<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270</id><updated>2011-08-01T19:02:23.432-07:00</updated><title type='text'>balling diddums.</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>213</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-4555685427757583647</id><published>2009-09-21T23:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-21T23:53:35.680-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Dear Joey Comeau.</title><content type='html'>I realized today that maybe my blog isn't so hard to find... And that maybe it would be easy to stumble into, especially if your name is written all over it.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I also realize now that maybe not everyone needs to read my feelings and that they could be hurtful to someone who doesn't know or understand me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So Mr. Comeau, if you ever find this blog and you read my last entry and think, "Jesus Christ, this girl is insane!", please keep in mind that this is a place where I sort out of my thoughts. I am incredibly sorry if I said anything that could have done you wrong, as that was never the intention.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;- A&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Also, I enjoyed both of the books that I have read by you and I don't think you're a hypocrite, AND I'm not just saying that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-4555685427757583647?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/4555685427757583647/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=4555685427757583647' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4555685427757583647'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4555685427757583647'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/09/dear-joey-comeau.html' title='Dear Joey Comeau.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-403543641733521734</id><published>2009-08-08T23:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-09T00:38:04.914-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mister.</title><content type='html'>I've taken to posting conversations or quotes in my blog that evoke an emotion in me that I want to remember. For the past little while, most of the feelings have been negative... I guess it's just made more sense to remember the shit things as opposed to the positive ones. For some bizarre reason, they register as more life defining.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I know I've posted before about my random insecurities - About being almost twenty-six and lacking a purpose or meaning in my life. I know I've written about falling in love, about the way men have made me feel, marriage, sex and my general expectations and dislikes of relationships. I don't know why, but suddenly all those posts seem a bit silly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My aunt asked me two years ago if the man I was dating was, "the one." I've never really been too hung up on the idea of one person for the rest of time - I also think it's a bit insane to be able to know so early in a relationship.  I told her I had no idea and she said, "Well he's not." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Retarded right?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've just ended a two year relationship and have randomly stumbled into a new one.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Three weeks ago I wasn't keen on the idea of buying into a new boyfriend.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;For the first time I had no expectations of a man and when I say that, I actually mean it. What I found was someone who mirrored the lack of expectation and in finding that, we somehow managed to slide into a state of mutual understanding. Whatever it was that we were doing needed to stay nameless - It needed to be slow and it needed to be respectful of the delicate situation that surrounded it. That didn't really work.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The emotions that I hold for this man are indescribable. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've met an equal - Someone who shares the same terrors and insecurities as me. Someone who is vulnerable and unsure. Someone who understands that a relationship isn't a status, it just is.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I don't want to trivialize it. This isn't cliche. He is not like the rest... Shit. Does saying that make it so?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I could spend the rest of my life lying in bed beside him, looking into his "tired" eyes. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But I of course don't see his tired eyes. I see a man looking at a woman who he wants to take care of and when I see that, his eyes start to sparkle and anything seems possible. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I see a strong and caring man who is loyal, honest, decent, kind and undiscovered. I see a person who is loved. Completely and utterly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So for the first time in my life, the world has stopped. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am standing still, in the arms of a beautiful man and I don't give a flying fuck about anything. I'm not scared, I'm not worried - The only thing that seems to matter, are his sparkling eyes.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-403543641733521734?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/403543641733521734/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=403543641733521734' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/403543641733521734'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/403543641733521734'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/08/mister.html' title='Mister.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2691193553432763336</id><published>2009-07-29T20:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-29T20:46:14.338-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Swoon.</title><content type='html'>I usually build walls to hide behind. It takes a special person to find the desire to take the time to break through them. But with you I never even started to build walls, you just walked in and I trusted you, completely and unquestionably. Is it stupid? Maybe. Could it be a mistake? Sure, but I don't care. You have stripped me completely to my raw self, I'm an open book cover to cover and I want you to read every page.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2691193553432763336?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2691193553432763336/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2691193553432763336' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2691193553432763336'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2691193553432763336'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/07/swoon.html' title='Swoon.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7556744642123762881</id><published>2009-04-19T15:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-19T16:09:01.793-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I Have Chosen Poorly.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px; "&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:24:02 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;hey&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:24:09 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:24:32 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;What? you sti&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;ll&lt;/span&gt; have me on here and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;facebook&lt;/span&gt;....&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;sooo&lt;/span&gt; I&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;'m&lt;/span&gt; gonna talk to you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:25:34 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;What good do you think that's going to do exactly?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:25:59 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Dude. This is borderline creepy. If you told someone to leave you alone, what would you do if they kept talking to you?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:26:42 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Not sure &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;never&lt;/span&gt; have.  That being said though i find it odd you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;haven't&lt;/span&gt; done like i told you to&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:26:59 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Usually if you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; want anything to do with anyone you cut all ties with them&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:27:04 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Like on here and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;facebook&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:27:55 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Dude, I don't hate you, I just think that you and I aren't very compatible friendship wise and no matter what I say or do, you never seem to get it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:28:11 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Like, "I find it odd you haven't done like I told you to" &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;Wtf&lt;/span&gt; is that? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:28:40 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"&gt;Umm&lt;/span&gt; you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"&gt;haven't&lt;/span&gt; taken me off &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"&gt;msn&lt;/span&gt; or &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19"&gt;facebook&lt;/span&gt;....if you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; wanna talk to me, best to do that&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:28:41 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22"&gt;Dumbass&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:29:05 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;But it doesn't even matter because when you say things that bother me, all you do is justify your actions with some sort of bullshit pride answer and never attempt to understand why you may make me feel like crap or why the shit you say is offensive.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:29:48 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And that is why I don't want to talk to you. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:29:56 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Right..was &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24"&gt;sooo&lt;/span&gt; mean to you &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25"&gt;last t&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26"&gt;ime&lt;/span&gt; i saw you.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:30:51 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;My friend Mark and I went out last week and we went to the same pub that you and I went to and as we were crossing the street I said to him, "the last time I was here, the only thing the guy that I was with talked about was all the women he wanted to bang. I don't get that, why do men tell other women about their fucks? Its not admirable."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:31:13 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And He said, "Yeah, that's a bit fucked, but I can do that too if you want... but with men... I totally want to fuck Sean Connery." And it was FUNNY, but with you, its just weird.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:31:57 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Its called something guys do.  especially ones that work in a kitchen&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:32:19 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And gay guys are like girls so your friend mark &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29"&gt;doesn't&lt;/span&gt; exactly count.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:32:21 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Yeah, the sooner you get that I'm not a guy, the better AND the guys that i hang around with don't do that. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:32:28 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And Mark is straight.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:32:57 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;He's just not a macho, pig headed retard who thinks that the only thing that matters in life are Pearl Jam, fucking pretty girls and food.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:33:12 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Which is usually the extent of every conversation I've ever had with you.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:34:07 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Guess what? food rules my life.  I&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31"&gt;'m&lt;/span&gt; reading a book called in defense of food.  Most activities I do revolve around food.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:35:29 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And as for being pig headed, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33"&gt;that's&lt;/span&gt; rather unfounded.  ask me something about culture, lit., or whoa even other kinds of music and i can damn well keep up a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34"&gt;convo&lt;/span&gt; with you&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:35:29 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;So &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; you fucking dare call me that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:36:13 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I've read In Defense of Food.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:36:22 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And again, you don't get it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:36:34 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And if you don't want me to tell you the truth, than maybe you should block me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:36:46 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Truth? &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38"&gt;riiiight&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:36:53 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;You're such an idiot.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:37:04 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;You're such a sensitive bitch&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:37:19 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Thanks?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:37:59 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40"&gt;WTF&lt;/span&gt; man. Maybe the reason why you don't have a girlfriend is because you're so unbelievably self absorbed with the things that matter in your life, you don't get that other people don't want to talk about them ALL THE TIME.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:38:58 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And just for the record, I don't find any of the stuff you do or say overly offensive, just annoying as all fuck. The only times I get mad at you are when you say shit about my friends, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41"&gt;ie&lt;/span&gt; assuming my friend Mark is gay just because he's man enough to say he'd fuck another man as a joke.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:38:59 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42"&gt;Jesus&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:40:23 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Right &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44"&gt;self abosorbed&lt;/span&gt;...&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45"&gt;that's&lt;/span&gt; why i find out what's going on with other people.  uh huh.  you're so fucking narrow minded A&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46"&gt;nna&lt;/span&gt;, at least when it comes to me.  you see one thing n &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47"&gt;that's&lt;/span&gt; it&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:41:02 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48"&gt;Lol&lt;/span&gt;. and what is it that I see in you?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:41:34 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And really Brett? Freaking out on me after my grandmother almost died because I wouldn't be able to make it to your dinner is kind of the epitome of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49"&gt;self absorbed&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:43:06 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Its called school matters to me and that was one of the most important days of my life.  as in, if i &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51"&gt;don't&lt;/span&gt; get married, that might be right up there with most important day of my life.  and she almost died.  not like she did.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:44:28 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;What?  floored &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53"&gt;that I&lt;/span&gt; just said that?  sorry, but you forget something, I&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54"&gt;'m&lt;/span&gt; not close with my family.  &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55"&gt;lil&lt;/span&gt; insensitive when it comes to family things.  Like death.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:44:32 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Or almost death&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:45:07 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Oh my god, this conversation is going on blog.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58"&gt;Brettzky&lt;/span&gt; says: (4:45:35 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Fine...like i give a fuck. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:46:04 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I find it rather pathetic you have to put something private like this on your blog.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:46:05 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I can't believe you just said that, "Its not like she died or anything." Holy crap. You're not self absorbed at all!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:46:22 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I'm sorry, there wasn't a disclaimer in the beginning about privacy.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:46:31 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Going ot send me the link again so i can read it and feel my eyes open wide for me for the first time?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:46:33 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Huh?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:46:47 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And I'm laughing, I think this is fucking hilarious and absolutely stupid. Its like, holy fuck, look at what you just wrote and tell me that I'm wrong, you can't!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:46:52 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I'm not self abosrbed anna.  she almost died&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:47:02 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I almost died a couple times in the last half year.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:47:09 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Dont see me going and getting all upset about it&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:47:27 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;She almost died, yeah and she could have died in the hospital. Seeing my grandmother for maybe the last time or eating your food. Hrm. Obviously a tough choice, CLEARLY I choose poorly.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:50:15 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Didnt say you did.  you dont get it though.  someone almost dying (happened ot my grandpa a few dozen times) doesnt phase me.  someone dying, diff. story.  god grow a lil skin&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:51:07 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;And this is why I don't want to be your friend anymore Brett. You can't respect that we're different and you have no desire to understand why we are, nor do you have the desire to appreciate it. You just tell me I'm wrong.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Brettzky says: (4:51:15 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;I also find it funny that you cant let that go.  get over it&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;balling diddums says: (4:51:31 PM)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div id="EC_RichTextEditor_surface" class="EC_RichText" style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Verdana; "&gt;Message me all you want, but I assure you, all of our conversations, if I choose to talk to you, are just going to be like this one. I thorougly enjoy arguing with you. Its terribly funny.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7556744642123762881?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7556744642123762881/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7556744642123762881' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7556744642123762881'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7556744642123762881'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/04/i-have-chosen-poorly.html' title='I Have Chosen Poorly.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-6776431714769673052</id><published>2009-04-08T21:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-08T21:24:36.931-07:00</updated><title type='text'>My Stupid Sister's Advice re. Our Mother.</title><content type='html'>Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;div&gt;We both agreed those conversations are kind of normal when you reach adulthood. I dunno, its tough to make that transition, but seeing mom not as a mom anymore, but a person (or friend) with her own problems is the reality of growing up.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't think its right to stop talking to her. family's important...i think...&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;balling diddums says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;No. fuck you. Its not the reality of growing up. Mom fucking abused me, and I'm not going to treat her like my fucking friend when she still treats me like a five year old fucking child and someone to fucking gripe at when no one else will listen to her bullshit.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Balling diddums says: &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;You want to be the bigger person that deals with mom, good for you. Let me know how that works out for you when you go back home and live with her for a week.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;there's a better way to argue with someone than swearing your face off.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;You can't blame other people for YOUR life. take some fucking responsibility and get over it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;that really hurt to type, but you need to hear it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;yah she was a horrible mother, but that doesn't mean your unhappiness is her fault.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Chelseao: to live as if something actually depended on one's actions... says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It's how we deal with things that make us who we are.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;balling diddums says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm not swearing my face off. This is who I am. I swear. A LOT. And if you perceive it as negative, I really don't give a shit.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;balling diddums says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Wow Chelsea. You have no fucking idea what I fucking lived, or what my life was like and you have a lot of fucking nerve to tell me I can't be mad at our mother for things that I didn't feel supported about. Its pretty easy to get over all the shit that you had to deal with when you just run away from it, isn't it?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;balling diddums says:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't want to talk to you anymore. Not tonight anyway.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-6776431714769673052?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/6776431714769673052/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=6776431714769673052' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6776431714769673052'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6776431714769673052'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-stupid-sisters-advice-re-our-mother.html' title='My Stupid Sister&apos;s Advice re. Our Mother.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7561441668704372271</id><published>2009-02-02T18:13:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-02T18:36:13.507-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Brettsky.</title><content type='html'>I don't know why I gravitate to the people I do.&lt;div&gt;I've come to notice that I usually click with douchebags and I'm not entirely sure why. Actually, I should probably rephrase that: I've come to notice that &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I think&lt;/span&gt; I click with douchebags. I obviously don't, as most of the normal populace of the universe doesn't enjoy being around jerks, but for some reason, I always find myself around them.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So this makes me wonder, am I a jerk? Do I possess something that welcomes me unannounced into their club? Am I a walking target? Do I like being shat on by people who just don't understand the importance of being good to their friends (and I use that term loosely, as I've also noticed that these people I'm around, usually don't understand the meaning of that word).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've also noticed that I tend to justify being around jerks, even though they've wronged me. Je suis tres stupide.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Fortunately for myself, after years of dealing with my mother's empty apologies and painful comments I've somehow managed to understand that there is a line, and although it may take me a few brutal comments to realize that that line has in fact been crossed, at least I've finally found it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yesterday I told my friend Brett that I didn't think he was someone that should be in my life anymore.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He didn't ask why, he wasn't shocked, he wasn't sad. In fact, he gave no visible sign of any type of an emotion. All he said was, "OK" and went on his merry.  I said in response, "And this is why I've decided to end our friendship", and he said, "Sure."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How do you do that?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How can you spend X amount of time with someone and consider them a friend and then just say, "OK" when they decide never to talk to you again? That's fucked!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The worst part about this was that when I decided to tell him that our friendship was over, I was very unsure of the decision.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I understood that he was disappointed about my inability to visit him during something important in his life, but it was beyond my control and the fact that he held that against me, bothered me considerably. That part I let go.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I told him that I couldn't go because my grandmother had a stroke and a heart attack the day before my departure for Stratford and his only reaction to the bad news was, "Well, I guess that's a valid reason", was when I decided I had enough of his self-centered bullshit.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;He never asked how I was, he just jabbered on about his dinner. There was no concern, no apologies for my pain or stress, just, "You're missing a good dinner." That's when I told him he was an asshole, and that was when he told me that if I wanted to talk about my grandmother, I just had to say so.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It is sad that there are people in this world who have been hurt so badly that they've forgotten what its like to relate to people. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hope there is a day when Brett is able to relate to an honest and sincere individual again. I hope he realizes that there is more to life than what is going on in his universe and I sincerely hope that he acknowledges that he will be very lonely until he manages to do these things.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7561441668704372271?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7561441668704372271/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7561441668704372271' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7561441668704372271'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7561441668704372271'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/02/brettsky.html' title='Brettsky.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5417437885293645796</id><published>2009-01-16T18:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-16T18:52:54.027-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Wonderful World Of...</title><content type='html'>I'm going to Disney World!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The boyfriend and I decided a few nights ago that it was due time that him and I took a vacation. I think it was me that suggested Disney World and it was more than mildly exciting to have a boyfriend who was actually enthused by the suggestion. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It may have something to do with him being an animator. Probably that. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So the saving of money has begun.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This evening I pooled all of our cold-hard-coinage together and I came up with 78 bones. That's crazy exciting.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hope I get to swim with a mermaid.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5417437885293645796?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5417437885293645796/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5417437885293645796' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5417437885293645796'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5417437885293645796'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2009/01/wonderful-world-of.html' title='The Wonderful World Of...'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-4054650517671820755</id><published>2008-11-16T22:09:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-11-16T22:48:28.348-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Boyfriends Suck.</title><content type='html'>I think its perfectly logical that I'm troubled by the fact that the man I am head over feet in love with was fucking someone else for the first two months of our relationship. From what I gather from him, he doesn't understand why I would be. I'm not sure if that bothers me more than the actual fucking.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I suppose I should point out now that this is not a topic that bangs around my head often, nor has it over the year that I've spent with my boyfriend. It unfortunately has its moments that make me feel like complete crap and while those moments are few and far between, the fact that they exist is enough to prompt me to blog about it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The whole thing is just a bit fucked up - Probably because I can't actually finger why it bothers me.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've seen this girl, I've read her facebook profile, I've heard stories about her character and her insecurities and the impression that I've gotten from all of these outlets leaves me thinking that her relationship with the boyfriend was nothing more than a reason to get laid with a couple video games on the side. The boyfriend defends it as something different and perhaps the fact that he defends it is what actually bothers me most.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Either way the whole thing is a bit shit. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think its strange that he sees it as a relationship, even though they barely saw each other and when they did, they would just see theatre and screw. I think of that as a fuck friend, but the romantic inclinations of his over-emotional and sentimental soul chalk it up as something else. Is it more to him because he's sensitive or am I just completely wrong.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And if I'm completely wrong, why is he not mad? Why isn't he mad that she dumped him through an email, or that she left a cruel comment when it was all said and done? Why wasn't he hurt that she sucked on another man's face right in front of him in a very public setting?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I engage in a relationship, I emote, but yet, I saw no emotion so how can it be? And why does he defend it? I hate that he defends it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;There are moments when I think of her and wish I wouldn't have stuck with him because it hurts so much to think of him with another woman that I simply don't think its worth the heartache. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I never feel this way about any of his other girlfriends or friends, its just her. I should have waited for him to figure out that it wasn't right before I became romantic with him, I should have stood my ground and stayed away.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I suppose this would be easier if he didn't think fondly of her, or if he didn't look back on her as a girlfriend that just didn't work out. I wish he could say she was a mistake, or at least someone that he regrets being with and not because it causes me to hurt, but because he simply sees it as a point in his life that was foolish.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But I doubt he will.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I doubt he'll ever understand how much this bothers me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Perhaps I should just find someone else to sleep with for two months and let him hang in limbo while I decide which one to keep and which one to chuck. I wonder how he'll feel during it? I wonder if he'll think of me with another man and cry while I enjoy myself in his company physically and mentally. I wonder if he'll feel awkward as I tell him stories about my other lover - the things he does and how he makes me feel. I wonder how he'll react, if he'll be jealous or just happy that I'm happy?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Either way, its a lost cause as it will obviously never happen.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Its just unfortunate that there's no way to fix this. It boils down to me either getting over it or walking away completely. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;There are some days where I feel like walking away would be the better of the two options, a more justified response to the turmoil and frustration that sits inside me - Or maybe just a reaction of spite to finally make him understand.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hate this feeling.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-4054650517671820755?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/4054650517671820755/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=4054650517671820755' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4054650517671820755'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4054650517671820755'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/11/boyfriends-suck.html' title='Boyfriends Suck.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2887972114614802649</id><published>2008-10-25T18:09:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-25T18:54:16.888-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I Can't Get Behind That.</title><content type='html'>When my parents split they thought it would be in my sister and Is' best interest if we saw a shrink. He told me I was angry and I thought at the time that his conclusion of my state was fair. Plainly obvious, but fair nonetheless. &lt;div&gt;I don't think I've ever gotten over being angry and I think today, I've finally wrapped my head around this state well enough to articulate it in a post.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've come to realize that the law that I live my life by is courtesy. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I treat people with decency, I smile and talk politely to people who randomly cross my path. I also tell people to shut the fuck up in movie theaters.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;What it boils down to is simple respect for your fellow man. If you don't have the tact to think, "how are my basic actions going to effect the overall state of the people around me?", then I simply do not give you my time.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I've also come to realize that people's inability to do this, is the cause of my asinine amount of anger. This post is going to be a tribute to these moments.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Lets start with my parents' divorce. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm mad at my father for thinking it was acceptable to sleep around on my mother without considering the fallout. I'm mad at him for thinking that it would have been easier to tell my mother that he was sleeping around when both my sister and I were away at school. Clearly, telling my mother about her spousal abandonment along with her newly afflicted financial difficulty, while her two children were across the country was the better option.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm mad at my mother for lacking the ability to deal with my father's abandonment. Maybe that's not fair, but six years later, I cannot hug my mum with any sort of affection. I do not feel sorry for her and I doubt that will ever change.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am mad at every adult who overlooked my sister and I during the aftermath. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think being 19 is the worst age for your parents to separate. You're too old to gain the benefit of the, "I love you more game", and you're too young to completely understand the gravity that has suddenly fallen into your lap. People figure, "Hey, she's 19, she can take care of herself", but no, that's not accurate at all. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I was a child.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1/3 of the Dynamic, Dynamic came to Canada recently... What a waste.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I met Thom over the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;internet&lt;/span&gt;. I treated him poorly, I won't deny that, but I also apologized.  I &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;get&lt;/span&gt; his dislike for me and I also respect it. What I don't get is why he continues to secretly stalk me through my blog, only to drop insulting comments about my current life status. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When you kick someone out of your life, you don't get the novelty of showing up whenever you see fit. Goodbye is goodbye, now get the fuck off the sidelines. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But anyway, this isn't about Thom, that was just something I've found annoying for awhile.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Rob came to Canada about 3 weeks ago for his semi-girlfriend who lives in Hamilton (I say semi as she is clearly fucking other people while he's off in England. I highly doubt he's doing the same). &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I had the pleasure of meeting him, parading around Toronto during one of it's major art festivals and sitting down for food and conversations. He was pleasant enough.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I eventually offered my assistance in getting him to Niagara Falls so he could witness one of the greatest wonders in the universe (I think I need to make it clear for people that do not know me that I worked in Niagara Falls for two years of my life. Seeing the falls or being in Niagara falls is not an exceptional experience for me anymore). Anyway, he happily accepted the invitation, saying that, 'Niagara Falls was one of the things he thought he wouldn't have the time see.' When we got there, his sole comment was: "I'm underwhelmed." I asked him if he wanted to walk for a bit and while speaking with my boyfriend I casually overheard him say to his girlfriend, "I don't really give a crap 'bout this, but these two seem to be enjoying it, so whatever."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yes. Whatever. I just wasted an entire evening my life so that you could tag along with my boyfriend and I to a sight that we have witnessed hundreds of time. THANK YOU sir for your courteous commentary.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But there was another reason for our trip.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We wanted to romp around the numerous haunted houses the falls offers. Rob said he thought it would be fun, but upon arriving he randomly decided that it was something he didn't want to do. Instead Rob and his girlfriend sat in Wendy's and ate what I'm sure was non-vegetarian bacon bits while Bryce and I tiptoed through Dracula's Castle. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Bryce thinks that I'm over reacting and that he seemed like a decent guy. I say that anyone who sticks their nose in the air at the type of books I read because their not ones that would adorn their bookshelves needs to grow the fuck up and get the fuck over themselves.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Also for anyone who thinks that its OK to eat 1/2 a pack of gum after your friend offers you a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;piece&lt;/span&gt;, you are WRONG. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think today I am going to end my anger here. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Perhaps later I will comment on how my road rage is directly related to the issue of courtesy along with how it is not acceptable to show up at someone's house after receiving a, "No, it is not a good day for you to come here, I am really busy." Maybe even a short response to my current work situation. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Clearly, my life is full of rage. Oh blog readers, you are in for such a treat.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2887972114614802649?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2887972114614802649/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2887972114614802649' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2887972114614802649'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2887972114614802649'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-cant-get-behind-that.html' title='I Can&apos;t Get Behind That.