Insanity.

I can't fucking take it anymore.

Andrew wants to go away on Thanksgiving weekend, or rather, he wants to spend the weekend in Niagara Falls so he can gamble and fuck. I'm not keen on the idea and I have a very strong desire to tell him that I'm just not going to go, but I know if I do, it will lead to the breakup conversation.

I got home last night from an emotionally and mentally exhausting weekend. I stumbled through the Dundas subway station in my boots. I was tired and not looking forward to going home to Andrew and so I'm sure I looked absolutely miserable. I leaned against the wall, dropped my bag on the floor, looked to my left and saw the Chef from the Film Festival with the tattoo of a harp staring at me.

What are the fucking chances?

I smiled at him and he looked away. He looked tough, and I was intimidated, so I just kept my mouth shut, but the whole time my head was going, "You fucking tard. What are the chances of being beside him, in the middle of the god damn subway, in the middle of the fucking night? Just talk to him." But I didn't, 'cause I'm a loser.
He got off at Broadview and I doubt I will ever see him again.

And so again, life has given me an overwhelmingly obvious sign by bringing this tattoo'd man back into my existence. It's time to dump Andrew.

The house wasn't as bad as I thought it would be when I got home, but that was because it was dark and I couldn't see shit. Upon further inspection this morning, I realised that it was all a fucking disaster and so now, I'm silently sitting upstairs, hating on my beer drinking, football watching, underwear clad boyfriend who's sitting on his ass, AGAIN, watching the television.

Blech.

Just moments ago I was in the bathroom upstairs and all I heard was a gut wrenching belch from the livingroom and my whole body started to crawl.

So gross.

I worked my first shift today. It wasn't hard, there's a lot to remember, but it wasn't hard. The environment is awesome to work in and as long as I keep my head down and do a decent job, I'm sure everyone there will love me.
But Andrew didn't ask me how any of it went. He just blew his nose and looked aimlessly off into the distance when I was trying to tell him about my exciting work day. That pissed me off.

We went to see jackass after work, did some groceries and when I got home I walked in the door and immediately started to clean. There were black vegetables in the fridge, crumbs all over the floor, the cat's food dish had been knocked over, the cat's litter hadn't been scooped for four days, there were dishes in the sink, beer bottles lying around, the bed sheets that are drenched in sweat, still hadn't been washed and I just fucking lost it.

I went absolutely insane.

And all I did was walk upstairs while he was watching football with my cold food and sat down on the computer to suss my head out on my blog.

I'm scared of what he's going to say to me when I tell him we're breaking up. I'm afraid he'll want me out and I'll have nowhere to go. Why does my life always revolve around BAD TIMING?

Today is one of those days where you seriously do, just want to die.

And on top of it all, I sent a letter to the notorious blue tie, telling him to get his ass in gear and now I'm absolutely paranoid that someone else is going to intercept it and he's going to be screwed.

I'm such a fucking idiot.

Shirt & Tie vs. Boxers & Brisket.

If there was a verb that summarized the process of pulling out one's hair and sreaming at the top of one's lungs during a moment of complete and utter frustration, I would use it now. If I was clever enough to make a pixel drawing of someone screaming at the top of their lungs while pulling out their hair, I'd use it now.
If I could articulate my thoughts like a normal fucking human, I wouldn't be in this STUPID situation. No, actually, I would be, because for once, I am not the inarticulate dumbass. My point just keeps getting lost in the midst of bad timing and a massive lack of testicals and it FUCKING SUCKS.

Things with Andrew are shit.
The more time passes the more disgusted I become with him and the more time he spends sitting on his ass, eating brisket and watching football in his underwear, the more I absolutely hate him.
A normal day for me goes as follows: Get up. Feed cats. Eat breakfast. Take subway. Take bus. Go to school. Take Bus. Take Subway. Buy groceries. Make dinner. Do dishes. Vaccuum up crumbs on the shag carpet 'cause I hate the way it feels on your feet. Scoop cat litter. Shower. Wash uniform. Do homework. Watch Steven Colbert (he's dreamy). Go the fuck to bed.
Andrew does nothing. Well, that's not true. Andrew leaves the dirty dishes in the sink and leaves the crumbs on the floor for me to clean and he gives me a roof to live under. He considers the latter to be romantic. Exscuse me while I swoon.

