Saturday, November 29, 2003

My mom does coffee with the angel of death

All hail the "Supreme Pessimista!" Bow down to her, resistance is only met with a heavier arsenal. All attempts to protect oneself from the avalanche of depressing news will be thwarted by dismissive "mmm..."s and "yes, well as I was saying..."s and "so anyway..."s. Or worse, a defensive, "Well I just thought you should know!"

How can so many terrible things happen to people she knows over the course of a single week? How can my mom know it all? My mother, I've realized, is a dark humourist, my dark humour muse. I have a feeling a disproportionate number of entries in this journal will be about that. Please bear with me on that, I'm coping.

Monday, November 10, 2003

Instinct doesn't always translate well

I am a person who truly believes in first impressions. When I first meet you, I'll receive information processed subconsciously that will then cause a very discreet physical reaction. Every time I meet with you after this, I'll have that very same reaction. It's subtle, but it's powerful.

Sometimes this feeling comes as an unpleasant taste, other times as a shiver and most often ennui. We can call this "instinct."

If you're a creep, don't expect me to get into an elevator with you. Don't ask for my name. Don't ask why I won't tell you what it is. Don't expect me to make you dinner at my house. Don't ever touch me without explicit permission. In fact, I may never want to see you again. If it's really bad I won't want YOU to see ME again.

If you're wonderful, I might try to communicate your wonderfulness to you and soften the ol' eye contact, listen to your stories even if I am thinking I should really be doing my homework instead, and laugh at even your lamest jokes.

This sounds like a great, fool-proof system...but every system has its security issues. The kryptonite for "instinct" seems to be alcohol. Or more specifically: Ladies' Night. You see, in Quebec, Ladies' Night means that all women can drink as much as they want, for FREE. This usually makes the bars more popular with men than women. I assume this is not because women are easier after a sip or seven too much, but rather that their instinct is faulty, or absent.

If we've been drinking, my instinct departs for safer grounds and I find myself in the strangest of situations. The most recent of which involved having my neck unexpectedly bitten by a 20-something francophone Quebecois big-attitude wannabe-punk named "Rose" with a tattoo on his, well, on his entire torso and part of his face. How did I not see that coming?

I'll blame it on the language barrier.