swingin'

you follow.
you don't know how to ride a bike, so you follow.
you forget how to cross the street, so you follow.

not sure where you want to live, so, you follow.
perhaps it will be an adventure. perhaps a very bad idea full of regret.

you're not sure how to dance. so you join a swing dancing class.

after years of teachers' comments on your report cards saying you are a born leader, and womens studies classes teaching you what they teach you, following in a dance class should be something that feels unnatural, or just plain wrong.

for me, it's just not so.

since, by this point in my life i seem to be a born follower, i fit in nicely.

the class is full of mostly beginners. there are more girls than guys, so sometimes tonight i found myself sitting out. then i'd get paired with a guy who was just as useless as me. i found myself searching for the one or two guys in the room who knew what they were doing.

and when i found him, right before class ended, it felt like the universe made sense.

they say that once we all get the basics down, it's the woman (the follower) who gets to make the dancing look pretty and frilly (naturally). girls in class (though tonight was only the first 'real' class) have skipped ahead to the frilly and come wearing special shoes and billowy skirts.

for now though, all we have to do is follow. and like i said, i'm damn good at it. the hard part is finding someone strong and experienced who will lead.

it sounds so wrong, but it feels so right!

back step, triple step, step step, triple step.

ta-da!

bicycle diaries

"I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like ..."

-- Queen



but it friggin' terrifies me.

i write this, perhaps out of guilt for taking the piss out of a coworker the other night when she said she couldn't ride a bike. the reason we gave her such a hard time is that she actually said she forgot to. please tell me you see the hilarity in that statement. leave me a note at the end of this if you need clarification.

so, where was i? ah, yes. it terrifies me. perhaps i can trace the terror back to the first time i rode one. (i seem to be able to trace a lot of my trauma back to the ages of 3 - 6)
the first time i remember riding a proper bike, aside from my cabbage patch powderpuff bike...

it was called 'blue angel.' i don't think that's the name i'd given her, it was written in pink and white on the side.

the way i remember it, i was about six years old. the bike came from a neighbour, or garage sale or something. it was as beautiful as the name made it sound. it had a banana seat. oh how i have to this day longed for another bike with a banana seat. but that's beside the point. i remember riding it, sans training wheels, and almost immediately crashing it into the curb of the parking lot i was in.

i don't remember who was there with me. if anyone at all. but i remember being in more pain than i had ever been before, and very worried that i was no longer a virgin.

i'm not sure if i ever rode that bike again. the next one i remember having was pink. it had streamers on the handles and coloured thingies in the spokes that made the coolest noise when i rode. it had silver fenders and training wheels. i think it was called 'rapido'.

then i remember a teal one my dad bought me. my best friend and i spent a summer biking around our neighbourhood, trying desperately to get lost.

when i outgrew it, we sold it to my cousins and he replaced it with a black and green one. fluorescent green. i pretended i loved it. i pretended the fluorescent green was cool, cause it reminded me of green day. but i was lying to myself and to him. and when it got stolen from in front of my house, i didn't care. i was relieved.

that was grade seven.

i made my way as a pedestrian, rollerblader and busrider for years. car-driving terrifies me just a little bit more than biking.

about five years ago, nanny bought me a fabulous bike from the old woman across the street from her. now that i think of it, it was like a grown-up version of blue angel. same colour, anyway. no banana seat, but the seat was big enough for an old lady's rump and that suited me just fine. there were fenders, like rapido. no hand breaks-- i had to pedal backwards to stop! the best part: the basket.

the novelty wore out though.

i tried rescuing it when i moved to the glebe, with the thought that i would cycle to work every day. i'm not sure that she was road-worthy anyway.

my most recent bike is apollo. ryan got her from someone. he says she owed him money anyway. so he fixed apollo up for me when i came to england in february. he expected me to be able to ride it, i think. but, much like the coworker i laughed at the other night, i was shaky and nervous, and didn't exactly enjoy myself.

i wasn't much different six months later:

August 16

I am a terrible driver. Terrible. I am afraid of being hit. I am afraid of hitting others. But that’s just me on a bicycle. You can’t imagine what I’m like in a car.

Luckily for everyone, Ryan and I don’t own a car. Just two bikes. Unlucky for me, it turns out I’m in rotten shape, and cycling to Tesco’s after work tonight was quite the feat.