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7375625693736052038</id><published>2008-09-27T15:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-27T15:57:31.536-07:00</updated><title type='text'>And So It Begins... Again.</title><content type='html'>I'm back in Toronto. Back in Toronto and oddly feeling the EXACT feelings I did three years ago when I came here in the first place. Fear, depression, anxiety and they're directly influencing everything that I do and everyone I relate to.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I left the Stone Road on Friday as late as I possibly could. I figured that as long as I kept working the impending doom of making a giant change in my life (yet again), would at least be put off by another couple of hours. I even went as far as begging a friend to go out with me after for coffee. Unfortunately he was needed in the kitchen, so my scheme was dashed and I drove to Toronto.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I got here, sat down on the couch and fell asleep.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It always seems that when I start to get used to something, I somehow manage to fuck it up by leaving. Ever since I was 19, I haven't been comfortable for an extended period of time. I've felt neglected, hated, lonely and completely unbalanced and just when I finally get used to how I've decided to live my life, I also decide that its time for me to move on. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Strange that I haven't gotten used to this feeling. You'd think after seven years, you would.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This past week had been an excellent one.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I spent most of my time with my new friend Brett. Not only did we have laughs after work, but I also trained him on bread. We had worked together for almost six months at the Stone Road before we really became friends. I think it's safe to say that I found him repulsive in the beginning. Now after understanding him better, and actually finding the grace and patience in myself to allow him to explain slowly why he is the way he is, I think he's a delightful person. He still is a douchebag sometimes, but I've learned to overlook it, only because his better points strongly outweigh the bad.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I think the highlight of the week was going to the Riverbend to have my friend Frasier cook for us. The food was mind blowing and spending the evening talking about food and all of it's glorious possibilities while sitting on a patio that overlooked vineyards along with an amazing sunset... Well, I was severely content with my life. It was simple and full of possibilities and I was sad that it was beginning to change.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But I imagine its for the better. I hope.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The Stone Road sent me off in style. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;They gathered me in the dining room, adorned me with cards and presents (one of which being a book about sourdough breads that lit a very excited fire under my ass), and said some nice words about me moving on and how much they enjoyed my bread.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It was hard.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I found myself fighting back tears more than once. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When you decide to do this for your life, the kitchen becomes your home. It also becomes your family and every time you leave one, you have to relearn everything. Your behaviour, your abilities, your expectations, they all change and its hard - Its hard because you fall in love with everything in that space and it seems impossible that you'll ever find another family that could compare to the one you just left.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Leaving sucked.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And so now I'm here, writing in my blog for the first time in a long time because I am at a loss.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How do I function now? How do I look at my boyfriend knowing that all the passion I have for him has been stomped out by fear and anxiety? How can you look ahead and hope that your next experience will be as good as the last? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I can't. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And so now I wait.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7375625693736052038?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7375625693736052038/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7375625693736052038' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7375625693736052038'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7375625693736052038'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/09/and-so-it-begins-again.html' title='And So It Begins... Again.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-703484350333112045</id><published>2008-07-21T17:24:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-07-21T18:15:44.321-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sour Cherries.</title><content type='html'>I apologize blog. I apologize for not writing in you for two months - I am a terrible person. Life goes on, what can I say?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two whole months of my life that will be completely unaccounted for.&lt;br /&gt;To be fair, I wrote a massive post about my journey to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Callander&lt;/span&gt;, but this stupid piece of shit system deleted the whole thing before it was posted. It was really long... Like, at least three miles worth of type. I was pissed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bryce gave me keys to his condo this past weekend.&lt;br /&gt;Normally getting keys to your boyfriend's condo wouldn't really be something that I considered blog worthy, but the fact that the keys cost $160.00 (I'm not going to lie), made me feel gooey and possibly (although I will never admit to it), a bit weepy.&lt;br /&gt;What was strange about the moment was that my friend Eda was standing in our presence while he handed over the keys. It must have been a very strange moment for her because I am very sure that the passion between Bryce and I was very evident. Some may say that it took the shape of a garage door opener.&lt;br /&gt;It is hard to want to slip your boyfriend the tongue and not be able to do it for the sake of the public eye. God damn you eye, God damn you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So moving onto funnier stories: My first boyfriend ever.&lt;br /&gt;While first boyfriends are generally a funny topic without the aide of a story, my first romantic adventure is by far the greatest one ever recorded, period.&lt;br /&gt;Allen was eighteen when I started dating him - I was fourteen. He was also studying to be a pastor and invited me to his college "semi formal" (&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;y'know&lt;/span&gt; the only college's that have semi formals are the ones that God owns). &lt;br /&gt;Anyway, it ended badly on Valentine's Day. I broke it off with him after I gave him the soundtrack to Titanic solely for the reason that he wouldn't put out (He wouldn't kiss me you perve! I was fourteen!). He punched a mirror and directly proceeded to remove my grade eight graduation photo from his computer, which served as his screen saver.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yup. This is the stuff child &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;molesters&lt;/span&gt; are made of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Allen barely kept in touch over the years.&lt;br /&gt;He became one of those lunatics that sent out mass emails to all his friends outlining how George Bush was doing God's work along with other nonsense. This only caused me to return the MASS message, correctly outlining with bible verses and common sense how George Bush was in fact the devil.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't like this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our relationship hit the breaking point when he tried to convert me back into Christianity (after reminding me that I had committed the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;unforgivable&lt;/span&gt; sin), in a Starbucks. He gave me a panic attack and later commented, "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Jeeze&lt;/span&gt;, sounds like you're a bit out of shape. Maybe you should walk more."&lt;br /&gt;I tried to explain to him that pushing people into corners by pressuring them with guilt that was branded into their brains at a very early age wasn't healthy for our relationship. He considered it the truth and that my guilt was God telling me that I had fucked up.&lt;br /&gt;Later that evening I sat in front of my &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;webcam&lt;/span&gt; topless &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;explaining&lt;/span&gt; to him: "If you don't want to talk to me Allen, just turn off the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;webcam&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;Jeeze&lt;/span&gt;, it must suck to have someone pressure you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable. Why are you breathing so hard? You must be out of shape."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently my line of reasoning didn't equate to the glory of God and so he stopped our conversations.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't say that I'm feeling a great loss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I found out a couple days ago that Allen is now engaged.&lt;br /&gt;This was relayed to me because his F&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;acebook&lt;/span&gt; had sent out a request, asking his friends to give him money so he can take his bride to be on a three week honeymoon in Florida. Apparently he knows that God wants him to have a three week honeymoon. I wonder if three weeks of romping around in the sunny south on someone's charity is what God intended the 10% of our earnings to go towards.*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"If everyone I knew just sent me 20 dollars, I'd have more than enough money to go on vacation for three weeks! If everyone I knew sent me a little bit more, think of what we could do together!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ten dollars he was coveting the fuzzy pink handcuffs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck was I thinking becoming a Pastry Chef?&lt;br /&gt;Its clear that all the money is in the church and now that the guilt of God's love is &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;evidently&lt;/span&gt; paying for my Brother to get his cherry popped, the only question I have left is:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where do I sign up?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*It was later made evident to Allen that asking his brothers and sisters in Christ to send him money so he can fuck was not appropriate. He asked everyone to kindly disregard his request.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-703484350333112045?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/703484350333112045/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=703484350333112045' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/703484350333112045'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/703484350333112045'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/07/sour-cherries.html' title='Sour Cherries.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-1744568277199581524</id><published>2008-04-24T19:18:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-24T19:36:20.266-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Social Skills of a Peanut.</title><content type='html'>I never thought I would meet a true Racist.&lt;br /&gt;Of course there are days where your friends make some slight about another colour which sort of puts you on edge, but you know they're joking because they're your friends. Sometimes we just say shit without thinking - It happens to the best of us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But lately the comments that have fallen out of my co-worker's mouth have just been over the top. I think it started when he said, 'All black people smell funny."&lt;br /&gt;I wasn't sure at first if I actually heard it correctly, or if I missed a part of a really bad joke, or if he was just being a distasteful 20 something year old, so I let it slide. When he started to say things about Asian people, and then Indians it was fairly obvious that this dude had very little tolerance for anyone but himself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what could I do about it? Tell my employer that he's being a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;douche bag&lt;/span&gt;, hope that he gets fired and go on with my life? Its not always that easy. I'm surprised by how many people at my work place sympathise with him... I'm surprised by how many people think that the shit that comes out of his mouth is funny and I'm mortified that I've actually been ridiculed for thinking differently.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is this small town mentality or are these just small people? Needless to say, I am disturbed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being a young, white girl living in Canada you don't see too much of this crap. I can't say that I really know what it feels like to be discriminated against (except for the one time when I couldn't have a friend because my boobs were to big), and I suppose I am blessed for that reason.&lt;br /&gt;But the other day this guy said something so overtly distasteful the look of shock that usually covers my face while he's yammering away, I'm sure, turned to absolute loathing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said, "I hate women with large appetites, they gross me out. All women should eat low fat wheat thins because eating is for men."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't say anything at the time, but over the next few days my loathing turned into a blaze of absolute hate and I'd like to think that it was justified.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not surprised that this came out of his mouth, I am surprised that a comment like that didn't register as something &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;inexcusable&lt;/span&gt; or possibly damaging to any females, let alone ones with extra weight. I was floored and when he followed this comment with another explanation of his feelings about working for a gay man, I literally wanted nothing more than to staple his lips shut with an industrialized gun.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It eventually bothered me so much that I spoke to my employer about it.&lt;br /&gt;The following day there was a rude message waiting for me from this individual that was fairly embarrassing. I don't know what will happen now, he may get fired. I can't say that I'm happy about this, I can't say that I'm sad about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only thing that I am, is completely blown away that such ignorance could exist in a twenty year old in 2008.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-1744568277199581524?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/1744568277199581524/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=1744568277199581524' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1744568277199581524'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1744568277199581524'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/04/social-skills-of-peanut.html' title='Social Skills of a Peanut.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5975458606967509765</id><published>2008-04-10T18:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-10T18:40:46.289-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Missing: Middle Finger &amp; Butter.</title><content type='html'>I cut the side of my God damned middle finger with a mother fucking meat slicer.&lt;br /&gt;When I decide to cut off portions of my body, I don't go small I go HUGE. Why be stupid and endure the agony of a painfully dull knife when you can have a razor sharp, rotating blade slice you cleanly and accurately? Seriously folks, if it wasn't for the intense throbbing and the asinine amount of blood pouring out of my digit, I never would have felt it. Go figure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And just to prove to you all how &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;fecking&lt;/span&gt; tough I am, I wrapped the bastard in a towel, delivered 15 pizzas to small children (while traumatizing them in the process), came back and made a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;hella&lt;/span&gt;-sweet bacon cake. That's right, a bacon cake.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck you convention! I want fatty pig tissue in my desserts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was nice (for once), to work with the Chef.&lt;br /&gt;It was nice (for once), that the Chef actually acknowledged my intelligence and opinion. It was nice (not so much for once, because I generally do have a clue, but for some reason I bumble a lot in this kitchen), to stand there with my brain fully backing me and it was AWESOME to actually have left a positive impression on a man who is so incredibly self-involved that he would barely take notice of a homeless man dancing naked through his kitchen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, we made bacon cake which is (yes, you guessed it... You smart bastard), a cake with bacon fat in it.&lt;br /&gt;Yeah, this probably sounds gross to you, but that's because your culinary knowledge is non-existent. If done right, a bacon cake can taste exactly like a stack of pancakes with a crispy side of bacon. Unfortunately, the chef has yet to master this formula.&lt;br /&gt;So tonight I took it upon myself to perfect a recipe. I failed to accomplish this, but it was still considerably more awesome than the Chef's.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While the cake was very tender, it didn't have the taste that butter provides. It needs more butter. So I unfortunately have to find a way that will allow me to incorporate all the glorious wonder of bacon into a cake that isn't going to put the fat ratio over the top.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm thinking... Crisp up some bacon, throw it in a food processor and make some bacon powder. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Supplement&lt;/span&gt; this for some flour and I'll have a pile of salty-bacon goodness... I wonder if it will work. Either way, it will be fun to experiment with.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Doing this today rekindled the pastry fire under my ass.&lt;br /&gt;I think I need to start doing things outside of bread... I think I need to start creating my own recipes so I can have something to be proud of.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I need to buy some more bacon and change my Hello Kitty &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;band aids&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5975458606967509765?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5975458606967509765/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5975458606967509765' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5975458606967509765'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5975458606967509765'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/04/missing-middle-finger-butter.html' title='Missing: Middle Finger &amp; Butter.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7030688071027019614</id><published>2008-04-01T19:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-01T19:43:21.406-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Missed Phone Call.</title><content type='html'>I really wanted to talk to you tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know you say stuff like, "You can go one day without talking to me, its not the end of the world!" and I generally agree with this, but today for some reason, I just really wanted to talk to you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I'm feeling a bit crap.&lt;br /&gt;There are some days where I feel so ridiculously alone and so unbelievably useless that just seeing a cook on TV struggling in a kitchen pushes me over the edge - probably because I know how he feels - The standing in his shoes sort of thing. Its in those moments when I wonder if being a Chef is something that I should have done. And then I generally just get angry at myself for being a pussy and ultimately just push through it. Its hard to do this sort of thing on your own, esepecially when you see no hope for any change, no consistent stability or peace of mind. I know you know this and all I can really say to you about it is: At least you had your parents support.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I just feel like crawling under a blanket and hiding from everything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I try not to let this side of me come through too much - I don't want this part of me to become an overbearing and uncomfortable constant for you. But you make me feel better and because you're so far away, the emotions tend to come out more than they probably should.&lt;br /&gt;Just a few moments ago I was lying in bed, crying and stroking my hair because I knew that, that is what you would do if you were tangible. One of the things I love about you the most is that you always touch me. For the first time in my life I don't need to seduce someone to be touched, and for the first time ever, a man is touching me in a way that conveys love and not lust. While this makes me disgustingly happy most of the time, knowing that it took 26 years to find that connection, breaks my heart on the bad days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss you so much on the bad days.&lt;br /&gt;I keep telling myself, 'six more months and I can move away. Six more months and I'll be closer to him. Six more months and on the days when I ask him to come over, there's a realistic possibility that he will actually come', and then I look at my empty bankaccount and that, 'dream is dashed' becasue even in six months, while working 61 hours a week, I still will not be making enough money to financially support myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that's when my bad days become terrible days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems like no matter how hard I try, the thing that makes me most happy is completely out of reach. Its pathetic I know and I hope it doesn't make you too pukey, I'm just in love with you and on the bad days, I become a bit more sap-tastic than I ever should be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7030688071027019614?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7030688071027019614/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7030688071027019614' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7030688071027019614'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7030688071027019614'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/04/missed-phone-call.html' title='Missed Phone Call.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-4048377842704587532</id><published>2008-03-11T15:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-03-11T16:18:54.373-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Appropriate Work Conversation.</title><content type='html'>There comes a point in one's life when speaking appropriately to your employer fails to be a priority.  I've discovered that while this doesn't always gain you popularity points with your boss, it does (for a very short period of time), help you justify why exactly you agreed to work for ten fifty an hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today was a day of justification.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The note that follows was left for the Sous Chef of Pizza Land.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Dear Brett,&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I am writing you this note to spare you from the squealing you'd have to endure if I didn't. I apologise for leaving you with a bitch fest first thing in the morning, but sometimes these things can't be avoided.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I suppose I should &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;give you&lt;/span&gt; the benefit of the doubt and actually believe that you were so busy this weekend that pizza dough couldn't be &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;produced&lt;/span&gt; fast enough to keep up with the demand. I suppose this would result in the two large trays of dough left in the fridge... Good thing I made all that dough last week. Apparently the eight hundred asshole feet of snow that the God's dumped on us triggered the pizza craving of the whole Niagara Region - I understand. Please forgive me for assuming that my co-workers may have &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;dropped&lt;/span&gt; the ball regarding pizza production. I'm obviously insane.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;If I would have known that "tortillas" were an acceptable Bread of the Day, I would have saved you huge money in food cost ages ago. Its a good thing they are, 'cause you'll be needing a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;substitute&lt;/span&gt; for the Bread of the Day, today. I wasn't aware that making loaf bread or pizza dough was an optional action... Man am I stupid for thinking our customers would actually want a FRESH product.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;The colour of our starter is indeed, not the most appealing colour ever created. However, the addition of the back and/or green, somewhat fuzzy bits in the bottom and sides of the bucket (in my humble opinion), are not an improvement. I found these today when I scrapped off the (what seemed to be), four inches of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;crust&lt;/span&gt; left over from the weekend. From what I could tell, the starter used today wasn't plagued with the it's new affliction but &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;C'MON&lt;/span&gt;... Ewe.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Again, I apologise for the giant love note... I figure this reminder is needed 1/2 way through.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I suppose cutting back on food cost is a priority right now... It confuses me as to why there seems to be thirty plus loaves of day old bread under the Server's Station. Oh wait! Silly me, someone was just too lazy to throw it out. They must have been really tired or something, 'cause ten of the said loves are the bread that I made on Friday.  I sure hope the servers didn't get confused and serve day old bread to patrons... That would totally suck. Jesus knows I enjoy chewing on a piece of bread that shares the consistency of a blown tire from the side of the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;QEW&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Its a shame that the individual who &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;ordered&lt;/span&gt; the oregano and cheddar loaf will not be able to receive it today. I guess in a pinch, going next door to buy their black olive and herb bread will suffice. Man am I happy that I don't have to see the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;disappointment&lt;/span&gt; and/or possible anger in this valued costumer's face. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;The dish pit this morning looked and smelt like a sewer monster &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;chirped&lt;/span&gt; all over it. While I imagine the people who worked last night don't give a fuck about it, I'm sure the people that work today do. Nothing like the sweet aroma of putrid, rotting food in the morning.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Again, I am sorry.&lt;br /&gt;I do not mean to frustrate or anger you with my constant bitching, but  because these are constant problems that are driving me fucking insane.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I don't care if your staff fucks up pizza land until it implodes, but when they start messing with my stuff I tend to get &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;pissy&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I've been told before that, "It's a good thing you care about the bread here, 'cause no one else does", and at first I laughed it off, but now I actually believe it.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Sincerely,&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Your Useless Employee.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This letter was read not only by two Sous Chef's but also the Chef of the restaurant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have yet to get in trouble for it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-4048377842704587532?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/4048377842704587532/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=4048377842704587532' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4048377842704587532'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4048377842704587532'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/03/appropriate-work-conversation.html' title='Appropriate Work Conversation.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-3808182208299692990</id><published>2008-02-27T19:27:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-27T19:31:52.251-08:00</updated><title type='text'>FleursDuMals.</title><content type='html'>Hello.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was actually surprised to see a girl had stalked me. I don't think that I had read your profile before, only because I think it would have been something to remember. It was quite brilliant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going to make a point and/or confession in this email and I hope you'll read through it to get to it. I apologise for my grammar/spelling/anything else that I blatantly suck at.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I unfortunately (out of boredom), turned on the television this evening only to find the most revolting display of human interaction that I have ever born witness to. I never thought I would ever be in a position to hear two women say to eachother, "If we put our boobs together, our brains will work better", but unfortunately I was and now I feel that I'm less of a person for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It depressed me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I suppose I came online to look for any type of human interaction that would wash such absolute insanity out of my eyes/ears and I do believe I found it in your profile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I literally was on the edge of my seat when you were speaking about ipods and their power to make people brick walls (I recently just purchased one, but have yet to use it, but I promise to do so with tact). I've spent many o'subway ride searching people's faces for the smallest amount of expression while they're plugged in and I suppose over time, I've become absolutely desperate for people to emote and because I can't find it, feel a tad ashamed of the ability to do so.&lt;br /&gt;I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I am terrified that people have lost the ability to talk to eachother. I can't believe that conversation has been reduced to, "What's up" and "cool", and I find it completely unacceptable that people don't know where to go beyond that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It scares me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Perhaps I am being a tad overbearing or perhaps I'm not hitting the same mark. Either way, your rant made something in my head think that you may understand me and so I took a chance, wrote this really long email and can only hope that you'll think the same.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will admit to you that I don't usually get along with women. I find them to be very empty, very crude and extremely dull. There are very few females that I consider friends, but the ones I do are the most extraodinary people I have ever met. I suppose I see some of them in you and so I am naturally curious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope I'm not coming across as a complete wacko. I'm good for that sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, its late and I am sick. I hope to hear a response.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was a pleasure reading you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-3808182208299692990?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/3808182208299692990/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=3808182208299692990' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/3808182208299692990'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/3808182208299692990'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/02/fleursdumals.html' title='FleursDuMals.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-1101570664065219603</id><published>2008-02-20T19:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-20T19:42:40.139-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Finger Lickin' Good.</title><content type='html'>I was watching American Idol last night (I am not ashamed), and during the commercial break this over-the-top KFC family commercial came on and by the end of it I felt myself sighing lightly and thinking, 'I want that.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I almost fell over.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How did this ridiculous grease-filled commercial cause this hard bitch of a woman to crack? I bet it was the gravy. KFC has some good gravy...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seeing a happy family cuddled on the couch to spend time together made my insides ache and for the first time EVER, I felt the need to become a mother.&lt;br /&gt;I don't think my biological clock has kicken in. The idea of children still scares the snot out of me. I may have become one of the simple-minded North American public that have boughten into the idea that Friday night needs to be spent with a giant bucket of clogging artery goodness (OH, and family too), or maybe I've finally met someone that I actually want to spend the rest of my life with and the idea of having a family seems like a tangible one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel vulnerable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to marry him tomorrow. I know he'll read this, but I don't know how he'll react. He may be happy, he may be scared... Maybe he'll just want some KFC.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder when our butterflies are going to run out. And I wonder how he'll react when the happy glow of new love fizzles out of his head. Will he leave? Will he run back to his office, back to his solidarity to find someone else to become infatuated with? Will he smile at me contently, realising that what he found in me is enough and then settle himself down infront of the TV to watch the free Blockbuster rental that came with the KFC Family Meal Deal? I don't know, but I am both terrified and in love with the possibilities.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-1101570664065219603?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/1101570664065219603/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=1101570664065219603' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1101570664065219603'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1101570664065219603'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/02/finger-lickin-good.html' title='Finger Lickin&apos; Good.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2322708264137288101</id><published>2008-02-02T15:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-02-02T17:02:22.820-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Stupid Men.</title><content type='html'>I'm not sure if you've ever experienced it and I don't think that you'll ever want to if you haven't, but staying in the home of an ex boyfriend, when you are in love with somebody else is an incredibly awkward experience.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You begin to notice the little things that ended the relationship.&lt;br /&gt;The socks in the corner of the bathroom, the paper receipts from the bankmachine strewn all over the kitchen table - or the masturbation box of kleenex perched beside the computer... The man who asks you to buy fifty-four dollars worth of beer because he can't go one night without a drink. Being put on hold while he shoots the shit with his friends while my tires spin in a snowbank. Ah yes, the memories.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's when the shiver runs down your spine. The destructive power of the cold acknowledgment that you dated someone who was completely incompatible leaves you feeling a bit ill, a bit used and really fucking grossed out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I really let that thing stick his dick in me? Ugh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't think I'll ever understand how men could have this huge need to be with a women, but still manage to do all the right things to make women never want them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A man that I met over the internet has been asking me to meet him for almost 1/2 a year now. I've never lead him on, never gave him any promises of a meeting other than, "maybe I can meet up with you over the weekend", but fortunately, never managed to find the time to do so.&lt;br /&gt;This weekend the question came up again and I reluctantly said, "Maybe I'll be able to do something on Saturday night." By the time work was over, all I wanted to do was sit at home and stew in the glorious sense of nothingness, so I sent him a message on msn saying that tonight wasn't going to work and that perhaps we could do it another time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He freaked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently I'm not a good friend. Apparently I'm a liar and I lead him on for the better part of six months. Apparently his intentions were to not sleep with me &lt;em&gt;tonight&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yup, I think I made the right decision.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To be fair I never really felt right about meeting him ever since I met Bryce. I didn't think it was fair to him and so I guess for the past two months I never had an intention of meeting him, but that still doesn't make me a tease.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Men are fucking stupid.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2322708264137288101?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2322708264137288101/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2322708264137288101' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2322708264137288101'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2322708264137288101'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/02/stupid-men.html' title='Stupid Men.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5247711321627974049</id><published>2008-01-10T19:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-01-10T20:11:50.975-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mr. Frog Feet.</title><content type='html'>I've spent the last two weeks drifting inbetween Toronto and Ridgeway in a blue Kia snowstorm. Its been awesome.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I note that I am happy and I think that everyone else that cares to pay the slightest bit of attention to me knows this as well. They can see it in my face and oddly, in my hair (which is currently burning away at a vibrant shade of red with a slight undertone of orange), my eyes and posture. For the first time EVER, I am comfortable enough to exist honestly with the person I have chosen to keep beside me intentionally and it has left me an inarticulate ass clown. Isn't he cute?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;When I met Bryce I told myself, "I am not going to sleep with this guy, he's a total tard." And of course I did and so the next logical conclusion was: It will only last the weekend, he's a total tard. That was when I started to realise that the total tard brought out the silly girl in me that had been lost since she stopped believing in the Little Mermaid and suddenly I've bursted into existence as this creative and cream-filled individual that wants to do everything, taste everything, create everything. My mind feels all topsy-turvey and its simply because I found someone that can see a typeface and understand why its terrible... Who can take constructive commentary and say thank you after... Who wrinkles up his face after we've had sex and pretends to be Igor in a disturbingly strange and scary way and still, SOMEHOW, makes me want to have sex wi&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/R4bkCKGXYPI/AAAAAAAAAIM/8_au0WrqSc4/s1600-h/bryce.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;th him again.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Oh sigh, I think I am falling.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today I was walking through Wal*Mart and I saw a giant plush frog with gangly legs hanging off the shelf whom owned a giant kiss on its cheek. I was so tempted to buy it for him, but I bought a pot so I could make him soup instead. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Making soup for him makes me happy. He makes me happy. I hope I do the same for him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5247711321627974049?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5247711321627974049/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5247711321627974049' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5247711321627974049'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5247711321627974049'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2008/01/mr-frog-feet.html' title='Mr. Frog Feet.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-1608543084210516853</id><published>2007-12-25T16:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-25T16:34:31.253-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Vagina.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/R3GhGaGXYOI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ntnDPdmbl0s/s1600-h/penny_arcade_ariel.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5148072980518494434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/R3GhGaGXYOI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ntnDPdmbl0s/s400/penny_arcade_ariel.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-1608543084210516853?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/1608543084210516853/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=1608543084210516853' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1608543084210516853'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/1608543084210516853'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/12/vagina.html' title='Vagina.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/R3GhGaGXYOI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ntnDPdmbl0s/s72-c/penny_arcade_ariel.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-3577283599065778156</id><published>2007-12-24T17:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-24T18:34:41.511-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Nightmare Before Christmas.