww, muffin.
30% for lateness off? Oh, who gives a crap?

you scratched my cd!

We stopped off at Staples the other day to buy some paper. Whiteboard on display. My sister writes, "This whiteboard sucks. Don't buy it. In fact, Staples sucks. Leave immediately" on it. Waiting to check out takes FOREVER. It's finally our turn. I look at the cashier and say, "Nine hours LATER!" I'm not really sure what came over me, but in that second, there was absolutely no inhibition at play. I think my frontal lobes decided to go for a bit of a vacation. As we're leaving, we remark on the dopiness, nerdiness, and general ugliness of the lucky Staples Employee of the Month, who's picture shows off his be-braced pearly whites and acne in the way only the most unflatteringly lit photographs can. In the suggestion box, we leave one: "Don't make ugly people your Employee of the Month".

Yesterday, we went beeping at people. Met our new neighbour, Dan. He was shooting some hoops, and we said "Are you shooting some hoops?" and he was like "Yeah," and it just went downhill from there. I talked too much and took him, my sister, and Nelly out for coffee. Nelly paid. Then we ran into her don and some of his friends at the park. They thought I was abrasive. I probably was, but all I remember saying was "I got my hair cut today."
"Yes, it looks much better then before," they said.
I've never met them before.
By the time we got home, my sister was in trouble because she hadn't studied for her Math final, and Dan was tired of hearing me talk. So he told me a story about a time he tried to say something but all that came out was incoherent mumbling. I didn't really get a lot of what he was saying. All of a sudden, I noticed my mother watering the plants in the backyard in her underwear. I tried to distract Dan, but I don't think it worked. He said, "Is that someone in your backyard?" then my mom moved and all doubt was removed.
I quickly excused myself and ran into the house and onto the crapper.
And that, boys and girls, as they say, is that.

P.S. That movie about that dude from Jackass rigging the Special Olympics was surprisingly hilarious.

S-Lee

A couple months ago, my sister had a friend over. They were listening to annoying music and eating cookies. I probably wasn't doing anything important at all, but I like to pretend. So I wrote Sonja a note, essentially, requesting some peace and quiet. It started out in French, but like most of my exploits involving things of the French variety, I gave up on it quickly. This is what it said:

Pour Sonja

Dear Sonjeet,
Stop being so queer. You're scaring Jessica and shaking the house to its foundation with your fat ass romping about. I love you, but lay off the cookies.

Stay Gay!
<3 Dunja

I celebrated my 21st birthday recently. My sister gave me a card containing that note. She'd kept it all this time. She wrote, "Remember this?"

The card said: For my cool sister on her birthday. If you were any cooler... you'd be me!

Dear Dunjeet!
You are lovely and I love you. Be my sister forever, promise? I know you always hear me say you're gay, but it doesn't mean anything! I swear. Although I get on your nerves a lot, I know you love it. I'm sorry if this card makes no sense. I'll leave it at that. Happy Birthday bb!<3 Love ya!
- Sonja <3

I cried. Happy tears. Thankful tears.

I love how easy it is to love my sister.
I love that I know that no matter what I do, or say, she'll always love me. I love that I know that she'll always be there.
I know that I can always count on her if I don't want to drive somewhere by myself, or to help me with the dishes, or to snuggle up to late at night when I'm feeling sad. I love how I know that she'll pick up the phone at the most inopportune moment and say something embarrassing, that she'll tell that oh-so-hilarious-story about me when I was a kid to all of my friends, that she'll always be the life of the party with her crazy dance moves and entertaining jokes. I love all of her accents, and all of the pictures she draws me (all centering around the theme of me being fat or gay or both), and I love the notes she writes me and even the way she repeatedly takes my stuff without asking. I love how I can be unadulteratedly retarded around my sister, and she'll never think worse of me for it. In fact, she often encourages my more moronic side to make an appearance, and always celebrates the comedic gold that is me at my stupidest. I love that we've shared 16 years of memories together - that I've watched her grow up, that I've been there through every-freaking-imaginable-thing. I love that the little girl who could barely fit her arms around me in a hug when I was aged 7 and crying because I missed home and didn't understand what anyone was saying to me at school is the same little girl who cried with me thirteen years later when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball because life wasn't fair and I'd had my heart broken. I love that we ran for the ice cream truck as kids and that I warned her about tripping seconds before she did just that and fell on her face, and that I was sick with worry and irrate and crying that day I lost her at the pool. And I love that now she'll get in the car with me and just drive around for hours, singing stupid songs and reminiscing about our summer vacations past, or that she'll give me advice about boys and fashion, or that I can (finally!) wear her clothes. I love that I'll still worry about where she is when she doesn't come home straight from school, or worry that she might not have her housekeys and so wait for her to come home before I leave. And I know I'll never stop worrying about her, and trying to protect her - from bullies, from boys, from our parents - because she's my little sister, and that's my job. But I especially love that it doesn't feel like work to me at all to care about her - I love that I got so lucky. It's not hard loving someone so amazing. No one I know is quite so intelligent, or humorous, or kind. No one I know is quite so talented or loveable. No one I know puts me at ease quite the way she does, or makes it feel quite so nice to be me. No one loves me quite so unconditionally or places me on a higher pedastool or makes me feel more like a child of God then my sister. And maybe that's selfish, but I think that's why I love her most of all. I love my sister because of who she inspires me to be - someone she'll look up to. And I love my sister because I'm at my most genuine, and best, with her. She brings it out, and it's effortless.

