Bon Voyage.

I have a giant lump in the middle of my neck and I can't tell if it's from killing two spiders in the span of a minute or watching the same dream flutter away from my fingertips, yet again.

This February, I finally decided that I would have the means to support my life-long ambition to board a plane and visit England for two whole weeks. I've saved and planned, and ambitioned and hoped and prayed and all sorts of other crap to prepare myself for such a grand event.
Eventually my boyfriend mentioned that he would like to add his self to the whole affair, and then of course, we saved and planned, and ambitioned and hoped and prayed and all sorts of other crap.
It was really a plan to behold. Art galleries, Scottland, Paris, pubs, stupid tourist traps, wax galleries, bad food and awful teeth. We thought of it all. But it's all gone up shit creek now 'cause I was vaguely under the impression we'd have a place to stay and then with one slip of the rug, we've all come tumblin' down and everything's just flat out fucked.

My dear friend Jason told me some time ago that he would gladly put us up for the while if he had a house. Of course, the word, "if" was a major complication in the matter, so of course I didn't plan out the whole affair too much. It was just a great idea to think about and something that I've desperately looked forward to for years. Jason has been a good friend to me, and I very much would like to meet him some day. But he told me this afternoon that there would be a chance he wouldn't have a house and he sounded quite mad about it, as if he didn't want me to come at all.
Now I have been acting a bit odd lately. I've been moody and insecure and stupid and insanely annoying and I know a lot of it has unfortunately fell in Jason's lap. So for me to be paranoid about his not wanting me, seems even more stupid and paranoid, but it's just the simple impression that I got.
Stating the words: "Maybe it's not my time to come then," and "Well, it's really up to you," isn't my idea of someone wanting you or not wanting you. It's just so fucking random and indifferent, that I'd rather just have been told to stick my trip up my arse, and bugger off.

Of course I know he said, "if" and I know I sound like a stupid and selfish little brat, but please, let me explain. I wasn't counting on Jason's invisible house to save my trip to England. A house is a house after all, but in London, a house is more than a house. It's a fucking affair, a two pound diamond ring and the Christmas ham. I would be absolutely looney to expect Mr. P to buy a house for my pleasure and holiday. I may be a bit odd, but I'm not a cunt.

So what's with the boo-hooing then? Well, ontop of getting the weird vibes from JIB, he also told me quite some time ago that if he didn't have a house, there would be a place for me to stay and,"not to worry about it, for it would all work out." So, what did I do? I didn't worry. And then with one fatal blow of indifference, that worry came crashing back in. Shit. Piss and Fuckery.
The worst bit of it all of course, was after calling my boyfriend, hoping to get some soothing coo's of, "It's fine dear, we'll work it out" I got, "Well, if it doesn't work. Oh well, we move on."

My dear boy. You are too calm. This dream has been a dream for years and if I do not go in February, I will not go for years and for me to not go for years, would break my black, little heart because it is all I have wanted for such a long while.

This whole post is simply stupid and silly because February is ages away and Jason could have skyscraper by then, with a tiny toy poodle and a massive pool filled with Kaballah water.

One can only plan and ambition and hope and pray and all the other crap in the meantime.

A Crap Love Letter.

Andrew,

I spent about a minute searching through all the crap love letters on a shit website to help me overcome my verbal and emotional congestion. I can't stomach the idea of placing sentimental cliches or foul, misleading French phrases in something that is to express the importance of our relationship. I'm sure you couldn't either.
I've never been good with making up a whole lot of love-nonsense. My sappy words and coaxing melodies that have been gently plucked from the fathoms of my bliss-filled heart, manage to always come up short. I love you for so many reasons and I suppose those reasons have left me a little inarticulate.

I sometimes forget that being in love means the constant and perpetual uplifting of your partner. I am a silly and stupid girl for asking you to love me better, while not realising that I need to return the same favour. BAUD-EE, you're completely crazy for putting up with my balmy self. I'm sorry for being so pigheaded and selfish.

You make me feel safe and loved. Out of all the people that have so randomly walked in and out of my life through the past two years, you've managed to stay the one constant. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for buying me Gorilla Munch when I had nothing to munch on. Thanks for the numerous dinner adventures, the movies, the art galleries, the glasses and the rocks. Thank you for everything you've given me that I could never give myself.

Andrew, you're the best man I've ever known. I love your sincerity, your honesty, your hope and your ambition. I love that you worry about your brother's future and your parent's wellbeing. I admire your drive to make a better life for yourself and your desire to constantly fill your mind with useless information from the history books kept in your bathroom. I love your smile and your flyaway hair. I love your purple robe and your collection of novelty t-shirts. I love your big feet and your massive arms and your perfect bum. I love your fake British accent, your silly obsession with everything ranch and how you always manage to pay attention to my cats before you leave. I love that you tolerate my friends, I love that you listen to my sob stories about work and my ridiculous family. I love your big manly truck, your massive desire for Mighty Taco and your "woo's" after an asinine fit of laughter. Every bit of you I love and I never want you to change, even if I try to make you.

