August 12, 1992

                                     There are a bunch of pages ripped out of my diary at this point… I have absolutely no recollection of what they may have been about. Then comes a rambling post written in Frenglish. Here is the gist translated into English for ease:

Lately I’ve been thinking rather realistically. Thinking of my real life. My fantasies weren’t there for a while. I’m bored and I want something to happen to me. I want something in my life. Something outside of my house. I don’t want to get driving lessons but I want to know how to drive. I want to have something real instead of my little dreams. I want a fun job or a fun friend who brings me places. I don’t want to be here. I want to start over. I don’t want to read stories, I want to write stories. I don’t want to watch movies, I want to be in movies. I don’t want to be a student, I want to be a teacher. I don’t want to only know that things happen in the world, I want to be someone to whom things happen. Wonderful things and terrible and exciting and real! Maybe I have to make things happen but how? It’s impossible. If I had enough athletic talent I could be in the Olympics. I wish I had enough talent for films or writing. But I don’t even have enough talent to win art contests. I’m not ambitious or smart or independent or outgoing enough to make things happen for myself. So what can I do? Nothing! I hate myself! I wish I could be anorexic. I know it’s bad and all but then at least I could make something happen for myself and I could stop menstruating, which would be great. But I like food too much to stop eating. I can’t stop eating junk! I eat all the time so I’m ugly. If only I had a friend. Someone I could talk to about everything and not be embarrassed. And someone to do things with. I know I’m screwed up. I know I need help. I know I might just go off the deep end someday. I just wish I had someone to tell that to. I wish I wasn’t so scared of people. People make me freeze. I am scared of everyone. Even myself. I can’t write any longer. I can’t think any longer.

                                    Yup, that about sums it up.


Graphic Design

Wear all the patterns! Rocking an outfit involving joy and whimsy is the only way to combat the soul crushing ennui of designing the horrors demanded by your artistically bereft clients.






Right Shoe was pissed. Left Shoe had promised to stop smoking, but here it was, lighting up while they were on a tour of historic buildings in Montreal. They’d just entered the Robillard building in Chinatown, which was famous for hosting the first film screening in Canada, in 1896. Pretty impressive, thought Right Shoe, as it hopped along through the building, admiring the 19th century architecture. Left Shoe couldn’t care less. Left Shoe didn’t care about films, or historic buildings, or much of anything really. It was only on this tour because Right Shoe had insisted.

“Put out that cigarette!” insisted Right Shoe, while Left Shoe scoffed with indifference.

“Make me.”

They were indoors for goodness’ sake! It wasn’t only illegal to smoke indoors, it was immoral too! Right Shoe was done. So done! It hopped away, out of the building, determined to finish the historic building tour on its own. Left Shoe could rot away from lung cancer all alone, for all Right Shoe cared. It was sick and tired of putting up with Left Shoe’s nonsense. Left Shoe was always making trouble, always refusing to cooperate, rebelling not to make a statement, but to be an irritation, simply for the pleasure of being disagreeable. Left Shoe was a constant spoiled sport, even though they were athletic shoes!

It was only ten minutes later, as it was hopping up Saint-Laurent street, that Right Shoe heard the sirens. It turned to see what was going on, and saw the smoke. Suddenly it could smell the smoke as well. It hopped back, trying to get as close as possible to the scene, but firefighters and police were keeping people and shoes back for their own protection.

All Right Shoe could do was wait. And wait it did. It took the rest of the day and night for the flames to be extinguished, and Right Shoe waited the entire time, hoping that Left Shoe had emerged safely. It was a pain in the backside, no question, but Left Shoe was Right Shoe’s mate, and they belonged together, no matter what.

As dawn arose over the horizon, Right Shoe peered at the gutted remains of the building, trying to see its other half. And there was Left Shoe, sitting among the ruins, utterly unscathed, no sign of the cigarette that had undoubtedly started the fire.