So my gut tells me, 'Its time to break up.' But my mind tells me, 'D00d, you're in the middle of fucking school and you don't need this drama. Just wait till it's over and then do whatever the fuck you want.' And then my heart tells me, 'You're a fucking slag.' And I tend to agree with all three.

And then there's him.

What the fuck.

I haven't had sex in a month. I haven't had any type of human contact in a month. I haven't been paid attention to, paid a compliment, paid for, or paid off... In fact, I've done nothing that would suggest that I am in a relationship other than to visit my boyfriend's parents and go bowling. Woo.
So naturally, I'm feeling a bit... rejected. I'm feeling a bit lonely, a bit sad, a bit horny and really fucking frustrated and for all of these, I have an outlet which is just about as verbally and emotionally inarticulate as my boyfriend, but he owns the advantage of being new... and not a slob. So ding, ding, he gets my attention.

I want to fuck him. I want to screw him in whatever way I can. I want to suck his dick, throw him against a wall and bite his neck and mostly, pull on his blue tie in a very provocative manner in the middle of his fucking work day, just to see him wiggle uncomfortably. He just does it for me and I would definitely do it for him, if he would just fucking let me.

If this isn't a sign that my relationship is over, I don't know what would be.

I tried to persaude him today, but he just wasn't having it. He has too much to do, too many eyes are on him, he has a wife, I have a boyfriend, there's nowhere to do it and it's not that he doesn't want to, he just can't! Life right now doesn't allow it and while I want it bad enough to act like a semi-crazed stalker, feverishly persuing him on the days where we're both available, I don't want it bad enough to feel like this.
If a guy was as relentless with a girl as I am with him, he'd be thrown in prison. If he could tell people about the way that I'm acting, they would point and giggle when I walked into rooms. If I didn't understand how desperate of a situation this is for all parties involved, I would be inclined to call him until he gave in, JUST BECAUSE I'm sick and fucking tired of his inability to put out.

Does that make me a rapist?

The constant rejection is making me feel like a bit of a flake. Its taking an excessive amount of balls for me to keep being so persistent. I have never pushed someone so hard in my life and I hate it, but I know if I don't, he'll be quite content to never see me again 'cause he's not the type to, 'persue women.' He is always the hunted.
I guess if he acted like he did actually want to fuck me, it wouldn't be such an issue. Or maybe, if I could talk to him for more than ten minutes, while not using puns and ridiculous code for all the evil and dirty things we'd like to do, I'd be inclined to stick around just a little longer.

Holy shit. I am a slag.

I wish Andrew would have taken an interest in my blog the thousands of times I gave him the address. It would be a lot easier for him to read this than it will be for me to explain it to him.

Fuck.

George Brown is fucked.

This whole dependancy on a partner to gain full marks for MY college career is severely pissing me off. It's not my fucking fault that my partner-in-baking didn't show up 'cause her stomach hurts too much to stand for four hours (And the pain better be because of a knife that was lodged into her gullet, 'cause CRAMPS are not a passable exscuse for me). So why the feck should I have to pay for her absence?

I SHOULDN'T.

But I did. And today I ran around the lab like a mother fucking baboon, attempting to measure the correct amount of glucose (glucose sucks by the way. It may keep brownies soft, but it's a sticky pile of absolute shite otherwise) and pineapple chunks for ice box cookies and fruit cakes.
And the worst bit is... She gets credit for my ball busting.

Fucking George Brown.

She messaged me on msn this morning to ask me for our Chef's email address. No, "I'm sorry I'm not going to be there today Anna, I hope it doesn't put you out too badly", or "Shit Anna, I'm really sorry to do this to you, but I think a foreign species is going to bust out of my gut if I don't sit still for the rest of the day."

Just: "Do you have Chef Shabler's email address? Cause I feel icky."

FUCK. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.

