19

I’m on my sofa, unintentionally high. 45 mg of codeine, with muscle relaxants, and aspirin, on account of what the doctor deduced, in approximately 4 seconds, was a muscle strain in my back. That was yesterday and I’ve essentially been quasi-high ever since, and very, VERY relaxed in the muscle department. And, most importantly, not in excruciating pain.

Erin came home about 48 hours ago, to an expected amount of fanfare. It was wonderful and also vaguely anti-climactic. Two small things were unexpected: (1) she is somewhat less attractive than I remember, and (2) she did not bring me home anything. I keep telling myself that the latter is not really important, though I think such a self-statement is a bit of a lie, for lack of a better word.

Typing is very easy when your body feels like liquid.

I’m both content and sad right now.

Emptier than usual.

I found out some unpleasant things about Erin’s “boyfriend.” Like, he supposedly cheated on his wife, and that when she found out she kicked him out and filed for divorce (he told Erin they “grew apart”). And that he was sleeping with her as recently as 3 months ago, and may still be (though he and Erin have been, as per his terminology, “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” since the end of January). I find these things, particularly the former, morally repugnant. I can’t imagine liking this guy. I told Erin about these things, and though she’s not angry with me for researching/revealing, she’s decided to “ignore” the information, and try to forget about it. She’s adamant that “Nick’s not a cheater.” I had nothing to say to that.

---

I’m telling myself that I’m not going to go to the mall tomorrow at lunch, to “run into” Mike. I’ve been thinking about him more than usual now that I have opiates in my bloodstream. It may be because he asked Monique for my phone number 3 days ago though, as you may remember, I already gave it to him via e-mail a couple of weeks ago. This sent me into a kind of frenzy that I know I’m still experiencing, but the codeine has numbed everything. Yesterday I was lying on my living room floor, and I had to keep repeating his phone number over and over in my head, like it was a song whose chorus I couldn't stop humming. I realised that the last two digits (19) were the same as the last two in my cell phone number, which struck me as symbolic and beautiful as I stared, entranced, at the paint dots on my ceiling. Now I recognise how pathetic such an idea is, but still

yeah. again, can’t finish this. too liquid. too high. computer screen moving away from my field of vision, though i don’t know where it goes. it's taken me, like, 50 minutes to get this far.

my mind, and hands, are water.

Mike is a Quarter Pounder w/ Cheese from McDonalds. I know I shouldn’t want it, it’s processed and unhealthy and awful, but I want want want it so bad. I want to want salad, I want to not want to be high. (Did I mention he smokes marijuana, like, daily? I HATE that), but I don’t want salad, I don’t want to not be high on prescription painkillers. The heart wants what it wants, right?

Erin (an introduction)

Why I haven’t mentioned Erin more than once, I do not know. That once, even, doesn’t really count: she was “Marie” there—I decided, for some reason, to keep the “real” first names of my friends and enemies secret, but now such things seem irrelevant. I mean, until we get into surname territory, it doesn’t really make much difference. So Velcroed is Shawna, Jeffrey is Jeffery (I just learned this last night), Jean is Stephane, Monique is Monique. And Marie is Erin.

Erin and I were acquaintance-friends at a summer job 2 years ago at a call center. Though she was (and is) 5 years younger than me, we bonded for reasons I never tried to understand. Erin, months later, told me that it was because we were, personality-wise, “quite similar”, which, as far as we both go, is highly rare. In spite of this similarity, and the mutual acknowledgement that we found each other hilarious and enjoyable to be around, after the summer ended our relationship shifted into highly sporadic e-mails and slightly less sporadic msn conversations.

When I had my breakdown-ish thing last May, I found myself drawn to Erin, half because she was one of the few people resembling a friend I had in my city, and half because I’d always wanted to get to know her better. So one day, in mid-to-late May, I went on msn with the hopes that she would be there, and she was, and we started talking, and then we very randomly went on a fairly long day trip somewhere in the province (funny, I have no idea where). Road trips became the staple of our friendship last spring and summer. Most were highly unmemorable, some weren’t, for whatever reason (St George really sticks out in my mind), others unforgettable (the 2-day trip to Mt Carleton, the 3-day trip to Montreal and, almost accidentally, Quebec City).

