Category: Writing

August 12, 1992

July 31, 2017

                                     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.

low-self-esteem

Chinatown

July 24, 2017

 

chinatown-fire

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.

 

chinatown-fire-shoe

The true story

August 11, 1992

July 17, 2017

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!!!”  

drug-dad