The way there, I was loving the relatively new experience of cycling. (though it was a bit of a time squeeze for us to go after I got off work at 7:30, I really wanted to go to Tesco's since they seem to have the biggest selection of organic stuff. )

Seeing as I have no sense of direction, all I had to do was follow the leader, unfortunately, Ryan’s not the type to wait for the little green man, so often I found myself lagging behind.

The way back nearly killed me. £30 of groceries in a knapsack while biking up hill—not my idea of a good time!

today, on the other hand, was my best bike experience ever. the ground was flat-- no hills. we were on a bike trail-- no cars (nothing to be afraid of).

but i got a little cocky at one point. i was very annoyed at the group of women who were taking up both the left and right-hand sides of the path. i found myself critisizing. 'this is the EASIEST biking i have ever done. these women must be COMPLETELY out of shape. GOD. speed up!'

i later found out they had been biking for 8 hours straight. all the way from glasgow to raise money for cancer.

i made up for my awful thoughts by cheering the riders on as i rode home and they rode to the finish line.

and for the first time ever, i rode with no hands.

maybe it's not so terrifying afterall . . .

the best story

a year ago, to the day, i was on a plane headed for b.c.
headed for the unknown, and as cheesy as it sounds, towards destiny.

(with a real cheap flight, considering it was september 11)

i boarded the plane that would lead me to a future i could not have imagined. one of adventure, and travelling and taking chances. and of love.

yes, i am feeling sentimental, because a year ago today, i got off the plane in b.c., into the arms of the strange english boy who did two things right, after we met: he made my bed and he phoned the next day.

and everyone who knows me, knows what happened next.

the strange english boy took me on the best date of my life. we ditched his smelly mates and we went for a long night of dinner and wine and the best conversation with a near-stranger that i had ever had.

the day after that, he left.

i walked him to the corner just before his cousin's place (her appartment was just down the street from where i lived, so i will forever be grateful to nancy-louise for her choice of locale) we hugged, kissed, said goodbye and turned to go our separate ways. my stomach did somersaults has we walked away from each other. a few paces away i turned to look at his cute english bum, only to meet his gaze. as i kept walking, my heart sunk and tears pushed their way out of the corners of my eyes.

i was sure i'd never see him again. how practical would it be, really? he was off to b.c. to climb some more mountains before heading home to the u.k. he left with my business card and a little note on the back to tell him what a pleasure it was to meet him.

no obligations, no strings attached, no expectations.

but, he emailed a few days later. i emailed a few days after that, and it continued for a month before i invited myself out west to meet up with him.

of course, in the month that passed, when i wasn't busy emailing him i lived at the rock gym, training so that i wouldn't make an arse of myself once i got out there.

my parents were furious. my friends, however, seemed thrilled. the beautiful girls at 114 glebe avenue drove me to the airport, and unlike my parents, expected to see me again. my mom was convinced this guy was going to lure me out to the mountains to kill me.

and now, he has whisked me away to the scotland. (so i guess in some ways, mom was right).

a year later. after trips to and from each others' countries, and two months of glorious treeplanting shit, and ups and downs and downs and ups. i am here, in edinburgh, and i couldn't be happier.

ryan, if you read this (and, i have, on occasion, caught you reading my blog) i apologize for posting the sappy details of everything up here for whomever to read. (though, i have left the best bits out)

but i'm not really sorry, because this story; my story; our story, is a good one. the best one.

wales. cymru.

every sign everywhere is written in both english, and this funny-looking ancient language called welsh. lots of lls, lots of wws, and if i understand correctly, both the double d and ll make the f sound. so does ff.

the language is fascinating. though, during my week in wales i think i attempted to pronounce one word aloud, (there's this strange nasally thing i don't think i'd ever be able to truly master) my brain was racing trying to make connections and understand this nearly-lost language. 20% of welsh people can speak welsh.

Jennifer: from a Cornish form of the Welsh name Gwenhwyfar, Guinevere

Guinevere: Old French form of the Welsh name Gwenhwyfar, which is composed of the elements gwen meaning "fair, white" and hwyfar meaning "smooth". In Arthurian legend she is the beautiful wife of King Arthur.

pies and cappucinos to go... i mean, take away

'you got any mince pies 'er stuff?'

a fat man on the other side of the counter asks me.

not that this is in anyway characteristic of the folks i serve as an employee of The Old Bakehouse, just a little example.

i've been in edinburgh for exactly a month. i'd love to say i can't complain, but i can. i work at a cafe 40 - 50 hours a week. doing exactly what i swore i would never do when i first left the service industry. and doing exactly what i said i wanted to do when i got to scotland.