Now I know why, "fuck" is a Chef's favourite word.

Going Home.

The prospect of visiting mom, for the first time in my life, excites me.
This weekend I'm supposedly taking my very tired self to the, "Gateway to Opportunity" and visiting the family. It's a nice thought, this visiting.

There are other things that excite me about going home though. For the first time since I can remember people are enthused to see me and that makes me feel special. Well, not everyone. One person in particular was quite blah about the announcement and I thought he would have been the most enthralled. He after all, would be getting the most out of my time in Niagara, or at least I think he would be.

But whatever. Hiss loss.

So from that conclusion, I pull this one: Men are fucked.

I'm old enough now to not be stupid with sex. I've had enough of it to know that it tampers badly with your mental and emotional states if you don't deal with it properly and I've had enough of it to know that it's very possible to have it, without having an emotional connection.
I've told this many times to men and yet, they STILL insist on making me believe that they want more from me than a one night stand, and then, get a blowjob and never return.

I don't get that.

Spare me the emotional web of bullshit d00d. I'm telling you straight up that I will give you sex without any strings attached 'cause I like you and I like doing it, and if that's all you want from me, GREAT, 'cause that's all I want from you UNLESS you tell me otherwise.

But they always tell me otherwise and I have no idea why.

Things would have been so much easier of the honesty card would have been played since go time. Things would have been far less confusing if you just would have told me what you wanted instead of hinting at it, in 209348082653 differenet ways. Things would have been so much hotter if you just would have made the time to accept my talents in a spot that wasn't rushed, awkward and embarrassing.

All you had to do was tell me, and you could have had anything you wanted. But all you gave me was confusion and now I'm still confused and you're perfectly happy to ignore my presence all together.

What the fuck man?

Oh yeah, I got the job in the art store. The return of the art fag may be upon us.

The Grand Liberty.

When I was employed by Wal Mart I was told that I needed to keep my tongue in check. Professional companies would never hire a girl whom owned a mouth like a sailor. I realise now that, that comment is a complete load of shit.

A Chef's favourite word is fuck. A Chef's favourite extra curricular activity is getting tattoos. A Chef will always drink a beer at the end of his shift and a Chef will always intimdate his new employees by aggressively belching out orders, very quickly, in a cockney accent and then summing it all up with,

"Ghot dat? Good. Yer goin' to get fist fucked tonight. Fucking things will be fuckin' flyin' at yah. So put yer fuckin' head doawn, shut yer fuckin' gob, do a good fuckin' joab and will 'ire you the fuck back."

What the fuck did you just say sir? 'Cause I just heard a complete sentence where fuck functioned as all the word devices.

Or at least that's the way it is at the Grand Liberty.

I worked for Executive Chef Michael Ewing last night. It was a grand fucking time. Intimidating, but a grand fucking time.
The event was for a British film that I had never heard of so obviously, none of the randoms in it I had never heard of either. The party was held in a gigantic tent just outside of Roy Thompson Hall at 10 PM sharp. There were a few fans sitting outside the gates, but nothing overwhelmingly elaborate. City TV showed up. I hope I'm on TV.

I arrived at Glenn's appartment at around four thirty. I was nervous. I had managed to find my way to his appartment all on my lonesome and was quite proud of myself for doing so.
I haven't been around many gay people in my life. Perhaps I was nervous because it was three men who were living together, as a married threesome, one of which was in a gigantic motorized wheelchair. Perhaps it's because there were pictures of naked men hanging on the walls. Perhaps it was the enormous bed with a very delicate quilt on it. I have no idea, but I was a tad uncomfortable and for some reason, felt very guilty for it.

