A fucking fantastic night, well actually a fucking fantastic DAY and night. Spending the day/night with people I admire and respect will bring me quite close to the point of implosion. I spent a productive (and rather fun) day discussing BoD shit with the chair of the board, Dave and Tudor. Nothing like medium buffalo fingers to say that food is always productive and fun. (Yes, even when you have to prepare it, food is always productive and fun.) In the computer lab, Tudor, Dave and Heather graciously sat for portraits which at best vaguely resemble them. I'm not very good at human likenesses. After the portrait session, I met Cresta at 1842 for coffee, where we discussed porn and our love(s) for gay men. I'm not sure that our loves are exactly the same, so I'm putting the "s" in there, just in case I find out we love gay men in different ways. After passionately discussing a variety of issues, we went outside to smoke, when, lo and behold, our friends were outside. Let say that I recommend the Electric Popsicle at the Jane Bond; it comes with a glow stick! So many fun things to do with a glow stick.

Have you ever been on the roof of the Aird building? I have now.

Kevin played Winter during our sing along session and I broke down. "I tell you that I'll always want you near/You say that things change my dear". I know I've been forbidden from discussing the loss of love, but it was acute at that moment. I hope I never feel that I will always want someone near that cannot be. There is something in "always" that makes me cring, much like forever. I was bugging Tudor because his BoD platform said he would "always be available in the Concourse" (our main student gathering place, the hub of activity, both political and otherwise). Of course he can't alway be in the concourse, so there is an implicit lie in that statement. A hyperbole? Perhaps... So, does always carry the disclaimer "within reason"? Can always ever really mean always, or is it understood that always will always be less than what it is?

Recently, I've been at my sketchbook again. It happens in waves that I'll work on my "art". Sometimes it's my writing that gets a go; sometimes it's my music; sometimes it's my visual arts. I was sketching some friends in the computer lab, when I realized that I would sketch more if people would sit for me. I love that focus that comes from working on art, the complete neglect of my environment to immerse myself in whatever I'm producing. I don't notice hunger or thirst or even cold, except when I'm playing. I tend to notice the cold in my pinky fingers when I'm playing. For some reason my parent's piano always causes my pinkies to freeze. Perhaps it's the bell tone of the piano, which has always reminded me of bell towers, which are cold, I guess. I wish the waves would come more often, except they're normally tsunamis, meaning I can do nothing else. It's a problem during the school year. If you'd like to sit for me, just let me know. Just remember that it takes stillness to a large degree, which means that I can't sit for anybody. I'm too jittery; it's all the coffee.

Oh no! It has begun! The beauty to which I will be subjected for the next couple days has begun and I don't forsee its end, at least not while I am here in Waterloo. So far I have been able to withstand the threat of implosion, but tomorrow will be tough, although it would be a wonderful death.

A little Marilyn Waring for you that I found humourous, while I'm on the subject of "beauty": "Beauty isn't a factor in cost-benefit analysis." Ah, touchee, Marilyn, you are a breath of fresh air in economics, even though I know little to nothing about economics. Hmmm, perhaps a more accurate statement would be "Ah, Marilyn, you are the fresh air to introduce me to economics." ... Satisfactory. This summer Galbraith and I are going to sit down to see where we stand. Economics will be unvailed. Oh yes, it will.

I'm feeling pretty good (yet uninspired) right now, so I think it time for another dose of:

Eight Relatively Unrelated Positive Things

1. I slammed my "Women and Identity" exam and now have but one exam left.
2. I resisted the urge to say that I "owned" my "Women and Identity" exam. l33t speak, you haven't taken me over yet, d00d. (Ah, damnit!)
3. After reading my WS201 class' essay (which were mainly about body image and self-esteem stuff, except mine which talked about how to knit vibrator cozies), the prof proceeded to explain to the class that we were all "beautiful", which, though cheesy, never ceases to put a smile on my face.
4. I wrote an essay which included how to knit vibrator cozies. How is that not positive?
5. Quentin Tarantino directed Jimmy Kimmel last night, which also had on The Darkness. "I believe in a thing caaalled lOOOOOOooooove". Yeah, that's right. I loved it. Positive experience.
6. My da has sent off my income tax stuff, which means that I will be gettin' the monies soon, which is good, 'cause my buttass is broke.
7. This weekend is going to be so full of beautiful people that I think I might implode from all the wonder. I'll just have to turn in on myself because I wouldn't want them to be covered in my slime; I imagine that I would explode into something like Slimer on the Ghostbusters.
8. It rained all day today, which made me want a chai tea so I made one. I love it when things work out like that. The smell of the fresh earth with the smell of cinnamon and cardomon. Mmmmm. So good.

On the eve of my WS201 "Women and Identity" exam, I've realized that I have a bit of a problem with post-modernists. I was reading last semester that I have no "true self", that my admissions of "that's not really me" is actually bullshit, which I agreed with in that who I am to people is who I am, because that is the "truth" most known. What is my "true" self if it cannot be shared with others? Whose truth would my "true self" be? But then tonight I was thinking about the sociological idea of the reflective self, that who I am is composed of how I see others viewing me; I am a composite of other people's "Alysia". So, if my true self is how others see me, and my idea of self is just a composite of these views, I have no self to be true. There is no Alysia to be true to, nor any "me" to profess as distinct. If I want to change my "self" all I have to do is change who gets to perceive me. I have no self, just people around me. So, what is the problem with post-structuralists? Well, how can I deconstruct a system which I have no interest in as I now have no sense of self? The reason why people want to change the system -- whether that be capitalist, patriarchal or caucasian -- is because it threatens their self, what they want their self to do. Take that self away, and why deconstruct at all?

Why, I ask you, why do I always read "leopard" as "Leo-pard"? Some days, breathing just isn't worth remembering.

And yet, I still want a nice guy

I think I've finally figured out why I'm perpetually attracted to assholes. Assholes know they are assholes. Assholes will tell you they are assholes and proceed to be assholes. Assholes will be assholes no matter what I do, or don't do. There isn't any faking around with assholes, unless that is part of their particular asshole make up. Each Asshole has unique, precise components that make them an asshole. If they are a liar, I'll know they are a liar, because an asshole must show pride in his (or in some cases her) assholeness. If they say asshole things, said asshole will know that he says assholes things. (Fuck gender inclusive language. Most assholes I know are men.)

Recently, I got myself tangled with a nice guy. What the hell was I thinking? Nice guys will fuck you over because they don't want to hurt your feelings. A nice guy will be a gentleman and "let you down easy" when really it's faster and less painful to just get it the fuck over with. I'd rather be left with a thicker skin than maggots left behind by rotting "let downs" festering from "nice". I'm jaded, yes, but no one can be nice all the time. The thing about assholes is that when they mean something, they mean it. There is no falsity in their sincerity when I finally drag out that they mean whatever kindness they are saying. You never can tell with the nice guys if they're just being nice.

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day and I found this poetry out of her mouth. I asked her if I could call it ours, and she said okay because if I hadn't been listening it would have passed.

Found on her pink couch while I sobered up
-Alysia Wyville and she

I love her so much
She let me touch her hair
She broke my heart
I wrote her a poem
It's two whole pages long.
Let's talk about something else.

Something about it made me smile. I know, and knew, exactly the everything that we understood by sharing that small poem.