'i just wanna work at a little cafe,' i said. and here i am.

a lovely little cafe, it is. art gallery downstairs. internet access. greeting cards for every occasion.

but serving is hard. harder than planting trees? certainly not. harder than sitting in front of a mac making tv guides?

i reckon it is.

ˈɛdɪnb(ə)rə

been a while since i've updated this thing. partly cause i was sick and tired of bitching about treeplanting (though right around the time i stopped writing was right around the time i started enjoying the craziness-- go figure), and partly cause i wasn't sure who was reading it.

both things are besides the point now, i guess. i reckon.

i reckon that now that i am in the united kingdom, i am going to be doing a lot less thinking, guessing, or knowing, and a lot more reckoning.

i reckon we just got an appar-- a flat... in edinburgh.
i reckon it is the best flat that ever did exist.
i reckon we move in in a few days.

random update or something

i've seen hail in may
i've been out planting in a tanktop while huge chunks are falling from the sky

a few days ago, my crew boss and i spent three hours digging the truck out of snow

i've seen bears, lots of bears not even frightened off by barking puppies

i've seen men dressed at women and women dressed as men, messed up on mushroom tea and pot cookies at prom (how i wish i could upload the party pictures)

we moved camps again, this is our third camp. when we got there, the entire property was filled with cows. the trucks scared them away, but they left behing loads of patties-- big, stinky patties!

life is good, for the most part. i still have moments when i think of how great it would be to leave. to get on a bus and take my sweet time getting to ontario. then taking my sweet time finding a job in scotland. but even after a bad day, i go home, and there are other people there who have also had bad days. and there's a campfire, and awesome people, and awesome food, and all of a sudden leaving isn't even an option any more.

today is my birthday.

we have the day off because all of our trees are popsicles.

i am wearing a tank top and shorts.

re-re-re-repossessed

repo.

short form for reposess. in the treeplanting world, it is shortform for replant. sometimes your trees are shallow. sometimes you have planted them in redrot. there are all kinds of reasons you might be made to repo. the one that hurts the most, however, is the one that most truly reflects the word repo...

the other day i hit my head on a tree. was convinced i had a concussion. after sitting in the truck for an hour, i was tricked into working again. i blame the concussion for the horrible job i did planting the rest of the day. trees, which in this piece of land were supposed to be planted about 2.9 metres away from eachother, somehow got planted like a foot apart. at 4:00, an hour before quitting time, i was told i had to "fix this."

i had to repo. to reposess nearly 1/4 of the trees i had planted the whole day in the beating hot sun with a concussion.

one by one i removed my little trees from the soil and put them back into the sidebags from whence they came.

i truly felt defeated.

searching for soul and soil

weighted down by 250 trees stuffed into bags on my sides, i am sent up a really steep hill covered in death. dead trees, logs, leaves litter the ground. i am expected to plant these 250 trees, and do it quickly. no soil to be seen, just slash. i have to do what they call "skreef" (not sure on the spelling, not sure that it's a real word.) so i skreef, removing the top layer of dead stuff with my boot. when i see something that resembles soil, i slam my little shovel into the ground. instead i hit a rock and the pain vibrates up my left arm. discouraged, an move my gaze a little to the left. more skreefing. soil! i plunge my shovel into the ground with ease. but, this time, i reveal red chunks of a tree that once stood tall. red rot. can't plant in rocks, can't plant in red rot. can't plant. 30 whole seconds has passed by this time, and i am quickly losing money.

sometimes at this point i crouch down in my land and cry.

sometimes at this point i take my shovel and smash it repeatedly on the nearest obstacle. this usually results in injury.

sometimes i take a deep breath and continue searching for a place to plant a tree. 249 to go before my next bag up.

i am on the world's largest rollercaster right now. over the last few weeks i have thought about going home dozens of times.
if i give up, where do i go?

the truth is, home is not ottawa. home is not ontario. home for the time being is in the bush with a bunch of other people who are not at home.

it is though we have all stepped out of time. it passes differently. in the outside world i have been gone not three weeks. for me, it feels like i have been gone months. all that has happened, all the people i have met, all the things i have experienced.