Typical, thought Right Shoe. Left Shoe always decimates everything in its path and yet gets away with everything.



The true story

Taking Minutes

When attending meetings you don’t really belong in, and are only there to take note of the important things important people say, it’s a good idea to wear the classically villainous colour combination of purple and green. This will subconsciously remind those important people not to fuck with you. Keep the colours muted though, so you can blend into the background, going unnoticed, thus providing the opportunity for those important people to shoot themselves in the foot by saying scandalous things they wouldn’t normally admit to in front of an outsider. LOL, just kidding, important people don’t, and never will, give a shit about you, and won’t notice a plebeian such as yourself even if you wear a neon sign announcing your intentions to bring their scandalous admissions to the press. Important people are untouchable, and you’re just a big ol’ nothing in a smart vest and cute shoes.


August 11, 1992

I really should clean up my room. I should dust and vacuum and organise. But I can’t get motivated to do it. Maybe when school starts.

                                    Yeah, ’cause I certainly would have felt more motivated once under the oppressive and stressful burden of high school. *eye roll*

Writing in this diary makes me sad. It makes me think too much. I don’t want to wonder, I just want to dream.

                                    So what else is new?

Crystal went skydiving Sunday. I really want to skydive. I always wanted to. Until now it wasn’t attainable, but Crystal’s boyfriend does it a lot and took her and if mom would let me he could take me too. I really wish she would let me go (and give me the money). If only she knew how much it means to me. It would be a dream come true. A reason go on living. Why is life so expensive?

                                   Wow, settle down. It’s skydiving, not winning a Pulitzer. 25 years later and I still haven’t gone skydiving but that’s because I’ve gotten over this “dream”. I’ve always really liked heights and the idea of flying which is where the skydiving obsession came from. I got over it after I went on a hot-air balloon ride, which was another of my sky dreams, and it was such an immense letdown that it squashed any other sky related dreams I had. Some things are better left in our imaginations. Also hilarious that obsessed as I was I wasn’t willing to pay for it myself. *eye roll*

There are a lot of things I want to write in here but I can’t. I don’t know how to transform these shot-thoughts into words. I can’t write that fast, or well.

Peace and long life, Live long and prosper. Yager out.

                                   I even drew a hand doing the Vulcan salute. Perhaps this is when my interest in Vulcans began. I spent most of my life idolizing this fictional race and trying to suppress my emotions, and it’s only recently that I’ve realized how much harm this willful suppression has caused me over the years.

P.S. I like tutoring Kelly. I want to be a teacher (if I can’t be an artist…)

                                Thank god I never pursued that idea. I would have been a terrible teacher. Being forced to train various people at various tasks in work settings has taught me that I’m absolute shit at imparting knowledge to others. I get needlessly frustrated when people don’t easily catch on to what I’m getting at. A flaw I get from my father I suspect. “I learned it by watching you!!!”  


Data Entry

When doing data entry in an office whose air conditioning is perpetually set to “old man” level (which stands to reason since middle-aged men are the default and anyone not fitting that standard deserves to be “othered”) a jaunty scarf worn ’round your shoulders can help to fight off the inevitable frostbite that threatens your fast flying fingers. A black, yet stretchy, pencil skirt and sweater will keep you office-appropriate while whimsically patterned tights will allow you to pretend you’re expressing yourself, and not fully succumbing to the all-encompassing pressure to leave your significant potential untapped.



skatesElliot Archambeault was the best skater on his hockey team, without question. No one could deny it. He was the fastest, and the most graceful, and he never fell down, even though he also took the most hits. He wasn’t the enforcer for his team, the hawks, because Rich Beaudoin held that title, unofficially of course, but he nevertheless took the most hits. He was an easy target because he was a freak. He stood out. He always did, always had. He wasn’t ashamed of it, honestly he wasn’t. He’d been told enough times by his parents and plenty of others that his deformity made him special, cool even. And it certainly had advantages. It made him stronger, and more stable than others. Walking looked a bit awkward, because he sort of skipped along in a bouncy way, but it helped him skate. On the ice he could glide, and tip real far without falling. While skating, that part of him made him beautiful. Not that he would ever use such a word. He never used any positive words to describe himself, because he didn’t want to be seen as boastful. He didn’t want to be seen at all. That’s what it came down to really, this desire to be invisible, for once in his sorry life. He just wanted to blend in. He was tired of always being noticed, of always sticking out. Tired of having this extra appendage always, literally, sticking out.