</title><content type='html'>Perhaps it was the anticipation of being able to sleep in that caused me the oh-so-fucked up dream. It was more likely the ridiculous amounts of sugar cookies consumed coupled with the paint fumes from the christmas ornmanets I was attempting to decorate. Yup. That was probably it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What I remember is sitting on the Toronto subway, in full elven getup marvelling at the strange men in the orange jumpers who were leaping onto the back of the train as we moved down the tracks at ridiculously fast speeds. I couldn't figure out what these strange men were doing until I randomly caught a glimpse of the tracks. Apparently the insanely high winds that had been daunting the city had blown a shitload of craft paper all over the tracks and so their purpose was, to pick up that paper.&lt;br /&gt;There was some sort of conversation exchanged between myself and my companions. I didn't know who they were, or why we were on the subway in full LOTR costumes, but this was apparently quite normal and so, I rolled with it.&lt;br /&gt;The men in the orange jumpers left the train at the next stop (I think it was Chester) and continued to speedily remove all the debris from the tracks. One of them died. Risky business, this paper picking.&lt;br /&gt;It became quite clear to me when we got off the subway that we were on some sort of mission. My company consisted of a giant (In Hagred proportions), a white horse and some strange boy with striking childlike features, we were an odd group. Eventually the giant and I had a falling out and so he joined the ranks of the bad dudes, and so we began to run. This part is a bit of a haze.&lt;br /&gt;The forest that we came to was more of a giant Wal*Mart. The paths consisted of the isles and the trees changed depending on the department you were currently residing. We walked up and down the paths and eventually befriended some weird looking creature that had a giant hooked nose for a face. He literally looked like the back of a hammer, but without the divide between the two pieces of metal. He was smooth and wet, the way a whale would appear and he had black beady eyes. He was all together rather scary looking, but he guided us through the maze of weirdness and so all was well.&lt;br /&gt;When we realised that the giant was chasing us, I stupidly assumed we would find shelter from his eyes under a purple shrub that was rather sparse. We were obviously found, and then the most stunning part of the dream occured. The giant picked up the hammerhead and began to squeeze his face into his bellybutton. The hammerhead didn't scream, didn't flinch, didn't do much of anything, he just let it happen - Almost like he knew that it was his destiny. The giant laughed, his belly began to shake and then like watching a damn crack open, spurts of blood began to bust through his stomach. He kept laughing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That was when I woke up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dinner at my mum's side of the family was this evening. I wish I could recall the terribly painful jibber-jabber that flowed through the course of supper, but I think my head broke half way through the night.&lt;br /&gt;I remember my Uncle Mike saying, "Patrick O' Patrick" at least nine times when my cousin introduced her boyfriend to us all. He also had a conversation with the perogies and told a terrible joke about a "Queer" who had wheels on his boat. It went something like this:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Queer: Hey Steve, I have wheels on my boat?&lt;br /&gt;Steve: You do? Really? Where?&lt;br /&gt;Queer: Just down there Steve... Can't you see them?&lt;br /&gt;Steve: Down here?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And at this point in the joke Steve bends over to look at the wheels and the Queer sticks his penis in his bum.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;HA ha ha ... ha&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was also some terrible home made wine that smelt so repulsive that it burned the inside of my nose from across the table, Jell-o that had actually melted onto the tablecloth and a lot of salty ham.&lt;br /&gt;My mum at one point told everyone about my new boyfriend, and how he did all the animation for the Red Green Show. It then occured to me that he needs to come to my Christmas dinners for artistic inspiration. He could make a lot of money off of my crackpot relatives.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Christmas just isn't the same anymore.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-3577283599065778156?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/3577283599065778156/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=3577283599065778156' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/3577283599065778156'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/3577283599065778156'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/12/nightmare-before-christmas.html' title='The Nightmare Before Christmas.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-9155731529741727406</id><published>2007-11-30T17:59:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-30T18:00:12.568-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Caught By The Window.</title><content type='html'>So I was driving home today and I looked up at the sky and the stars were so pretty that I smiled like an absolute baboon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think it was the mixture of stars, good music, and driving a car that has four working tires that made me so gleeful.&lt;br /&gt;I thought of you just then, about how it would be nice if you were sitting beside me so I could say to you, "Aren't the stars pretty?" And you could look at them and take the same simple pleasure in a sky full of twinkling lights because I think you would like that, and I would smile even more because you would smile and then everything would be awesome.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-9155731529741727406?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/9155731529741727406/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=9155731529741727406' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/9155731529741727406'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/9155731529741727406'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/11/caught-by-window.html' title='Caught By The Window.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-9016863819247068257</id><published>2007-11-19T12:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-19T12:21:31.920-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Inside Out.</title><content type='html'>I would just like you to know that I am simply infatuated with you. Completely and utterly in awe of you in every way. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its disgusting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of the girls came into work today and asked me how I was doing and I said, "I'm fantastic." And she said, "Did you have a date this weekend?" And I said, "I sure did." And she just giggled at me, as it was very obvious that I was very, very happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But back in reality I am trying desperately hard to remain a civil and respectful young woman who doesn't push her excellent friend Bryce into a weird feeling. Its hard for me to feel unattatched to you and the more time I spend with you - talking to you, touching you - its becoming increasingly difficult.&lt;br /&gt;I think maybe the best way to describe how I'm feeling is to turn your jellybean song around and bestow it upon you. I know that you're not liking another girl to be mean, and please don't feel like I'm trying to make you feel bad about it.&lt;br /&gt;I suppose I'm just trying to acknowledge subtly that I'm taken with you and trying to be indifferent to that feeling is turning me inside out. Being with you is like getting a really awesome birthday present only to be told that you have to give it back after you played with it for a couple hours. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I'm being pulled in two different directions: The Anna that wants to want you and the Anna that is constantly slapping me across the face for being so stupid with my emotions.&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why you make me defenceless - I would never let a man do this to me. Its scary that I let someone do this to me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am a ball of emotional turmoil. Who needs birthcontrol to make me loopy when I have you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You gave me so many good feelings this weekend. I don't know why you like me, and I wish I could feel some sense of false security in the idea of it, but I don't. I'm troubled by it and I think its beginning to make my head a bit confused. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How long does it take to know if you like someone enough to date them? I'm not quite good with this whole being social with lots of partners stuff and so I'm not entirely sure of the rules. I'm sure you share the same problem.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So yeah, I guess what I'm saying is that I should probably stop doing what we're doing because its harder than I thought it would be. I've never liked anyone as much as I've liked you and its beginning to be a bit overwhelming, a bit too scary and a lot of difficult. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I keep telling my head that I should know better, but when I try to summarize our relationship, all I can think is that you're indifferent to it. I know that's not the case, but sometimes its hard to wrap my head around situations that are anything but ordinary.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Please don't view this as me being dramatic. I really wish that I was as tough as I say I am, 'cause this would probably be a lot easier.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-9016863819247068257?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/9016863819247068257/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=9016863819247068257' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/9016863819247068257'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/9016863819247068257'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/11/inside-out.html' title='Inside Out.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-581134116665650113</id><published>2007-11-14T19:50:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-14T20:22:43.906-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Six Strings.</title><content type='html'>"Whatever happened to the asexual girl that I was chatting with?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a certain sense of, "Que es le fuck?" flowing through my body right now.&lt;br /&gt;This sense can only be described as the shivers that run down your back when you listen to an incredible song, paired with the fuzzy feeling you get when you think of someone unbelievable. Its like rocking on the brink of half sleep and awake.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-581134116665650113?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/581134116665650113/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=581134116665650113' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/581134116665650113'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/581134116665650113'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/11/six-strings.html' title='Six Strings.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-4577194173299701948</id><published>2007-11-07T19:08:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-11-07T19:09:39.020-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I Promise Not To Be So Mean, If You Call Me Your Jellybean.</title><content type='html'>Oh Mr. Hallett.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Walking upstairs to find that you had yet again, sent me another email *while* we were talking on the phone made me smile with so much glee I almost made myself puke.&lt;br /&gt;Its nice to know that someone's thinking of you throughout the day - It makes me wish that I had an office job so I could send you the same kindness. Its sort of hard to send messages through baked goods.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I think about you a lot.&lt;br /&gt;I almost got a little scared when you said in your email that you were going out this evening. Not that I don't want you to go out and do fun things, but I genuinely look forward to coming home to talk to you after a long day of baking. I almost never want to meet so that this happy place that we've found in eachother's verbal company can last. I can't imagine what would happen if I came home to this every day. I think I'd be the happiest person on the planet.&lt;br /&gt;Is it kosher for me to say something like that this early on? What I'm trying to say is that I can't imagine being anymore happier than I am now. My life over the past three weeks has been ridiculously stressful and then all of a sudden you walked into it and I haven't had a negative thought, a worry about money, a panic attack over stupid crap... I'm just happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wow. This song only took six minutes to download.&lt;br /&gt;I'm incredibly partial to this song for a lot of reasons, mostly because you sent it to me. I'm not sure if it was because I picked it up in the background or because you wanted me to hear the lyrics. I find it strangely odd that I can find some sort of semi-relative commonality in this song for you and I.&lt;br /&gt;A song in November (Hey look, its November), a Boston Cream is a pastry (It's actually one of North America's only original pies. Yay for useless information!). I have no money and hell, I don't know where it went. I love olives, I'm half asleep when I talk to you (and more than likely half make believe), and really, I'm just mean. No seriously. Grrr.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, I love this song. I've already listened to it ten times. I think it will always remind me of you. Thank you for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I've told you that I'm fairly unsociable, and cruel, and tough, but I don't think you'll ever truely understand how much.&lt;br /&gt;I'm actually really surprised that I am the way I am with you. Its like you've somehow unearthed the girl in me that has been hiding for five years. When I'm speaking to you, you let me be the person that I want to be, but can't be around other people. It scares me a little, only because I don't know how to hit the stop button. I'm completely defenceless to you and I'm still trying to wrap my mind around how that exactly happened.&lt;br /&gt;I hope this little confession doesn't trouble you much. I'm not entirely sure how to tell a person that they are absolutely stunning in every way possible without sounding like a complete retard. You've left me a bit inarticulate, a bit fuzzy, a lot happy and whatever happens between you and me, knowing that someone out there was able to "free" the person in me - the person that is still good, kind, gentle and caring allows me to put some sort of faith back into a race of people that I could never relate to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope you don't mind a young girl having a massive crush on you. Its terribly pathetic, but I like it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also hope that you had fun tonight... shooting pool? I'm sure it was good times none-the-less.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now though, I am going to go tie little bows onto home-made dog buscuits and then hug my pillow and pretend that its your chest... And then probably drool on it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm only twenty-five. I'm still allowed to act out foolishly, fourteen-year-old romance (I practiced kissing my hand in the shower).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have a sweet sleep Bryce.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;xo.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-4577194173299701948?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/4577194173299701948/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=4577194173299701948' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4577194173299701948'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4577194173299701948'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/11/i-promise-not-to-be-so-mean-if-you-call.html' title='I Promise Not To Be So Mean, If You Call Me Your Jellybean.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-4451525885618092939</id><published>2007-10-31T21:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-31T22:00:06.886-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Rest.</title><content type='html'>October this year blew.&lt;br /&gt;And it sucks that it blew because October is my favourite month out of the whole year and up until now, I've only got to experience it twenty-five times. God damn it eh? Doesn't it always seem like you experience more than you actually have? Twenty-five really isn't that big of a number.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My time at Willow came to an abrupt ending when I took the bread shift.&lt;br /&gt;At first I thought that everything would be cool: Work nights, get raise, do bread - there really wasn't that many cons to the job. When I realised that the amount of work they wanted completed was absolutely asinine, added to the fact that no one would give me the help I needed, I sort of had a mental break down, so I quit.&lt;br /&gt;My last week at Willow was one of complete and utter hell. Working in an all woman kitchen is quite possibly the most disgusting environment I have ever been in. I will never reccomend that kitchen to anyone because of that fact alone. Add in that there are no sanitation guidelines, dirty fridges, moldy fruit and terrible management and it could easily be said that the kitchen at Willow would have made Gordon Ramsey shoot himself in the face. I shit you not.&lt;br /&gt;When I told Cathy about my concerns and my desire to leave, she told me that if I applied where I wanted to, she'd make sure that the owner knew about all of my bad habits. Nice threat, way to break the law.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I left anyway. I applied to where I wanted and I got hired. I have an apprenticeship now. I make more money. I don't have to do a crapload of work and I *will* get paid for the hours that I work. Holy cow, its like having a real job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was hard for me at Willow, to function in a world of bullshit and drama 24/7.&lt;br /&gt;I've never felt so tiny, so insecure and so broken. My ambition, my passion was completely gone... Now that I'm in a new kitchen, I slowly see it coming back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It took me a month to find the courage in myself to tell Cathy to go fuck herself. When I walked out of the kitchen for the last time, I felt as light as a marshmallow. Everything just went away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never want anyone to feel the way I did. I never want anyone to feel pressured by bills and social standards... I want people to remove themselves from shitty situations because its the right thing to do.&lt;br /&gt;I learned from this whole mess that you should never let anyone treat you like you're nothing. Walk away from it, maintain your dignity and don't worry about the bills. If you look, you will find a means to an end and you will be happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will never be made to feel unhappy in a workplace ever again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No one fucks with the diddums.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-4451525885618092939?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/4451525885618092939/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=4451525885618092939' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4451525885618092939'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/4451525885618092939'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/10/rest.html' title='Rest.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5423073161134291701</id><published>2007-10-11T08:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-10-11T08:44:49.968-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Gone.</title><content type='html'>I had the most remarkable feeling today.&lt;br /&gt;It reminded me of the time that I accidentally slept through one of my Art History exams. It was the undeniable pang of panic. Oddly enough, I handled it quite nicely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He told me a few weeks back that he might leave, but I didn't believe him. That's when I said my goodbye, but I never fully believed that I would never see him again. I thought I would always know where to find him. Today, when I realised he was gone, I felt like someone had hit my chest with a baseball bat. The feeling left from that blow literally squeezed through my heart and lungs until it plunged out of my eyes. I just put my head down and got back in my car.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ray made it better though.&lt;br /&gt;Its interesting, to have someone that you felt so deeply about (for all the wrong reasons), leave you without any trace. Its such a bizarre notion to think that someone you had a relationship with (a relationship that ended because it had to, not because it was wanted), is just randomly floating around somewhere. Usually people phase out of my life after leaving the most horrid of impressions. This man however, will be forever hallowed. Its some fucked up shit.&lt;br /&gt;What would happen if I did see him again? Would we smile, would we pick up where we left off? Would we stare at eachother for a moment and then turn in the other direction? Even now, after only knowing for a couple hours, whenever I hear the sound of dangling keys, my head turns just to make sure it isn't him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its a new level of pathetic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suppose if I really wanted to I could find him. But I enjoy the mystery of this, the not knowing and the romance of a love lost.&lt;br /&gt;It doesn't hurt so much now. If anything, its just given me the justification to be a sentimental, goth idiot that laments over stupid shit that doesn't matter. Its like a return to my teenage years through the traumatic loss of young love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My heart really is black.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5423073161134291701?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5423073161134291701/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5423073161134291701' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5423073161134291701'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5423073161134291701'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/10/gone.html' title='Gone.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-614738643820062459</id><published>2007-09-02T23:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-09-02T23:59:30.913-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Burning.</title><content type='html'>If being good or bad is determined by the weight of our actions, then I am simply a bad person.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I knew why I kept coming back to you.&lt;br /&gt;I thought for the longest time that you and I were finished and that, that flicker in the core of my body had been extinguished. I realise now that it was just ignored as its burning me from the inside out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How can I possibly explain to you what all of this has done? There have been so many intentions that have fallen short over the past year, intentions that I wish I could have kept. There has been so much frustration, confusion, tears and heartache - there are days where I wish I never would have met you.&lt;br /&gt;I never told you because I always planned to walk away before you'd ever grasp these feelings of mine. I never told you because I didn't want you to walk away from me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God, how I wish I could have kissed you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love was explained to me in such a blunt and terribly plain way recently that for the first time, in a long time I remembered what it felt like to emote.&lt;br /&gt;The shock of coupling the conclusion with the contents of my head and heart have left me utterly useless. Realising that I hold some sort of affection for you has left me utterly baffled. The indifference to me, has left me completely torn.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I suppose in the end, I don't want to be a girl that is in love with a married man.&lt;br /&gt;I don't want to be this cumdumpster anymore, I don't want to believe that you honestly think I deserve better than this. That "this relationship" warrants more than dirty blowjobs and mindless sex.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is nothing in you for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But that flame, its burning and I feel like its going to consume me every minute of every day. You haunt me and I find myself altering my life so that there will be a space for us, even if it is only for dirty blowjobs and mindless sex.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You've broken me and oddly enough, I'm thankful for it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-614738643820062459?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/614738643820062459/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=614738643820062459' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/614738643820062459'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/614738643820062459'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/09/burning.html' title='Burning.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7628003154445961133</id><published>2007-08-27T22:04:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2007-08-27T23:07:43.993-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Reason.</title><content type='html'>Two weeks ago I was standing in the kitchen chopping herbs and the world left me.&lt;br /&gt;For five minutes I was not here, nor there or anywhere. I was in a bubble, a dimension completely void of other human life, sound or thought. I was standing at a table, with a giant fucking knife in my hand, chopping up plants and I was completely alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm lucky I didn't cut off my hand. I'm lucky enough to not have jumped off the edge of a nervous breakdown.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why it hit now.&lt;br /&gt;Ever since highschool I've been searching for an identity that was stolen from me when I realised God wasn't reasonable. There were pockets of friendships that kept me content because I blended in with something else, and I suppose that's what kept my feet firmly planted. These days, there really isn't anything to keep me grounded because I do not fit in with anything or anyone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There have been instances of religious debates over the past few weeks that have spun me so tight that whenever someone mentions the name of God or Science, I want nothing but to crawl away from what I see now as nothing but filthy and mindwarping conversation.&lt;br /&gt;I've listened to Ian express his new politics in regards to science. I've watched Mr. Dawkins' BBC documentaries on thinking with reason and logic and the only thing that I've concluded from these lectures is that Science and God are exactly the same thing.*&lt;br /&gt;I used to think that my sister was clever for getting herself involved in all of this biomechanics mumbo-jumbo that's been floating around her ever since her third year of Univeristy. Now all I see it as is a new way to find meaning to a life that is otherwise worthless.  Be it Science or God, they serve the same purpose: To comfort our ridiculous little minds.&lt;br /&gt;I listen to Ian preach his new religion and I see the elation in his eyes at the mention of Dr. Dawkins and my sympathies run short because he is just as pathetic as any other soul that is searching for a reason to exist.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This hurts me because I've lost the drive to search for that reason. It bothers me because both sides are trying to convince the other that they're (when it all boils down to it), really fucking stupid. I find it incredibly disturbing that someone has made that goal, their life's work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dawkins is a very brilliant man. I don't disagree with his his desire to inspire people to stop being bambozooled by religions that are doing nothing but robbing us of our ability to think rationally.  But I wonder if that by doing so he's somehow managed to convince a group of people to follow his scripture and I suppose the only reason as to why it's right is because it is tangible thought.&lt;br /&gt;I imagine that if he ever read this he'd be able to prove my rant completely wrong because he is simply smarter than me. All I know is that now, after comparing Ian to a Jesus Freak, I see no difference. Just the same man, shouting a law to live by on the corner of the street, struggling to find a definition for this life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I suppose that I do agree with this Science only because I lack the ability to put faith in someone or something these days. Probably because I've lost my desire to love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So Science, I ask you this:  Why does the right combination of notes in a song split me open? Is a chemical imbalance so strong that it causes me to cry to the point of driving off the road in the middle of the night just because Ben hit a sweet chord? Are you resopnsible for the OCD that is preventing me from actually enjoying other people? Is it you that is  causing my depression? And if you are, then why are you worth looking at with reason? Because from where I am standing, you are completely unreasonable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;*I do not justify crazy scumbags robbing people of their dignity and money.  I share the same disdain for God as I do for Science. Science however is just fresh in my head at the moment.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7628003154445961133?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7628003154445961133/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7628003154445961133' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7628003154445961133'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7628003154445961133'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/08/reason.html' title='Reason.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-724743565132560373</id><published>2007-07-11T20:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-07-11T21:28:07.323-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I Still Don't Know What Love Means.</title><content type='html'>There is music that I ache to listen to and in times like these, I justify spending ten dollars to listen to a disc in my car. Night winds, stars and a melody that hits you square in the chest are better than anything I've ever experienced. I miss music sometimes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm coming to grips with what I am.&lt;br /&gt;I was told yesterday that I was in a constant state of turmoil. I realised today that its the hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me. I am tired of this life and man is it dumbfounding to realise you are what you never wanted to be. An artist. A tyrant. A tease. A constant understanding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are times when I just want to let go of everything. I don't want the words, "You always know what I mean", to hurt this much. I don't want to be able to relate to someone who accepts the fact that they're prepared to be alone for the rest of their life. How have I managed to convince myself that the rest of the world is the problem?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last year in this moment I would be sitting on my bed, clutching the sheets, trying not to get snot stains on my pillows.  In this moment, the pain of being alone would be savaging every ounce of strength and logic in my mind and body and I would be on the phone, dialing a number, trying to reach out to someone so they could make it ok.&lt;br /&gt;Today, the realistation of being alone doesn't even register. I'm aware of it, but I've somehow become ok with its existance and somehow I've realised that I always feel this way. Empty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know what love is.&lt;br /&gt;I want someone to look at me and I want my presence to be enough to wake them up. I want someone to adore me - to cherish me. I want fingers to run down my back and I want that touch to spread flames through my entire entity, but I don't think that will ever happen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night someone touched my face and it ignited something in me that wasn't fear.&lt;br /&gt;I explained to him that I was trying to do things right because feeling this way wasn't cutting the mustard and I was at a loss of what to do next. But the way his hand felt on my face was the closest I've ever come to understanding love. I felt the sincerity. I felt the concern. I felt the desire, I felt the admiration, I felt his smile and I felt his warmth. I felt that flame.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know how to fix things anymore.&lt;br /&gt;I'm scared for you and I want to make things wonderful - You deserve that feeling. I want you to move on from the disease that's been consuming you for all these years. I want you to forget the pain that love has caused and I want you to embrace the the good stuff that floats around you effortlessly. YOU are cared for. YOU are cherished. YOU are loved.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I'm telling you this because I want you to move on from all these expectations and ideas you have in your head. I want you to experience tomorrow without thinking about yesterday and I want you to look at me and know that I love you just the way you are because there is NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU and even if there was, I would love it just the same.&lt;br /&gt;Nothing you say or do will ever change the fact that I admire and adore you. I'm sorry you feel stiffled and perhaps a little naive, but its part of the charm that comes along with the whole package.  You are an amazing individual, something that I will probably never know again and I wish that I could fall for you, but it seems that we're not giving the concept the time that it deserves.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't been near you for a day and I already miss you.  I miss you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope this isn't too cryptic. I'm full of medication and sleep and I'm sure its difficult to read between kerning? Or is it leading? Meh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will call you later tonight. My ambition to be an adventurous night-hawk has failed me.  I do hope you're home.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-724743565132560373?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/724743565132560373/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=724743565132560373' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/724743565132560373'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/724743565132560373'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/07/i-still-dont-know-what-love-means.html' title='I Still Don&apos;t Know What Love Means.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-8654417790091822853</id><published>2007-06-26T18:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-06-26T18:25:40.571-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Empty.</title><content type='html'>I'm not ready.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I forgot what it was like to exit a relationship. That sense of freedom and availability only lasts as long as you can keep someone new from whispering something sweet in your ear. All those emotions of guilt, of faith, of familiar touches and comforting voices bursts back in and you just realise, you're not fucking ready.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't feel anything anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My ability to be in love, my desire to be close to someone and to understand the depths of their personality and soul is non-existent. I don't know how long its been missing, but I imagine having my hair pulled until it gives me headaches, or being slapped across the face while someone is getting off on me is the emotional substitute.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But sex doesn't even interest me anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew told my sister a week ago that he didn't feel anything anymore. I thought at the time that it was harsh, but after being placed in a situation where feelings were being provoked, I realised that I'm not that far behind him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-8654417790091822853?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/8654417790091822853/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=8654417790091822853' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8654417790091822853'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8654417790091822853'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/06/empty.html' title='Empty.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2012410141195912978</id><published>2007-06-14T21:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-06-14T21:48:51.229-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Its Go Time.</title><content type='html'>Its the forty-five minute car ride home every day that makes my life ok to live. If it wasn't for that seemingly short and expensive block of space that allowed me to sit and listen to some good tunes and just chill the fuck out, I wouldn't be able to do this. I need to come down, y'know what I mean?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I knew that life in a kitchen was going to be crazy, but I didn't account for OCD Anna to have a little bit of a mental breakdown each time an annoying quirk of a co-worker got in the way of doing my job well.&lt;br /&gt;The 12 hour shifts I can handle. The deadlines, I can deal with. The ridiculous nature of existing in a kitchen with 15 other nose-poking females is alright. Realising that I don't have enough ingredients to make the 300 hundred individual desserts for the following day is no big deal.&lt;br /&gt;Its having to depend on other people that's killing me. Having to wait on other people - Watching the lack of care and passion or the blatant disregard for ethics and sanitary codes... Its making my skin crawl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I am trying.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Between my graduation speaker and a 32 year-old Graphic Designer/Chef, my passion has been rekindled.&lt;br /&gt;Here are two examples, two different men standing infront of me, telling me what they loved and no matter what was said, negative or positive, I could see the love for it and I in turn, fell in love with it all over again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I am tired. There is no time to stop anymore and I'm slowly beginning to realise that I was never meant to stop.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2012410141195912978?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2012410141195912978/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2012410141195912978' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2012410141195912978'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2012410141195912978'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/06/its-go-time.html' title='Its Go Time.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-8978575788733942400</id><published>2007-05-19T14:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-30T21:20:20.551-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Boys.</title><content type='html'>I've done some travelling lately and its welcomed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought I would give myself a break after school and before work. Thought I'd take a greyhound somewhere just to break the routine, be different and enjoy all this space that is swimming around me constantly. So I did, and the boys I've met have been experiences like none other.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'll remember the bridge between April and May 2007 as, "The Time of The Boy." Yes, I like that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ottawa meant too much time spent on a bus, but it was worth it, I think.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My time spent in Ottawa wasn't terribly overwhelming. I didn't see the Parliament buildings or the flamming fountain infront of them... There was no time spent in the casino (Their minature racetrack was very tempting though), and the only conversation of hockey was when I asked if it would have been appropriate to wear a Leaf's jersey in the city (Oddly enough the answer was: Only if you want to get stabbed with a hockey skate). I did have Poutine and I did laugh at the ridiculous state of Hull, but that was really all that happened.&lt;br /&gt;Meeting Stephane was terribly calm. I was nervous while standing in the bus terminal, but after getting in his car, the butterflies had gone.&lt;br /&gt;Stephane is an interesting man. He has the mentality and the motivation of a genius: He's the King of Procrastination. While living with Steph over my three days in Ottawa, the highlight of the trip was going to a bakery down the street from his house. It was the closest I've ever gotten to eating, "Real French" pastry and I relished the moment, even though it was terribly underwhelming and French Canadian.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The internet creates strange expectations.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't regret meeting Steph. What I do regret is investing so much time and interest in someone who isn't capable of returning the favour, even if its only halfassed. There's a special concern that I will always have for him, even if its not warranted. He's an amazing individual, he's just a selfcentered and emotionless one right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Meeting Scott wasn't so grand.&lt;br /&gt;Ever since talking with Scott on the phone for the first time, the living piss had been scared out of me. I never had an intention of meeting him, but when he plucked my heart strings with the sad, sad tale consisting of, "You came all the way to Ottawa and you're not even going to make the time to meet me for five minutes?", I ended up allowing it - In a very public setting.&lt;br /&gt;Scott only made two sexual refrences, commented negatively on my crocs only once, and attempted to run his finger along my back during the akward silences that were spent sitting on the bench in the bus station.&lt;br /&gt;Scott was weird and while I have no emotional, physical or mental attraction to him, he claims that I have, "hit him like lightening", and for some reason maintains that he has a crush on me.&lt;br /&gt;Scott also claims he's a genius. I unfortunately, don't believe him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then there was Ken.&lt;br /&gt;Ken is my strange, little Hobbit man from Buffalo and I love him.&lt;br /&gt;I didn't want to meet Ken either, but unlike Scott, he turned out to be the most well rounded individual I've met in quite some time.&lt;br /&gt;We met at Tim Hortons, we talked about sketching. He showed me the pictures in his Ipod from the MOMA. We laughed and chortled over how we took the same pictures in the same places. I showed him glorious Fort Erie. He was underwhelmed.