i still have a while to go.

my new home is in a tent on one of the nicest beaches i have ever seen.

blood, sweat and tears

communication with the outside world.... 20 minutes at a time. i am at a library. we (the 15 or 20 planters) are on our first day off in a town called salmon arm. we stayed in a hotel, which was sweet. even though ryan and i have a mansion of a tent, sometimes sleeping on the floor makes me cranky.

i went to bed in my nice, comfy hotel room at 11:00 while the others went out to party last night. i didn't have the energy.

my cuticles are ripping off. my hands are cut to shit.
every muscle in my body is aching.
i have a sunburn.
i have cried every day since i got here.

i am not sad. not really homesick either. i am here with my boy, with good friends, and people that will soon become good friends.

and i'm in BC!!!

but this work is really hard.

my blood, sweat and tears are going into every piece of toilet paper you use to wipe yer ass.

our cook is phenominal. we eat all we can for breakfast, lunch and dinner. and it's not kd and hot dogs. it's good, nutritious, amazing food.

getting up at 5am every day really sucks.

our campground is beautiful. on the lake. mountains, a beach....

there are a few dogs in camp, and one cat. but she's better behaved than the sass was.

there are so many perks that the hard work almost seems worth it.

ALMOST.

i'm not making any money yet. well, i am making money, but nothing like $250 a day (which some people already are)

i covered camp costs the first day, which i am pretty proud of (i made a whopping $24.50!)

the money will come, i'm sure, if

my body lets me get through this.
if my head lets me get through this.

it's fucked.

this is the weirdest thing i have ever done.

nothin' left to lose

the moment you realize you are truly free, is the moment you take a set of keys off your key ring, and for the first time ever, replace them with nothing.

just an empty miniature barrell of monkeys. hanging on a hook in my parents' kitchen.

because as of now, i am homeless.

home-less

the way i see it, one less thing to worry about. one less thing to have.

nothin' left to lose.

since high school ended, i have moved nine times.

i have had 10 different roommates not including the 40 people i lived with in residence or my parents.

since i started working, i have had 13 jobs. 14 if i count my paper route, more if i count babysitting.

next job on april 21.
next place of residence, a tent somewhere in bc.

"freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose..."

and buddy, that's good enough for me.

great expectations

i once met a stranger halfway across the country. i didn't know what to expect.

'the only way this is going to work is if we go into it without expectations,' he said to me.

i quoted the stranger when speaking to a friend tonight about his apparant fear of dating.

'just ask her for coffee,' i says. 'you don't have to propose to her or anything. just go into the evening without any expectations. that's the only way there's any hope of it working.'

i speak from experience, you see.

in a day and a bit i am flying to the same location to meet the same person. the difference is he is no longer much of a stranger.

though, i reckon, the same rule still applies.

expectations:

sweating in the beautiful beating sun
breaking my wrist
getting totally and utterly ripped (muscles not drunk)
being inspired
making thousands and thousands of dollars
being eaten by a bear
meeting fabulous people
breaking my back
making love after a hard day's work
getting frusterated with present company
swimming in the lake
leaches

all of/none of these things may/may not happen.

my plane might crash on the way there.
i might stop breathing in my sleep.

the only way we're gonna get through this is of we go into it with no expectations.

except for maybe a kiss. (that's both for me, and for my coffee asking friend.) separate kisses, of course . . .

hypocrisy and the true meaning of prententiousness

pretentious.

the word makes me think of a person with a holier-than-thou attitude.

i think of someone who has. who has stuff. and who likes to flaunt it.

a friend of the family just bought a 39 feet 5th wheel (a camper that you drag on the back of your car or truck or whatever.)

