Gloryfades.org

My feet itch. Not literally but in that metaphoric way that only means one thing: I need to get out of here. Where do I want to go? You name the place and I want to go there. There’s only one thing hindering me right now. The cash. I know, I know. You’ve heard it all before. Everyone’s poor. Yes, I know everyone is poor and I wish, oh how I so wish I wasn’t a part of that category. Why must I be like everyone else?!

Feeling sorry for myself isn’t doing anything to help me get over this, though. Last night I went to a discussion on travel put on by Hot Prof and a few other people. I kept fidgeting while I was sitting there because that’s what travel does to me, it makes me fidget. It’s not discomfort, though, it’s more of an energy. It’s that itch.

Where do I want to go though? It doesn’t really matter. I have a list of places, though. There aren’t big reasons behind them. I just want to go there because I can. I wish to see things I can’t see here. I want to do something with my life, make it a little more interesting.

A week ago my friend Alex and I went out for coffee. She asked me the same question she asks me every time we get together. She lives in North Bay which is a good five hours away so we usually see each other once every three or four months. She asked me what was new in my life. And I couldn’t think of a single thing. Not one single thing had occurred in my life that hadn’t been disclosed in a letter or an email nor felt relevant enough to be mentioned. My mind was completely and utterly blank when she asked me.

I can’t live like this anymore, not having experienced anything outside of south-western Ontario. It just feels wrong. My university career is winding down and I’m not going to remember any of it because none of it was significant enough to remember. I go to school every day and I go home. Occasionally I work at a department store. No wonder I have nothing to be excited about, my life is boring!

Realizing that, I need to do something about it. It may take me awhile, but fuck it, I don’t care. I need to be excited about something and if it’s not school than I need to make something happen.

No one is going to hand me a plane ticket and a wad of cash, pat me on the back and send me off on an adventure. I need to do this by myself.

Of all the talents that a person can possess my deepest, fondest wish is to draw. I find it so unfair that my sister can draw so well, while I can barely grasp a pen and put it to paper. My great-aunt was an artist, so is my aunt. My house is decorated by the beautiful creations my dear aunt made out of sheer boredom while visiting us last year. Every time I look at the pictures - vivid multi-coloured birds - I’m wistful. I asked my sister once why she stopped drawing and painting; she merely shrugged and replied, “I have two children.” I suppose that’s a good excuse, but I often wonder whether she enjoyed it even. Her art portfolio from high school used to be my favourite thing to look at when I was growing up. She, being seven years older than me, got to experience all of those classes which I eagerly awaited for at that age. I still remember a gigantic oak tree she drew on one of the pages. There was no reason for it, it was just a doodle, but it was gorgeous. Sadly, that’s the only thing I remember from her portfolio. As I entered high school, her former art teacher would become my art teacher.

The only art class I ever took, I did quite well in, to be honest. At least, from what I can remember, I think I did quite well. I never received any negative comments, at least. Yet, I never doodled as much as the other kids. Merely did the work assigned and that was it. I still remember the study of a male nude that we all had to draw; I chose the hands and feet to draw - the hardest. It was my greatest accomplishment because it actually came out looking alright! I didn’t value it for what it truly was when I had it then and I let it get thrown out. I wish sometimes I hadn’t because it could have given me some inspiration. Which is what I truly need, I think, because I have the desire to draw but I lack the confidence because I don’t feel that I would be able to draw well. Maybe one day I’ll take an art class, learn how to draw from someone who knows. I know I’ll never be a great artist, but I think I would take great pleasure out of creating something with my hands. Besides, what exactly is a “great” artist? There are lots of artists out their who find their own conventions to follow, instead of conforming to someone else’s.

I deeply respect the artists of the Renaissance, but I know I would never be able to paint anywhere near that good. I mean, those men (for they were mostly men, I’m afraid) must have been touched by the Hand of God himself. I’ve seen those paintings in real life and I cannot explain to you, or even attempt to, the sheer magnitude of their beauty. How these artists were able to create such glory is completely beyond me. Hand of God, I tell you. Hand of God.

In other news, I haven’t spent any money today! Which is excellent for me, since I just got paid and … well, I’m always tempted to blow my wad (pardon the vulgarity ;)) on something stupid that I don’t need. Hey, here’s an idea … maybe I should pay my bills? Hmm … food for thought.

Two more days until my parents leave on vacation!

Do you know what’s really difficult to write? Several things are very difficult to write. Some I have attempted, others I have yet had the pleasure. Regardless, it’s a fucking pain in the ass when you can’t even articulate basic human emotion through written word.