&lt;br /&gt;A couple weeks later Ken asked me to come to Buffalo and he took me for an amazing tour of an amazing city. Ken has far too much knowledge packed away in that little head of his and he makes me laugh and if he would have me, I would date him in a second.&lt;br /&gt;Ken's the type of guy that makes normal feel good. There's so much to him that's inspiring and interesting, but he's calm and grounded and entirely too humble. To put it frankly, he knows how to treat the ladies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's a good soul.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Driving to Kitchener is oddly enough, only scary when I think about it now.&lt;br /&gt;Being on the highway that late at night, with no idea where I was, or where I was going, in my grandmother's Saturn, was a bad fucking idea. Yeah sure, I'm fucking insane.&lt;br /&gt;Meeting Mark was one of those, "This is going to be a fun story to tell my children one day". Its the closest I'll ever get to being a free spirit; its the closest I'll get to doing copious amounts of pot. Its one of those things that will keep me from regretting my youth.&lt;br /&gt;Mark is one of those guys that will always make you feel comfortable no matter who you are, what you're about, or how you look. He's there for the sake of being there and he enjoys every second of making the time for you and that's what makes him so fucking awesome.&lt;br /&gt;Mark's a lucky sonofabitch though. Someone (whom at the ripe age of twenty-three), has yet to step into reality. We spent a good part of the night walking on the golf course across from his house. There was a point where I just wanted to lay on the short grass and look at the stars for the whole night, but it was cold and he made promises of hot chocolate.&lt;br /&gt;Mark was a guy that I could have got caught up in. But he would have been an escape for me, and that's all he could have ever been.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He should be flattered.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-8978575788733942400?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8978575788733942400'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8978575788733942400'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/05/boys.html' title='The Boys.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-496637768092221720</id><published>2007-05-13T22:20:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-05-13T23:04:21.951-07:00</updated><title type='text'>'Cause I Got My Philosophy.</title><content type='html'>Subjective words bother me.&lt;br /&gt;I've noticed lately that its not in my character to be able to hang in the balance of the mysetry of a word that is allowed to have a different meaning whenever its used. For this reason, I could never be an artist.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But its the term philosophy that's been driving a ten foot ice pick in the side of my nogan as of late.&lt;br /&gt;While it isn't subjective, the word itself is just mindnumbingly stupid. Or maybe its the idea around it that makes it so dumb. Or maybe I just don't know what I'm talking about.&lt;br /&gt;When you think about it, the word philosophy should be viewed as a verb rather than a noun. While someone is capable of thinking and speaking the idea, it really only becomes a true philosophy when you act upon it. Actions speak louder than words, you know what I'm on about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or do you?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are a lot of ideas that anyone could get caught up in. And I suppose the most genius of conversations is when two people can sit and discuss the universe, its cosmic winds and the butterflies that float on it, but where's the point?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is no point, unless you create one that is tangible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its sort of like saying you're going to drop twenty pounds and then go to the Avondale for a box of twinkies. Its nice to think about, but when you literally need to back that ass up (metaporically and physically), the philosophy comes up short.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So my point? Its the action man. Doing is better than saying. Duh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been stuck in numerous conversations as of late where people have poked me into being a philosophy major for no good reason whatsoever. Sure, I can get lost in an idea, but at the end of the day, I need shit done and discussing the matter till its bleeding and lying dead on my livingroom floor does not make it ok. AKA: Cleaning up the grey matter doesn't cut the butter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And what do I do now?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing. I keep talking and hope that someone will be kind enough to agree with the idea and then maybe... Maybe we will make sweet, sweet philosophy action and I will be the happiest woman the world has ever seen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-496637768092221720?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/496637768092221720/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=496637768092221720' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/496637768092221720'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/496637768092221720'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/05/cause-i-got-my-philosophy.html' title='&apos;Cause I Got My Philosophy.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7035438879637653615</id><published>2007-04-25T20:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-25T20:55:18.508-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Les Sigh.</title><content type='html'>I worked twelve hours today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;TWELVE hours.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was an interesting day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Hey Alissa."&lt;br /&gt;Boss: "I need you to go to Coffee Time."&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Nice to see you too."&lt;br /&gt;Boss: "We're having a manager's meeting." She shoves a note in my hand.&lt;br /&gt;Me: "What do you want in these coffees?"&lt;br /&gt;Boss: "Uh... Nothing? That's why it just says five coffees."&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Holy shit Alissa, I was just asking. Who's going to be at this meeting?"&lt;br /&gt;Boss: "Uhh... Managers?"&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Really? Shock and surprise."&lt;br /&gt;Boss: "Just get the coffee's Anna."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On my way to the cash, I pick up a stack of papers resting on the desk. The note on it is screaming "HOLD", so I go to put them in the back room. Alissa sees this and angrily states:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Don't put those back there!"&lt;br /&gt;"Uhh.. Why?"&lt;br /&gt;"Because you need to call the lady to tell her that we have them on hold. Don't you listen to the messages?"&lt;br /&gt;"Alissa, I do not know how to check the machine."&lt;br /&gt;"That's no exscuse."&lt;br /&gt;"You're right, I totally should know how to read your mind by now."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Later that day...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #1: "Do you sell this here?"&lt;br /&gt;*Looks at a watercolour kit*&lt;br /&gt;Me: "I think so, lets go look."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #1: "OK good, cause I want to return it."&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Oh, is there a problem with it?"&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #1: "No, I don't think so. It was just given to me as a gift and I don't really paint with watercolours."&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Oh, ok. Do you have your receipt? Cause it looks as if we don't carry it here anymore."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #1: "Oh I have no idea where it was bought. I was just hopeing I could return it here."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Moving on...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "Yeah Hi. Can I talk to a manager?"&lt;br /&gt;Me: "I'm really sorry, our manager is in a meeting right now."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "Yeah. Ok. Who can I talk to about my resume... Cause I dropped it off a week ago and no one has contacted me."&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Well, I know they're in the process of hiring, but haven't actually had any interviews, so if you want to call back tomorrow that would probably be best."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "Can't you go and find out when they're going to call me?"&lt;br /&gt;Me: "Uh no. That's not how it works."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "Well why haven't they called me yet? Its been a week!"&lt;br /&gt;Me: "I'm sorry, I'm not in charge of hiring."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "That's why I'm asking you to get the fucking person who is in charge of hiring."&lt;br /&gt;an: "Uh sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."&lt;br /&gt;Random Customer #2: "I just want to talk to a manager!" Slams fist on desk.&lt;br /&gt;Dan: NOW.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were other instances throughout the day. I blew up at Jesse because he wouldn't take a kid downstairs to use the bathroom. His exscuse was because he wasn't working. I rolled my eyes. What a pitiful exscuse. It pissed me off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Probably because you've been here every day for the past week and then suddenly, my outlet for the day's small talk has vanished. Along with any chance of seeing him on msn, or hearing his voice for the day. He's just gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm failing miserably at this not talking to you plan. Twelve hours at work and the only thing I could think of was coming home to talk to you. Is that pathetic? Yes its pathetic.&lt;br /&gt;The crazy man that works at the Market came in today and we spoke about pastries. He said that if I ever had the opportunity, I had to find a little town in Quebec, 3 hours outside of Ottawa where a man lives who used to be a pastry chef for the Queen. He sells hot chocolate in bowls and serves it with bread for dipping. He claims they're the best pastries he's ever had and all I wanted to do was come home and beg you to take me there because, when else am I ever going to have the chance?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its this utterly stupid feeling, this disgusting twitch of guilt for wanting to talk to you still. I don't know what I'm doing and I feel like such a waste for writing this because really, what's the point?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How oddly the tables have turned in your life? Two weeks ago you were writing emails to girls releasing your thoughts and feelings and now you're on the receiving end. I suppose now is when I admit that I wish you liked me enough to write these sort of things.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes.&lt;br /&gt;I am pathetic.&lt;br /&gt;And tired.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I'm sure this email will be a regret in the morning. I already feel like I've wasted too much of your time and that I've been nothing but a form of entertainment to you. I don't know why... Actually yes I do. Probably because it was so easy for you to walk away from it. But that's to be expected.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I get attatched too easily.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7035438879637653615?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7035438879637653615/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7035438879637653615' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7035438879637653615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7035438879637653615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/04/les-sigh.html' title='Les Sigh.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7303041386126003161</id><published>2007-04-21T09:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-21T09:30:01.274-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wood D'yu Lh-ike to Plae Sum Hock-key?</title><content type='html'>I've met a d00d from Ottawa and his French Canadian accent makes me weak in the knees. I don't think French Canadian accents are supposed to do that to a girl, but here I am, with wobbly knees.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But hey, he lives in Ottawa. So not so good right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I prefer to meet people online, only because it seems that all the interesting ones are here.&lt;br /&gt;Stephane says that all the interesting people he's met are either on meds or should be on meds, but I don't think that's it either. I just think all the people who are interesting are overly introverted and stay here because its easier. Or that's at least what I want to think.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jesse yelled at me when I told him that the reason why I was gazing dreamily into the distance was because of some dude on the internet. He thinks I'm just going to get hurt and yeah, he's probably right. I'd probably yell at me too.&lt;br /&gt;But I'm happy and he's not like the 19 year old and so I'll just be content with admiring him from a distance because that's all I can do right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eventually I'll start to wonder what it would be like to live in Ottawa.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fucking French Canadians.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7303041386126003161?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7303041386126003161/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7303041386126003161' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7303041386126003161'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7303041386126003161'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/04/wood-dyu-lh-ike-to-plae-sum-hock-key.html' title='Wood D&apos;yu Lh-ike to Plae Sum Hock-key?'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2777753479349133496</id><published>2007-04-09T19:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-09T20:34:54.569-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Go.</title><content type='html'>"Number 14 will make you shit your pants."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saw Ben Folds for the fourth time this year on Friday. It was hot. He finally played Evaporated.&lt;br /&gt;I stood in the corner by his drum stool, closed my eyes and rocked back and forth to the three simple keys played over and over. It was just like, "FINALLY. You redneck sonofabitch. Its about fucking time." And so I was content. I rubbed my belly like a fat man after eating a pork pie. Go Folds. You weird little man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last couple weeks have been a haze.&lt;br /&gt;Everything and anything has been bouncing around me.  Springs here, but it feels cold outside and I suppose that's me in a nutshell. I'm here, but I'm just so cold.&lt;br /&gt;Three more weeks and I leave Toronto for good. No more subways, no more rude people, no more George Brown. I'm surprisingly calm.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The nineteen year old is gone.&lt;br /&gt;I don't feel anything towards him anymore. I can't even remember what he looks like. I just see someone so unbelievably troubled and incapable of almost anything human. I just see a waste of time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've taken two jobs to keep me from acknowledging the fact that I'm moving back in with my mother.&lt;br /&gt;My new meaning in life is to work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's not really anything else to stop for.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2777753479349133496?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2777753479349133496/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2777753479349133496' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2777753479349133496'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2777753479349133496'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/04/go.html' title='Go.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-6531331238254291807</id><published>2007-04-03T15:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-03T15:33:21.462-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Hum Hallelujah.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RhLVh7-4VDI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/mD34gr5pTbo/s1600-h/stump.gif"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049332911249577010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RhLVh7-4VDI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/mD34gr5pTbo/s320/stump.gif" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;This is the only man on the planet that is allowed to have me in his bed, starting now.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The. Only. One.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-6531331238254291807?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/6531331238254291807/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=6531331238254291807' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6531331238254291807'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6531331238254291807'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/04/hum-hallelujah.html' title='Hum Hallelujah.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp3.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RhLVh7-4VDI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/mD34gr5pTbo/s72-c/stump.gif' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5590623558894073738</id><published>2007-03-26T14:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-26T14:45:49.108-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh Well.</title><content type='html'>What you did to me made me&lt;br /&gt;See myself something different&lt;br /&gt;Though I try to talk sense to myself&lt;br /&gt;But I just won't listen&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Won't you go away&lt;br /&gt;Turned yourself in&lt;br /&gt;You're no good at confession&lt;br /&gt;Before the image that you burned me in&lt;br /&gt;Tries to teach you a lesson&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful&lt;br /&gt;A voice once stentorian is now again weak and muffled&lt;br /&gt;It took me such a long time to get back up the first time you did it&lt;br /&gt;I spent all I had to get it back, and now it seems I've been outbidded&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My peace and quiet was stolen from me&lt;br /&gt;When I was looking with calm affection&lt;br /&gt;You were searching out my imperfections&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What wasted unconditional love&lt;br /&gt;On somebody&lt;br /&gt;Who doesn't believe in the stuff&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You came up on me like a hipnik jerk&lt;br /&gt;When I was just about settled&lt;br /&gt;And when it counts you recoil&lt;br /&gt;With the cryptic word and leave a love belittled&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh what a cold and a common old way to go&lt;br /&gt;I was feeding on the need for you to know me&lt;br /&gt;Devastated off the rage you found below me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What wasted unconditional love&lt;br /&gt;On somebody&lt;br /&gt;Who doesn't believe in this life&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh well&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Fionna Apple&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She put it better than I ever could.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5590623558894073738?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5590623558894073738/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5590623558894073738' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5590623558894073738'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5590623558894073738'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/oh-well.html' title='Oh Well.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2983708311995574899</id><published>2007-03-24T20:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-24T20:35:50.702-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Diddums Drunk, Take One.</title><content type='html'>What is it that I'm supposed to do that's going to make things normal between the two of us again? Cause I don't know how.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's an overwhelming desire to talk to the person that I met two weeks ago, but I don't see him at all anymore and I have to wonder if he's ever going to come back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just see a dick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Exscuse my bluntness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway. I will have a car on Wednesday and I will have time to give you a celebatory blowjob (Post interview obviously. I'm going to get a job because I'm amazing), and then, get out of your face because I don't think you value me for anything else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You should take up the offer because while I am apparently ruining my undefinable friendship with you, I've recently discovered how much I do infact miss sex and well, you have a big dick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And since all you're capable of giving me these days is dickishness and a giant dick, I think I should make the best of the situation and use what's available.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I am unbelievably drunk and in dire need of someone to shake me senseless because you sir, are no good.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2983708311995574899?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2983708311995574899/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2983708311995574899' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2983708311995574899'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2983708311995574899'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/diddums-drunk-take-one.html' title='Diddums Drunk, Take One.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-8963681628189473492</id><published>2007-03-23T21:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-23T21:47:37.306-07:00</updated><title type='text'>300 Reasons to Cum.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RgSs6AG00TI/AAAAAAAAAGs/ew2S0OTfJdo/s1600-h/davidwenham.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045347595022815538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RgSs6AG00TI/AAAAAAAAAGs/ew2S0OTfJdo/s320/davidwenham.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I saw 300 tonight and I have decided that my new infatuation belongs to this man. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Fuck you 19 year old! He's way hotter.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-8963681628189473492?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/8963681628189473492/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=8963681628189473492' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8963681628189473492'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/8963681628189473492'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/300-reasons-to-cum.html' title='300 Reasons to Cum.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp2.blogger.com/_PWd6OKGaub0/RgSs6AG00TI/AAAAAAAAAGs/ew2S0OTfJdo/s72-c/davidwenham.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5598936054559450339</id><published>2007-03-22T19:18:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-22T19:47:44.697-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Spring Cleaning.</title><content type='html'>I walked from Donlands Station to my house today in the rain and it was awesome. My socks were soaked, my hair was ruined and I'm sure I looked like an absolute fool to all the motorists that past me, but I didn't care. I just needed to walk.&lt;br /&gt;There's a giant peace that settles in me when I move. If I had a discman today, I probably would have looked like I was bouncing on a cloud; when music and fresh air hit me at the right time, I light up. I'm happy that I'm finding the time again to walk like this. I miss it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The level of independance that I had managed to take such joy in two weeks ago has found me again. Mind, its not exactly bursting out of me like it was last week, but its there and I'm happy to be friends with it again.&lt;br /&gt;All of the ill feelings that had been washing over me seemed to have vanished with a string of thought out words and what I hope was sincerity. I'm calm again. Collected. Some may say a force to be reckoned with and all I have to say about it is, "Thank Fucking God."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The fight that I got in with my sister two nights ago seems foolish.&lt;br /&gt;Her perspective still pisses the living shit out of me, but the underlying fact that she is my sister seems to outweigh the offensiveness of it. No matter how much of an ass my sister is, I still manage to find my way back to accepting that, that's just the way it always will be.&lt;br /&gt;I'm just waiting for the character to catch up to the philosophy when it comes to Stinky. I hope she manages to acheive it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are bits of me that feel guilty and ashamed for the way I've been acting. For the long and overly emotional blog entries, for the nagging and needy personality, for expecting something out of someone that owed me absolutely nothing...&lt;br /&gt;I've realised that I hide myself from any type of emotional connection because I'm afraid of growing more cold and ridgid when it breaks. That childlike innocence that I used to have isn't there anymore and I'm in desperate need of it again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm going out with my friend Dom on Saturday. He's taking me to the Distillery. I'm going to ruin that man in the most happiest of ways. Its time for me to start finding that innocence again.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5598936054559450339?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5598936054559450339/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5598936054559450339' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5598936054559450339'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5598936054559450339'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/spring-cleaning.html' title='Spring Cleaning.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7069969191570227551</id><published>2007-03-19T19:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-19T20:56:02.150-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Its Just Me and Myself Again and I'm Just Talking to the Walls Tonight.</title><content type='html'>There's this bitter pain that gets stuck in my ribs somewhere near my heart.&lt;br /&gt;I can't tell if its my lungs breaking or my heart trying to repel an overwhelming sense of fear and abandonment. Maybe both, probably both. Give it ten more minutes and I'll be running to the bathroom for steam and something to puke in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This isn't a confidence issue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted so badly to be alone.&lt;br /&gt;There was this level of happiness that I was maintaining all by my lonesome. It sat there like a happy bird, singing its praises of my future ambitions, dreams and desires and it was so content to live without a partner and I do believe she refused to have one, so many times.&lt;br /&gt;How many instances does one need to scream, "NO" before it sinks in? How many times? And when does the realisation that you fucked with something you shouldn't have come into play? When do you start to feel bad? Oh wait, you have a new girlfriend already. You won't feel bad. Because you played me and I was stupid enough to let you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When am I going to smarten up? Blayne said that I was the exception to the Heliocentric rule, perhaps to a fault. Its about time someone noticed.&lt;br /&gt;But this is how people are supposed to be. Basic rules learned on the first day of Sunday School. You treat people the way you want to be treated. A concept that has been lost in the midst of text messages and parents' credit cards.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My glazed over eyes and aching sides can't take much more of this.&lt;br /&gt;I don't like being fucked with. I don't like pouring my heart out only to have it evaporate. I don't like finding solace in a stranger that turns into a demon. I don't like this indifference, this forgetfulness, this giant fucking handprint left on the side of my face...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;STOP FUCKING WITH ME.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You fucking idiot. You mistook my empty and broken insides for a lack of confidence. I'm sad, I'm lonely. I miss having a home and I miss having a steady income of affection and love. You fucking tard, you DON'T MESS WITH THAT. I'm not OK and you knew that, but you don't care and I'm wasting my time typing this because no one will ever get what you did to me and how badly it ruined me.&lt;br /&gt;It was worse than the wrath of ten mothers calling the police on her terrified daughter. It was more heart breaking than hearing a father call his daguther a whore, on repeat, like a broken record. It was more insulting than having a sister who wouldn't defend my honour by refusing to speak to someone so disgustingly empty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How such a simple thing like sex could make my insides so complicated.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But by the end of this confession someone else has made me smile and thinking about you isn't so difficult anymore. Its just those moments alone when I'm sitting and thinking of your face when words make little sense and I'm suddenly lifted to a different level of comprehension, where all I can do is cry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am so tired of you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7069969191570227551?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7069969191570227551/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7069969191570227551' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7069969191570227551'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7069969191570227551'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/its-just-me-and-myself-again-and-im.html' title='Its Just Me and Myself Again and I&apos;m Just Talking to the Walls Tonight.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7623475349473373203</id><published>2007-03-17T19:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-17T20:01:32.250-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Doormat.</title><content type='html'>I don't know what to say to you anymore and I don't know if I should even begin to try to suss it out because I'm under the imrpession that you can't possibly care to hear it. I'm going to try and whether or not you read it is your decision. I just need to say this stuff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't care anymore about what happened between us. I struggled with your decision, and there are times when it still pulls me in the wrong direction, but I understand it. That isn't what this email is about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I promised you the first night that we talked that I would stick beside you no matter what. And despite your rudeness and indifference, I plan on living up to that promise because I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't.&lt;br /&gt;I unfortunately don't know you well enough to decide if you're just a flat out asshole, or really do have so much baggage that you can't handle people accordingly. I don't get why you're so short with me now, or why you're rude, and unkind and generally uninterested in me, but whatever, its your decision and I'll live with it because if that's what you want, that's what you want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I'm not going to piss off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have no intentions of persuing you anymore though. My existence is here for you to use. Its not a fuck toy or an emotional and verbal punching bag. If you need me, you know where to find me. I'll help you with whatever I can because I said I would and because I want to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think I'm doing this because I don't want you to have an exscuse to be so miserable anymore. You told me you didn't feel loved, or that you didn't feel like you had a sense of home. I'm offering you my friendship. I want you to have a place to go that makes you feel welcome, and positive, and full of good things. Perhaps I'm being presumptious in  assuming that you don't already have that. All in all, I just want you to smile.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not going to be like everyone else in your life. Whether you want to acknowledge my presence as something you want, is up to you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To quote Mr. Folds again,&lt;br /&gt;'So freak out if you wanna and I'll still be here. Don't call me for years and when you do, yeah I'll still be here. I'm not sayin' the effort is a waste of time, but I just love you for the things you couldn't change, though you've tried. These hours of confusion they will soon expire, like everything does."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope to see the Andrew I met at Peaks around again some time and if he doesn't want to see me, at least he knows now that someone cares about him unconditionally.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7623475349473373203?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7623475349473373203/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7623475349473373203' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7623475349473373203'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7623475349473373203'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/doormat.html' title='Doormat.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-6683316416202957326</id><published>2007-03-15T21:31:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-16T13:32:30.207-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fuck You Cocksucker.</title><content type='html'>You're right, I was wrong about you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder if its actually my problem, this seeing the good in people when its not actually there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I obviously know its not his fault. Shit happens, but he handled it poorly and he seems uncaring and indifferent to the fact that I'm puking because of anxiety attacks. I can't help this, it comes with who I am. Its not like I WANT to puke.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But its not your fault. I get that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't eaten anything for the past week. Its too difficult to chew and swallow and food is sincerely grossing me out. I've managed to keep down fruit, vegetables and rice and that empty feeling that's sitting in the bottom of my stomach makes me feel comfortable, nothing else. Just comforting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said that one of the reasons why he wasn't attracted to me was because I didn't have any self confidence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure. I get that too, cause I don't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not when it comes to him anyway? Why should I? He also said he'd give me a list of reasons as to why I suck. That was like getting beaten with an emotional 2x4.&lt;br /&gt;When I tell people that the reason he doesn't want to date me is because I'm not confident, the look of absolute shock spreads across their already horrified faces. They say, "You Anna? YOU? That makes no sense." And I tend to agree, but the indifference is weaving its way into my comfort zone and I simply don't care enough to be bothered anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The only good thing that came out of this was the conversation I wanted to have with my sister for ages. I'm tired of not having a connection with her and he brought us together in a way that I think only he could do. Good for him. At least he got something right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People have asked me why I look so miserable. I say its because I'm tired, but the comforting feeling of an empty stomach is overshadowed with enormous pangs of disgust, self loathing and the most atrocious anger I've ever known.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The first stage of separation goes as follows: Desperation. The powerful stench of confusion, bent emotions and words getting caught in the middle of your throat, It burns throughout my mind, constantly reminding me that once again I have been fucked.&lt;br /&gt;The second stage balloons into an aggressive complex that makes me want to spite the bastard and everything and anything that's close to his heart. I want him to regret ever knowing me, I want him to regret not being able to have me. I want him to cry because he missed out on something that was more than he could ever possibly handle.&lt;br /&gt;The third stage is indifference. I just don't care anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chelsea said the reason why I liked having him around was because he belched out positive energy. She's probably right because he is the epitome of sunshine, but the more I think about him, the idea of dating him becomes absolutely asinine; my heart just needs to catch up with my brain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I need to stop chirping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I still feel like a god damn dumpster.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should have known when he went online to talk to my sister after we fucked that it never would have worked. I should have been mad when he didn't get up the next morning to drive me to the bus stop. I should have been sly enough to turn an oblivious shoulder to his conclusion of our short-lived romance, but that's not who I am.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't not care. But I definitely can break his nose the next time I see him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-6683316416202957326?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/6683316416202957326/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=6683316416202957326' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6683316416202957326'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/6683316416202957326'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/fuck-you-cocksucker.html' title='Fuck You Cocksucker.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-742600747522632840</id><published>2007-03-09T21:32:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-09T22:02:06.604-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mountain Goats.</title><content type='html'>"On the morning when I woke up without you for the first time, I felt free and I felt lonely and I felt scared. And I began to talk to myself almost immediately, not being used to being the only person there, in the room."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stunningly simple lyrics. I enjoy them immensly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My sister was talking to this kid for the past little while.&lt;br /&gt;She told me that he was so cool because they were into all the same stuff. I must admit, the theories that my sister bounces off of me from time to time are a bit insane. I've failed many times to wrap my brain around such intricate philosophies of life and forestry and wholism, but then, it was never my bag. I like to dumb it down. See the forest for the trees, not the trees for their spectacular auora.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, Stinky wouldn't date him for a lot of reasons that she listed off to me in the car on the way to drop me off at the bus terminal. She summed it up with,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"He told me that he doesn't want to talk to me anymore because I won't date him."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes Chelsea is quite skilled at hitting my stupid button and when she's on, she hits it with the weight of a bag of two thousand pounds of concrete bricks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What are you talking about Chelsea, that's not selfish."&lt;br /&gt;"Yes it is. He's not letting me have a friendship with him."&lt;br /&gt;"You think its fair to him to continue seeing you when all its doing is hurting him? Thats not being selfish, that's him removing himself from a situation that will do him nothing but harm."&lt;br /&gt;"I guess, but I still think its selfish."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, you would."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two days after that conversation took place, he added me to his face book.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't generally enjoy talking to my sister's friends.&lt;br /&gt;They tend to be selfcentered little snots who do nothing but drink and belittle eachother. A lot of her friends have unhealthy relationships with a lot of different people and I find it hard to believe that they can all call eachother friends when they all seem to cause nothing but drama for eachother. But whatever, they're not my friends for a reason.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ended up talking to this Andrew fellow on Wednesday night.&lt;br /&gt;I was overly hesitant. Usually when males message me (when they're dating, or trying to date my sister), its to hear about how to impress her and believe it or not, talking about my sister isn't exactly the most thrilling type of conversation for me.&lt;br /&gt;But he was cool and by midnight that evening, he had told Chelsea that he didn't want to talk to her again and so I was put in an awkward situation because I genuinely like the kid, but know that my sister will blame the downfall of their relationship solely on me. Because that's what Chelsea does. I'm her older, evil sister.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This kid is an excellent soul.&lt;br /&gt;I'm dumbfounded that my sister would throw away such an opportunity to be with someone so kind and comforting, but then Chelsea always has been rather bad at dating the right type of guy and I know that if they would have dated, it only would have lasted a month; he's too nice.&lt;br /&gt;But I like him and sometimes I wonder if its alright for me to like someone my sister had her claws in first, but I've gotten to a point in my life where I don't care anymore. I just need to be able to get over the fact that he's nineteen and I need to meet him and of course, both factors are almost nearly impossible.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chelsea did elaborate on the reasons as to why she couldn't date him and at the time, I could only accept them because this Andrew wasn't tangible. But now that I know him, these reasons seem so ridiculous and unfounded that it makes me think my sister is a vain little bitch, but then she always really has been.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It seems that I am collecting an interesting group of friends for when I return to Niagara and after hearing that it is more than possible that I will be hired at the casino to make pastry for seventeen dollars an hour, life seems so much more liveable.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-742600747522632840?