3 TV w/cable and dvd players
two queen size beds and a double bed
en suite
motorcycle garage

etc.

it cost $60,000

i haven't seen it, but i'm sure it's lovely.

my mom told me about her friends' new purchase after saying i was weird for not wanting a TV, telling me i was 'different' for actually looking forward to sleeping in a tent and not wearing make up.

but for me, anyone who wouldn't LOVE to sleep in a tent and shower only when necessary, to be far from computers and cable TV (oh, the irony, i know... i am writing this on a computer and in a few short hours will be at work(on a computer) for my last day as somebody who writes (on a computer) about reality TV and designs TV guides(on a computer) is the weirdo!

for me, the thought of dropping $60, 000 on a trailer when i already have a few vehicles, motorcycles, and a nice home with a swimming pool etc., is insane.

who even has $60,000? puleeez just pay off my osap for me. i will be forever grateful.

i look down at people who live their lives in excess.

people who spend paychecks on clothes at aritsia. (i have an outfit from lululemon)

people who kick their feet up while laying on a beach though meters away children are dying in the streets. at night they booze until they vomit because the trip they went on comes with all-inclusive drinks.

sports cars that land them in debt. (have taken many much-appreciated rides in one)

leather couch, massage chair, flat screen TV. (use the massage chair every chance i've had)

stuff.

i don't even know what to say about hollywood.

to me, it is all ignorance. extravagance. it makes me sick.

almost as sick as mushy peas.

so tell me, please, with an attitude like this, who's pretentious?

though i may not be decked out in name-brand clothes, have spent hours on my make up, or flat-ironed my hair every morning for the last three years, who's the snob?

it's hard not to judge. i find myself judging people more and more and more. i like to think i have a pretty 'live and let live' thing going on, but it kinda seems to be 'live like i live.'

pretentious.

the word makes me think of a person with a holier-than-thou attitude.

mushy puke, panic and trees

am i freaking out? you better believe i'm freaking out. just puked up the mashed potatoes and corn and mushy peas i have been reluctant to try since i brought them home from england. they look like puke, so maybe that's what triggered it. that coupled with the thought that my plane to bc takes off in 11 days.

yesterday the fact that i am not packed was funny.

it no longer is.

and the one person who can actually calm me down cannot be reached.

the worry and stress and panic. the paranoia. who needs drugs when your paranoia and schizophrenia and neurosis are as bad as mine?

aside from the mushy peas and the realization that it really is go-time, is this:

Hi Jenn

My name is __________, I will be running the other planting crew for _________ in _________'s camp this summer. He passed along your email and
said you were interested in planting. I have some space on my crew if you
are still interested. You can email me back or give me a call anytime __________.

Thanks, look forward to hearing from you.

received by email at 5:27 pm. tonight. post-mushy peas. post 11-days-to-go-realization.

maybe i don't fully understand... if i am "still interested" he has "some space" on his crew. if i'm still interested.

hmmm, come to think of it, dude, no. i'm not. tomorrow is my last day of work and i have been planning on planting for your company since december and i have a one-way ticket to british columbia in less than two weeks, but naw, i think i'll pass.

i phoned, and though he sounded either stoned or stupid (the reception was bad, i'll give him that) he said it was all good.

i told him i didn't think there was any question of whether or not i was working for the company. i had applied in december. i was hired in february.

this is not the first time this fucking company has been incredibly confused. i'm thinking they don't speak the same language out there in 'da bush.'

it's all "like, you know, whatever dude."

it is as if the tree planting industry is run by a bunch of hippies.

one person's dodge is another's utopia

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."
~ John Lennon

i think about this often. not quite as often as that other beatles phrase, but...

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

i agree with lennon. i do. but, like everything, to a point.

but what if you are living so totally in the moment that you make no plans at all? you just coast. you just wait for things to fall in your lap. you wait for opportunity to knock and then can't get yer ass off the couch to open the door. because, yer livin' in the moment, man. just fuckin' lettin' it be...

i bring this up after a conversation with one of my friends about one of my other friends. the friend that everyone has (and we have all been that person at some point in our lives: the friend that is stagnating.) the friend that is feeling sorry for his or herself, yet totally unwilling to do anything about his or her present state.

if you hate your job, find a new one!

i should mention that this was all perfectly acceptable behind-the back-talking. i justify talking behind my friends' backs if it is also something i would say to his or her face (or preferably that i already have said) in this case, it's the latter.

i have probably talked about you behind your back too. but i can almost guarantee, never maliciously, just trying to sort out your life as i somehow recently think i am able to do for everyone but myself. not that my perfect life needs sorting. (note the sarcasm and then dismiss it, 'cause my life really is pretty sweet)

why is that though?

why am i not miserable like many of the people that are surrounding me? i think, i think...

because i have plans.

because i have plans with a certain someone of whom i happen to be very fond? yesh.

to a certain degree. but happiness does not a partner guarentee. as the past has taught me too many times.

i have plans.

plans that involve me getting the fuck out of dodge. wherever dodge happens to be at the moment. right now dodge is orleans. dodge is my desk job. dodge also happens to be ontario and dodge will soon be canada. then dodge will be north america. if all goes as planned.