Anyway, Glenn's partner John drove us to the Grand Liberty. We arrived on time (sort of) and from there were stashed in the back of a cube van (and I quote: Like a bunch of dirty Mexicans), and driven to the location of the party.
It was explained to us that the majority of the people attending were either going to be madly drunk or madly high on crack cocaine. This would mean that they were there for the booze and not the food and that suited me fine.
The night started with a lot of prep work. I had to plate desserts, clean up spills, fold linens and peel stickers off of billy bee honey bottles for the purpose of malt vinigar. Sounds tedious, but I loved every fucking second of it.
As the night progressed, I met more and more people who seemed rather important. My favourite chef was a man named Mark who literally used, 'fuck' at every available opportunity. I enjoyed that far too much. I also enjoyed a fellow named Matt who had a tattoo of a harp on the side of his neck and mutton chops. I wanted to throw him on the floor and sex him like a wild beast. Unfortunately, I doubt that would have been possible (he was huge) and I doubt that it would have done me any good as I was trying to make a decent first impression.

At around eight Glenn and I were told that we were going to be working in the Pub tent. It was then that we had the pleasure of meeting the biggest knob I have ever known.
Jason was a short, little, WHITE man with the tiniest hands I have ever seen. He was definitely lacking something (whether it be brains or balls) because everything on him that was abstract or a physical extra was gigantic. The gold cross hanging from his neck, his $1500 knife set, his Chef's jacket, trimmed with black and a neckercheif to match and finally, his mammoth fucking ego that was definitely not deserved.
At one point he walked into the tent and said to Glenn,

"Is it just me, or are the women they have serving the booze fucking amazing?"

Glenn looked at me, I looked at Glenn and then I burst out laughing. The knob asked,

"Did I miss something?'

And Glenn retorted with,

"Well, unless Anna's a dyke I doubt either one of us would notice 'cause I'm gay."

And so the knob felt like a knob and left the tent with a bruised ego and I was quite happy with that. He later returned to help us peel the stickers off the honey bottles. He did this with a serving spoon. Idiot.

So Glenn and I ran the food to their appropriate stations for three hours. Fish and Chips, Shepards pie, Bubbles and Squeak, Crab Bisque and Lamb Stew. It was ridiculous amounts of fun and I enjoyed it enough to want to do it always. Actually, running reminded me of working for Wal Mart. And actually, for once, I'm quite thrilled that I worked for Wal Mart in all of it's awful conditions because being in a kitchen with ovens blarring, is nowhere near as hot as working in a trailer for eight hours.

At one o'clock we started cleanup. By one thirty everything was being torn down. By two o'clock I was handed a beer and asked to stay later. By three o'clock, I was sitting in the back of a cube van, waiting to unload it back at the Liberty so I could go home. I worked a ten hour shift for them and it felt like two hours. It was amazing.

I was in bed at five and what a glorious feeling it was to be in that pile of fluff.

I want to work for this company. I don't particularly want to work the hours, but I want the experience.

I wonder if they'll hire pastry chefs.

I Wanna Be a Supermodel.

I took this picture with my cell phone. Two years of graphic design knowledge should have bestowed me with the ability to enlarge this photo without making it look like a million pieces of legos.

Unfortunately, that is not the case.

Rorschach Jacket.

George Brown uniforms are fucking expensive. I know first hand that purchasing a Chef's Jacket is an awful experience. Not only do you have to try them on in the midst of millions of other insecure college students, you also have to wait in an enormous lineup that seems to stretch the earth fifteen times over.

I bought two jackets so that I wouldn't have to return to the George Brown bookstore EVER. They were perfectly wonderful. I made the appropriate adjustments (I have a gigantic chest, get off me), gave them a good wash so they wouldn't be so awful and stiff and was just getting used to looking like a mammoth, fucking tool when an evil machine murdered them.

BOTH JACKETS.

Both, sixty dollar, perfectly altered and unstiffened jackets were rittled with black ink blotches. Some knob thought it a fun idea to leave two uni ball pens in the bottom of the dryer that I just so happened to pick whilst doing laundry today. I didn't see them, but my jackets did because they now resemble a watercolour grey scale.

FUCKER.

They're sitting downstairs on the kitchen table, dripping in bleach and other stain removing liquids in a very pathetic attempt to save their very short, but very demanding existences. Poor jackets.