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/742600747522632840/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=742600747522632840' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/742600747522632840'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/742600747522632840'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/mountain-goats.html' title='Mountain Goats.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-348454602197507726</id><published>2007-03-06T16:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-06T16:22:22.604-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Pitty Fuck.</title><content type='html'>Chef Gallacher found me three apprenticeships in Niagara. In two more months I will never have to live in this God foresaken city again. In two more months, I will be gaining my 4000 hours that are necessary to become a chef and in two more months, I'll never sleep in the same bed as Andrew again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went home for my break and had an awesome fucking time.&lt;br /&gt;I hung out with some friends, met some new friends, did a lot of baking and just enjoyed the use of a car, a house, the lack of responsibility and the massive amount of time that seemed to tick away in the most happiest of ways. I didn't miss Andrew in the slightest.&lt;br /&gt;But coming home and seeing the mess that he's gotten himself into just made me feel bad for him and now there's this overwhelming surge of guilt ripping through me that keeps mouthing, "You fucking bitch. He's useless. What is he going to do without you?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah Zut.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two days ago I was so disgusted with him that just looking at him made me miserable. Now, I feel so much pitty for the stupid man that I almost burst into tears every time I think of leaving him. Yesterday I threw out milk in the fridge that was two months old. I didn't even know it was there 'cause Andrew stuffed it behind the meat and cheese bin. The fucking bastard can't even clean out the fridge properly! *sigh*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm too nice, but I'm not stupid. Staying him to take care of him is not something I'm willing to let myself do. I need to move on, but its difficult and I'm amazed that I've managed to be brave enough to persue a future without him this far.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am excited for it though.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-348454602197507726?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/348454602197507726/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=348454602197507726' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/348454602197507726'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/348454602197507726'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/pitty-fuck.html' title='Pitty Fuck.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-2906349511449149739</id><published>2007-03-04T15:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-04T15:03:33.257-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm All Perogied Out.</title><content type='html'>I'm sorry to have consumed all your minutes. That was evil of me. And I won't be offended if you don't respond to me. You don't owe me a response, so no worries.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was thinking about this weekend and our conversations today at work. I'm probably being a bit overwhelming and more than likely, a bit overbearing and so I'm sorry for that. I just dislike wasting time.&lt;br /&gt;I never expected to like you and I definitely did not expect you to return the feeling. I find it hard to believe that you could like me as more than a friend, only because of the way you hold yourself. I've always prided myself on being able to read people decently and your mannurisms, comments and characteristics don't exactly emote anything close to being romantic, and that's fine, I just want you to tell me that. You're not doing me any favours by being too nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I'm a good person. I know that I'm a decent listener and have a good heart and a whole world of other things that mean absolutely nothing to men. If being good inside meant anything to your gender, I would have millions of males breaking down my door, but that's not the case. And if men would date women because of their beautiful eyes, then again, I'd have thousands of suitors, but I'm not so lucky.&lt;br /&gt;This is what I meant when I said, "I don't want to meet you, because you won't be attracted to me and I'll feel awful." If I hear one more person tell me how excellent I am, and then have them continue the sentence with something along the lines of, "but that doesn't warrant a relationship" I sincerely think I'll loose my mind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So to acknowledge my overbearing side, I realise that you want to be single and appreciate it and understand. I don't want to date you, I don't want to sleep with you and I don't want to be anything more than a good friend to you. I just have a crush on you and  I am more than wanting to push it aside so I can just be a friend. I just wanna hang out and be two good people, enjoying good times, and encouraging eachother to do stupid stuff for ten dollars (You should have tempted me, I need the money).&lt;br /&gt;If anything develops over the x amount of months that we have to look forward to, then excellent. For now though, I'm just your friend Anna, because I know that's what you want, and I'd be a shit friend to not respect that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, no more flirtatious conversation from me. We'll chat, I'll listen, we'll walk and I'll finish some sort of painting for you to put on your bare walls.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It will be excellent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope you enjoy your flick. Try to ignore the celly phones.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-2906349511449149739?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/2906349511449149739/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=2906349511449149739' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2906349511449149739'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/2906349511449149739'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/03/im-all-perogied-out.html' title='I&apos;m All Perogied Out.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-5017364951485031267</id><published>2007-02-24T17:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-24T17:48:39.300-08:00</updated><title type='text'>For Good.</title><content type='html'>My friend Hood finally put her blog back up and I am greatful... And a bit addicted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought that I was going insane. I thought that I was perhaps the only person on the face of the planet that had anxiety attacks over my future flyng out of control and into oblivion. I thought I was the only person  who was stressed out about what I am doing vs. what I need to be doing, but nope, Hood is too and I feel comforted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I'm not that far off the mark with this adult bullshit. I'm just in a state of limbo.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My relationship with Hood reminds me of the relationship between Glinda and Elphaba in Wicked. I don't know who is the outcast and who is the social princess, I think we're both a bit of each character, but the fundamental characteristics are just too similar. Maybe it's just because both Glinda and Elphaba were two strong women in their own ways and I would like to think that both Hood and I own those same qualities.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think Katie and I need to find a rad karoke bar somewhere in the middle of Canada and sing, "For Good" duet styles. I missed out on singing talents when we were in highschool - I blame that on the crap ass district board of education and their dislike of anything musical.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not trying to be gay over Hood, I'm just sayin' she was good times and now that I have the opportunity to read her life, I'm beginning to realise that Katie and I aren't so different and I like that because I'm an egotistical art fag that thinks no one understands me (to put it frankly).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So now I just have to convince her to move back to Niagara so that we can hangout (I'm selfish like that).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I've heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason,&lt;br /&gt;Bringing something we must learn.&lt;br /&gt;And we are lead to those, who help us most to grow,&lt;br /&gt;If we let them and we help them in return.&lt;br /&gt;Well I don't know if I believe that's true,&lt;br /&gt;But I know I'm who I am today, because I knew you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like a comet pulled from orbit, as it passes a sun&lt;br /&gt;Like a stream that meets a bolder, half way through the wood.&lt;br /&gt;Who can say if I've been changed for the better?&lt;br /&gt;Because I knew you...&lt;br /&gt;I have been changed for good."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yeah. I'm gay for Hood.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-5017364951485031267?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/5017364951485031267/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=5017364951485031267' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5017364951485031267'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/5017364951485031267'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/for-good.html' title='For Good.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-828373335206257215</id><published>2007-02-18T17:11:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-18T17:40:32.332-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Breaking Down The Walls.</title><content type='html'>I had been talking to this guy for the past couple of weeks and it was honest to god, a fucking pleasure to do so... Well, for the first week it was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been sitting on a fence with almost every single emotion I could possibly own for the past twenty-one days. There were days when I felt completely sound and then there were days when I thought I was going to turn inside out. There were days when the only thing I could do was cry and there were days when I was so excited about the future that I thought I was going to burst. He, unfortunately got stuck right in the middle of it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I admit that I squeeze people too tightly. I don't know if it's because I'm afraid that they're going to leave or if it's because I'm desperate to be loved. I didn't treat him properly, but to be fair, he was about as proper to me as I was to him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of our first conversations he told me how much difficulties he was having with his friends. He said that he found his relationships very frustrating because he was the one to listen. All he wanted in return was a thank you, but he never got it. Poor boy.&lt;br /&gt;So that night, while sussing out his mind I sat and listened to him till very late in the evening. I listened to him because I thought that was what he would have wanted. I sat and listened because I thought he deserved the attention and the sincerity. I sat and listened to him because he was upset and I wanted to help him and by doing so, I thought that he would return the favour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't say thank you.&lt;br /&gt;In fact, the only thing he did say was that I was a mental and unstable &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;nutjob&lt;/span&gt; that didn't have any self love. I believe his exact words were, "You would be an alright person if you had love for yourself." And in some aspects of my life, I tend to agree, but fuck him for being such a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;self-righteous&lt;/span&gt; piece of shit and fuck him for making such a glorified assumption of my character.&lt;br /&gt;Don't get me wrong, he did listen to me. But he did it with the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;gusto&lt;/span&gt; and the grace of a bull in a china shop and by the end of it, the summary of my problems were, "You're not special, if you don't like it, change it." And again, I tend to agree with him, but easier said than done mate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I perhaps put too much faith in the grace of a stranger. I should have been more tactful, should have realised that not everyone is as enthusiastic and needy as I am. I should have been well aware that I had just broken up with my boyfriend and was looking for an emotionally available man to comfort me through a shitty time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I should have been smart enough to not let him get to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By the end of it he just kept telling me that I didn't mean anything to him and that he couldn't be arsed about how I felt.&lt;br /&gt;It didn't hurt because &lt;em&gt;he&lt;/em&gt; was saying it, it hurt because I hadn't let anyone get close enough to me to hurt me in that way for years and just when I had put the bridge down to let someone in, he pelted me with burning arrows.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A couple days after our last conversation I felt bad that it was so miserable and unkind. Now I couldn't give a fuck if I ever talk to him again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back to being an ice cold bitch.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-828373335206257215?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/828373335206257215/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=828373335206257215' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/828373335206257215'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/828373335206257215'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/breaking-down-walls.html' title='Breaking Down The Walls.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-836249555780359439</id><published>2007-02-15T21:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-15T21:56:59.826-08:00</updated><title type='text'>My Iron Lung... Not.</title><content type='html'>I cannot breathe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every time I take a breath, a stabbing pain jabs me in my lower ribs that feels like Edward Scissor Hands is using me as a pin cushion for his digits. It fucking hurts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and I spent six hours in the ER waiting on results and doctors only for them to tell me that they're not sure what's wrong. I've never had tests done on my heart, or X-rays for my chest and I was oddly enough, mildly ok with it. Doctors, hospitals, needles have never been my thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The doctor actually said, "I don't think you had a heart attack, it's highly unlikely. So are blood clotts, but if you feel any pain in your legs, come back for an ultrasound right away."&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck is that? We don't &lt;em&gt;think&lt;/em&gt; you had a heartattack? Well I think that you shouldn't be a doctor if all you can do is guesstimate the probability of my heart exploding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He thinks I have an inflamed lung and I'm just going to run with that theory because the other options are considerably more scary. Inflamed lung, I can deal with.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We got home at two thirty in the morning.&lt;br /&gt;When I woke up the next day Andrew was gone for work, but the pain was still there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't do anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Walking up the stairs winds me. Carrying my laundry down the hallway is impossible. Getting in and out of the truck is like climbing a mountain and I don't even want to talk about yawning.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It just sucks, feeling this useless. I absolutely hate it. It makes the constantly busy life of last week incredibly desireable. It makes me feel fat and lazy. It makes me scared that I've done something to cause such a horrendous pain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still have my hospital bracelet on just incase I have to go back. I've never been this worried about my health before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It fucking sucks.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-836249555780359439?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/836249555780359439/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=836249555780359439' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/836249555780359439'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/836249555780359439'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/my-iron-lung-not.html' title='My Iron Lung... Not.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-7392062245429853050</id><published>2007-02-13T14:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-13T14:59:33.566-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Black Wednesday.</title><content type='html'>I am single.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I. Am. Single.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ohmygodi'mmotherfuckingsingle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a dull ache every so often that bounces around the walls of my heart when I think of April. Leaving the newest home of the many I've had over the past three years makes me a bit gloomy, but it also makes for a very enthused and exciting adventure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being single rocks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The calm that's currently residing in the depths of my soul (I've realised), has come from the fact that I do not need to make any decisions for another two months about the state of my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THAT, fucking rocks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I simply have to go to school, do my job, clean the house, cook dinner, take care of a man and my two cats (whom are more like children). I finally, after five freakin' months of loosing my bloody mind over the most asinine garbage, have embraced the joys of being a selfcentered and carefree twenty-four-year-old and IT FUCKING ROCKS.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are few things I've noted during this state of tempermental bliss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ONE: If I ever choose to take on a man again in a long and everlasting relationship there will be a disclaimer before any type of engagement, mental, physical or emotional.&lt;br /&gt;It will state: If the term "slob" can equate to any part of your personality, mannurisms or character, please just go away. It's best for both of us. I'm an anal retentive neat freak and I will reduce you to a shaking ball of hysterics if you don't keep my livingroom free of ick. It's not my fault, it's my mothers. I was raised in a bubble.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;TWO: My food bill is going to drop dramatically. This excites me because it leaves more room for pineapple.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;THREE: I don't have to look at horrid french provincial couches day in and day out. Nor do I have to sit on them and pretend that they're comfortable to make my boyfriend feel better about not being able to afford new ones. HA. SCREW YOU PROVINCIAL CRAP!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FOUR: I'm never going to fall into the toilet again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't know why people fear being alone. I don't know why people dread valentines day. I don't know why anyone would be so upset over breaking up. If you do it well, everyone wins and you somehow, manage to find a part of you that had been forgotten about ages ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully this euphoria lasts through the night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-7392062245429853050?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/7392062245429853050/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=7392062245429853050' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7392062245429853050'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/7392062245429853050'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/black-wednesday.html' title='Black Wednesday.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-117080636171476434</id><published>2007-02-06T15:56:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-06T19:06:14.360-08:00</updated><title type='text'>In The Closet.</title><content type='html'>I can deal with my skeletons. You gotta deal with them or else you just become one. A rattling box of demented memories and past hauntings that you can't seem to shake. And when you try to shake 'em, the rattling makes you go insane. It's all fucked, but I can deal with that. It's when the skeletons get buried and the ghosts start to boo, that's when it stings.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being a fuckup comes naturally to me. That's probably why I can level with so many of my stupidly arrogant and young mistakes. Because I was young and that&lt;em&gt; always&lt;/em&gt; balances as a more than acceptable exscuse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's the people though, my ghosts, that scare me. Generally when people decide to remove or be removed from your life, it's for good reason. I unfortunately lack the switch that prevents me from learning from our decisions and usually always, welcome them back into my life with open arms, a loving hug and a fair admission that yes, "I was the reason why our relationship fell to pieces. I am crazy after all!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's the birth control!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know I do it because I'm lonely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I think that I'm far from human. Sometimes I think, ewe gah, maybe I'm a feminist. Sometimes I think that maybe I should become a lesbian because as I do generally loathe the majority of the female race, I don't understand a male mind and frankly, don't ever want to. It's hard to remain betwixt two races that seem so utterly different and stupidly selfish compared to myself.&lt;br /&gt;I just want to find one person that's NORMAL. Whether they own a five inch dick or a pussy the size of a bus, I don't care. Just someone who is incapable of unleashing a world of pain and frustation on my ass, that doesn't want to, "do" Lindsy Lohan 'cause she's half naked, on the cover of Vanity Fair. WHO CARES THAT SHE'S A MENTALY UNSTABLE ANOREXIC PYSCHO, SHE'S HOT! Or someone that doesn't want to stay up all night and discuss strategical tactics to become the world's best American Idol. I just want someone that wants me and only me and doesn't want to look at other women, or be a stupid, stupid girl because hey, that's what gender roles do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I JUST WANT A SIMPLE, FUCKING NORMAL HUMAN TO WALK INTO MY LIFE AND LOVE ME, FAIR AND SQUARE, EASY AS PIE, DONE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And maybe that way they won't turn into a ghost.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-117080636171476434?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/117080636171476434/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=117080636171476434' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117080636171476434'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117080636171476434'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/in-closet.html' title='In The Closet.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-117056662431655327</id><published>2007-02-03T21:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-03T21:23:44.360-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Frou Frou.</title><content type='html'>I'm trying really hard to think that &lt;em&gt;Let Go&lt;/em&gt; is anything but a musical campaign to get high, but I'm failing miserably.&lt;br /&gt;Every time I listen to the god damn song I manage to block out the lyrics. It's a good song and it makes me happy to listen and sometimes, it makes me think of the conversations I've had over the past couple days and something in me feels content. The soundtrack to your life crap; that song would be playing on a loop, every night at 11 o'clock PM.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've finally broke up.&lt;br /&gt;It's done, completely. Nothing has changed though. Well, that's not true, we both realise that it's over, but also realise that we need to function as a couple till April. All those emotions that are supposed to settle in after the breakup haven't come. They're just hanging in the air, waiting to break the minute amounts of normality that exist in this condo.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I looked at the spice rack today and thought, "Why am I doing this? Make this work, you don't want to take that thing off the wall. You bought it with him." I spoke to his mother today and my soul ached over the realisation that the closest thing I've had to a family over the past eight years is going to be gone in four months. I look at him and I smile because I already miss him, but I've been missing him for a long time and nothing is going to set that straight, ever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every ten minutes my breath catches in my mouth and my eyes fill with tears and yet I somehow always manage to suck it back. It's like having a terrifying pang of selfrealisation and complete and utter pain pierce your middle and I'm tired of being brave enough to ignore it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just kinda want to go to bed for six years. Or stare out a window for a week, blankly, emotionless and absolutely empty. I want everything to stop for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want someone to realise that I'm broken and I want them to fix it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-117056662431655327?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/117056662431655327/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=117056662431655327' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117056662431655327'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117056662431655327'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/02/frou-frou.html' title='Frou Frou.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-117019206651487851</id><published>2007-01-30T13:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-30T13:21:06.536-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Why I Could Never Be Gay.</title><content type='html'>My partner in class is a forty-two-year-old gay man who looks like he's twenty-six. When I saw him for the first time I realised he was married and thought, "Wow, some lucky girl snagged him at a young age." Appearances can be deceiving.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So Glenn and I work famously together. We get shit down, we finish eachother's thoughts and yesterday we started feeding eachother. It's a nice relationship.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But today wasn't so nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was in charge of tempering the fondant. My hand was in a pot of sugar, massaging it to my body tempterature, over a burner on HIGH. The contents of the pot had to be poured over a chiffon cake; it had to be perfect or the glaze wouldn't shine.&lt;br /&gt;Pouring fondant over anything while your hands are full of orange, slimey sugar is close to impossible. My cake didn't turn out and only because Glenn was to absorbed in his own cake to realise that mine was slowly but surely falling into despair. This hasn't been the first time he's neglected to help his partner.&lt;br /&gt;But Glenn and I still get on alright. I realise that he's there for him and him alone, so I don't try to reserve him extra icing for his cakes, nor do I care if he has enough marzipan to finish his carrots, I just assume he'll take care of himself because that's what Glenn does.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So whatever, we get along fine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today he told me that if I slapped on a plaid shirt I could easily pass for a Butch. I guess gay men aren't as sensitive as the straight public seem to think.&lt;br /&gt;I laughed it off. It's not the first time that I've been teased about how I look and sure, being five foot ten and not owning the ability to act like a flippy, fucktard of a female could easily be a clue towards my sexuality. All women over five foot five, who curse like sailors, have big tits and are slightly ambitous are OBVIOUSLY dykes. Obviously.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told him I was going to go home and cry about it. He didn't believe me. I said I was delicate. He said that wasn't a word that he would use to describe me. I just shutup.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So after class I told Paul, the other resident gay man in the class about what Glenn had said. He laughed heartily and said, "Well Anna, I could totally agree with him", and left it that. So obviously now I feel like a fat, manly female who needs to raid a lumberjack's closet because obviously my clothing isn't living up to my new and improved status of, "Lesbo in Training."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Condemn me for saying this, but I honestly think that gay people have some sort of glitch in their brain that doesn't allow them to be anything but selfabsorbed and insensitive bitches.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now if you'll exscuse me, I need to learn how to be anorexic so I can convince the homo population that I'm not one of them.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-117019206651487851?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/117019206651487851/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=117019206651487851' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117019206651487851'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/117019206651487851'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/01/why-i-could-never-be-gay.html' title='Why I Could Never Be Gay.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116974350235079006</id><published>2007-01-25T08:28:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-25T08:45:02.430-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mr. Sandman.</title><content type='html'>I've been reading Harry Potter non-stop lately and because of this, I usually have some demented dreams where I'm running around Hogwards, being a wonderful witch and having a fantastic time about it. So far I have yet to run into mermaids, but I have my fingers crossed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night I dreamt about Pan's Labrynth (I think), and a man (whom I think was my boyfriend), that was buying me silk robes because I was a journalism student and I needed to look professional. I ended up sitting in a room full of women who were hanging off my every word. My eyelashes were huge and I look right fucked.&lt;br /&gt;Eventually I ended up sitting at a dinner table, eating with a fellow I'm specifically not supposed to have a crush on, but he was playing footsies with me under the table! Que es le fuck? So I exscused myself and decided to stroll down the street when I noticed he was trailing right behind me. He asked me if I had access to the school for interviews and I said yes, so he followed me into a British phone booth where I clumsily tried to remember the password from the, &lt;em&gt;Order of the Phoenix. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the book Harry noted how tight of a fit it was for him and Mr. Weasley to squeeze into the box. Oddly enough I remember thinking, "Harry was right, this really is a small space."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A loud bang woke me up after that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last week I dreamt I went on a date with my Chef. I can't remember what we did, or how it went, I just remember him smiling a lot at me and being completely taken with him. Now whenever I see him I burst into silly giggles because the dream has caused me a horrid case of butterflies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I also dreamt about my old boss, who randomly met me in a mall to go shoe shopping for the prom. He was very anal about what he wanted and at the end of it, we just went to see a movie instead.&lt;br /&gt;That dream forever tainted my thoughts of Paul.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And of course there was the dream where Katie Hood's mother had called me to tell me that Katie was homeless and living in a tent in BC. I remember her begging me to find her and convince Katie to move back to, "Canada" (apparently BC does not register as part of Canada in REM), but I failed miserably at it because I was again, awoken by a large THUMP.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never dreamt this much in my life. I wonder why it's happening now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116974350235079006?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116974350235079006/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116974350235079006' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116974350235079006'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116974350235079006'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/01/mr-sandman.html' title='Mr. Sandman.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116942434868627084</id><published>2007-01-21T15:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-21T16:08:29.800-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fudge.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5334/166/1600/554691/fudge.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/5334/166/320/947776/fudge.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Masterpiece number 2039840283 since attending George Brown. It's beautiful isn't it? Fudge icing, ganache, delicately manacured chocolate and pastry cream wrapped into a chocolate sponge of glorious wonder. It's a complete chocolate overload and it was a complete pain in my arse to make.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I only manged a B.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two weeks ago I visited Niagara.&lt;br /&gt;I was stoked on meeting the Doctor, I was curious about meeting Blue Tie. I bought a new shirt and new panties and endured bad weather to see these two men. One didn't show his face, the other just made me feel guilty and by the end of it, the only thing that was running through my mind was, "What the fuck am I doing?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After that, admiring blue tie became difficult.&lt;br /&gt;I grew incredibly impatient with his lack of interest in me and incredibly furious with myself for allowing It to get so stupid. I finally reached the point that allowed me to be uninterested in him and so far it's managed to maintain itself. There are days where I want to call him, but I soon realise the point is mute and therefore never do. There are days where I want him to feel the frustration and heartache that he bestowed upon me and there are days where I want nothing more than to walk infront of him aimlessly just to see him grovel for my attention.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A woman has the power to make a man crumble as soon as she learns not to care.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I couldn't look at the doctor as we drove around Niagara.&lt;br /&gt;The guilt that bounced around in me made me feel nervous and ashamed. It wasn't his fault that we weren't compatible, I just couldn't give myself over to the idea of being on an actual date while my boyfriend sat at home watching football.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that was when the gravity of my choices hit me and I suddenly felt like enough of an idiot for me to say to myself, "Jesus, I've been blind for the past four months."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's so easy to push the blame onto someone when they're not meeting the expectations that were set for another person. It's so easy to be disgusted with someone when you're trying not to be disgusted with yourself and it's even easier to say that, 'Toronto is a shite city, I hate it' when you want to take the easy way out and get back home to what you think is going to solve your heartache.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stupid girl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the first time in a long time, I actually believe that I want to be with Andrew. Now I just need to learn how to be a decent human again to make it happen.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116942434868627084?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116942434868627084/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116942434868627084' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116942434868627084'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116942434868627084'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/01/fudge.html' title='Fudge.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116810737485176715</id><published>2007-01-06T09:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-06T10:16:14.870-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Chicken Skins.</title><content type='html'>I never thought I was a picky eater until recently.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's a chicken breast that's been coated with fat and bathed in grease sitting infront of me and I'm finding it tremendously difficult to eat it. Oddly enough, it's not the caloric intake that's grossing me out, it's the fact that I have to mutilate it to get it into my mouth. *blech*&lt;br /&gt;I bought bananas two days ago and now they're too mushy to eat. They'll sit on my microwave until they go black and then I'll throw them in the freezer until I'm ready to make banana muffins (Which is a method that is usually despised as it requires peeling bad bananas. Icky). And then usually, being reminded of the method makes it impossible for me to chomp down on their cakey goodness. Black bananas are gross y0.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and I had a fight when he got home from work last night.&lt;br /&gt;I was being paranoid and wanted to get to the bus terminal as soon as he walked through the door. He was tired and wanted to hang a picture and needed my help and instead of being a calm and rational person about it, I sulked through the entire event. Needless to say, the picture didn't get hung and I grumbled about being late for buses (Which I wasn't. I arrived twenty minutes early, but that's not the point. The point is I'm punctual and he isn't and that pisses me off).&lt;br /&gt;We drove in silence for most of the trip. Finally I said, "I'm sorry for being a bitch, I'm just paranoid about missing my bus." He said nothing.&lt;br /&gt;I had noted a few days back that Andrew hasn't told me that he loved me in quite some time. While my feelings for Andrew have definitely mellowed and while I am no longer in proper love with him, I still do love him. So when I got out of the car, I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him that I loved him. He started to return the sentiment, stopped halfway through and said, "Have a good weekend", and then drove away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I arrived in St. Catharines a bum without any shoes kept circling me and looking at my ass. As I do not own an ass, I assumed there was something on it, so I kept turning around oddly, trying to get a glimpse of my derriere. I felt strange.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Ewe! Chicken Bone!)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dianne picked me up and proceeded to complain about her day, which was a nice change of scenery from angry boyfriends and ass glancing bums.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah, the joys of Niagara.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm meeting a man named Randy today in Fort Erie. Yesterday I thought it would be a good idea, today I'm scared shitless.&lt;br /&gt;When I broke up with Ian I vowed that I wouldn't have a boyfriend. Breaking up with Andrew, I'm positive I said the same thing. But here I am, meeting a new man that I could potentially date. I really am quite good at doing the exact opposite of what I intend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's time for me to go back to bed.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116810737485176715?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116810737485176715/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116810737485176715' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116810737485176715'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116810737485176715'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/01/chicken-skins.html' title='Chicken Skins.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116770382338517758</id><published>2007-01-01T17:49:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-01-01T18:10:23.476-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Wicked.</title><content type='html'>"Kiss me too fiercely&lt;br /&gt;Hold me too tight&lt;br /&gt;I need help believing&lt;br /&gt;You're with me tonight&lt;br /&gt;My wildest dreamings&lt;br /&gt;Could not foresee&lt;br /&gt;Lying beside you&lt;br /&gt;With you wanting me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just for this moment&lt;br /&gt;As long as you're mine&lt;br /&gt;I've lost all resistance&lt;br /&gt;And crossed some borderline&lt;br /&gt;And if it turns it out&lt;br /&gt;It's over too fast...&lt;br /&gt;I'll make every last moment last&lt;br /&gt;As long as you're mine."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took my mother to see Wicked for her birthday just before Christmas and since then I've been stuck listening to the soundtrack on a loop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I like musicals.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But those lyrics are ironically painful to me recently. Overly ironic in a very dramatic way. My feelings for blue tie are nowhere as potent as the romantic undertones in those lyrics, but they ring similar feelings, and therefore, becoming relevant.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Forbidden relationships suck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and I agreed to take a break from eachother for a month.&lt;br /&gt;Oddly enough we've still managed to maintain the duties of a couple in a healthy relationship. He's still bringing my dry cleaning out, I'm still mopping up his messes. We sleep in the same bed, still call eachother pet names and even kissed calmly on new years in the midst of a lot of bad musicians and loud drunks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A month to see if our relationship can be rekindled. If not, I move back home and figure it out from there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe my ambition to be the ultimate Wal Mart Unloader will be met.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116770382338517758?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116770382338517758/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116770382338517758' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116770382338517758'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116770382338517758'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2007/01/wicked.html' title='Wicked.