Shopping lists can be hard to write. “I need Miracle Whip” can turn very easily into “I want bacon bits and a large tub of chocolate chip ice cream”. The perception of want and need can get so skewed. For instance, today I was happily click on my little stumbleupon toolbar when I hit this, loved it and went browsing through all of them and then decided “God’s teeth, I need a digital camera!” I was luckily brought down from this impulse-buy-induced coma by “common sense” and a lack of transportation. Plus, I don’t want to get dressed again. I just got home from work.

Suicide notes are probably hard to write. I’ve never written one. Nor have I ever expressed the desire to write one, not even a “practice” one. Jesus, could you imagine a conversation with your mother if she came across your practice goodbye note?

Mom: What’s this?
Me: Uhh .. a suicide note?
Mom: Is it yours?
Me: Uhh .. no?
Mom: It has your name on it.
Me: I probably shouldn’t have signed it yet, huh?
Mom: …

You know what else is hard to write? A love scene! You need a special talent to write really hawt, sweaty, dog-in-heat sex with taste and decorum. Everyone thinks they can though!!! If they didn’t, there would be a huge spike in the quality of romance novels and they wouldn’t be considered so trashy. Those are just the ladies who have been lucky enough to get published. Poor, hapless sods like myself head over to adultfanfiction.net to air out our nasty drawers and get down in the gutter with our favourite book/movie/celebrity character.

Fanfic writers often start out as fanfic readers who read mountains of the stuff and go through bad stuff and good stuff, really good stuff and awful, down-right filthy, horrible, wouldn’t-read-it-if-I-were-constipated-on-the-john fanfic and eventually, they read so much fanfic they think they can write it! Here, I am using the royal “they” but really I’m just talking about me. I am they, in this case. So here I am, writing my little heart out, fulfiilling tiny fantasies that other fanfic writers haven’t only because the ’ship is so riddled with the same lame-ass cliches that every good writer has by now abandoned it for a sicker or sexier ’ship and I can’t write a love scene!!

Everytime I start a sentence, an image pops up into my mind, the same one of a boulder, the sea and the characters have been transformed into a pirate and a sea wench and anything the characters do will be performed by pirate and sea wench on said boulder in my mind’s eye and I’m left feeling like I’ve turned anything actually good into a stupid romance novel that deserves to buried at the back of Goodwill with old Archie comics.

Ugh, I’m so bad with the money lending. I hate it when people lend me money. Well, not hate .. I love it and I hate it. It’s a double edged sword. I love it cause I love receiving money but I hate it because I’m expected to return the bloody stuff. If you ever see me and I ask to borrow more than five dollars, run. Run like the devil is chasing you. I’ll thank you for it later.

I don’t think anyone enjoys paying money back. Having cash is a nice thing; especially when it’s not your own and you don’t have to worry about it but when the time comes to pay it back, the money that you agreed to return, it’s like a bane upon your soul. I curse the asshole who decided to lend me money in the first place when I have to give it back.

Case in point, a friend of mine (aquaintance really) lent me ten dollars to go to the Pita Pit with her for lunch one day. I told her I had no cash - I even showed her my empty wallet I think - but she dragged me along with her explaining that she’d lend me the cash. That’s how I got conned into taking ten dollars for a pita. I still haven’t paid her back. Sometimes, when I see her, I have the cash on me, I just don’t feel like parting with it yet, or I need it for a bus ticket home or something (this month I didn’t buy a monthly bus pass cause I’m an idiot, don’t ask questions). Other times, I don’t have the cash at all. Each time I see her, though, I’m racked with guilt at not having given the money back which isn’t my fault entirely cause she sort of forced me to take the cash. It’s a nice gesture, but it’s led to much grief on my part.

Can money lending be any less stressful? Thank GOD she isn’t charging me interest on the bloody tenner or else I’d be ripping my hair out in fistfuls coupled with the fretful worrying! I don’t really think there is a way you could borrow money without feeling sucky; it’s cause there’s a loaner and a borrower. The loaner will forever - well, until said debt is paid off - hold that axe of a loan above the borrower’s head and it’s really like an axe; any argument can easily be won with, “yeah but I’m not the one who owe’s [insert monetary value above $5 here]!!” Damn it .. he’s got me there.

Thank God for people like Leah, though. No matter how much I owed her - usually no more than $20 - she was always on my ass, asking for the cash. Most times that’s a huge pain and a total aggravation, but without it, she probably would still be waiting for that cash and I’d still be wracked with guilt over not paying her back!

The moral lesson in this story kids is stay away from the money lender. Please, for the love of God, stay away.