I wouldn't normally fret over such a predicament. Sure, I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe for my school year that cost me little over 300 dollars (all of my aprons and dish towels were also lost in this catastrophe), but whatever! OSAP will come soon enough.
What's pissing me off is that I agreed to work at the Toronto Film Festival tomorrow for an Executive Chef of a very high standing (He works for a group called Liberal, I think? Anyway, he's associated with the Phoenix and the C Club, which are crazy-mad popular, bars here), and OBVIOUSLY, I cannot show up in an ink-blot-test of a uniform. I want a reference god dammit!

So tomorrow morning I must ride the rocket to the George Brown bookstore so I can purchase a brandspanking new jacket. Thils will grant me the ability to play the part of a professional and cunning pastry chef so Brad Pitt can hire me on as his personal baker, therefore giving me the justified allowance to do whatever the fuck I want for the rest of my life because hey, I'm at least 55% more famous than you ever will be.

Fucking knob.

Memories of a Fold Moment.

Ben Folds has a tune entitled, "Rock This Bitch."

It's not really so much a tune as it is an improv moment of complete and wonderful piano genius. He made the mistake of adding it to one of his live albums and ever since that glorious album was released, die-hard fans have coaxed him into performing it at a lot of his concerts.

The last Folds concert I attended was in May in Niagara Falls, New York. It wasn't as mind blowing wonderful as the other two I had seen previously that year, but as all Ben experiences are some sort of wonderful for me, I enjoyed myself none-the-less.

I've waited many-o-year for an opportunity to hear Ben Folds play, "Evaporated" (Download it, you fool). It has been and will always be my favourite song by him and on that chilly, May evening in the gym of Niagara University Ben said,

"I'm feeling a little sentimental tonight." and followed his thought with the first chord of Evaporated.

I shit my pants.

But then some fucking tool yelled out, "ROCK THIS BITCH." and all was lost.

Don't get me wrong, Rock This Bitch is a quality, Ben-talented tune, but it's not the song that I built the entire development of my teen years on. I thought that, that wondrous moment would have been a life defining moment for me. I thought that perhaps I would end up weeping on the floor, while listening to a sentimental Ben coo out his most emotional song. I thought I would have been reduced to a sniffling pile of pathetic snot and I was greatly looking forward to it.

But I went with the flow.

At first Ben protested.

"I've played Rock This Bitch too many times. There's not anymore styles left."

But the crowd persisted.

The same scenario had played out on one of his B-Side albums that had been released earlier in the year. Cleverly, some moron in the first row blurted out, "Rock out with your cock out" and Ben was so taken with him that he, on the spot, composed a little ditty about rocking a bitch without his socks on. It's a magical song. Download it, you tool.

So I being the clever girl that I am yelled out, "rock out with your cock out!" in an overly quiet moment in the overly hot gymnasium and Ben smiled.

He looked in my general direction, smiled and started playing, "Rock This Bitch" in an overly-sappy American, love Anthem, hitting on how he had visited Canada the same day and when returning to the US, dropped to his knees and kissed the ground.

I giggled. And I almost wept. Ben and I had shared a moment. It will live on in my memory like a beautiful butterfly of love and joy.

And randomly, I didn't feel the need to express the importance of the moment the day that it happened. I am such a tool.

"Alright Loss Anga-leese. Y'know my friends, they asked me, "Where you playin' this weekend?" And I said, "Loss Anga-leese." And they said, "Whhaatt? Loss Anga-leese is for pussies!" And I said, "Like blow me, Loss Anga-leese fuckin' Rah-a-a-a-a-a-cks."

Zero.

There are so many things wrong with this world. I contribute to a lot of the bullshit; I wish I didn't.

You will probably be someone that contributes only indifference to your universe and I imagine that you find that contribution fitting to the life you lead. I don't particularly wish to have any sort of baring over your life any longer because it seems that the only guidance I give you is complete crap.

But I hope you learn to communicate.
To tell people how you feel and what you want, and to ask people how they feel and to ask them what they want, so all the emotions you can't figure out in your head will one day be smoothed out rather nicely. I think if you asked all the people in your life what they wanted from you, you'd find your life a lot easier to live. And I think if you, one day, found the balls to tell people what you wanted from them, you'd stop being such a miserable fuck and finally be able to express yourself without so much frustration and confusion.