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116726404415847201</id><published>2006-12-27T15:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-28T19:57:56.543-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Christmas, 2006 Styles.</title><content type='html'>Christmas is complete ass. I hate it, completely and entirely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spent Christmas eve with Andrew's family.&lt;br /&gt;Being with the Keenans doesn't make me feel contented anymore, it makes me feel guilty. It's my own doing, I blew whatever I had with Andrew - I've accepted that it will never be the same. But sitting in the livingroom with his family, opening the piles of presents that they had bought me only made me feel worse. Odd stuff, my ability to always ruin the things that I've longed for. I'm getting quite good at it.&lt;br /&gt;They gave me a chocolate fountain, along with giftcards, pyjamas and other random articles that I never expected from them. Andrew gave me the Harry Potter books, which I've been reading non-stop, along with madelaine pans and a candy themometer. I finally finished his Kool-Aid man and I'm quite positive that he is gazing contently at it right now in the condo. He loves it dearly, which feels nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it's strange to give gifts to a man that I realise I don't love any longer. I think about him and I begin to miss the times that I was in love with him, the time we spent together and I feel depressed. That overwhelming flutter in my heart that always kept me coming back to him is no longer there.&lt;br /&gt;Helen and Scott gave their parents an album of their wedding pictures. There were pictures of Andrew in it, when he was slim and well kept. When I look at them the flutter returns and then I see Andrew now, with the stains on his shirt and his unkept beard and I'm just disgusted. I guess I'm not as good as I thought I was.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being at my mother's house for Christmas has always been a delicate situation. My mother's family is full of wackjobs, racists, alcoholics and mild-mannor sugar-fanatics with gigantic mouths. Christmas dinner can either be absolutely hilarious, or absolutely painful. It usually depends on how much Uncle Tim has had to drink and whether or not my Uncle PJ has done something to piss off my grandmother before arriving.&lt;br /&gt;This year was quick and painful. A happy combination because it only makes you semi-crazy, allowing your temper to flare for only a few moments, and thankfully, during the right ones.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dinner was eaten, presents were given and then everyone left, except Russ, who stayed till twelve o'clock discussing the moral decline of the universe with my mother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Y'know Russ, I've had kids come into the college who have helicopter parents. All they do is hoover over their children, wanting to know every detail of their lives. The children never learn when parents do that."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My mouth sort of swung back and forth at that point&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I had one student come into my office the other day and he didn't even know what programs he had registered for. Can you imagine?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I had the ability to gain the mobility of my jaw, or had somehow found the courage to blurt out, "DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE GIANT MISTAKE OF PUBLIC RELATIONS MOTHER? THE COURSE YOU PUSHED ME INTO BECAUSE YOU WANTED MY FATHER TO PAY CHILD SUPPORT FOR AN EXTRA YEAR?" But it somehow failed me and so I just sat blankly listening to the two of them natter away about their hypocritical opinions on religion, parenting and life skills.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At one point Russ was talking about how one of his Father's friends had died of stomach cancer and he directly blames the man's wife for it because she was an absolute pyscho. My mother calmly agreed adding that, "some people just do not know how to handle their loved one's emotional stability."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I just blankly gazed across the room, my head reeling, listening to the absolute rubbish, once again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There will come a day when my mind snaps and my tongue gets the best of me and I relay the two years of bullshit I lived through after my father left. I'll be sure to mention the picture frames flying at my head, the holes I punched through walls, the accusations of abortions which were spread like wild fire around her office and of course, the night she called the police on me to ask them to escort me from her property because I reminded her too much of her husband.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But of course, my mother is someone who understands how to handle their loved one's emotional stability.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Shera shoes that I got Dan to paint for my sister are absolutely adored, almost more than the idiot string mittens that went along with it. My mom was stunned by her teapot and Stacey wiggled merrily on the couch at the sight of her beaded egyptian necklace. It was an excellent feeling to cause someone such happiness. What can I say, I am a giver.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next day Chelsea and I calmly left my mother's house (for the first time in four years), and grudgingly arrived at my Father's.&lt;br /&gt;It's nice to see Dad. I miss him the most out of everyone I've left behind in Niagara. I worry about him a lot, with his health issues and drinking problems, so it's nice to see him happy and busy and comfortable in his home. I see so much of myself in him these days, especially now that I own such an overwhelming inability to keep my life in line. The apple didn't fall too far from the tree, I am just like him. Seeing Mir though wasn't as pleasant. I knew that she was going to have me working in the kitchen, I just didn't expect the work load that came with it.&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and his parents arrived for dinner before my Aunt and Uncle. It was bizarre to have them in the house, but they got along exceptionally well with my family and the whole time I couldn't help thinking, "Why did I allow this? There's such a slim chance we'll stay together. Why allow the parents to befriend eachother?" But as there was nothing to be done about it, I went back to eating my ridiculously rare beef wellington and twice baked potatoes.&lt;br /&gt;I showed the photographs of what I had done in school to my Uncle Paul and after he hissed, "If I were you, I would have made a crapload of money by now with my talent! What is wrong with you child!?" And I just sighed. He finally convinced me to finish the scruffy book. If he's going to do all the hard work of getting it published, I might as well just get on with it. Who knows, maybe I will become rich and famous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the hours that I had spent baking cookies for my loved ones seemed to be a gigantic waste of time. My Uncle Mike was really the only person who was overwhelmed by them. He gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek while sentimentally saying, "You didn't have to think of me like that Anna, thank you." That was worth the hours spent in the kitchen. I would have done it all over again for him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The day after Boxing Day I tried to see blue tie but he wasn't around.&lt;br /&gt;Sitting in the car on the way home depressed me. I was trying to run over the reasons as to why I liked him, but couldn't figure out a single one, other than ridiculously superficial points that could apply to anyone that's semi-intelligent and sarcastic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I still want him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I beat him with telephone calls last week, begging him to tell me what he wanted out of me because our five minute meetings were finally fucking me enough to leave me crying in the shower, gasping for air and puking up bile. The anxiety attacks are becoming so severe that they leave me ill and completely depressed for at least a week. The odd thing is that I don't think that &lt;em&gt;he&lt;/em&gt; is the reason that is causing them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just think I'm homesick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But Christmas didn't allow me the time to think of him, or of home. I just mingled with family, made food and stressed out over money. Every twenty-four-year-old's Christmas Dream.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I'm just waiting for Andrew Essar to call me back so we can hangout over New Years. Oddly enough, I don't think I'll get the call.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116726404415847201?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116726404415847201/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116726404415847201' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116726404415847201'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116726404415847201'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/12/christmas-2006-styles.html' title='Christmas, 2006 Styles.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116650518277178688</id><published>2006-12-18T20:36:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-18T21:13:10.523-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Third Degree.</title><content type='html'>I should have stayed away, again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm like that kid that continually burns themselves on the stove, even though their mother and the stove has given them ample reasons not to touch it. It's just, the stove is so attractive and you can make choux paste on it and well, choux paste is yummy and my selfcontrol is about as strong as strungout smack addict's ethics.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had every intention of being mad at him. I actually punched him when I saw his blue shirt. I punched him and then I looked at his face and I melted into a pile of idiocy. My learned hatred for him apparently owned an expiry date and it lasted all of five minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cannot say what happened between the two of us. All I know is that what happened has left me more fucked up and more confused about everything than I ever have been.&lt;br /&gt;It's bizarre that one man has the ability to not per say, make you want to do things for him but rather, make you want to do things because you realise you could have something different. But when has different ever been the right answer?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought about getting a job in Niagara on the Lake and living in a one room appartment until student loans are paid off. I thought about fucking off and going to Europe to learn how to make real pastry from the finest. I've thought about staying in Toronto and living this ordinary life of a housewife, the one I thought I wanted, and sort of still do, but not now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've thought about so many things, especially him. Especially what he could never give me because he's failing miserably at giving it to someone else right now, so really, what's the point?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I learned how to hate him earlier. I wish I was smart enough to not get involved in this. I wish he knew how to tell me what I needed to hear in order to act accordingly and I wish I had the smallest fucking clue.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This makes me feel so stupid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I caught him looking at me when another man was kissing my arm and I thought that maybe I saw a sparkle of jealousy, but I can't be sure. When he asked me to come back tomorrow, he sounded so desperate, but I don't know for what. There are times when he absoultely wants me and then there are moments when it's just about, "what he needs." And after we've had our two minutes together and he needs to return to his world that doesn't include me, I hate myself for a week and silently weep over the way I'm running my life in the passenger seat of my boyfriend's car.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know that I should never be married. I can't be. It's not in me to do.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and I sat down and chatted again about the state of our relationship.&lt;br /&gt;Things had been fine until I went home and saw all the things I missed. He says he doesn't want me to stay if I hate it here, he also says that I'm making him feel guilty because it's him that's apparently making me stay. He also said, "Maybe it's completely out of line for me to say this, but it just seems like you're not trying at all to make this work". Hearing that now doesn't make me angry, it just depresses me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't spread my legs every night because I want to fuck you d00d, I spread them because I feel like shit for not doing it. How's that for trying?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This whole existence is just so diseased, I have no idea what to do to make it right.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116650518277178688?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116650518277178688/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116650518277178688' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116650518277178688'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116650518277178688'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/12/third-degree.html' title='Third Degree.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116606557696262961</id><published>2006-12-13T18:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-12-14T14:14:42.540-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Still.</title><content type='html'>"I must give the impression that I have the answers for everything.&lt;br /&gt;You were so disappointed to see me unravel so easily.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It slowly changed only everything I know.&lt;br /&gt;Even the things that seem still are still changing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stay focused on details that keeps me from feeling the big things,&lt;br /&gt;but watch the likeness go wrong in the things that seem still, are still changing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even the things that seem still are still changing "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck you Folds.&lt;br /&gt;Always putting the most complex of feelings in the most simplest of ways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So you listen to your song and at first it's a nice melody - pretty lyrics. There's parts in the song where the vocals and music mesh so well they make your heart flutter. And then when you begin to learn the lyrics and you start to realise that they are applicable to your existence, your soul suddenly becomes a black, shivering mess of memories, pain and confusion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The brilliance of it leaves you numb and ready for a warm bath. You want to crawl into a hole, you want to forget the experience of the song.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then it makes you realise you've found your new favourite song by Ben Folds.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116606557696262961?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116606557696262961/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116606557696262961' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116606557696262961'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116606557696262961'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/12/still.html' title='Still.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116477071849450142</id><published>2006-11-28T19:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-28T19:25:18.920-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Loomis Confessions.</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Confession One.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I had the worst evening last night."&lt;br /&gt;"I'm sorry to hear that"&lt;br /&gt;"I cried myself to sleep"&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, that's unfortunate."&lt;br /&gt;"It's bad enough that I'm having problems with my husband, but this menopause thing makes it a hundred times worse."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*Silence*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, I'm passing clots of blood the size of small children."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*More Silence*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"That was probably too much information. But seriously, I thought my husband and I would be together forever."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, maybe you will be."&lt;br /&gt;"Doubtful."&lt;br /&gt;"Well perhaps things will get better. Your bill comes to $32.95. How would you like to pay for that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Confession Two.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Thank you for calling Loomis Art Store, this is Anna speaking, how can I help you?"&lt;br /&gt;"Hi Anna, this is Delorsis. Do I know you?"&lt;br /&gt;"Uhh, I don't think so."&lt;br /&gt;"Ok. This is the first time I'll be coming to your store and I was wondering if you could tell me if you carried a certain type of paint."&lt;br /&gt;"Ok, what paint are you looking for?"&lt;br /&gt;"Ceramcoat"&lt;br /&gt;"Yup, we have it."&lt;br /&gt;"Ok, What Subway do I have to take to get to where you are?"&lt;br /&gt;"We're at Woodbine and Danforth, so you'll want to get off at the Woodbine division."&lt;br /&gt;"Do I have to go up an escalator?"&lt;br /&gt;"Uhh, yes. You have to go up two."&lt;br /&gt;"Oh. Ok. I don't know if I'll be coming today because my sister has to give me my allowance."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*silence*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I think I might be able to come tomorrow though."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, no matter when you come there will be someone here to help you find the paint you're looking for."&lt;br /&gt;"Oh. Ok. Thank you Anna."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Confession Three.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So what if you were dating someone and you decided that it was time to move in together. You however absolutely despise guns and the person you're moving in with owns one and refuses to get rid of it, even though you've asked them to. Wouldn't you be mad at them?"&lt;br /&gt;"No."&lt;br /&gt;"How could you not be mad?"&lt;br /&gt;"It's their right to like guns and own guns."&lt;br /&gt;"But if you absolutely despised them and they refused to get rid of them, they couldn't love you that much. Surely you understand this?"&lt;br /&gt;"I understand your point, but I wouldn't be bothered by it."&lt;br /&gt;"How could you not be bothered by it? Guns are the epitome of evil. They don't have a single positive aspect about them."&lt;br /&gt;"Sure they do."&lt;br /&gt;"Are you crazy?"&lt;br /&gt;"They create jobs, they keep the peace."&lt;br /&gt;"They instill fear and violence into communities! They're weapons. The only purpose they own is to kill, which is a gigantic negative."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, what if you liked trees and I hated them and I wanted you to cut down all the trees in the backyard before I moved in?"&lt;br /&gt;"That's ridiculous."&lt;br /&gt;"Why is that ridiculous?"&lt;br /&gt;"Because trees are not negative objects. They create oxygen and shade on sunny days."&lt;br /&gt;"And if I swung a tree at you, I'm sure it would kill you just as well as a gun would."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*silence*&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116477071849450142?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116477071849450142/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116477071849450142' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116477071849450142'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116477071849450142'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/11/loomis-confessions.html' title='Loomis Confessions.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116357188908726888</id><published>2006-11-14T22:22:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-14T22:26:40.380-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Get This Man Out of My Head.</title><content type='html'>"Woman... woe-man... whoooa-man. She was a thief, you gotta belief, she stole my heart and my cat. Judy, Betty, Josie and those hot Pussycats... They made me horny, on Saturday morn-ee... Girls of cartoo-ins will leave me in ruins... I want to to be Betty's Barney.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jane... Get me off this crazy thing... Called love."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You said it Charlie.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's fucked y'know. You settle down with someone only to think your life is perfectly indestructible. You're happy, comfortable, enthused that things are going so smoothly. You think you have everything and you're perfectly content in your little bubble of ignorant normalcy. Queue complacent sigh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've got it bad.&lt;br /&gt;The crushing feeling that he bestows upon me creeps away when I distance myself from him. When he's not around, neither is the most atrocious feeling of paranoia and grief I have ever known. When he is around, I giggle like a little girl. I feel like I've met my equal and I swoon like a forty-five-year-old John Travolta fan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's disgusting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need the closure of a solid ass pounding. I need him to take me in a moment of sexual frustration and I need him to fuck me endlessly. I need him to finish this stupid game of bad timing and two minute phone conversations. I need him to know that this is screwing up my head and I definitely need to stop devoting so many random posts to this random man in my life because it is also, disgusting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't understand how I could want to change my whole life over a five minute phone conversation regarding his work day. I'm dumbfounded by how the tone of his sweetly sarcastic voice could make me see Andrew with such repugnance.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate him and yet at the same time, am completely enamoured by him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I suppose what makes this so confusing and perhaps so magnetic is his lack of opinion, comment and commitment to the whole mess. Yes he wants me, but can't make the time for it. It's ok that he's attatched, he dated a married woman once, why would it be so bad to do it now? But when it finally comes down to it, he only wants to be friends. Emails, phone, existing together for any longer than two minutes is completely forbidden and the only place he can manage sexual coagulation is during office hours. Cause that totally makes sense.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck sir? Your gender is not supposed to be the confusing one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what the fuck do I do? Forget about him? Continue on with Andrew and hope that I don't think of him to keep my relationship steady? Do I somehow find the perfect timing and screw him mercilessly only to fall even more deeply in infatuation with him? Do I remain his friend and lust for him from a distance? Do I tell him how badly this is fucking me up and hope he understands and cares enough to do something about it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What exactly do I need to do to not be a lunatic anymore? And why is it that the first time I feel passion, is when I am in a state of lunacy?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116357188908726888?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116357188908726888/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116357188908726888' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116357188908726888'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116357188908726888'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/11/get-this-man-out-of-my-hea_116357188908726888.html' title='Get This Man Out of My Head.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116278612101496348</id><published>2006-11-05T19:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-05T20:13:33.436-08:00</updated><title type='text'>How Much Clams Coulda Diddums Shuck, if a Diddums Could Shuck Clams?</title><content type='html'>So much bad karma is coming my way. At least five hundred times the amount that it should.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I killed five hundred living creatures today and my hands are suffering for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oysters suck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I volunteered for an Italian festival through George Brown today.&lt;br /&gt;Upon arriving, Glenn and I were given six gigantic boxes of Oysters to rinse, scrub and shuck. It absolutely sucked.&lt;br /&gt;The smell reminded me of the beach - I missed home. The barnacles reminded me of Boris - God rest his Racing Snail soul. Standing over a sink full of smelly, shelled creatures for five hours made my back remember what it felt like to be in a life drawing class for three hours.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really just wanted to die.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oddly enough, it was the steel wool that sliced my finger in half and not the oysters. I'm sure it will get infected. Having it marinate in a bucket of oyster piss for five hours isn't exactly what I consider therapeutic or hygienic, But wadya gonna do a'bout it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eventually when Chef Shaller arrived he swept us away to his tables which were full of pastries and a giant, three tiered chocolate fountain that was surrounded by pineapple, marshmallows, strawberries and bananas for dipping.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Divine, but still, Italians are rude.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Glenn and I were happy for the change, even if it was busy and full of people speaking in Italian who assumed we understood them. Smile and nod, no one will ever know.&lt;br /&gt;One man who had somehow managed to spill melted chocolate all the way up his arms used the tablecloth to wipe his hands. Classy. Another man grabbed my butt and what seemed to be a thousand monsters swarmed the table, demanding chocolate in high pitched squeels that only awful little children seem to be able to make. It sent shivers through my whole body. A choir of screaming brats is not exactly easy listening for an afternoon lunch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end of the day Chef Shaller took Glenn and I back to his shop for a tour.&lt;br /&gt;It's still in the process of being created and looks rather good considering. He had put in a new bathroom, new floors and a whole shit load of equipment that was exceptionally large and intimidating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was terribly jealous.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was strange working with the Chef today only 'cause he seemed so much more jovial. He's sort of hot when he's not flustered and dealing with twenty-four, barely twenty, annoying students.&lt;br /&gt;It's possible that I might have a bit of a crush on him, probably only because he has his own bake shop and that for some reason makes me wet. It's successful men, that's what does it. It can't be helped.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ya, I'mma Gold Diggah. So what?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grand times today, minus the oysters. I think now I'll retreat to bed and slowly suck the oyster piss out of my fermenting wounds.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116278612101496348?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116278612101496348/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116278612101496348' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116278612101496348'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116278612101496348'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/11/how-much-clams-coulda-diddums-shuck-if.html' title='How Much Clams Coulda Diddums Shuck, if a Diddums Could Shuck Clams?'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116242708284892502</id><published>2006-11-01T16:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-11-01T16:24:43.246-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Brown Sugar.</title><content type='html'>I'm making three brown sugar pound cakes currently.&lt;br /&gt;For those of you who aren't sure what a pound cake is, it's a cake which contains a pound of each ingredient. Yes, they are expensive.&lt;br /&gt;For those of you who are wondering why I am currently spending a shit load of money on three pound cakes, it's because the partners in my group for my sugar presentation are babies and won't go the extra mile to do their fair share of work and therefore, diddums is stuck with the excess weight (pun intended).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My house smells lovely though.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116242708284892502?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116242708284892502/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116242708284892502' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116242708284892502'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116242708284892502'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/11/brown-sugar.html' title='Brown Sugar.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116218471647410979</id><published>2006-10-29T20:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2006-10-29T21:05:16.673-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Round Two.</title><content type='html'>Talk about frustrating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There have been countless moments of flirting going on in my life over the past year, especially during the last couple of months. I am an awful person for this. Whatever. I don't feel guilty about it, just less inclined to be flirtatious. I suppose that's a start. Again, whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things were getting good with Andrew.&lt;br /&gt;Being in the house made me happy. Cleaning constantly didn't seem so bad. The fast paced life of city living seemed to agree with me and working at the art store was a fucking blast (I sold four hundred dollars worth of air brush equipment last week. I'm two steps closer to getting that forty dollar bonus. Eat me Wal Mart).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then I went home this weekend and saw &lt;em&gt;him&lt;/em&gt; and now I'm right fucked again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first I thought, no big deal, no I don't want him. Absolutely not. Ewe. Don't touch my hand. But the more I sit and think about it, the more frustrated I become with the situation and that makes me want to dig my brain out with an ice cream scoop.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't expect to see him at all.&lt;br /&gt;I resented him the moment I heard his voice and when he glanced at me and calmly chortled, 'Now here's trouble', my emotion turned from resentment to, 'awe, why don't you like me anymore?', and the desire to persue him gently returned. I stood infront of him emoting what I hope came across as cool indifference with a slight edge of interest - just enough concern to keep him talking.&lt;br /&gt;He hasn't let go of things. I can't say that I blame him, but he's interested again and I couldn't be arsed to keep this game of availability going on any longer. When I looked at him, all I could think of was lost opportunities and everything that I wanted to find in a man that was already taken by another woman.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It made me feel like complete shit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the progress that had been accumulated with Andrew just sort of fell to the side of the road the more I thought of him today.&lt;br /&gt;And now I'm so unbelievably mad with myself over being entertained by his desires. I'm so stupid, so easily impressed upon. I never did crack, just sex. I'm a sucker for peer pressured intimacy and I HATE it because it's completely ruining any chance I have of owning a normal life with a good man. Unless he leaves his girlfriend and takes it up with me, but what are the chances of that happening?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stupid diddums. You should have stayed away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116218471647410979?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116218471647410979/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116218471647410979' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116218471647410979'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116218471647410979'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/round-two.html' title='Round Two.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116196960826340986</id><published>2006-10-27T09:21:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-27T10:20:09.136-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Que the Mad Hatter.</title><content type='html'>So I've got this hunking piece of amber hanging from my neck and a ton of it bedazzling my digits and for some silly and fickle reason, I feel like I'm more in love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How's that for female idiocy?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We celebrated my birthday at Andrew's parent's house on Wednesday.&lt;br /&gt;There was some dirty bird, money to be given, cards passed out entitled "Grog's Latest Fling," a really awful sweater from Northern Reflections that I can't return 'cause I lost the receipt and of course, the pounds of amber that are currently adorning my over-tired body.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was super.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When Andrew passed me the silver bag my body started to shake.&lt;br /&gt;There have been times where I've been expecting him to do something romantic and he's failed miserably. I was finally growing accustomed to frying pans and tires and then he presented me with the epitome of romance. It was trickery I tell you. Complete trickery.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On Thursday I made my way to the Niagara Region to see my Mom and Stinky.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went to IKEA and Dianne bought me $100.00 worth of door handles for my kitchen cabinets. Totally stoked on those. I also bought some curtains for the bedroom and a fixture for my awesomely new lamp that is all bubbly and red. Totally stoked on the red bubbly lamp. Chelsea bought a pillow for her meditation (freak) and my mom was just happy to be with us so everyone was in good spirits.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Until the ride home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been trying to get my hair done for weeks now. I haven't had time, haven't had the money and the one time where I finally do, it overlaps my mother's dinner plans by an hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She fucking lost it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Mom, I can cancel my hair appointment if you want."&lt;br /&gt;"It doesn't matter."&lt;br /&gt;"Well apparently it does matter mom."&lt;br /&gt;"No, it doesn't matter."&lt;br /&gt;"Is it really that much of a problem to move dinner back an hour?"&lt;br /&gt;"It doesn't matter."&lt;br /&gt;"Mom, we're trying to remedy the problem. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO FUCKING DIFFICULT.?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Upon arriving home the war raged on:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Mom, I will cancel my hair appointment."&lt;br /&gt;"Y'know Anna I'm really sick of getting pushed aside so that everyone else can have their way."&lt;br /&gt;"Mom. I. Will. Cancel. The. Appointment."&lt;br /&gt;"No Anna, I don't want you to cancel the appointment."&lt;br /&gt;"Is it really that bad to push dinner back an hour?"&lt;br /&gt;"I wanted it to be special. It's not going to work out now."&lt;br /&gt;"Oh. I didn't know that there was some big to do going on. If you tell me the gravity of the situation, maybe we can work out something that would fit both of our schedules?"&lt;br /&gt;"No Anna, I can't serve dinner at seven. The other two girls can't eat that late."&lt;br /&gt;"Why not?"&lt;br /&gt;"Because they can't Anna."&lt;br /&gt;"They're twenty-something-year-olds Mom. They can make themselves a snack."&lt;br /&gt;"No Anna, that's not how it works."&lt;br /&gt;"Well, wht the fuck mom?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stinky eventually stomped through the conversation with a very heroic:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It's your daughter's BIRTHDAY mom, let her do whatever the fuck she wants. It's not like you have plans or something."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, actually I do have plans. I guess I'll just have to cancel them."&lt;br /&gt;"Wait. You have plans to go out with your friends after dinner and you're yelling at me for not making time for you? Are you fucking serious?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More Silence.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The problem was remedied when James came over. I have no idea how.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went to East Side Marios for their mediocre food and bad Bailey's Coffee. It was alright. We rented some movies and during the last one he tried to hold my hand and all those feelings I thought I had for James were completely non-existent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really didn't want him to touch my hand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The insanity of birthdays.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116196960826340986?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116196960826340986/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116196960826340986' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116196960826340986'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116196960826340986'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/que-mad-hatter.html' title='Que the Mad Hatter.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116180778493435677</id><published>2006-10-25T12:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-25T13:27:43.796-07:00</updated><title type='text'>More Nut Jobs For Diddums.</title><content type='html'>Every single fecking time I think that I've managed to escape the brutality of an insane female mind, I get smacked in the face with a two by four of absolute estrogen ridiculousness. Seriously folks, what exactly has to happen to you through the duration of your life to make you &lt;em&gt;so&lt;/em&gt; fucked up?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am an exceptional judge of character.&lt;br /&gt;It's not often that I can't pick out, "the crazy" in a group of ten, but it is often that I tend to stick by them either out of simple curiosity, pity or the undying belief that has been driven into my head through years of Sunday School: I need to be nice to everyone, no matter how awful they are, especially the pyschos.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was never nice to Tree.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People may think that it was because she was dating my ex internet boyfriend who lives millions of miles away from me and that I was jealous. It's a logical line of thought and honestly, I would hold a similar belief if the situation was applicable to someone outside of myself. Fair is fair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was never jealous of Tree.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Put off by her? Yes. Scared of her undying devotion to poetry? Sure. Annoyed by her never ending lines of rubbish? Absolutely. Convinced she was bonkers after talking to her for five minutes? Completely. Confused by her cheerful attitude towards everything, even the people that outrightly hated her? Definitely. Baffled by her ability to remain the victim perpetually, even through her own stupid deeds? Yup.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tree was fucked.&lt;br /&gt;And she still is fucked and I'm sure she will remain fucked until she somehow finds it within herself to realise that she's the root of all her issues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When JIB and Tree broke it off there was a bitter war that raged over the internet.&lt;br /&gt;At the time I wasn't speaking to my far off ex because of a silly spat we had ages ago that was never resolved due to both of our stubborn personalities - Tree took full advantage of that void.&lt;br /&gt;It wasn't long after the break that she had messaged me on MSN with questions regarding my once relationship with JIB. It was weird, but I was still pissed so I vented. Only after did I realise that talking to Tree could only worsen the situation with JIB and I politely told her to piss off because well, it was just weird.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then it was my fault that she had stalked his other ex girlfriends and caused the ultimate demise of their relationship. Because God knows that it's totally normal to gather an army of JIB hating ex's to form some sort of hate breed against someone who did nothing other than decide that a relationship wasn't right for him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jesus.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So some posts were written on LIAC, an email or two were sent and a very understandable disliking of Tree was established and everyone was happy to politely ignore eachother while existing comfortably within the dark corners of internet blogs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That was until JIB found out that she had sent emails to even more random people and he simply lost his cool.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More posts were written. More anger was spewed and then came the crucifixion and I laughed all the way to my blog.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some selected tidbits that I sincerely enjoy are:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Why are you doing this to me? Why are you letting Anna misrepresent the truth? Why are people using my name? Why am I being crucified in public over something that happened long ago and was forgiven? I am not going to defend myself on your journal and go through a point by point argument. Anna has everything distorted. I'm not going to post msn convos and emails and all sorts of shit to "clear my name." I've learned the hard way. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;You are being as cruel as she is by letting this continue."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes. I was being absolutely unfounded and cruel to stand up for my friend in a bombardment of asinine female commentary by posting a real-life, unaltered email that was the epitome of honesty. It's also quite interesting that crazy Tree thinks that, "Tree" is her real name and not her internet nick name. But, really lets not nitpick.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Why am I the only one apologizing and taking blame for actions? Why does everyone else get off as innocent? Will I have to apologize and be punished for the rest of my life because of this transgression?"