Day 260
This blog is a special edition. I am sitting in the second floor kitchen of my residence. The internet that comes out of my wall and allows me to watch shows on Comedy Central is down, the Apocalypse is nearing. The Mayans were wrong, bitch. At first I thought I'd go to the study lounge where there is little possibility of people actually speaking to me while I am working on this but, it is occupied by the creeper. The creeper is an old man who lives in my building whom I used give a chance but now am quite annoyed with, considering he is always leering (it isn't just his face) and he kind of lurks around and gets more and more grizzly. The other day he touched my arm at breakfast and I nearly slugged him.
Anyway, me being in a non-study room means that I will be interrupted. Damn me for being the chatty type during meals and such. Why am I so damned friendly that people think they can just come up to me and speak? Now I am being interrupted by a French Canadian who is telling me that I am his sister and not keeping his voice down enough so that we don't attract the creeper. Alright, Faux Frenchie is gone, my paranoid level is at Orange, let's get this thing started.
This morning started off with me stealing an extra plate of breakfast meat. I am eating meat like I am building a bomb shelter in my stomach (ironic, considering the current internet apocalypse). Turns out eating like 6 pieces of ham and sausage chased with black coffee makes one a little miserable. After breakfast I set off to become the creeper of the Math Department. I peeped into doors looking for my friend who now works there, stalking him to see if he'd like to have lunch with me. He wasn't there, so I went without a kiss to eat my mostly pickles sandwich alone and wonder if the pastrami in it was from the Listeria (whatever the eff that is) contaminated sandwich meat that has been circulating. After my pickle sandwich and reading some submissions for the school's lit rag (which I rejected) I went on my merry way to meet with my advisor for the first time.
My advisor is the type of person who I hear is like a mother to everyone in the program. The kind of mother who loves her kids to a ridiculous extent. She has been known to facilitate crying and hugging. My other advisor (the one I am too scared to unload) is the type to make people cry. Anyway, I emailed my new advisor (I got a new advisor because I switched my focus to Writing Television) last week a series bible, episode ideas, and outlines for my series idea. She requested that I send her my shitty pilot episode. When I arrived she immediately started to tell me that I have chops and am on track. She told me that my show has wonderful characters and interesting storylines. But, the first thing she said to me is, "You have to relax." I asked her if I should write that in a note. She said, "Yes and draw a picture of a Buddha after it." I thought, "Shit, I can't draw a Buddha. Shit!" Not, "She seems a little nutter butter." I will still take her praise, and maybe, just maybe learn how to draw a Buddha.
There was a guy on the bus that looked like Kris Kristofferson. I kept staring at him through my giant sunglasses and between flipping open my two phones (U.S. and Canadian, and I am a drug dealer). Then I realized that my lipstick had worn off and I would look much better with it on. I whipped out the lipstick tube and my giant Hello Kitty hand mirror and realized that putting lipstick on while riding the bus was way more awkward than I had imagined it would be. Despite the fact that your ass is touching a strangers ass putting on your makeup feels inappropriately intimate. Everyone's eyes lingered on me and the mood seemed to lighten, but I have never felt more like a stripper in my life. Next time I'll skip the lip paint and just whip my shirt off.
Buying a TV in Canada totally sucks. They are so expensive it makes me want to cry but, I won't because I am too lazy. But seriously, where I come from there are so many freaking TVs that you'd be a sucker if you did pay for one (well, except for those fancy ones with flat screens). There are so many TVs in America that everyone could have two and there'd still be extras. Okay, so maybe I haven't exactly weighed out all my options here and looked around for a used idiot box, but all I know is that based on preliminary research the cheapest TV you can get is 150 bucks from the Canadian (crappy) version of Wal-Mart, and that TV doesn't even look like a TV. The abandoned 1970s relic of a TV in the laundry room is looking pretty good right about now. Who knew you could be homesick for cheap TVs?
Note: So, in case you are wondering, I couldn't take the pressure of the kitchen location and moved back to my room, but not before I had my fake Frenchie brother open doors for me and tell me that I should drink tea instead of beer. Who should we run into along the way? The creeper who has taken his lurking to the halls, perhaps on his way to the very kitchen I was in. I stomped back to my room and plugged my computer into the internet cable and my life was magically restored so that I could spend all of my time watching interviews with famous TV writers and having a gmail chat argument with my bodyguard about how he wouldn't play Aragorn if we cast Lord of the Rings with people we know. This ended with me challenging him to a fight where we would be on horses and he would have a sword and I would have a gun. The sad news is that somewhere in the time between when I left and came back the person whose room is across the courtyard from me stopped doing hilarious work out moves.
Tip of the Day: When your friend comes over with his dog let the dog in and say super loudly, "Who the hell let a dog in here?!"
-Canadian Castaway
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