I didn't think that telling you about the conversations I had with Paul would be such a big deal. It isn't now, but at the time it was and I guess that was my fault. I wasn't thinking.
I wish you would have been honest with me, about everything, and I wish you were capable of sounding anything but cold and completely sickened by my confusion over your actions.

Thanks for filling your debt.

Consider the balance zero.

Art vs. Pastry.

I am excessively happy that I didn't crap out on this baking course. It is quite possibly the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time.

It is what art never could be for me.

I never had that stupid and sickening flare of an art fag that everyone seemed to think I had. I was good at faking the motions of a verve and I'm sure I still am, even though I absolutely despise the entire entity of the, "art world" - whatever that may be.
There is no stability with creating, not in the pen on paper sense anyway. I could never be that over-the-top, addiction crazed maniac that lit canvases on fire and ran down the hallway naked, claiming that this was the next revolutionary movement of the times. I just wanted to draw shit. You have to be really fucking good to draw shit and now, even if you are really fucking good at drawing shit, there's someone sitting behind a computer who's better at it.

The cunts.

So the stability craps out. And so does the payroll.

But now I get to pipe different letters onto cakes and be my anal self with leveling flour and presentation. It's like a gift from god. And the best bit is that, if I absolutely hate the finished product, it gets eaten and then I never have to see it again.

Excellent.

Finally Anna, you found the guts to do something worth doing.

Fruit Salad, Yummy, Yummy.

There was this stupid guitar in the toy department at Wal Mart that would sing a song about fruit salad. Obviously any twenty-something-year-old is going to find this piece of plastic a novelty. There were many a giggle over that borderline homosexual contraption.

Baking Theory was this morning. Nothing much was said other than that I needed to yet again, bring a calculator to class and that there were a crapload of jobs in the industry, ESPECIALLY in the Niagara area, for some reason. This is good, no?
I'm sure I'll be fine, I just have to work to understand the math which will be difficult, 'cause I sincerely hate it.

I learned how to use a knife today and am quite proud of myself for not cutting off any of my digits.
A Chef's Knife, a Paring Knife and a Bread Knife came in the three hundred dollar kit that I purchased from George Brown. Luckily for me, all of the knives are complete shit and need to be sharpened badly according to Chef Shabler (the man who would rather die than smile). Needless to say that my hate for the George Brown book store has just expanded.
I learned different cutting techniques, how to place the knife against my knuckles (which I still won't do, mostly out of fear), and how important it is to have good equipment while trying to slice an orange properly. Taking the skin off an orange and still managing to have something that looks like an orange is excessively difficult. Oranges are the devil.

We ended up with buckets of fruit salad. I bought two to bring home for Andrew and me. It's some good shit and I fear that I really shouldn't be impressed with a bucket of diced fruit, but I sincerely am. I think it's the chopped mint leaves.

I cooked for two hours last night.
I made chicken (six breasts marinated in three different types of mustard, hot sauce and evaporated milk), macaroni and cheese and carrots (cooked with a dollop of honey and a bit of brown sugar). I also made dinner for tonight, but can't take credit for it 'cause the crock pot is doing all the work downstairs. I did dice the vegetables though... It can be time consuming.
So after doing all this work and timing it perfectly so that it was all coming out of the oven the minute Andrew walked in the door, he walked right past me, grabbed a cantalope, cracked it open and ate it. I said,

"If I knew you were going to have a cantalope for dinner, I wouldn't have bothered cooking."

And he said,

"Oh, don't worry. I'll still eat your food."

Wonderful.
So after dinner I did half of the dishes, swept the floor, had a shower and went to bed. He asked me why I was so tempermental and then went to jerk off to some porn.

Does he really need to ask?

Sweet and Sour.

