Open letter to clean needle program developers

Handing out clean needles to intravenous drug users is a noble deed...but it simply isn't good enough when the rest of the system doesn't work to support a program like that. All sterilized-clean and no where to go! Sooooooo, we end up with a mess.

No really. A mess. On my doorstep.
Plastic hypodermic needle packages and cigarette butts. We usually find the used needle tossed not far from this tell-tale evidence.

The City of Montreal has been cracking down on crack houses and shooting galleries and it seems that these displaced junkies have migrated to my place. I have a feeling the city sent them here. Am I just paranoid? Or was there some seriously bad urban social planning in the works? You decide: The clean needle distribution van parks on my street.

With a more integrated program city officials, social workers and the police might choose a better location for the program. By 'better' I don't mean NIMBY.

Not-in-my-backyard arguments aren't effective because this sort of thing has to happen in SOMEONE's backyard. But...they could have chosen a location more than 50 feet from the community *playground*...dontcha think!?

Sheesh, sometimes I think the people running the city are on crack, too.

Wonky eye

It's so poetic that in the same week I find my first wrinkle, I also start losing my vision.

To be fair, it's a laugh line. It follows the curve of my smile and when I am old, it will tell my great nieces and nephews that I was a happy person.

While it might not really speak of my authentic experience as a child of the 80s, adolescent of the 90s and woman of the new millenium...it will give them a warm feeling. Maybe by then I will hold sweet-old-lady status.

I do not, however, want anything to do with that status until I am age-d.

Here I am, spending hours in front of the computer obsessing over class assignments in an attempt to discover the perfect combination of key strokes. Breaking the code means an 'A'. An 'A' means publishable work in the PR world of education.

The trouble is, I got one. Now that my professor has decided I write publishable Public Relations pieces, I have to keep up the good work. "Keeping up the good work" is what someone has to do in order not to disappoint themselves. Keeping up, as I've discovered, is hard on a person.

To complete the major mid-term project before leaving last weekend for Ontario, (where I spent Canadian Thanksgiving with my delightfully-drunken extended family) I had to stare at the computer screen for hours.

I now have double-vision. I now have double-vision.

Hmm. Maybe NOW would be a good time to take a break from my computer.

Red eye

Worry not! I am still lurking about...and as soon as I have my projects, exams, assignments, oral presentations and houseguests under control...I'll be back. Well, to be honest I might have an alcohol binge after all that. But after THAT...I'll be back.

Mercury or something equally toxic

I remember in elementary school, there was always a certain nervous energy among the kids when we knew someone had smuggled a thermometer to school. We knew we weren't supposed to have them, and more than that, we knew if it broke we'd all get to go home.

To this day, I haven't a clue what happens when people are exposed to mercury. I took chemistry in high school AND university and never did I learn a fact as useful as this. I only learned to fear it.

When I was being checked for a fever it was my fear that stopped me from satisfying my urge to crunch a thermometer; from tempting the fundamental elements.

As an adult, a new concept and fear of Mercury has developed. I've received word from my astro-knowledgeable friend that the planet Mercury is in retrograde! Since the first word of this warning notified me that it was Mars in retreat, I will blindly accept this fear, as I fear broken thermometers. All I know, is that when either of these Mercuries are mentioned...there's T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

A warning I received about the current retrograde suggested that now is the worst possible time for communication. Our auras are all messed up from this Mercury-mush and it is prime time for miscommunications. I believe this to be true. The news coincided with passionate confessions, angry words, threats, tears, excommunications and a migraine. Be it Mars or Mercury or simply hormones to be held accountable, I fear this. Admittedly, I fear passionate confessions and angry words anyway, because should these concern a third party, the one with the ear is facing imminent excommunication.

Miscommunications and misunderstandings are so plentiful that I hereby vow not to express my opinion on any subject, to another breathing being, until a 'post-retrograde survivors' email lands in my mailbox. I cancelled internet accounts to discussion groups, and would probably cancel my phone and internet subscriptions were I not dependent on both for income and family ties...oh, and the precious few who are immune to planetary pulls.

I am so convinced of these effects of evil-mercury that I am certain you are misunderstanding this, right now. But my point is, we never really evolve, we just reassign our fears (and loves) to different subjects and objects. Despite our best efforts, it's the kid with the mercury thermometer who decides what happens next.

I have to remember to buy coffee

If I don't remember to buy coffee, I'll miss out on that ritual excuse to take an hour in the morning to sort my thoughts. My worries become too involved with each other and when I miss my morning sort, they produce spore-like offspring that periodically infect portions of my day.

And I hate it when that happens.

Already today I awoke to a text message from a friend, which surely I took the wrong way. I felt patronized, frustrated. Thankfully, I was busy contemplating the method of my morning brew to immediately respond. Coffee made me wise enough to pause before responding. It was, as the French say, a veritable pause-café.

This morning, my coffee with vanilla soy has an aromatic, nostalgic quality. I recall walking along 8th Avenue one sunny morning, seeking out an ice cold regular coffee from the shameful, yet addictive coffee-provider: Starbucks. But, now is not the time to discuss Starbuck's ethics, besides, that's all that is really available near 42nd Street. It also reminds me of my recent visit to Halifax where I visited one of my hardiest best friends. She is an entirely different person than she was when we were in high school, but I like this version as much. Her house was filthy and chaotic. Her strange belongings were strewn all over the floor, but no apologies were made. She was in the process of moving. No explanation was given for the silver goblet or chains in her bedroom, or the pink bunny and hatchet pattern of her bed sheets. From her, I don't need one.

What worries me, is that her health is in question. We'll find out today if things will go from iffy to worse. I need to compartmentalize this or it will synergize with all my other worries. She's in a province away from mine, but I'm psychically in her presence. I can't wait for the call to tell me that I can stop being consumed by this nervous uncertainty.

Now that I have that thought sorted, I find myself with only two sips remaining in my tea cup of coffee. I hope it's enough to get me through the sorting of a letter I received from the tax office yesterday informing me that I have ten days to provide them with more than $5000. Now, I'm not sure who they think they are dealing with, but a full-time student needs a tad more time than that to come up with a chunk like this. So it goes.

Phew! There's still enough in the French press for another cup. I'm just not sure my stomach can handle it today.