&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You're apologizing because you were in the wrong dumbass. That bitter taste in your mouth is called guilt and the apologetic tones that are pouring out are what most like to call, "a regret."&lt;br /&gt;And really, don't be so dramatic. It's not the rest of your life, it's just till you learn how to turn off your computer and not get so emotionally attatched to pixels, you fecking wack job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the piece de resistance:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;"I am fucking begging you to make it go away. Please, Jason. Please. Just make it stop. I will go away forever, regardless, but just make it stop. I can't pull the Penelope trick and make myself believe that you would be cruel enough to let it continue. I can't imagine you enjoy watching Anna fuck me up or that you really wanted to throw away what we rebuilt. If that's the case, then I guess there's nothing more to say. But, even so, I'm still begging you to make it go away. I've only harbored kind thoughts about you for many, many months. Just let me be. Stop letting my name be used in public, especially when it's associated with something that makes me look like what I am not. It's just not fair to keep torturing me over this."&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And my final thought:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's a mother-fucking blog.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116180778493435677?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116180778493435677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116180778493435677' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116180778493435677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116180778493435677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/more-nut-jobs-for-diddums.html' title='More Nut Jobs For Diddums.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116114469997257694</id><published>2006-10-17T20:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-17T21:13:53.646-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mirros.</title><content type='html'>Andrew tried to have sex with me last night and I couldn't do it.&lt;br /&gt;There was an overhwelming feeling of panic when he put his hand on my hip and I seriously thought that I was going to cry if he moved it anywhere else. When he tried to pull me around to kiss him, I punched him in the arm and quickly squirmed back to the corner of the bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't say anything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I gotta wonder if this is an Anna thing vs. an Andrew thing.&lt;br /&gt;Feeling panicked when your boyfriend tries to get in your pants isn't exactly the outcome that anyone wants in said situation. Before I thought that the reason why I couldn't do it was all about him, but now I'm thinking it's all about me and it's freaking me out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What happened to make me scared of sex in the past three months?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure, moving to Toronto was a traumatic experience, but not that traumatic. Am I overwhelmed with priorities? Depressed? Stressed out about school? Too tired? Or am I just a nut bar? Who fucking knows.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been talking to this d00d who is studying mental health and he says that I should go to a shrink.&lt;br /&gt;The last time I went to a head doctor he flat out told me that I got angry too often and that I needed to be more sympathetic to my parents delicate situation and more supportive to my mother's emotional needs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I firmly told him to go fuck himself. I guess he was right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's been an onslaught of songs lately commenting on the lack of, "good people."&lt;br /&gt;I hate this city. Everyone in it seems to be a pretentious dick head or an uninterested, self-obsessed fucktard. I haven't met a single person that has struck me as a sincerely decent individual with a kind heart and a good soul.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is brutal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting on the subway today and I saw myself in the reflection of the window and I hated it.&lt;br /&gt;One rarely receives the opportunity to catch a glimpse of one's self existing in the real world, without striking poses to show off the best angle of your profile or manicuring each strand of hair to perfection. I just saw me, slumped in the seat looking miserable and cold, like every other face on the TTC and that made me feel so completely empty that I wanted to run out the back door of the train and through the tunnel until I couldn't run any longer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish I had the chance to see my thought process in that state of vulnerability. I'd probably be able to figure a lot shit out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I noticed today that I'm phasing in and out of conciousness a bit too often for my liking.&lt;br /&gt;There's moments of a weird vertigo where I have to lean against something to catch my balance and then a sudden pang of hurt near the middle of my skull and then nothing. Just black. Then I come back into focus and things are fine. I have no idea what this is.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116114469997257694?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116114469997257694/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116114469997257694' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116114469997257694'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116114469997257694'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/mirros.html' title='Mirros.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116096935254582051</id><published>2006-10-15T19:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-15T20:29:12.650-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Side Notes.</title><content type='html'>I guess I haven't written anything because I haven't been able to consummate my obligation to my emotional duties as an overwhelmed and completely clueless twenty-three-year-old.&lt;br /&gt;A twenty-three-year-old shouldn't have to take on such a ridiculous task.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I stopped taking birth control and for the first time in years I feel right.&lt;br /&gt;The balance that I've maintained just within my every day lifestyle has been soothing to my fears of mental instability. I feel normal again; I feel like I'm functioning properly. I feel a thousand pounds lighter and healthier and things with Andrew seem to be working and I'm so unbelievably satisfied with the state of my life right now that I'm completely convinced that all men should forgo the desire to be condemnless and encourage their lovers to be free of hormonal insanity, so women can begin to loose the label of pyschotic love fiends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seriously, &lt;em&gt;it was&lt;/em&gt; the birth control.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven't talked to Neil in awhile and I feel good about it.&lt;br /&gt;He's concerned that my summary of his existence on my blog has made him sound like a bit of a git. I suppose it has, but it's been an honest account and if it has, then it has. I like Neil but it's plainly obvious that the only reason he wants me around is for a fuck. If he feels guilty for that, it's his own moral checklist cashing in because he's done me no wrong.&lt;br /&gt;I don't think I'll meet him now only because there's no point. I can't screw him, or rather, I won't screw him and he's run out of things to say.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was a nice fellow though. Too bad we didn't meet at a different time when our  lifestyles were more intune to eachother's needs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My body is tired.&lt;br /&gt;I'm excited for my birthday, but I'm more excited for my paycheck.&lt;br /&gt;I'm trying to decide if I can pull off blonde.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is good.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116096935254582051?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116096935254582051/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116096935254582051' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116096935254582051'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116096935254582051'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/side-notes.html' title='Side Notes.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116054104705426914</id><published>2006-10-10T20:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-10T21:39:27.906-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Peace.</title><content type='html'>I pulled out my first grey hair today. Grey hair at the ripe age of twenty-three. It's the birthday that's looming in the shadows that's doing it; twenty-four is a big responsibility.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My sister loaded up one of her Mp3 players for me so I'd have some totally awesome tunes to listen to on the bus on the way to school. I'm completely stoked on it. Got to love the Ray L.&lt;br /&gt;I went for a walk this eve and I just listened to his sweet voice and smiled because it was just a good fucking time.&lt;br /&gt;I said hello to some random in a suit and he looked at me like I was a freak.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A reason to hate Toronto: Being kind automatically equates you to a lunatic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Either way, the walk and the tunes did me a world of good.&lt;br /&gt;Ray has a quality to him that one could compare to a home cooked meal. It's comforting, warm and reminds you of all the good that is supposed to come out of love. I just kinda went with that and when I got home I felt sure about a lot of things that I wasn't so sure about yesterday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew and I battled it out to the wee hours of the morning last night.&lt;br /&gt;My last post was premature, but very honest. We're nowhere near close to being ok, but for the first time in quite a long time I know that I miss my boyfriend. I miss him a lot actually and I'm ashamed of myself for being so oblivious to someone I'm supposed to love. I'm in desperate need of a moral adjustment because I've been too bad for too long and I'm sick of it.*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it doesn't help when I have someone chirping in my ear about wanting to be a rock while trying to seduce me under false pretenses. Not that it's his fault, I listened.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You stupid, stupid man. Why bother pretending when all you had to say was, "I just wanted to fuck you." How many bloody times do I have to go through this nonsense?&lt;br /&gt;He said that the reason why men don't admit to their needs is because of the thrill of the pursuit. I say that if you're more concerned about the thrill of the pursuit vs. fucking up someone's sanity, you have some serious ethical issues and perhaps need to boost your emotional intelligence, 'cause d00d: What the fuck?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not that this is his responsibility. It's not, at all. It all would have played out this way eventually. Better sooner than later. We're two conflicting personalities. Shit happens.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't think ill of Neil now, I'm just confused by him.&lt;br /&gt;He never owed me anything and I'm sure that the more I think of the situation, I didn't want anything from him either. I think he's a rad guy. He makes me laugh and he just seems like a genuinely decent fellow with an aloof sort of personality and that's fine. If he does meet me and he doesn't like me, I'll be quite happy to walk away from him knowing it was for the best because it's quite obvious now that him and I are completely incompatible and I'm absolutely fine with it.&lt;br /&gt;But one has to be a little put off by the lack of his presence after the sex-driven Anna stopped showing up. It's difficult to hold faith in his personality because I hardly know him and I think right now that the current product is a circumstance of the bizarre situation rather than his character. But one can never be sure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always knew that the conversations would die when the orgiastic side of me did. It just sucks that, that fact had to be reinforced by him because what happened was exactly what I didn't want to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Meh. I'm too sleep to worry about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I'd still like to meet him. Can't hurt to have a friendship in this unfriendly city.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;* I wish I knew how to paint a more accurate portrait of Andrew for the people who read this - He is not a bad man. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;I can't fault someone for not knowing how to be emotionally articulate when they never have been in their whole existence. It is difficult to be with someone who is impassive, but it is not impossible. He's trying.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;Understand that I've failed at a lot of things within this relationship as well. I'm just as much at fault and I'm just as stupid as he's being, I just own the advantage of being the one writing the history.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;Please don't tell me that it was about time.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116054104705426914?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116054104705426914/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116054104705426914' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116054104705426914'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116054104705426914'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/peace.html' title='Peace.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116045270005484326</id><published>2006-10-09T20:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-09T20:58:20.086-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.</title><content type='html'>I wrote once,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Sometimes I think that I'm far from human.&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I think, ewe gah, maybe I'm a feminist. Sometimes I think that maybe I should become a lesbian because as I do generally loathe the majority of the female race, I don't understand a male mind and frankly, don't ever want to.&lt;br /&gt;It's hard to remain betwixt two races that seem so utterly different and stupidly selfish compared to myself. I just want to find one person that's NORMAL. Whether they own a five inch dick or a pussy the size of a bus, I don't care. Just someone who is incapable of unleashing a world of pain and frustation on my ass, that doesn't want to, "do" Lindsy Lohan 'cause she's half naked on the cover of Vanity Fair - WHO CARES THAT SHE'S A MENTALY UNSTABLE ANOREXIC PYSCHO? SHE'S HOT! Or someone that doesn't want to stay up all night and discuss strategical tactics to become the world's best American Idol.&lt;br /&gt;I just want someone that wants me and only me and doesn't want to look at other women, or be a stupid, stupid girl because hey, that's what gender roles do. I JUST WANT A SIMPLE, FUCKING NORMAL HUMAN. "&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't understand why it's impossible to find that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never felt special. I've never felt overly loved or cared for. I don't know what it's like to be romanced, I don't know what it feels like to be bursting with love and I am sick and tired of wondering what is so awful about me that makes me undeserving of these qualities.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so tired of being fucked. And lied to. And having parents pick on me because of their failed marriages.&lt;br /&gt;I'm so tired of being alone while I'm not and I am so glad that I am finally going to be able to find some sort of peace now that I am absolutely alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He didn't even put up a fight when I said it was over. He admitted through his silence that his friend's think I'm a freeloading witch. He still doesn't get that shelling out cash doesn't equal love and that expressing his love means that he has to put more than five seconds of thought into a car ride and a cold coffee.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I have to feel this way NOW? Why didn't he try to make it better and why am I crying?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck does it matter anyway.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116045270005484326?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116045270005484326/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116045270005484326' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116045270005484326'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116045270005484326'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/breaking-up-is-hard-to-do.html' title='Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116036604323395524</id><published>2006-10-08T20:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-08T21:06:08.600-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lost.</title><content type='html'>God damn this stupid show for being so dodgy.&lt;br /&gt;God damn it for all of it's never ending story lines, plot twists and hot men with hot accents, whom are constantly shirtless, sweating and loaded to the tits with facial hair. And god damn it for the spooky music that scares me more than the random, 'others' and smoke monsters.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just, God. Damn. It.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tried to make a sauce today out of Brandy, cream and sugar for the pumpkin pie. Unfortunately while trying to make said sauce, the Columbian student that's living with my mother was interogating me over where she could buy shoes in Toronto and I lost my stirring pace and so the sugar burnt. I cried.&lt;br /&gt;So the pumpkin pie was brandy-less and I felt a bit shit for it because I sincerely wanted my pie to be full of yummy alcoholic brilliance.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fucking Columbians.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Neil is a balmy character.&lt;br /&gt;I'm flattered that he is intrigued by me, I'm completely baffled as to why he still is, but it's nice. I'm more inclined to meet him the more we speak because he's disgustingly reassuring. I'm terrified that he won't be attracted to me upon first glace and while I'm well aware that I shouldn't give my time to a, 'knuckle head' who is completely infatuated (wink), with my mind, character and soul, but not body, I am very inclined to feel like an absolute pile of crap because of it.&lt;br /&gt;And if that is the case, I hope he just tells me that or at least, takes note of my "going home post", so that I don't have to deal with the bullshit yet again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm confused by this. I don't understand what he wants from me and I definitely do not understand what I could possibly give him. Currently I think he wants to fuck me because I've caused a ridiculous amount of sexual frustration for his poor soul and he would like to alieviate that problem as soon as possible, in whatever context he can have it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't say that I blame him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sure I'm a very mysterious personality and I'm sure that I have a lacivious phone voice that could potentially destroy any man's willpower, but why he likes &lt;em&gt;me, &lt;/em&gt;the "Enid", I don't think I will ever understand.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Probably because he seems so indifferent (wink x2).&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116036604323395524?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116036604323395524/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116036604323395524' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116036604323395524'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116036604323395524'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/lost.html' title='Lost.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116027270891752032</id><published>2006-10-07T18:29:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-07T18:58:29.263-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Head Pains.</title><content type='html'>My head feels like it's going to split.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm always excited about coming home until I actually get home.&lt;br /&gt;I brought bags of rolls to my Aunt Ruth's and my mothers for dinner. Neither of them said anything other than, "but we already bought rolls", and then threw them in the corner with the other bread.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Brutal.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's harsh when you put so much effort into something, think that you've done right by it and then have the people who are supposed to be completely enthused by your hard work and efforts be completely unimpressed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But Thanksgiving was nice, as far as Thanksgivings go. It was just more overwhelming because of relatives I haven't seen in almost ten years. My cousin Matthew is huge and his siblings are little brats. I'd rather eat fish daily than raise those two children. Blech.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So far my mother has only ruined Thanksgiving in a minor Dianne way.&lt;br /&gt;She put my sister on a scavenger hunt of bullshit this afternoon, which ultimately prevented her from being able to get to my father's at the appropriate time. That's just not cool.&lt;br /&gt;When I finally got to her house this eve, the only thing she wanted out of me was the schedule of my cousins, when they were going to see her and to have me listen to her complaints about my uninterested and selfish sister and her hangups over her divorce from my father that occured five years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm sorry you're not feeling well mom. I'm sure everyone would understand if you called dinner off tomorrow. If you're not feeling up to it, don't feel obligated to cook for us."&lt;br /&gt;"Is that your way of telling me that you don't give a shit about dinner because you've already had one and I'm not important?"&lt;br /&gt;"Stop acting like a pyscho. I want you to have dinner, but I don't want you to overwhelm yourself with it. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here."&lt;br /&gt;"Don't talk to me like that."&lt;br /&gt;"Then don't lay guilt trips on me for wanting to spend time with my father."&lt;br /&gt;"I just want to know why no one comes over here when I invite them."&lt;br /&gt;"What the hell are you talking about? Who hasn't come over that you've invited?"&lt;br /&gt;"Andrew didn't."&lt;br /&gt;"Andrew has dinner with his family tomorrow. I'm sure his mother would have been thrilled to know that he was missing it because of your personal issues."&lt;br /&gt;"You don't understand."&lt;br /&gt;"Of course I don't. Which is why you need to go to bed and leave me the hell alone."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so she cries and I completely don't care because that is just flippin' retarded.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hence the splitting head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't stop thinking about my trainspotting infatuation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am severly lacking sleep and I am severly breathless with the state of my new friendship, for a lot of reasons.&lt;br /&gt;I told myself that I wouldn't talk with him till Tuesday, just to give the situation room to rest and to allow myself to regroup, figure out what the hell I want and then make corresponding decisions for the benefit of both of us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I just sent him an email with my mother's phone number.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have absolutely no will power.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116027270891752032?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116027270891752032/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116027270891752032' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116027270891752032'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116027270891752032'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/head-pains.html' title='Head Pains.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-116010134766363120</id><published>2006-10-05T19:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-05T19:22:27.876-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Duckie.</title><content type='html'>I hate the internet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm not supposed to like the people that use it and I'm definitely not supposed to speak with them for six hours in one day, while my boyfriend is home and then, miss school because of it. Oddly enough, I don't feel guilty about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I more than likely will not meet him. The situation is too nice right now to fuck it up with being tangible. I'm too worried that it actually might work and that I would actually end up doing something that I couldn't take back, that would ultimately hurt too many people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have way too much stuff going on right now and while he may think that I'm his type, I know I'm not.&lt;br /&gt;I don't drink, I don't go to bars. I'm uptight, introverted, intimidated too often and just well, a big fucking geek. He seems far too... trainspotting for me where I am far too, ghost world for him. It's just not a good mix and if I had any amount of smarts in my head, I'd walk away from it now before I caused him a crapload of misery.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I like him. And I'm selfish. So perhaps, if he doesn't get bored of me too quickly, I'll be inclined to keep him around a little longer.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-116010134766363120?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/116010134766363120/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=116010134766363120' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116010134766363120'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/116010134766363120'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/duckie.html' title='Duckie.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115993598244914823</id><published>2006-10-03T20:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-03T21:26:22.616-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Is This Depression?</title><content type='html'>I am really lonely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spoke more to Andrew when I lived in Ridgeway. I thought that the communication would suffer because of our schedules. I realise now that our communication is obliterated because of our lack of interst in one another.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really just want to go home. Well, right now I do, but I don't really have a home to go to, so the thought is fleeting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tried to convince myself before I left Wal Mart that I only liked my job because of the people. It really was a shit place to work and I really do hate every single ethic that, that company holds, but I sincerely loved my job and I sincerely miss it.&lt;br /&gt;It's stupid to feel guilty for wanting a mediocre life that makes you happy vs. an overwhelming one that makes you rich.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate running to school and running home to run to work and then running through work to get back home to study for tests. It's just too much and while I know that I am capable of doing it, I absolutely do not want to.&lt;br /&gt;So I feel like shit for not living up to my potential and continue to immerse myself in an unhealthy relationship with my boyfriend, who falls asleep before we have the opportunity to figure out our currently, doomed romance, because I don't feel like I have a choice to have it any other way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sitting at home for hours on end with nothing to do and no one to talk to doesn't help either.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew asked me to come to Poker tonight, but I said no.&lt;br /&gt;I hate gambling, I hate the game. I dislike Krista and Tony and I have no desire to sit through bullshit conversations about hot women and why I'm no fun because I can't afford to play a forty dollar round of poker.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's really hard to admit that you're depressed and it's depressing to acknowledge that the only outlet you can admit it to is your blog; ONLY because you don't really have anyone else to admit it to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In our last fight, Andrew said that he was pissed off at me for saying that I could, "easily find someone off the street to marry me before he would", infront of his brother. I don't understand why he would be upset about it because he hates the idea of marriage and has told me a thousand times. It's also the truth - It would be easier to find someone off the street to marry me and the prospect of marriage is so far out of the question, I don't see how it would have made a difference in any way. But apparently his brother gave him a disaproving, "Why the hell are you with her face" and so now I've been made to feel like quite an ass.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This scenario has played out numerous times over the past week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tony asked me today when I was moving out. Clay quickly backpeddled after saying that him and the guys should go to a strip club. Again, I was made to feel like a lunatic.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't understand why it's so ridiculous to want a boyfriend who is capable of articulating his needs, wants, emotions and thoughts. I don't understand why it's unreasonable to dislike the idea of my boyfriend paying attention to a naked woman in a moment of lust. I don't understand what I have to do to make him understand that everything he does HURTS me and that I'm so absolutely distressed about the state of my life right now that I feel like I'm five seconds away from bursting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why the fuck hasn't this gotten easier yet?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115993598244914823?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115993598244914823/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115993598244914823' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115993598244914823'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115993598244914823'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/is-this-depression.html' title='Is This Depression?'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115976154290098401</id><published>2006-10-01T19:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-10-01T21:11:34.500-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Soap Operas.</title><content type='html'>There are times where I am literally dumbfounded by people's pharisaicness.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realise that my essence in some people's lives has just been shit. I'm not going to deny that I've probably caused a disproportionate amount of stress for individuals with my silly actions and uncaring demeanor.&lt;br /&gt;But lets be honest folks, the stress was more than likely deserved, or unavoidable, and the ostentatious bottom line is that: If I added shit to your life, your life was probably shit to begin with. I probably just got mixed into it at a bad time and perhaps made you see it for what it was.*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Actually, the ostentatious bottom line is: That's just how life works. I'd be an egotistical, super freak to take the credit for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've left a very cryptic account of the people in my life over the past month for many reasons. I've had to remove posts, censor my thoughts, calm my emotions quietly and frankly, just be nice for the sake of individuals that are currently circulating through my life.&lt;br /&gt;I've done all of this for one and one reason alone: Some fat and annoying cunt of a woman feels the need to open her gapping gob for a blither with her co-workers about my existence. This obsessive wacko has apparently leached onto my life and lifestyle and thoroughly enjoys sussing it out in very embarrassing conversations. Unfortunately, the embarrassing conversations have no impact on me, but rather on other aquaintenances of mine and she's making quite a fool of herself, mainly because my cryptic accounts on my blog have NOTHING to do with what she thinks. So now, I'm forced to explain, with a vague hope that she'll own up to her stupidity and just shut the fuck up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cannot comment on the amount of anger that welled in me when Ann stuck her fat fingers into an innocent crush regarding my manager from Wal Mart.&lt;br /&gt;YES, I had a crush on Paul and yes, I wrote a chaste, love-sick account about baking him a coffee cake which he never received. Yes I think Paul is a funny fellow and yes, I enjoy his personality but that is the extent of what I think of Paul.&lt;br /&gt;The notorious, "blue tie" is not Paul. It never has been Paul and it never will be Paul. I do not want to fuck him, I do not want to steal him away from his wife, I have not been stalking him and I have no desire to write about him here because his existence in my life is about as relevant as any old manager's should be.&lt;br /&gt;You'd have to be some sort of selfrighteous bungler to fill in the blanks of an ambiguous account of a faceless and nameless man on my blog. You'd have to be an even larger selfrighteous bungler to take your summary to work with you and blurt it out in the open like it's common knowledge that, OMG, everyone cares about.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One has to wonder when the enlightening comet of, "duh" would strike this dumbass with the screaming realisation that telling fibs about my life could indirectly induce a very large amount of discomfort for their current co-workers. This is just flat out cruel and rude. It's also quite stupid as the person who it could be inflicting is the person who signs your paychecks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a twenty-three-year-old, struggling student with a bad relationship and a semi-enthused desire to write about it. The only conclusion I can reach as to why someone would want to discuss my soap opera is that they can't find something entertaining enough on their own channel. Either that, or they're just a simple fucking dupe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The person whom I am writing about is my ex boyfriend James.&lt;br /&gt;James and I dated during my last year of highschool. He was a film student, I was an art student, we made beautiful, fucked up shit together.&lt;br /&gt;I was his first girlfriend, he wasn't ready for one and the whole thing just sorta fell apart because of inexperience and bad timing.&lt;br /&gt;James met a very nice girl in college and has been dating her ever since. I refer to her as, "his wife" as I refer to my boyfriend as, "my wife." If my readers would bother to talk to me, rather than about me, they'd probably realise that my dialect doesn't necessarily parallel their own.&lt;br /&gt;Recently James and I have been conversing more frequently. We've gotten together to watch some films, just like the good ol' times and I have sincerely enjoyed his company. Now that we're older and more experienced, a relationship with James seems more possible. It's always that, "what we could have had" scenario that plays out in the back of my head and recently, it's been playing quite often.&lt;br /&gt;Naturally James and I have had some discussion as of late about our doomed love and they've become a little erotic - It happens. As far as my sexual outbursts go, I'm an insanely sexual person. I've noted before, I haven't had sex in a month and I am quite descriptive and quite overwhelming when I need to get stuffed by a cock. Obviously, I'm going to vent.&lt;br /&gt;So while I've been spending all sorts of different time with James, a light has been rekindled. We're both quite excited by eachother's company and I imagine that it's because we're both quite lonely. I realised this just recently, not a week ago when I wrote my last post. I'm human. Sometimes it takes me a bit longer to figure out why I do what I do because of this fault.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I sent him a letter last week and I was quite stupid to do so.&lt;br /&gt;I've never quite gotten accustomed to allowing my significant others to access my email, mail and other personal information and it strikes me as quite odd when others allow their partners to. It didn't click that his girlfriend could open the letter until I couldn't take it back.&lt;br /&gt;Now that I've moved to Toronto, my time with James has become very limited. It usually exists on msn, for ten minutes because I either have to go to bed, or his mother is lurking over his shoulder, wondering what he's doing on the internet so late. It's frustrating, which is why I've been so short in my past posts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope this clarifies some of the confusion for my readers. I hope this makes them feel like dumb shits and encourages them to perahps keeps their pesky noses in their own affairs and out of mine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I left Fort Erie to get on with my life. I have no desire to relive it's insanity because of one woman's inability to get over her husband's decisions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;*I sincerely feel no guilt for the particular role I am relating this post to. It was necessary and bound to happen and I'm quite thrilled that I did infact, cause so much discomfort and awfulness for a woman who profoundly deserved it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115976154290098401?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115976154290098401/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115976154290098401' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115976154290098401'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115976154290098401'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/10/soap-operas.html' title='Soap Operas.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115924145690580827</id><published>2006-09-25T20:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-26T07:15:34.546-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Insanity.</title><content type='html'>I can't fucking take it anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What are the fucking chances?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;He got off at Broadview and I doubt I will ever see him again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Blech.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So gross.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went absolutely insane.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today is one of those days where you seriously do, just want to die.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm such a fucking idiot.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115924145690580827?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115924145690580827/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115924145690580827' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115924145690580827'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115924145690580827'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/insanity.html' title='Insanity.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115905924497409363</id><published>2006-09-23T17:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-12-17T12:52:59.330-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Shirt &amp; Tie vs. Boxers &amp; Brisket.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;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 &lt;em&gt;for once&lt;/em&gt;, 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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Things with Andrew are shit.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then there's &lt;em&gt;him&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If this isn't a sign that my relationship is over, I don't know what would be.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does that make me a rapist?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Holy shit. I am a slag.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115905924497409363?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115905924497409363/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115905924497409363' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115905924497409363'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115905924497409363'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/shirt-tie-vs-boxers-brisket.html' title='Shirt &amp; Tie vs. Boxers &amp; Brisket.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115880988588516771</id><published>2006-09-20T20:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-20T20:38:06.036-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fuck.</title><content type='html'>George Brown is fucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I SHOULDN'T.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;And the worst bit is... She gets credit for my ball busting.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fucking George Brown.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just: "Do you have Chef Shabler's email address? Cause I feel icky."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FUCK. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now I know why, "fuck" is a Chef's favourite word.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115880988588516771?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115880988588516771/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115880988588516771' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115880988588516771'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115880988588516771'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/fuck.html' title='Fuck.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115871036643873675</id><published>2006-09-19T16:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-19T16:59:26.450-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Going Home.</title><content type='html'>The prospect of visiting mom, for the first time in my life, excites me.&lt;br /&gt;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 &lt;em&gt;visiting&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But whatever. Hiss loss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So from that conclusion, I pull this one: Men are fucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don't get &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But they always tell me otherwise and I have no idea why.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck man?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh yeah, I got the job in the art store. The return of the art fag may be upon us.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115871036643873675?