There was nothing he could do to hide his third leg. It was too big to fold up and tuck away. He was the only person in the world with a third leg, which he knew because he was listed in a bunch of medical textbooks, though his parents had declined to allow his photo to be featured in any Ripley’s Believe it or Not museums. Tripod, that’s what they called him, the other kids, even his friends. But were they really friends if they called him that? Were his teammates friends? They always cheered when he scored a goal or helped block one. They even one time tried to lift him over their heads in celebration, though they hadn’t succeeded, since he was pretty heavy, and his extra leg got in the way. That’s how he felt, like he was perpetually in the way. He envied girls, because they could wear long dresses. But he couldn’t hide what made him different.

“Way to go, Tripod!” laughed Rich as Elliot managed to kick away the puck with his third leg, his extra limb, his add-on body part, his adjunct appendage. The whole team hollered and cheered, and once again, they won the game. They were the best in the minor leagues in all of Quebec, maybe even all of Canada. They were the best, and he was part of that. Wasn’t he? He helped them be the best, and so in some ways, he too, was the best. Wasn’t he? When he’d first started making waves in the minor leagues, there were parents and coaches who’d tried to get him kicked out, who’d claimed that his extra leg gave him an unfair advantage. But then others had argued the opposite, that it was a disadvantage, that it was a defect. The story made the national news. He was famous. Famous for being a freak. Freakishly good at hockey, and just… freakish.

But he didn’t even like hockey. He liked skating, but that’s because it was something he could do alone. Every winter his dad turned their backyard into a skating rink so Elliot could practice hockey, but when no one was watching he wouldn’t even try to hit the puck, he wouldn’t even hold a stick. He’d just skate, going round and round, twirling, free to stop thinking. But hockey was different. Hockey was a team sport and he hated being part of a team, because he wasn’t really part of it. He was always on the outside, and always would be. He’d always be different, he’d always be that weirdo, Tripod.

He couldn’t quit though, even though he wanted to, because his parents wouldn’t let him. They insisted that being part of a team built character, like he didn’t already have plenty of that. He knew they wanted him to stay because soon he’d be recruited into the juniors, and then there might be sponsorships, and then maybe he’d even make it to the NHL, and that’s when the real money would come in. But he knew he’d never make it that far, because he didn’t want it. Even if he did, it would be too hard to fight all those battles again about unfair advantages. The truth was his extra leg was an unfair advantage. It made him better than everybody else, and he hated himself for it. He hated that extra leg. He hated hockey, and he was even starting to hate skating.

After the game, he told his parents he wanted to walk home. They eyed him suspiciously, because he’d done this before, walking home with all his gear, so he could get rid of it. He’d been eight years old the first time he’d dumped all his hockey gear, and claimed to have lost it. He’d known it was expensive, so he figured they’d punish him by disallowing him from playing anymore. But they’d just bought him all new gear and forced him to keep playing. He did it again when he was twelve, and had suffered the same consequences, except this time they’d bought new gear with his allowance money. Now he walked with his skates slung over his shoulders and dropped them in an empty lot, next to to a cigarette butt, and a pile of dog shit, where they belonged. Then he walked home, and before going into the house, he turned around and went back to that empty lot, where he picked up his skates and slung them back over his shoulders. He knew there was no denying his destiny. He was a hockey player, and he was Tripod.