As the days go on, any joy I feel seems more
contrived, more
chemical.
Inside, I too am filled with
rust.
...
I may have a place of my own, come
April.
Assuming that I stay in
Ottawa, and don’t run off to
Toronto,
Amsterdam, or
Rio de Janeiro until then, I may have found a one-bedroom apartment for a decent price, here in Ottawa. Considering that we currently have the lowest
vacancy rate in
North America, that is no simple feat.
On related terms, some
web design group wishes to interview me. They are in Toronto, and they want me to meet them next Monday. I am still
undecided as to if I will show up.
I dream of Toronto, nearly nightly. I dream of my lost
roommate and
incense sticks, of
laughter and
moody music.
Jes does, as well. She doesn’t say so, not quite so clearly, but something in her dies a little bit more, every day that we’re away.
...
I have a
stress fracture in my left
tibia.
At times, I don’t notice. At others, it feels like someone’s trying to extract my
bone marrow with a
butter spreader.
The hospital-proscribed treatment for such an ailment is 6-8 weeks of relative
rest, and little-to-no high-impact activity.
...
I went to a
goa party in
Montreal, this weekend. Hours in a packed
van with no heat, map mixups, money issues, and relative craziness was the norm for the traveling.
I danced from the moment I could
feel my toes again until they
turned the lights on and told us to
get the hell out.
It wasn’t enough.
Dancing has become a method of
exercising my demons, I think. It’s
cathartic, it’s
release, it’s
bliss; and unlike other party-related activities, it doesn’t leave
the taste of chemicals in my mouth.
The day after, I could hardly walk. My leg was meat, useless screaming meat.
Today, my throat has followed suit.