It seems that I've managed to fail my first inspiration, to keep everything not-so-cliche and lovey-dovey. I suppose that ambition is rather impossible while talking about the man I am in love with, especially when he is so simply loveable. *puke*

I wrote this letter because I fear I don't tell you enough how much you mean to me. I hope this letter shows you a bit more of my love and I hope it "uplifts you" when I'm doing a shit job of it. I love you Andrew.

With kisses and hugs and all that gross, gross stuff that should never be expressed with words,
Anna

Ms. Boss Man.

I don't like you. You make my insides crawl.

I can't decide if you really are innocent enough to ask a fifty-something-year-old man why he constantly asks to, "see you in shorts all the time," or if you are just playing your virgin cards in a very, "I want to be a slut, but my heavenly father won't let me" sort of way.

I hate the way you say you, "don't want enemies," but turn your nose up at the "lesser workers" when we walk by you each day. You're silly and stupid and are complete shit at your job. But of course, that's not your fault... You weren't trained properly. We all know how difficult it is to pick up the insanely awful and difficult concepts of condensing freight and stocking shelves. Dear me, you poor child.

I loathe the way you sit in your car during your lunch breaks to listen to the Christian Choir hour and I despise you for making us listen to it while working in the back room. There's no room for God in the workplace. There is nothing heavenly or humble about working at Wal Mart. They opress and condemn the human soul and you have helped to enslave that spirit by pressing your Jesus Freak lovin' ways upon us all.

I had a relationship with God when I was twelve. He molested me and now I'm trying to get over it, so will you please fuck off with your almost sincere, non-cursing ways. They're giving me a headache.

Does it bother you that I don't respect you? I imagine it should. You have no control or authority over me and I will never work hard for you. I do not want to see you succeed, or be an accomplished Wal Mart associate. I want to see you suck. Suck on the giant, proverbial God penis that is constantly stuck in your ear while trying to be a high and mighty christian in our Satan loving society.

Fuck You.

But seriously, I'm doing you a favour. One day you'll thank me for being judgemental enough to assume that I know what's best for you. There's no future in working as a Wal Mart rat. We need to get you a real job.

Pass a ticket out for God, child.

I Just Wanted You to Know.

I'm not sure what I liked most about tonight. I can't tell if it was the consistent battering or the fact that I just got to hang out with you. I just liked it.

A lot of people seem to think that we flirt too much, but I don't think so. I like our relationship. It's athentic and confusing and I'm happy that it keeps me on my toes because not much does. I'm sorry if it causes turmoil for you, but I don't think you mind - I know you like it too.

But you make me so angry sometimes. I know you don't mean to with your silly little games you play - you just want to have fun - but they're driving me fucking insane. Your polar personalities and semi kind quirks have left me in a state of shock and awe. Awe because you dumbfound me, shock because I find it in myself to stick around a little longer each time.

So what are we to do? I'm sad when I think that not far from now I'll be leaving this city behind. I'm annoyed that I may leave with nothing more then a false impression of our friendship. I hate your wife for not having enough faith in you to be left alone with another woman. But I know if she saw us, her fears would be justified; even though we both know nothing would ever come of us. Not a kiss. Not a blowjob. Not sex. We just flirt.

You make me feel fulfilled and wanted, even in your silence. I'm eternally greatful for that, especially in a place where friends come few and far between. I hope one day you find it in yourself to trust me enough to let me be your friend. But for now I suppose I will settle for our midnight shifts and possible breakfast club antics every other Friday.

I just wanted you to know I think you're an exceptional man. And if you never hear that from another woman for the rest of your life, I hope that me saying it means enough for you to remember it.

Sisterly Love.

I really fucking hate it when you just show up and expect me to roll out of bed with a big stupid smile on my face so we can hang out.

You're so fucking selfish. What possibly goes through your head when you decide my agenda by leaving me an email in an almost vacant account twenty minutes before you decide to show up, in the middle of my fucking night?

WHAT, WHAT, WHAT?!!?!!

And how fucking oblivious do you have to be to not see that deciding to go to a concert with three guys you barely like, hurts Dad's feelings? Especially when you say that hanging around with us is boring. Sorry for not being a perpetually drunk college male who fondles you in the back of a dirty school bus on the way home from mediocre concerts in Toronto.

Fuck you.

And fuck you and your stupid obsession with dressing in hippy clothes. You're about as hippy as I am black.

Sentimental Guy.

Pat.

Have you ever been on a phone chat line? It's full of middle-aged men whispering naughty secrets into a receiver, waiting for a sublime twenty something-year-old to respond to their sexual desire. It's really quite shit, but it passes time well when you have nothing to do.