I keep a picture of him in my wallet. When I'm frustrated or unhappy I look at it and for some reason I feel better. That feeling fucks me right up.
If he knew that I kept a picture of him, he'd probably be so creeped out he'd never talk to me again and rightfully so. This action puts me borderline pyschotic looney. I justify it to myself by saying its no different than a fourteen-year-old teenie bopper plastering pictures of K-Fed all over her walls. I'm just more discreet about it. I'm just much more ashamed about it. I'm just much more pathetic about it.

I spoke to him last night and my heart broke all over again.

I don't know why I like him. I don't know why I'm so overly upset that I cannot have him. I don't like owning the realisation that Andrew doesn't seem so bad when I'm not thinking of him. I don't know if this is normal, or if this is the twisted product of a mental girl.
What I do know is that I crave his attention. I highly doubt that I will ever be in his presence again for an extended period of time and that makes me extraordinarily sad. All I want is to be near him and I suppose that's a giant reason as to why I'm so fucked up over moving because I got, 'it' fucking bad.

I've got it fucking bad. Is this what it is like to be in love? Or is this what it's like to be a pyscho?

I can't remember what he looks like unless I look at his photograph.

I'm fucked.

I keep telling myself, 'Thanksgiving, you'll see him at Thanksgiving." And then I remember, no I won't, 'cause Thanksgiving is Thanksgiving and I'll be home.
These feelings need to go away fast.

***

I had my first day of real school today. Math was yesterday. Math is not real school. Its an annoyance that I have to put up with. I do not know how to find the sum of A if the equation is GxT = ABT and I shouldn't have to. No one should have to, 'cause MATH is about NUMBERS and when am I ever going to have to find the sum of A to measure 850 grams of soft flour?

NEVER.

But I got to play with a giant kitchen aide mixer today that was worth more than my tuition. The paddle for it was as big as my fucking head. One can only imagine how many wonderful cookies could be made with such a piece of equipment.
My professor (don't ask me what his name is, I can't remember yet) seems alright. He taught us how to make pastry bags today and I do believe I still have mine for the sake of scrapbooking (kidding).
We were told that we would have to pair up with someone else in the class, which does not sit well with me at all, but what can you do? My class is full of really prissy girls, small oriental boys and one East Indian fellow that smells exceptionally awful. I scanned the class carefully for a partner and then ultimately decided on a girl named Katie 'cause she seems hardcore and I have no desire to have my grades drop 'cause some nattering air head can't keep her mouth shut during lab. I'm happy with my decision.

I quit Wal Mart last night and so now I feel a thousand times lighter.
There was always something dreadful about going to school and then having to come home to go to work. I hated it in higschool and I imagine that I still will. I will however, still get a part time job. I can't rely on Andrew for things and I shouldn't for obvious reasons. I just couldn't handle Wal Mart.

I finished a resume and submitted it yesterday to the art store as well. They called me the same night for an interview. Monday at noon, the fate of my part time career could be decided very quickly.

Little Miss Sunshine Indeed.

Wal Mart in Scarborough sucks. My first shift was on Saturday and I truely believe that I am less of a person for working those eight hours in that store.
The Warden Wal Mart is by far a subculture of human life in it's own right; you observe people at their worst. Lazy people, rude people, unkind and greedy - being in that store made me feel disgusting and frankly, you could not pay me all the money in the world to endure another minute in that environment.

I'm quiting tomorrow.

And rightfully so. They want me to work six shifts per week ontop of my school schedule. It's just not going to happen.
There's an art store literally five minutes from the condo. They're hiring part time employees. Obviously I should invest some time in a resume.

Things with Andrew are like being on a god damned rollercoaster. One minute I'm completely happy with him, the next I want to murder him.
The other night we went out to a bar with his friend Tony and he outrightly flirted with the waitress while he was sitting beside me. I think he said something along the lines of,

"You'd look very hot in Tony's hat. And you'd look even hotter if you brought me a beer in that hat."

I didn't care. Right about now Andrew could fuck any woman he wanted and I wouldn't have a problem with it. The waitress however didn't seem to be impressed and it showed. Each time she came back to the table, she never offered Andrew another beer.
Four months ago him flirting with another woman would have drove me absolutely bananas. Now the fact that he's belching disgustingly loud in public and acting like a fat baboon constantly makes me hate him.
Why do I suddenly realise now that I need to start dating a classy man?