When I think of Erin, I think mostly of these two road trips. The former was unquestionably my favourite in-province trip, and the latter was a very odd adventure. It was my idea to kidnap Erin for her birthday last year. I wanted to take her to New York but Jeffery (my accomplice) thought it would get too complicated so we settled on Montreal.

That trip, in many ways, symbolises our entire friendship. Because Jeffery takes hours to pack for even the shortest trip, we didn’t leave until noon, though I figured I would be fine for driving straight to Montreal and having a late dinner there. By 8 pm, though, I was so hungry and tired I was ready to shoot someone, so we decided to stop for dinner in Quebec and possibly find somewhere to spend the night. This was, in every single way, a disaster. We got unbelievably lost trying to find Old Quebec, thinking we were on the right side of the St Lawrence, we were unable to find a restaurant we all agreed on, and then came the terrible, terrible, terrible experience of trying to find a hotel with vacancy and an affordable rate and reasonable proximity to where we were at 10:15 on an early fall Friday night. It was a disaster in almost every sense of the word, but it was terribly, terribly fun. At least in retrospect.

On the ferry, I remember looking across the river thinking that the city was unbelievably beautiful and strange, and that it would take me years of living in it to understand it, though that could have been the cold breeze blowing, or the way I could only half-understand the people next to me, or feeling depressed for no apparent reason (fatigue maybe, and/or hunger, and/or the ever-present homesickness I get even when travelling only 400 miles away, and/or loneliness).

Montreal was both better and less memorable, but I realise I’ve completely strayed off-topic, so I’ll save Montreal for another day.

So Erin and I realised, probably in early summer of last year, that we had become best friends. We were inseparable and in a kind of non-sexual love.

Something has happened since January, though. Erin has been in Sweden since then, at university. At first I missed her so much I wanted to vomit all the time, but eventually that waned. We still talked on the phone a lot, still e-mailed and chatted fairly frequently, but something has changed. It’s the distance, for sure—

I just can’t finish this. I feel sick now. Why, I don’t know. Erin is coming back on Friday. I have been so looking forward to this date, that at times I didn’t know what to do with myself.

The whole point of this post was to tell you about our strange falling-out, that was both brief and awful. We reconciled (of course) but the event, I think, forever changed the trajectory of our friendship. Or maybe Sweden did that. Or Jeffery. Or the St Lawrence River.

Or I’m crazy, and just can’t wait to see her.

Friday, coincidentally, is also the day I leave my students at the school, for new horizons.

And the day Monique leaves for Nunavut, for GodKnowsHowLong.

Friday.

random pics etc

Some random shots of myself, Mo, and Anderson Cooper.

The ones of Mo were used for the plain-face hot or not experiment, in which very few of my friends are willing to participate, for whatever reason. She, for the record, received an even 5 rating on the 1-10 scale. Eve closed at a 9.2 and yours truly raked in a 5.1.

We should subtract 1 from each rating to give us an out-of-9 rating, as the 1-10 scale is rather misleading. This puts the tally at:
Eve: 8.2
Mo: 4
Me: 4.1

Assuming that Eve is as a beautiful an un-made-up, unaccessorised, neutral expression face can get, that means that I actually have a natural facial beauty score of 4.1/8.2, or a convenient 50%. Monique is slightly lower, at 4/8.2, or approximately 49%.

As far as body-attractiveness goes, this is slightly more difficult to measure. The best and simplest I can come up with is--and I know how unscientific this is, but whatever--giving a 100% for anyone who has a "healthy" BMI, which is 18.5 - 24.9. As I am a 21.8 or so, and Monique is 21.7, let's just give us a 100% on the body thing.

I guess points should be deducted for any physical deformities, extreme shortness or tallness, and very small or very large breasts--let's say a green card goes to anyone with B or C cup breasts. But now, as you've probably noticed, my attempt at objectivity has become highly subjective guesswork, so maybe we'll just stick with BMI. For now. If we do that, that would give me a 150/200 score, and Mo a 149/200, which are 75% and 74.5% respectively. Solid B-s all around. I can live with that.