(because dodge, of course travels around. the moment you realize you are in dodge is the moment you should pack up yer things and hit the road. preferably in a ford. he he. or by foot or train. but never leave dodge in a dodge.)

dodge was once the byward market. dodgy. toronto was dodge, twice. st. catherines was definately dodge. so was orleans when i left after high school.

the glebe was never dodge. no immediacy to get the fuck out. as in, 'get the fuck outta dodge,"

which, btw, according to urbandictionary.com:

To leave somewhere immediately, to evacuate or scram.

"Get the hell out of Dodge" is a reference to Dodge City, Kansas, which was a favorite location for westerns in the early to mid 20th century. Most memorably, the phrase was made famous by the TV show "Gunsmoke," in which villians were often commanded to "get the hell out of Dodge." The phrase took on its current meaning in the 1960s and 70s when teenagers began to use it in its current form.

Awesome. We're done here, so lets get the hell out of dodge!

i have plans.

if life is boring, if you are stuck in a rut, there is no one to blame but yourself. we are very very fortunate. we are employable. anywhere. we are privilaged and white and english and that's the way our cookies crumbled. be thankful that at least you were born and raised in canada. if you can't make that work for you, you might as well just give up breathing.

so yes. let it be. enjoy life for what it is and enjoy the little things and peace and love and all that jazz. but you have to make things happen for yourself. because no one else is going to do it for you.

and yes. i have been preachy with most people in my life. but something happened to me over the last little while (a combination of factors) and i was rejuivinated. after a long period of being brain dead and depressed and STAGNATING. i was that friend.

so, the way i figure it, i am allowed to preach. because i am practicing.

i have plans and i am getting the hell outta dodge.

but please remember-- one person's dodge is another's utopia.

TGFT

so, i'm like, loading all of my new montreal photos from my digi cam on to my laptop (i took a lot of photos, because i like, have a gig memory card). and i'm getting ready to post them onto facebook so everybody can see them and tag them and make funny comments about them.
and my friend sarah (who is not only my facebook friend, but is also on my msn list) instant messages me and it goes down like this:

saraheliza3@yahoo.ca says:

u all ready for Bc yet?

saraheliza3@yahoo.ca says:
get an early start on packing?

on the horizon says:
AHAHAHAH!!!

and then i LOLed.

nope. not all ready for BC yet. not even bloody close. probably should not have gone to montreal and stayed home and 'got myself ready.'

probably should be 'getting myself ready' instead of hunching over the computer like i will have to do at work tomorrow.

sarah and i continued our msn conversation (yes, i'm sure we could have picked up the phone to talk, but then how would i be able to answer facebook tag requests and talk to everyone else that was msning me?)

we thanked the lord for the miracle of the internet.

caitilin is in korea and it costs a lot to call.
sarah's in smiths falls and they don't have phones there.

my mom joined facebook.

blogitty blog

i have always had a diary.

when i was five i wrote about marshmallows and the weather. i worried someone would find it.

when i got a little older i wrote about boys in my class. i wrote about my family. i was terrified someone would find it.

when i was ten my diary had a lock on it.

in my teens i created my very first 'zine. which is, much like a blog, something you distribute, in hopes that someone will read it. my 'zine, called 'reveree' was a music 'zine. with diary-type commentary in the margins. i never brought the original (which i spent hours creating) to be photocopied... in case, heaven forbid, someone actually read it.

then i went to school for journalism. i got used to having my writing read. and now i actually enjoy when people read my writing. why else would someone keep an online journal?

i still keep a diary. i still keep it hidden. there are things in the hard copy book that will remain in the hard copy book. i still prefer if no one reads my diary. but i am no longer terrified that it might fall open and some one's eyes might glance at the words.

because honest writing is never shameful.

nevertheless, this is a blog-- a journal on the world wide web. not a book i keep hidden under my pillow. (shit-- i guess i have to change its hiding spot). people who write blogs write for an audience. otherwise, there would be no reason to write anywhere other than in a hard copy book, tucked safely away where no one will ever find it.

i know you're out there, reading. just like you're looking at all my pictures on facebook. you have been invited to do both. so you might as well leave a comment.