I'm not entirely sure why I needed to share that with the world. Maybe it's just one of those things. Too many times on here I'm complaining about something. I figured it'd be a nice change of pace for me to be thankful about something - and there's nothing in the world I'm more thankful for every day of my life than S.

if a tree falls, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

I totally love being the girl everyone loves to love on an utterly superficial level. The "rebound" girl, the "use-to-get-revenge-on-the-girl-I-actually-like" girl, the "love from afar" girl, the "random makeout" girl, the "go-out-with-until-someone-better-comes-along" girl, the "call-at-the-last-minute-when-the-people-I-actually-wanna-chill-with-cancel" girl, the "I-don't-know-what-I-want-and-you-seem-like-you'd-be-fun-to-lead-on" girl.
I love being the girl everyone loves to party with - unless it's too out of their way. And everyone wants to see - unless it doesn't fit perfectly into their schedule. And everyone sees fit to call - but only if they're waiting for the bus, or on the toilet, or otherwise holding out for something more important and/or significant to happen.
I love being put on hold, waiting for people who are late, lending people things only to never see them again, never being the first (or even, realistically, the fifth, priority), answering the phone at 2am for pointless conversations when I have work the next morning, and wondering if someone forgot they'd promised they'd do something for me.

But I especially love it how I never learn. How I consistently drop everything, drive for forty minutes, shell out $40, and then do a few favours, just for good measure. How I call the day of with well-wishes, then the day later to make sure they're alright. How I spend hours searching for the perfect card or just the right gift, or days hand-crafting the most eye-pleasing collage. How I pick up the tab, and offer to drive, and tell them not to worry about ruining my new dress.
And I love how I don't usually bat an eye, or regret it for one second. I don't even notice it, really, this giant discrepency, this complete abyss - the fact that the two of us will never meet, because as much as I'm trying, and as fast as I'm running towards them, panting, to catch up, they're finding a way to run twice as fast. And I sincerely don't notice it, not until I run into a brick wall and need someone to help pick me up - because that's the only time I'll stop running long enough to think: Who am I chasing? And why?
Why do I keep chasing people who never chase back?
And why do I have this unforgiving need to be liked?
Why can't I stress less and care less and do less and try less? And be more cold and more aloof and harder to read and less willing to help? Why can't I say "fuck off and die" and mean it?

I'm not Mother Teresa, I'm not the nicest person on the planet, I have my off-days, and I've forgotten to send out a few "Thank You" notes in my time. I'm not perfect, I don't attempt to be, and I don't expect anyone else to be either. But it seems, and maybe I think so unfairly, and it's quite possible that I'm wrong - but it just seems that, on average*, I care a lot more about people then they care about me, and that, on average, I do a lot more for people then they do for me, and that, on average, I'm starting to feel used and a little abused and a tad bit pissed off - because I don't think I should stop doing the things I do or feeling the way I feel, but it seems super counterproductive to keep investing in something that keeps kicking me in the face.

And I'm no saint, so don't get it twisted, because I'm clearly not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, but it's not like I expect giant dividends, either. I don't expect everyone to drop everything and come running, I don't expect anyone to drop anything, really, and a slow saunter is all the effort it'd usually take to please me - but I'm not going to lie - it'd be nice if they didn't use me as a welcome mat, or, at the least, noticed that that's exactly what they were doing once in a while.

*there are a few, albeit extremely notable, exceptions to this rule, and they know who they are, because I don't let them forget it

the view from here

MTL was amazing. I had four days of fun and wonderful, unobtrusive thoughts. I dreamt about beautiful tummies, and drinking buddies, and falling in the fountain, and chilling on a concrete beach. I laughed, I smiled, I argued - but it was all good.
Not a single unwelcome whisper.

Then, yesterday, a dream.
It lasted five minutes, but it wrecked the calm I'd built and plunged me into the old. So today's mood: self-doubt and sadness. And like something's missing. Again.

This is deeper then wanting what you can't have or being upset by failure or even really really liking what you had. This is something else altogether.

I'll distract myself for another week, to be sure. And I'll be happy. Truly happy - I won't have to pretend. But it'll be back. It'll never have left.

I suppose that's okay. Then again, I really have no choice.