Tonight was looking to be slightly dismal, the time between work and Aaron’s industrial night seemed quivering with lonely imaginings, but my fascinations have borne some fruit. Brian’s coming over to help me with my costume and play consort to Mirrormask. I’m going to tease him that it was his infatuation with the idea of helping me put my tiny beaded top on that pushed him over the edge of curiosity rather than the film. until then I’m going to finish up my makeup and put together my pieces of silk the best I can without a helping hand, which is to say, barely any at all. I look like some sort of seventies idealistic temple dancer wannabe, plucked from a New York exploitation film with a decent budget. It’s fantastic. I’m debating if I want to try and affix birds in my hair or if it will be too much of a hindrance to the all important dancing.
Which, sadly, I’m going to be doing on a bit of a twisted ankle still. That and my new chemical burn will likely be duking it out as to which can pain me the most before the night is over. See, I was clever and spilled superglue on synthetic velvet pants. Aiden didn’t understand why I didn’t just pull it off my skin. The first clue my witnesses had to how intelligent this minor catastrophe was when the cloth began smoking. I’ve got a patch of raw blister the size of my thumb now, brava. I’m going to pull an innocence trick, however, and pretend that polysporin fixes everything and I can now safely ignore it. Knowing how young I am, I can safely say that all the red will have nicely faded away by tomorrow.
brang braaaang brang braaaaaaang
No, there is no fire, merely the very loud and persistent possibility of fire.
Hooray for living in a building with a cranky AI fire-alarm.
Only three of us went downstairs to the front door. There was me, the artist/short order cook across the hall from Toronto who believes in psychics and doesn’t want the wrong sort of person to see his art, and a girl named Erica, just back from Brazil, who I’ve only just met in spite of the fact she moved in a month before me.
edit: damnit, I think I figured it out., It must have been a daylight savings glitch. Frack.
Mirrormask, Sunday, seven o’clock at Tinseltown.
And, HERE! Bloody hells, people, see? Posted proof that I have seen the singing chinese students already. Yes, you’re very kind for sending it to me. I feel appreciated. It’s delightful. I love how the one on the left moves like a warner bros. charactor. I adore the fellow behind them who ignores the entire proceedings, but please, no more. This is old for the internet, mark that time passes faster here. Please send me new things. New beauty! Like this sort of nifty or this. What about the Victory Day video by the Nazi Olson Twin Clones?
related: archie comics attempt to be period.
In every direction, people are screaming drunken syllables. Hallowe’en has hit, and delightfully so. I’m sitting in front of my computer, hearing all the crowds in thier houseparties. Imagined or real, I’m too tired to care. I should have stayed downtown, the costumed crowds were a balm to my scratched life. I felt like I could have stepped off the bus and been enveloped into the shiny masque crowds lining outside almost every club. Instead I went to a meagre house-party. The smooth story of never knowing how to celebrate meshing well with my over-all lack of positive focus. I know in reality, I would have paid cover, been unable to properly dance on my twisted ankle, and been relatively ignored by everyone present. I tend to feel affinity for the old idea of the wall-flower. A passing ship, she’s probably spoken for. I don’t drink and this adds to my apparent unnaproachable aura of being in dance clubs, excepting the cliche sleazy people. It’s slightly deadening, like bubbles of lassitude are being forcibly pushed into my bloodstream and making me dizzy.
There have been so many moments leading to nothing in particular lately. I feel like I get nothing done at work, though I am thanked for being so specially fantastic every day by at least twenty people, because of the minor war currently occuring between the manager and the owner’s panic-attack neice. There’s a dichotomy there I don’t appreciate. This place is so full of strange drama. Every time there’s something wrong, I want to whistle past it, get on with finishing the tasks at hand, but this majestic battle of thiers is eating at my life. When I’m not at work, it doesn’t effect me, but it’s constant as the stars inside the shop I’ve been spending full time hours in, and it’s killing me. I need a better place to spend my days, one with tiny ladders to climb. My happiest moments are when I’m thinking of a stolen afternoon that’s getting on too many weeks ago. The memory will be wrung of blood eventually, but until then a smile creeps into my body and I lean into the glow.