So I've been cooking like a mad woman. I made an organic applecrisp a couple days ago and last night I made a beef stew which seemed to be well liked. I like cooking, just like I thought I would. Things become more exciting when its your own kitchen and you can do things your way. Life just flows better.
But after coming home from seeing Little Miss Sunshine (hilarious movie, quite possibly one of the better views of my life), and diving into all the pots and pans after sucked ass. I've been cleaning constantly, just like I feared. I had two other people sitting in the livingroom watching TV and even though I cooked everything, they were quite content to sit on their asses and keep watching while I did the dishes.

That sucked.

The more time I spend here the more I realise that I just want to be alone. No human intereaction at all. I've had enough of it over the past three days to last me for the rest of my life.

We went to the CNE today. I'll never go again. What a waste of fucking time. I should have spent it sleeping.

What I Want to Do.

I was driving around today in my mother's car and I thought to myself,

'Fuck. This is nice.'

It was nice to not be in a car that shakes violently when you come to a full stop. It was nice to be out doing something and not be so full of stress that your brain feels like it will explode along with your shaking vehicle. It was nice to do something that was pointless and rather carefree.

I felt liberated.

I like the Niagara Region. I never thought that I would want to stay here, but now that I've left it I find it hard to not want to come back to it. While driving today I thought,

'maybe I could keep a part time job in Fort Erie, take the bus home on the weekends and just be happy in that small block of time.'

And that sincerely made me happy until I realised that my bus fees would be extraodinary. So I crushed that idea and calmly decided that the familiarity of the Wal Mart in Scarborough would have to suffice.

During the orientation yesterday, the Co-ordinator of the program expressed that there were many empoloyers from the area that would be looking for employee's at the end of the year. I'm hoping that I could talk to him about finding an employer in the Niagara area because I already know I want to come back.
It's difficult for me to come to terms with these thoughts and I feel overwhelmingly guilty for it.

It's weird to be in a place and to know that you don't belong there. I see all my stuff in the condo and it doesn't feel like my stuff anymore. It just feels like crap. I suppose you realise how little you need when you're moving constantly. I suppose you realise how much of a burden material possessions are when the only purpose they serve is to be a burden.

I saw him today.
I didn't expect to, but situations haven risen that need to be taken care of and so I saw him. I couldn't look him in the eye, or rather, I didn't want to look at his eyes.
There's this bizarre desperation in me that is pulling at all of my strings. Its awful. I have to restrain myself from calling him, have to restrain myself from thinking about him. His picture is sitting in my sketchbook and I get mad when I go to look at it. I feel creepy. I feel obsessed. I feel like a complete and utter lunatic.
And it's funny, 'cause I know that if I did ever have him, we'd hate eachother.

How did it ever get so bad?

I talked to Paul today about situations with Derek.
That I feel guilty about. What a mess. What type of person are you if you rat out your friends for acting like idiots? The discomfort that is pulsing through me is becoming more than a little unbearable.
I'm scared of Derek, scared of what he'll do if he finds out that I was the one who wrote the letter. I'm scared of what he'll say, or who he'll hurt. I'm scared of him 'cause he's a pyscho and I know he has no quams pushing the buttons on my board that will hurt me the most.
Paul says that he doesn't like his employees being threatened. I say, I'll live with it as long as he doesn't actually do anything about it. He says that, that mentality is foolish and that I shouldn't have to be bullied. I say, I'll never have to see him again and am quite happy to leave him thinking good thoughts of me rather than bad.
And the worst part about posting this is that I'm taking a massive leap of faith in posting this on my blog. Who's to say Josh won't run and tell Derek all of this? Who's to say that he won't give him my blog address? Its all a bit dodgy, and I'm a complete tool for posting this because the chances of it getting back to Derek are extraodinary.

There are so many things that I haven't posted about because of Josh. So many things that I wanted to put down to sort out, but couldn't, because of Josh. I'm sick of not being able to express myself because of Josh.

And so I've just decided to be fucked with.