Day 143
After snarfing down a 14 dollar enchilada the best thing one can do is go on a 25 block death march with your favorite gay man and gossip. Not only will he revel in all the nasty things you've been dying to say he will add to them and take it just a teeny step further (to exactly where you wanted to go in the first place). Plus, you can judge all of the guys walking down the street and go into stores to gush over shoes we could never afford.
The afternoon was spent reading outlines for TV pilots. Someone I had imagined this to be exciting. I learned for the 46th time that I can be wrong, very wrong. If I could just list all of the needless adverbs my colleagues put into these outlines I would have a thesis-length work. Which would be awesome because as I have found out today, from my thesis advisor, I suck at whatever a "narrative arc" is. I guess, the first step to getting a narratice arc is to pin down what exactly what one is. I could've spent the last hour or so learning what one is from the internet but that would have severely cut into my mopey pity party and constant facebook status updates of "don't freak out, don't freak out..."
Earlier today I got a facebook message from the guy who I thought was hitting on me on facebook. The message wanted to make sure that I knew he wasn't flirting with me and that he wanted me to know that he is a very "small man." He also wrote that he didn't want me to think that he was a "weird person" and he wanted me to write back. I wanted to write back, "Dear Small Man, Gee, I never thought you were a 'weird person' everybody calls their 'friends' goddesses and tells them how romantic they are and how beautiful they are. Go fuck yourself with a tennis racket infested with crabs. Love, Emily"
I look over at the manifesto I wrote on my wall when I got here and it says, "I am here to learn how to tell a good story." Maybe I should cross that out and put "I am here to learn to write a satisfying narrative arc and weed through asshole men." Maybe I should double check my manifesto to see if it says I am here to take things waaaaaay too personally and be a whiny pussy then at least I would be doing something right.
Before I got all maudlin I went to work at the pub below is an overview of the fiasco of a night that was had. I was going to call it "Pub Lessons" until I realized I didn't learn anything.
Pub Stuff:
So tonight I worked with my least favorite bartender let's call him Creep. So, Creep is a giant African guy who is inappropriate. He is also a nasty bingo lover who commands me to paint his nails sometimes. These things are both quite exciting and entertain me at work. These are the things that distract me enough to forget that he goes on "Poor me" rants all of the time and gets jealous like a spoiled five year old. Tonight there was no fingernail polish or bingo there was just, "Why does everybody hate me and talk about me behind my back?" One day instead of reassuring him that this is not true I am going to say, "Everybody totally hates you."
Halfway through our lovely shift together 65 men in suits and ties came in. Apparently, in Canada frat boys are well-dressed and not meatheads. I had to help pour pitchers and they apologized for ordering the hard to pour Hefeweizen. They even sang together a song containing just the right amount of curse words. At the exact same time as the boys showed up a wayward Flamenco band came in and took over the place plugging into amps and putting a woman atop a board to stomp out rhythms. And one of the band members was even wearing a kilt, though I am not sure what that has to do with Flamenco.
The guy who I go on pseudo-dates with came by and took command of my I-pod and creeped around for a bit. He watched as I slugged up chairs onto tables and he clearly enjoyed the show of me and for some reason I didn't mind. Afterall, it's not everyday an Assistant Projectionist stalks me. If only I could train him to listen when I speak to tell me I am beautiful and kiss like a champ and to stop wearing his weird outfits and pacing around like an OCD addict on bad pot.
-Canadian Castaway
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