---

In more subjectivity-laden news, Mike turned out to be a douchebag. Or at least too much of a douchebag for me to develop any long-lasting feelings of intimacy or eros. For one, he --and keep in mind he was sober the night we went out -- had no recollection of touching my buttocks. This came out in a not-quite-but-almost flirtatious e-mail correspondence that took place on Friday. Also in this correspondence, he half-heartedly asked what I was doing over the week-end, and gave me his number with instructions to call if I was "headed out or looking for something to do." Can you say "Cary Grant"?

I replied that I was very busy that week-end, but that he would be welcome to join myself and a few friends to see Knocked Up, and asked him if he would like to go. I closed with my phone number. He neither replied to my e-mail nor called.

Monique is "worried" about me, given that I have this pattern for becoming obsessed with emotionally stunted and generally immature men. I agree. I'm taking active steps to break this habit. Really.

there'll be a lot of this...

...now that I have a digital camera.

The man is Jeffrey, a mostly-gay man whom I love, you know, but not that way. Though I could, hypothetically, 'cause he's a good, good man. Wonderful, beautiful, in many ways beyond words. But, tragically, repulsed by womankind.

Mike (2)

[picture removed out of courtesy to the obssessee ]

I'm only going to leave this up for a couple of days. I shouldn't have it; I should not be displaying it in public; it is not mine to display, but still, I must. I have to do something, I need to testify in a manner both secret and public that there is something fucking beautiful about this man even if I'm the only one I can see it. I found it on facebook, via Marie. He looks deceptively young, almost innocent, in this photograph. He's (obviously?) the one on the right.

Look at his eyes and his smile. What is there, in them, that is so alarming? I can't pinpoint it. It's a hesitance, a serenity, a naturalness, a possible sweetness--but a sweetness that is rough around the edges. A sweetness that is vaguely insensitive and unself-conscious.

I think that Monique has mistaken his sincerity for meanness. He is lacking in sensitivity, but that is an extension, I think, of his sincerity. Authenticity is really fucking hard to come by these days. We don't know what to say when someone is absolutely blunt, refuses to sugar coat--for whom sugar coating is not even an option.

I've thought about him too much in the past 48 hours. It's awful. But the first time in, God, a year? More? I feel absolutely alive. It's almost manic. I have been so calm, so even, the past 12 months. And what is this based on? Some semi-drunken conversations, a few halted moments of superficial physical contact, some hidden signals in a random facebook photo? But still. It feels wonderful.

Mike

I think I like Mike.

I mentioned him before (specifically on May 3).

For a suit Mike is... well, kind of unique.

When he, Chris, Mo and I were at O’Leary’s last time, I was at least somewhat attracted to his personality which is, in a word, rare. He was caustic, but in a gentle way; he made fun of girls wearing sun dresses and obvious make-up—they were “trying too hard,” he said. He spoke disparagingly of Nick’s intelligence, which took me pleasantly by surprise given that Nick is, compared to most people, quite smart. Mike was confident, without being cocky. He didn’t look too hard at women. He didn’t force conversation. He was... something else.

Anyway. Last night was pretty interesting. A bunch of us went to Elwoods to see the Jimmy Swift Band (I know; these names mean nothing to you; whatever) and turns out Mike kind of likes me. Well, maybe. He was hitting on me, in retrospect, more so than any man in a long time. He told me, entirely unprovoked (and quite sober) that I was beautiful. Given that I’ve been feeling completely hideous the past few days on account of the whole hotornot disillusion, I am not taking such a word lightly.

He is a very strange mixture of intelligence and pure crudeness. It takes a certain gift to be able to talk about “the shocker,” his own penis size, and requests to touch my ass without sounding disgusting, but he could actually pull it off. He was touching me a lot—you know, an arm touch here, a shoulder-grab there, and the very strange ass-squeeze that came out of nowhere but was neither out of place nor physically awkward. He lamented Monique’s presence. It was all very unexpected. A shocker of its own, I guess.

Monique was shocked, herself, when I told her that I might have developed a thing for him. She thinks he’s judgmental, and mean, and thinks himself superior. I see where she’s coming from. He’s definitely negative—he spoke critically about Nick, this girl he came with, The Welfare State, our city, his penis, his hair, and teen pregnancy. By the same token, such criticism was delivered neutrally, simply, and seemingly without pretension. Even if he is pretentious, I can handle that. No one has ever made me feel intellectually inferior, especially when it comes to political and/or philosophical discussion. And it takes a unique man to speak with equal disparagement about his supposedly tiny penis and social security whilst still being pleasant and, to a certain extent, charming. He’s generally deprecating, but in a harmless way. In an attractive way.