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115871036643873675/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115871036643873675' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115871036643873675'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115871036643873675'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/going-home.html' title='Going Home.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115855342656155111</id><published>2006-09-17T20:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-17T21:23:46.696-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Grand Liberty.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"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."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What the fuck did you just say sir? 'Cause I just heard a complete sentence where fuck functioned as all the word devices.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or at least that's the way it is at the Grand Liberty.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I worked for Executive Chef Michael Ewing last night. It was a grand fucking time. Intimidating, but a grand fucking time.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;At one point he walked into the tent and said to Glenn,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Is it just me, or are the women they have serving the booze fucking amazing?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Glenn looked at me, I looked at Glenn and then I burst out laughing. The knob asked,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Did I miss something?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And Glenn retorted with,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Well, unless Anna's a dyke I doubt either one of us would notice 'cause I'm gay."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was in bed at five and what a glorious feeling it was to be in that pile of fluff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to work for this company. I don't particularly want to work the hours, but I want the experience.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder if they'll hire pastry chefs.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115855342656155111?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115855342656155111/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115855342656155111' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115855342656155111'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115855342656155111'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/grand-liberty.html' title='The Grand Liberty.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115837850389796076</id><published>2006-09-16T20:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-15T20:50:47.113-07:00</updated><title type='text'>I Wanna Be a Supermodel.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5334/166/1600/redhead.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5334/166/400/redhead.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Unfortunately, that is not the case.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115837850389796076?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115837850389796076/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115837850389796076' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115837850389796076'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115837850389796076'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/i-wanna-be-supermodel.html' title='I Wanna Be a Supermodel.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115837800211046281</id><published>2006-09-15T20:22:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-15T20:40:02.203-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Rorschach Jacket.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I bought two jackets so that I wouldn't have to return to the George Brown bookstore &lt;em&gt;EVER&lt;/em&gt;. 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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;BOTH JACKETS.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;FUCKER.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fucking knob.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115837800211046281?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115837800211046281/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115837800211046281' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115837800211046281'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115837800211046281'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/rorschach-jacket.html' title='Rorschach Jacket.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115819582880365116</id><published>2006-09-13T18:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-13T18:04:27.046-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Memories of a Fold Moment.</title><content type='html'>Ben Folds has a tune entitled, "Rock This Bitch."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm feeling a little sentimental tonight." and followed his thought with the first chord of Evaporated.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I shit my pants.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then some fucking tool yelled out, "ROCK THIS BITCH." and all was lost.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I went with the flow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first Ben protested.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I've played Rock This Bitch too many times. There's not anymore styles left."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the crowd persisted.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"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."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115819582880365116?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115819582880365116/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115819582880365116' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115819582880365116'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115819582880365116'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/memories-of-fold-moment.html' title='Memories of a Fold Moment.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115803604003750450</id><published>2006-09-11T21:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-11T21:40:40.046-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Zero.</title><content type='html'>There are so many things wrong with this world. I contribute to a lot of the bullshit; I wish I didn't.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I hope you learn to communicate.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;I wish you would have been honest with me, &lt;em&gt;about everything&lt;/em&gt;, and I wish you were capable of sounding anything but cold and completely sickened by my confusion over your actions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for filling your debt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Consider the balance zero.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115803604003750450?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115803604003750450/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115803604003750450' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115803604003750450'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115803604003750450'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/zero.html' title='Zero.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115790901313258887</id><published>2006-09-10T10:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-10T10:23:33.146-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Art vs. Pastry.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is what art never could be for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The cunts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the stability craps out. And so does the payroll.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Excellent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally Anna, you found the guts to do something worth doing.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115790901313258887?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115790901313258887/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115790901313258887' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115790901313258887'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115790901313258887'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/art-vs-pastry.html' title='Art vs. Pastry.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115766739189810615</id><published>2006-09-07T15:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-07T15:19:23.243-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fruit Salad, Yummy, Yummy.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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?&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I learned how to use a knife today and am quite proud of myself for not cutting off any of my digits.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cooked for two hours last night.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"If I knew you were going to have a cantalope for dinner, I wouldn't have bothered cooking."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And he said,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, don't worry. I'll still eat your food."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wonderful.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does he really need to ask?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115766739189810615?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115766739189810615/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115766739189810615' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115766739189810615'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115766739189810615'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/fruit-salad-yummy-yummy.html' title='Fruit Salad, Yummy, Yummy.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115757852069653065</id><published>2006-09-06T14:14:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-06T14:40:37.456-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Sweet and Sour.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I spoke to him last night and my heart broke all over again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't remember what he looks like unless I look at his photograph.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm fucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;These feelings need to go away fast.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;NEVER.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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).&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I quit Wal Mart last night and so now I feel a thousand times lighter.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115757852069653065?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115757852069653065/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115757852069653065' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115757852069653065'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115757852069653065'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/sweet-and-sour.html' title='Sweet and Sour.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115740400227047037</id><published>2006-09-04T13:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-04T14:06:42.953-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Little Miss Sunshine Indeed.</title><content type='html'>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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm quiting tomorrow.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And rightfully so. They want me to work six shifts per week ontop of my school schedule. It's just not going to happen.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You'd look very hot in Tony's hat. And you'd look even hotter if you brought me a beer in that hat."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;Why do I suddenly realise now that I need to start dating a classy man?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That sucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We went to the CNE today. I'll never go again. What a waste of fucking time. I should have spent it sleeping.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115740400227047037?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115740400227047037/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115740400227047037' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115740400227047037'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115740400227047037'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/little-miss-sunshine-indeed.html' title='Little Miss Sunshine Indeed.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115714977856141721</id><published>2006-09-01T14:53:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2006-09-01T15:29:50.540-07:00</updated><title type='text'>What I Want to Do.</title><content type='html'>I was driving around today in my mother's car and I thought to myself,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Fuck. This is nice.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt liberated.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'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.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;It's difficult for me to come to terms with these thoughts and I feel overwhelmingly guilty for it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw him today.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;And it's funny, 'cause I know that if I did ever have him, we'd hate eachother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How did it ever get so bad?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I talked to Paul today about situations with Derek.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;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.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so I've just decided to be fucked with.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115714977856141721?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115714977856141721/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115714977856141721' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115714977856141721'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115714977856141721'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/09/what-i-want-to-do_01.html' title='What I Want to Do.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115705871291097281</id><published>2006-08-31T13:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-31T14:12:39.566-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Summary of a Pastry Chef.</title><content type='html'>So its finally done.&lt;br /&gt;I'm finally here, living the grand life of a Toronto citizen - shitting my pants everytime a stumbling crazy man approaches me on Shourborne (and John said that I lived in the ghetto, holy fuck. I got nothing on his part 'a town), and marvelling at how fast people have learned to txt msg on their mother fecking cell phones. Click, click, click.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Andrew took me on the bus runs yesterday.&lt;br /&gt;I don't like taking the bus, especially to school and work. George Brown is in a decent area of Toronto, but getting to the decent part requires a trip through the dodgy part and one shouldn't have a difficult time imagining the type of weirdos whom ride the rocket. The same logic applies to work. I'm taking a bus to Wal Mart in Scarborough. Enough said.&lt;br /&gt;But we went, and spent close to nine hundred dollars on uniforms and books (I almost cried), and then went to his parent's house for Hamburger Helper. I can't deny free food, even if it is ground beef with noodles.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Wal Mart in Scarborough is oddly enough the one place here that makes me feel comfortable. Despite all the lunatics meandering through the isles (I do not bestow that title only on the customers, employees are equally cracked), its a giant place that feels familiar to me because THANKFULLY, Wal mart has adopted the "being different is bad" philosophy and so therefore, all of their stores are exactly the same, or very fucking similar.  I found the pepper yesterday because of this familiar atmosphere (hint: it's not in Pantry).&lt;br /&gt;Everyone there seems to be just a little more angry than the store in Fort Erie. People look very tired and depressed and I suppose I can't blame them - it is Wal Mart after all. Even the Assistant Manager looked sad. Mind you, all he was doing was placing advertisements in the Department Manager Mail Boxes and that is a sad job, but not in the boohoo sense.&lt;br /&gt;I had a brief chat with him about when I'm supposed to be starting and was completely taken aback when he asked if I could start that evening. I suppose I could have, it would have put me in a better mood, but that 'being loyal to Andrew' mechanism kicked in and so I regretfully declined. I like the Assistant Manager though, he seems nice.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so the night ended in sleepy oblivion, only for me to get up  four hours later to attend my college orientation, which was a GIANT waste of my friggin time.&lt;br /&gt;George Brown, while it is the best chef school in Canada, is quite possibly the most poorly organised facility I have ever seen. I am constantly baffled by the lack of communication between the employees and how stupendously slow they are at sending out important documentation on time (I attended my orientation today and also received my orientation startup CDRom in the mail today as well). Dumbasses.&lt;br /&gt;So the orientation was a flop. The only information I received during my time spent there today was all the information that I should have gotten in a package from the college. Unfortunately, they're all just a bit too daft to put two and two together and so I had to waste almost six hours of my day standing in lines and waiting for idiots when all they needed to do was print out a one page summary of, "Heyfirstyears, you'restupidsothisiswhatyouneedtodo" page. I did get a 2kg block of Lindt Chocolate though. Chocolate, and a lot of headaches.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so now I'm sitting in the condo, faced with the decision of what to do next. I should probably clean, maybe set up the drafting table, possibly find something to make for dinner, but I'm too fecking tired. School and the rest of my life is going to be a challenge it seems.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The anxiety that revolved around my decisions for the past two weeks has calmed, but not enough for me to be completely comfortable.&lt;br /&gt;It seems that the obvious is becoming more obvious and the more I think about it, the more my guilt kicks in and then that nagging voice in the back of my head belts out,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Just try stupid!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I sorta slip back into a borderline comfort zone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never lived with a man before. Not a "man" anyway. My father always put down the toiltet seat. He was never a slob and usually cleaned his messes with great flare and purpose.&lt;br /&gt;Andrew on the other hand, is quite slobbish. I sincerely feel bad saying that about him because I know how hard he's trying to not be, but each time I look at him I look away in mild disgust. His size never bothered me before and I'm sure it wouldn't bother me now if he didn't play the part of a fat, messy pig so well. His belly is growing and I wouldn't mind this, but it's outgrowing his shirts and therefore, hangs out of his shirts. His pants are too tight, his clothes are always wrinkled and messy and now, full of holes. He doesn't seem to care that he looks so bad and it's starting to be embarrassing for me. Its hard to introduce him as my boyfriend.&lt;br /&gt;He horks out of car windows, blows snot out of one nostril, burps loudly in completely improper places and lays around in his underwear, drinking beer and eating fattening food and I am completely disgusted by it. So disgusted in fact that when he has sex with me, I think of someone else only 'cause if I don't, I dry up faster than a puddle in a hundred degree weather.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And obviously, I feel guilty about that and I should. But how do you tell your boyfriend &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt;?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So now I'm dead tired. Confused and guilt ridden because of my circumstance with my boyfriend and desperately wanting a man that I cannot have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's right. I can't get him out of my head. And now that I know I'll more than likely only see him once or twice a year, am sulking over him badly.&lt;br /&gt;Everytime I think of him my head starts to pound and I think to myself,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You retard, he's not worth it. You can't have him and you shouldn't want him, so stop being so lovey dovey and get on with it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I can't. He just doesn't leave my head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes I am fucked with men. Yes I should probably stop. Yes I realise that this is not healthy. I promise to fix it, as soon as I get over &lt;em&gt;him&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115705871291097281?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115705871291097281/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115705871291097281' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115705871291097281'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115705871291097281'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/summary-of-pastry-chef.html' title='Summary of a Pastry Chef.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115687205270578167</id><published>2006-08-29T10:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-29T10:20:52.716-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Late Night Phone Chats.</title><content type='html'>I talked to a friend last night that I haven't seen in years. I knew him from highschool, through a friend. We never really hungout much, actually we didn't hang out at all, we just spoke on the phone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The one time that I did meet him I think he said something to the extent of:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I never realised how big your tits were until the car seatbelt was between them. Holy fuck."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's the most stunning thing that I can remember about Sean.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We both attended the same college, but still never became close friends. He was taking computer crap and I was off being an art fag. We never saw eachother.&lt;br /&gt;By the time our second year came around, he was a pothead that I had no interest in at all and I was a stuckup graffiti writer's muse and so again, we never really spoke.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He came online now and then and would always send me a message to say hello, but it was hard to talk to him 'cause the only thing that he would want to discuss would be sex and the size of my chest, or how cute I sound on the phone and while said topics may be flattering in small doses, they're not constantly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So again, my interest in him was lost.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night he messaged me. It was late, I had just gotten home from work and I was desperately hungry. I ended up calling him only 'cause I didn't want to sit on the computer and we chatted the night away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sean's turned into a decent fellow. His voice is comforting to listen to, he has his head screwed on the right way now. He makes a decent salary and he seems to be happy, which makes me feel good because while he was a bit of a dolt, he deserved to be happy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said that he was going to miss me when I moved away to Toronto.&lt;br /&gt;While I don't understand how he could miss me because I would have to be someone constant in order to be missed, the sentiment was nice 'cause he was the first person that's said it to me that hasn't been a huge fucking twat about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think after last night's chat, I'll probably miss Sean too.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115687205270578167?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115687205270578167/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115687205270578167' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115687205270578167'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115687205270578167'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/late-night-phone-chats.html' title='Late Night Phone Chats.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115678963295164979</id><published>2006-08-28T11:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-28T11:28:01.236-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Bubbles.</title><content type='html'>Every time I see a face I want to punch it. A shot between the eyes, knock 'em dead, perfect. Every time someone opens their mouth to spew out absentminded advice to soothe my momentary frustration, I want to stick my foot in it. Shut them up, knock out a few teeth, perfect.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The one person that I relied on in Fort Erie lied to me about everything.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;EVERYTHING.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it's brutal 'cause he was seeping into my brain, making me think that I was fucked and that I may possibly have some sort of masochistic-bad-decision-making-glitch in my head and I'm sure he's right about that partially, but even if he was it doesn't make a difference now because he LIED ABOUT EVERYTHING.&lt;br /&gt;I trusted him and everytime I think, 'Well, he was concerned for my well being, I stumble into another new lie and it just fucking stings. I don't understand how someone could be selfrighteous enough to fuck with my life so badly. And unfortunately, that's all I can say about the whole situation 'cause everytime I open my mouth to attempt to understand why he's doing what he's doing, he goes and tells and a whole new mess explodes in my face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A couple months ago Andrew gave me stackers to help me stay awake at work. I'll never take them again 'cause the whole night I felt like I was drifting on a fucking bubble. I was awake but I don't remember the night, or what I did, or how I felt -  Just floating on a bubble.&lt;br /&gt;Oddly enough, I feel the same way now. I just feel like I'm floating through life. I realise that things are happening around me, but there's no connection to them. Just the funny breeze of indecision and stress blowing through my hair.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My Illustration Prof. died last week. I found out yesterday.&lt;br /&gt;I'm not grieving because I don't know how to. I just see his face in my head and think about his funny voice and I feel strange. I'll never see him again and that startles me because he was so young and he never should have died.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not yet anyway.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115678963295164979?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115678963295164979/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115678963295164979' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115678963295164979'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115678963295164979'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/bubbles.html' title='Bubbles.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115664933472951273</id><published>2006-08-26T20:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-26T20:28:54.750-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Moral Decency.</title><content type='html'>So the plan is to stick with my decisions and just DO WHAT I'M SUPPOSED TO DO.&lt;br /&gt;Andrew's dad says,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"What's the big deal? When you propose and she says, "yes" you've already made the decision to get married. You don't freak out about the wedding day."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fair enough. But I'm not getting married.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;... And what the fuck. Hedley has good harmonies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyway, he's right.&lt;br /&gt;I do just need to grow a set and move in with him, go to school and see what happens from there.  As much as everything in my gut is saying, "don't do it!" I honestly don't have anything to loose if I do. I get an education, I may possibly fall into a job that I enjoy, I may find that I actually am madly in love with my boyfriend and I do want to spend the rest of my life with him. Chances are though that, that scenario is not going to happen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Right now most things just feel dead, especially my relationship with Andrew. I've expressed to him my concern over, "freeloading," but he says it's alright. Obviously I cannot support myself on a part time job at Wal Mart and obviously he knows this. He also knows that I'm scared shitless that him and I may be over come April, but he's ok with it, so what the hell! Free room and board, a thirty-two inch flat screen tv, free internet, a warm shower and a semi-comfortable soggy bed. How can I say no to it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh yeah, moral decency. That whole using someone when you don't think you're in love with them anymore is sorta picking at the back of my brain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shit.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115664933472951273?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115664933472951273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115664933472951273' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115664933472951273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115664933472951273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/moral-decency.html' title='Moral Decency.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115643562223389303</id><published>2006-08-24T08:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-24T09:07:03.430-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ball of Emotions.</title><content type='html'>My head hurts.&lt;br /&gt;I can feel the tension in my eyes whenever I move them from side to side and it just fucking hurts. Three months have been spent second guessing my decisions, my boyfriend, my friendships, my family and most of all, my sanity. I don't need drugs to know what it feels like to have scarmbled eggs for a brain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm angry.&lt;br /&gt;Every time I see Josh, I want to rip his pretentious eyeballs out with a palletjack.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I did it to help," he whines.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I'm going to lodge my box cutter north of your left temple to &lt;em&gt;help&lt;/em&gt; you. Maybe it will ease you into the desperate and pointless oblivion you've been trying to maintain for the last twenty-four years of your life. MAYBE.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm confused.&lt;br /&gt;While I can see how Josh may think he's done the right thing and just maybe, it will prevent me from fucking someone I shouldn't, it's only a temporary fix.&lt;br /&gt;The conversation I had with Andrew last night went like this:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"If the best way you can show me that you love me is by scrapping glue off of a table, our relationship is fucked."&lt;br /&gt;"What else do you want me to do Anna? I drive four hours to see you, I pay for everything, I DO EVERYTHING."&lt;br /&gt;"ANDREW, you knew when you started dating me that distance was an obstacle in our relationship that you'd have to deal with because I can't afford it. Do not tell me that you getting in your car to come see me is a confession of your love, it's a confession of your dick wanting to get wet."&lt;br /&gt;"It's all about you isn't it? It's always about you."&lt;br /&gt;"Don't you get it Andrew? If you told me that you loved me, if you told me that you woke up every morning and smiled because you had me for a girlfriend, you wouldn't have to scrape glue off of a table."&lt;br /&gt;"I don't like saying stuff like that."&lt;br /&gt;"Maybe you should learn to like it."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so naturally I turn to the outlet who doesn't make me feel like a business proposition and say,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Hey, I know you're married and I know that you could never give me anything more than a cup of coffee on a mutual day off during both of our busy schedules, but you make me feel better than he does so lets just fuck."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's funny, 'cause I thought that my little pow-wow with Andrew last night would have solved the issues, but instead it's just made them so much more, 'forest for the trees-esque.' I'd really just like to get out now. Now that I've realised that when I move to Toronto, I'll see my boyfriend less than I do now. Chances are, the most I will see him is the fifteen minute time lapse where he climbs into bed with me before I have to get up to go to school.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yay for being a long term fuck buddy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm sad.&lt;br /&gt;I think of Andrew and I think of all the time I've spent with him and I guess I'm just a little baffled that all of it should probably come to an end.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end of this week, I officially do not have a home. My dad wants me out, no, correction, my dad's wife wants me out. I will not live with my mother's emotional and physical abuse and living in Andrew's condo as a kept fuck toy isn't exactly my idea of a home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I'm just sad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The scariest thing out of all of this? Working at Wal Mart is the only thing that makes me happy.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115643562223389303?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115643562223389303/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115643562223389303' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115643562223389303'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115643562223389303'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/ball-of-emotions.html' title='Ball of Emotions.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115635697803892723</id><published>2006-08-23T10:50:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-23T11:16:18.786-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Unloading.</title><content type='html'>There's a scene in the Triplets of Bellville where the cyclist's mother runs over his legs with an old push mower to loosen his muscles for the Tour de France. If one was to take said action and apply the outcome to my real body, in real life, the product one would gather would be how my body feels at this current moment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel like I've been run over by a mother fucking lawnmower. But hey, I've lost six pounds in three days, so it's completely worth it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I would be an unloader for the rest of my life if the paycheck wasn't three dollars an hour and if it wasn't for Wal Mart.&lt;br /&gt;The job sucks ass. You're constantly running, in a non air conditioned warehouse, struggling to move two thousand pieces of freight in a very small window of time with two other people. It's a lot to take on, and your body pays the price for it after. If I wasn't moving to Toronto and I decided to take this job on full time, I would be ripped. Completely.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115635697803892723?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115635697803892723/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115635697803892723' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115635697803892723'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115635697803892723'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/unloading.html' title='Unloading.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115617752914728555</id><published>2006-08-21T08:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-23T10:38:10.596-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A Rambling Pile of Shite.</title><content type='html'>When you post a rambling pile of shite on your blog you never expect it to be anything more than a rambling pile of shite. That's all I ever wanted it to be anyway. Definitely not a window into my existence, or a mighty confession or an outlet for someone to appease their frustrated lifestyle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the conclusion of the day is that: Either blogs are fucking stupid, or people are fucking stupid. I'm banking on the latter, but because I have to hold some sort of decency through this whole mess, I will push my anger towards the former.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fucking blogs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm so embarrased.&lt;br /&gt;Maybe there might have been a time where it was acceptable for him to see the diddums side of me, but now was definitely not it.&lt;br /&gt;I can't possibly express how small I feel. I have no problem with wearing my heart on my sleeve, but a giant, flashing neon one, beckoning all from far and wide to read into my very fragile emotions is a little too much of an advertisement. Especially when you have to stare these people in the face every day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There's absolutely no dignity left in me. I feel like a public execution. The evil stigma that wasn't there exploded like a twenty-five ton nuclear bomb.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So now I'm not entirely sure what I've lost. I think he thinks I'm insane, and I honestly can't fault him for that. He walked into all the overbearing and absolutely asinine fears of a twenty-three-year old female and he never should have. EVER. But I understand why he did and I at least hope he found it flattering, because DAMN, that was a flattering post.&lt;br /&gt;I should probably take down this blog completely, but unfortunately, it is the one thing that levels my mind on most days.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Meddling is the work of Satan. Masturbate all you want, meddling is what kills the kittens.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115617752914728555?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115617752914728555/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115617752914728555' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115617752914728555'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115617752914728555'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/rambling-pile-of-shite.html' title='A Rambling Pile of Shite.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28550270.post-115600382387974269</id><published>2006-08-19T08:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2006-08-20T09:24:15.633-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Equation Solved.</title><content type='html'>Maybe it was Jeff Kimber that did it.&lt;br /&gt;Maybe it was him that didn't give me the right amount of attention. Maybe I shouldn't give him the credit, it should probably go to my father. He definitely wasn't around. Or maybe it was the multitudes of other men that didn't want me for anything else other than sex. Josh, James, Kyle, Ian, Mike. Yeah, them and all the other nameless guys that I can't remember.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sorta boyfriends that were only there for sex. I guess sex was the only time I was supposed to feel special. Obviously that's fucked.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cannot be singular with men. I do not know why. I thrive off of the attention they give when they want to be with me. I can't help it. I don't know why. And it wasn't until Friday's email from Josh that I realised how big of a problem it was. Or maybe, it wasn't until then that it started to bother me.&lt;br /&gt;I spoke to Andrew about it and he said that it was normal and that eventually, when our relationship reached the point, he wanted to have an open one. And then my mind just sorta trailed off into oblivion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No, actually, it just turned off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wasn't hurt, nor surprised, just off. How do you handle that?&lt;br /&gt;"In our future, when we don't get married, and we need something else in our relationship, I want us both to fuck other people. I don't think it's bad, society thinks its bad. It will be good for us." I guess I'm not as morally bankrupt as I thought.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He showed me his tattoos yesterday. We sat and spoke about my relationship. We sat and spoke about his relationship.&lt;br /&gt;I like him and not the way I liked Josh, I sincerely and honestly, "like him" and want him to be more than a friend. There isn't that weirdness that existed with Josh, the pressure from his wife, or the evil stigma surrounding it. I would pursue him if he wasn't married. But he wants to pursue it even though he is married and once again, diddums has come full circle.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thank you for making me feel special, but I should probably stop this now before I fuck myself up that extra degree.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who woulda thunk that the almighty diddums would need to go to fucking therapy over this shit?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But that's just it. I don't feel anything anymore. Nothing. The only things that make me cry are Disney Movies, Most Extreme House Makeover and a severe lack of sleep. Everything else is just sorta crap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've never been so confused about so many things in my life. My moral beliefs are gone, the structure has been pulled out from underneath me.&lt;br /&gt;I don't believe in marriage anymore. I don't believe in love. I don't believe in people and I definitely don't believe that a man would ever want me for anything else other than a blowjob and for once, that's not because of my low self-worth, its because that seems to be the only thing they ever want from me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/28550270-115600382387974269?l=ballingdiddums.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/feeds/115600382387974269/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=28550270&amp;postID=115600382387974269' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115600382387974269'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/28550270/posts/default/115600382387974269'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ballingdiddums.blogspot.com/2006/08/equation-solved.html' title='Equation Solved.'/><author><name>fucking diddums</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/07056061650887625274</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='30' src='http://img168.echo.cx/img168/2198/mebw8tq.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