Either way, it occured to me sometime ago that what happens on a phone chat line is the perfect painting of the time. Strangers bumping into one another for a minute, robbing eachother of some sort of dignity, not caring, not expressing, not emoting any sort of understanding or concern. Just quick, unjustified and silly grunts in the heat of a moment, in the dark corner of a house, all alone, locking another dirty secret in the depths of all our minds.

Maybe I expect too much from others.

When I talk to someone, it's because I want to understand. I want to be listened to, I want to listen and I want to feel changed when the exchange is over. Perhaps this is why I am in love with the man that I am in love with. I love talking to him. Do youknow how comforting it is to find someone who will *talk* to you? Who will discuss anything? Listen to the crap and the piss and the good and the great and anything that falls inbetween?

I never understood how it is difficult for people to communicate with one another. Or rather, how it is difficult to just talk.

We've lost so much in our inability to try. We've lost a bit of ourselves, a bit of what we could be. A bit of the past, a bit of understanding and a lot of love.

I don't want to move mountains with conversation and I suppose I'll take it from whomever is willing to converse. I am thirsty for other human interaction that isn't a fragmented moan through a receiver. I want to know everyone.

So I suppose I find it hard to imagine how someone like who I think you are finds it difficult to talk. Because this is what we're doing yeah? Talking?

You, I'm sure have so much to talk about, but maybe you just haven't found it yet. I don't know. Perhaps I'm completely wrong and we're meant to bump randomly into eachother for the sake of existence.

I've given up a lot of conversations for headaches, discomfort, ill feelings and grief. It bothers me severly that people dislike me because I can spell words 1/2 correctly, or know when to use a word here and not there, or just because of my pretentious college bangs, or what they heard about me from highschool. Pretenses, yeah? But I've bumped into you too many fucking times for me to just pass it off as another chance. Why is it so hard for you to talk, and why do you think that this is a pretense?

I'm not going to judge you, or poke fun at your explanations. It doesn't bother me any to sort through your explanation, I WANT to sort through it. You're intelligent and grownup. You must have experienced a world of things that I haven't in the past ten years, but you have nothing to say?

It's been ten years Pat. Pretenses or no pretenses, there has to be some middle ground in a fragmented friendship a decade old.

But perhaps I'm wrong and perhaps I am still young and too idealistic to understand that people just do not want to talk anymore. And if all I am to get from you is a grunt, then I expect I have a very disapointing future to grow into.

-diddums

Mr. Ben.

The first time I saw you I was fourteen. Fourteen! That's crazy styles. Eight years later, witnessing your genius without your five has literally been the highlight of my existence (insert contented sigh here).
There have been many times during my lifetime where I have failed to produce an expression of my inner most feelings, desires and emotions and once again, I've reached that point. Every form of expression has failed me miserably over the last day whilst trying to describe the copious amounts of joy I have been left with. Watching you play your Baldwin was like watching God create the fucking universe. What came out of that performance was heart-stirring magic. MAGIC, I fucking say.

How does a man from North Carolina manage to cover Dr. Dre/Snoop's Bitches Ain't Shit in an almost folk-style-happy-go-lucky-piano-anthem? How does he get a crowd that mainly consisted of bohemian, Rufus-lovers and College kids sing three part harmony a capella? how, does he take a sweet lullaby written for his daughter and contort it to a two minute pop-punk jingle? And more so, why did I like it? HOW, HOW, HOW?

I've eaten my not-from-the-can lemon meringue pie and now I can fly away with the angels. Take me home Jesus, I don't need no more of this world (contented sigh number two).

The Wife.

All I wanted was some fucking Taco Bell.I hadn't noticed how tempting liquid ground beef can be until I hadn't had it for years. It really is quite amazing that something so utterly disgusting could taste so yummy. Mmm mmm.

You reminded me of the great ol' Bell quite a while ago. We even went and had a pleasant day out in Welland, mauwing down numerous tacos and Dr. Pepper - It was heavenly.
But that all came to an end when Ann decided that men who are married shouldn't be parading around with text book single girls. Or rather, girls that have red hair, who know what 1337 means and who are notoriously funny.That is the gay Josh. It can't be helped if you want to shag me.

Now you have been banned from venturing anywhere with me, from helping to fix my computer, and even to hang out with me in a group of friends.

I'm not sorry that I find your wife offensive. I've been hurt by her ridiculous insecurities and I'm tired of feeling like a whore.
I'm also not sorry that you're offended by my more then rational feelings in regards to her behaviour. You can't justify her actions. She's a complete succubus.

I went and talked to Derek about the whole crapload of insults. He said that Ann probably didn't mean to be silly and that I should be the better person, put a smile on and let the show go on, but I don't wanna. I want to be angry and uncaring and insulted by her implications of my lifestyle and characteristics.

So now, there's no Taco Bell without Ann. Infact, there's no anything without Ann 'cause she's too insecure to let her husband go out with his friends.

I'm sick and tired of loosing my friends due to asinine fears of other people. It sucks that I lost you before you even became my friend.