Day 214
Not only is tomorrow tater tots for breakfast day, it is also my day to be workshopped in fiction class. Translation: Get to hear how effed up my story is from every one in the class, and if I am lucky someone will say something remotely nice, and I will put on a brave face and take notes, and hope that they don't talk about just one point for too long. There is one person in class who, more so than others, talks too long and too much at each workshop. This is the same person who sent me an email tonight to tell me that she did not receive my story. I groaned and hit reply on the email, and then stopped myself. Here is what I was thinking: "Wait a minute, if she doesn't read my story that means she cannot drone on and on about it in class--she can't say anything at all." Then I decided not to send it. I was so happy with my decision, especially considering that last week I nearly killed her for talking for 50 percent of the class time. I really felt like I got away with something...until 10 minutes ago. Yeah, that's right, she emailed to say that she found my story in a stack on her coffee table and not to worry, she will read it for tomorrow. I wonder exactly how many tater tots one has to eat to be in some sort of tater tot induced stupor, where you look like you are paying attention, but you are really just digesting things.
This morning I recalled that I had seen a "Help Wanted" sign in the window of a cafe nearby that I like to eat breakfast at. So, in an attempt to avoid homework and feel productive, I decided to look over my resume and whip up a cover letter. I sighed at the thought of having to write a cover letter, something that so many people despise. Then I remembered, "Wait, I'm a writer." I spent the next half hour writing a cover letter. It was amazing. It was the most succinct paragraph I have ever written. I am a cover letter wizard. I liked it so much that I wrote another one and applied for another job, and another job. I think I'm addicted. I wonder if getting a job will get in the way of my cover letter writing schedule.
When I finally realized that I wouldn't get any of my homework done sitting around thinking about cover letters, I went out to deliver the one I had written. On the way there I ended up in the middle of a relay race. After I got safely through it and back through it, I went to the library. While at the library I found my favorite carrel to study in, you know the one that is in the sub-sub basement and says "FUCK SHIT" on it. No, it wasn't me who came up with that, though whenever I see it, I wish I could claim it. Anyway, I settled in to critique a few stories from my peers. I pulled out my tiger folder, and my water bottle, and my gum, but when I reached in for a pen all I found was a stash of stolen condoms and Werther's Originals. I dug around some more to uncover a hair clip.
I hope that it is just irony that a writer can't find a pen, because if it's an omen I should be freaked. There were no pens anywhere, so I spent the next 20 minutes or so looping around the library searching carrels for pens that were left behind or some of those handy, but nasty to write with, golf pencils that surface in different floors of the library. I was unwilling to leave the sub-sub basement on this quest. Thus, the closest I came to finding a writing utensil of any kind was near the head of a girl who was sleeping on a bench. It was a small, unsharpened golf pencil. I reached over to get it, imagining ways I could sharpen it with my fingernails, and then it hit me: I am standing over a sleeping girl in a public place, and it looks like I am stealing her stuff, and there are people around who can see what I am doing, and really who can sharpen a pencil with their fingernails? I walked back to my L-spot, opened my tiger folder and started to read.
After I came home from my library adventure I opened my email to find a message from my manager at the pub. The email message came after a previous email stating that this was the new schedule for the next week, it's subject read, "Suspension Week." I was not on the schedule in that email, same with at least 5 other floor/bar workers, and all of the cooks except the head chef. Today's latest email noted that the bar's liquor license had been suspended, perhaps indefinitely, and therefore the schedule had reduced hours, as we would only be open when the kitchen is open. The email also noted that by some crazy statue in some "agreement" I had never agreed to, the people that were not on the suspension schedule were "laid off."
Immediately, I sent out an email for clarification, which has gone so far ignored. But, then I realized how crazy the timing on this was as I had spent the morning whipping up cover letters and applying for other jobs. And then I thought: fuck all that, I am obviously a psychic. All I need is to move into a spooky-looking house, buy a ton of candles, and hand-paint a sign for the front lawn.
Tonight at supper we had a sandwich bar. I had so much fun plucking up toppings and making a masterpiece. When I finished eating, I walked over to the next room and announced, "The American has arrived." The French Canadian in the room replied, "American right, I bet you really liked those sandwiches at supper then. Huh?" I laughed. Is this what foreigners think we Americans do all day? Sit around and eat sandwiches? Well, it's kinda true, just look at the latest Gaga video. Well it's true except that sometimes we get tired of sandwiches and eat 7 Layer Burritos or some KFC.
Every week the guy who used to live here that looks like a vampire, and who does what I tell him to do, and eats here on Sundays, shows a movie at the residence. Tonight he showed, The Blind Side. Since I am a Bullock hater I didn't want to see the movie, on principle. (I am just an ignorant fuck, what can I say). But, when I talked to my mother on the phone she demanded that I watch it to tell her whether or not she would like it. Usually she tells me to do my homework, but I guess her movie watching habits outweigh homework (understandable). I watched the movie and got all into it and emotional. I got the warm fuzzies afterward and loved how I will always love feel-good movies.
The movie was amazing, and made me want to have a little goofy-looking boy child that is too loud, and a Michael. The Michael character made me so happy to see that BFGs really do exist. There are big soft giants roaming around, that could scoop me up into their arms and hold me and make me feel loved and safe. This was all great except for the old saying, "Life is not like the movies." An, old tired cliche right? Yeah, but the thing about cliches is that they stick around because they are true. Well, I am off to cry now and dream of giants with giant hearts, who may never come around and make my life into a feel good movie. I better watch the "Numa Numa" video to cheer myself up first.
Tip of the Day: Crocheting a giant, ugly watermelon blanket is always going to take way more time than you had anticipated.
-Canadian Castaway
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