Now that I think about it, he only spoke positively about one thing that whole night. And that was me.

Anyway, we’ll see what happens.

---

Eve’s plain face hotornot score (on a 1-10 scale): 9
Velcroed’s: 5.1

Ouch.

I’ve always been so angry when people would say things like “Ignorance is bliss.” The truth hurts. But it’s a good hurt.

Eve vs Velcroed

I have gone through most of my life thinking I was beautiful.

This is due, in most part, to my mother, the only person I trusted entirely, telling me, repeatedly, since I was about 5 years old, that I was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. I believed her. Without debate, without question.

I also believed that old adage that, when I got to a datable age, I would “be beating them off with a stick,” that they would “be lined up at the door.” It was a few years after her death that I discovered that these were, in fact, common utterances—verbatim—to young girls by their mothers all over the maritime provinces and, I suspect, all over North America.

My body has always been beautiful, I know that—Mr BMI tells me I’m perfect, and I believe that. I BELIEVE THAT. But this question of facial beauty—well, that’s a bit trickier.

I stumbled upon this website [beautycheck], which documents a very interesting and one of the most famous studies in facial aesthetics. The following two pictures are computer composites demonstrating what are, possibly, the most possibly beautiful of human faces. For details on the project, go to the site. Very interesting. Anyway, here they are.





So I’ve been thinking a lot about beauty, and how I measure up, and how others perceive me. Regarding my physicality, I’ve been the subject of relentless pursuit, blatant rejection, and indifference. I have often asked my friends and family to tell me, as objectively as possible, how attractive I am. The responses have been overwhelmingly positive, but I know this is in part because a) my loved ones, understandably, may not want to hurt my feelings by telling me that I’m plain and/or ugly, and b) may find me more attractive than I am, strictly on a physical level, on account of my unbelievably infectious personality, wit, and charm. I mean, I can be quite fetching in person.

I could always, of course, post various pictures on my blog, but again: you, reader, are like a friend to me, and may therefore not want to hurt my feelings. Another possibility, of course, is that you, too, have become smitten with my literary personality, and therefore may subconciously find me more attractive than you would if you just, say, saw me walking down Main St with a neutral expression on my face.

So there was only one answer: hotornot.com. Below is the picture I submitted to the site. It's a graduation photo, from 18 months ago.


I was expecting something in the 8-9 range for the photo below this paragraph. I mean, I look pretty damn happy in this picture, I’m wearing make-up (which I usually don’t), my hair is fairly nice, and the photography was professionally done, with “beauty-enhancing” lighting, etc.

As of now, my score is 6.6, based on 425 votes, on a scale of 1-10 (not 0-10, as it should be).

Now, there are 4 major factors worth remembering:

1) I do not look this attractive, facially, usually.

2) My body is not in the picture, and my body is, in all honesty, about 5 lbs from perfection.

3) Girls who are scantily clad and in semi-sexually-suggestive poses tend to get higher ratings on hotornot.

4) Many people, including myself, do not always take a significant amount of time to consider each picture before voting. I, for example, have been super-guilty of repeatedly clicking “6”s just to get through pictures quicker. So there is a possibly high degree of randomness in many votes.

So how can we discover how attractive velcroed is?

Good question. And I have the answer.

I’m going to put up two new photos, one of the prototype perfectly beautiful female (let’s call her “Eve”), who is wearing no make-up, a neutral facial expression, and with her hair pulled back, with one of myself, following those same criteria. I will then take Eve’s score (which will be known as x) (which will probably be, like, 7 or 8, I suspect) and mark my new score (which will be known as y) out of whatever score Eve received, dividing y by x and multiplying by 10 to give me a tidy little number on a 0-10 scale (sidenote: whoever invented 1-10 scales is a moron).

I will keep you updated on how attractive I am, if you’d like.

P.S. Hilariously, the below (and, in my opinion, completely gorgeous) photo of Monique was rejected by the hotornot moderators, on account of her looking “under 18.” She’s turning 24 soon.