My pitas page

Dear Boy...
Are you serious when you say you miss me? Or, instead, is it just a manner in which you guarantee my complacency? "I miss you too", when there was no "I miss you" to prompt the response. Could miss and love be interchangeable verbs in your mind? So close to one another in meaning, that you are unable to differentiate between the two? What is love? In truth, it has a different meaning to everyone. For me, it is mutual respect, adoration, a feeling of vunerability, helplessness, or even hopelessness. Physical comfort, contact, yes, that is also an aspect of love to me. What is love to you? Do you love? Or instead, do you accept the emotion the I give, and incorporate it as your own? Surely you see something in me. Or, perhaps you are just working towards physical gratification? Perhaps, in fact, physical gratification is love to you? I love you with such intensity it terrifies me. I can't picture my life without you. It feels like I've always know you throughout our incarnations. I can see spending the rest of my life with you, growing old with you. It terrifies me that my mind has been trapped on this path. I, the cynic, who always considered love to be a deceptive construct, made up by, and for, foolish women attempting to validate their marriages of convience. Or, even, a conspiracy to distract women from the flaws of men, making them infallible under the query of this farce called love. So, what am I doing? Am I confused? Deceived? Foolish even? I don't know, and I don't think you know either. Perhaps we can be content unknowing together? Love, A Girl

Everybody hurts
I'm in love. I hate it. I hate being vunerable, and questioning, and demanding, and petulant, and confused, and suspicious, and lonely, and longing...and...I hate love. Listening to REM's, Everybody hurts helps marginally, but only because it makes me want to go put on make-up, which always makes me feel better. I am sad. Will I ever be unsad? Will anyone ever read this? Will anyone ever care? Doubtful? Do we a play list in our heads of what we're going to say to people that love us, and whom we find clingy? "I miss you too..." When there was no "I miss you", to prompt the response? Am I pathetic? My friend wants to have nothing to do with me. Why? Is it because I love my friends too? I drive people away with this farce called love? Am I always going to be alone? Should you ever tell anyone you love them? I want to give up, I want to go and run through the carpet of leaves and scream my tortured soul out. I want to stop. I want friends. I want understanding. I want to be happy.

Come on Baby
I finally found a song I have been searching for for months. Did that ever give me back my sanity. I'd had that song running around in my head for months....hearing snippets here and there, which I was sure were played only for the benefit of driving me further over the edge. But today, success! I found it on Napster, and now the world is a beautiful fairy tail place, and so god help me I will listen to it over, and over, and over, and over, and over...mwahahahahaha....

Men? Who needs 'em?
Men are a fucked up creature that no woman can ever hope to understand. Throw sex into the equation, and well, you're lost forever. Mixed signals, or screwing with our heads. Stupid, or frighteningly brilliant at hurting our feelings, detroying our self-confidence? What is the kiss goodnite? Is it just them testing the waters to see just how badly they can fuck you up. Perhaps, to fuck you up badly enough that you're finally compatible with their own screwed-upness? Hmmm....I'm surprised more women aren't lesbians. I think this entry has to go out to a few special people out there. My question, what the hell?

The scene
I'd have to say the Edmonton "Club" scene is a confusing mosaic of too long lines, and too short skirts. Moving cages, and jello shooters. It's a fucked-up caliediscope of crappy music, drunken Uni students, and people desperately trying to look as if they're actually enjoying themselves. It's somewhat of a sad statement....

Anil's Ghost
I just read the most beautiful, and poetic novel. I know I should be reading the prescribed school literature, but that I can describe as neither beautiful, or poetic. The novel, Anil's Ghost, the author, Michael Ondaatje. "The writer was a tumbler. (Would he remember that?) If not, then a tinker, carrying a hundred pots and pans and bits of linoleum and wires and falconer's hoods and pencils and...you carried them around for years and gradually fit them into a small, modest book. The art of packing." "Their life of sparring love, tentative abandonment, the worst and best of times, all the memory of it balanced as on a clearly lit table" "She was determined to underline their crimes towards each other, their failures. It was just this she wanted to be certain about, although she knew later there would be other versions of their fatal romance" "Like him she couldn't sleep. Like him she would continue the war. How would he sleep in the night with her name between him and his wife? Even the tenderest concerns between this couple would contain her presence, like a shadow. She didn't want that anymore. To be a mote or an echo, to be a compass unused except to give his mind knowledge of her whereabouts." I found these to be some of my favourite passages.

Has anyone seen my psycho?
Well, here it is, my indoctrination into the world of pita. Frankly, I have no idea where I'm going, what I'm doing, so you'll just have to bear with me! School starts next week, and the whole concept of post secondary holds an element of the surreal. Today I went to orientation, and there sat an auditorium full of freshfaced...freshmen? Looking for all the world like they got lost on their way to JP or Shep, and somehow ended up hearing about Academic Honesty at gmcc. Am I one of those scared looking children? I think instead I'm the one cowering under my chair, saying "There's no place like Stratford, there's no place like Stratford!". Yet again, there is stuff like Psychology, and Anthropology, and Sociology, oh my! Unheard of in high school...."psychology? Is that like, you know, the movie with the shower?" But, I have discovered the Boogieman of every post secondary freshmen, the University Bookstore. "Oh no dear, I'm sorry, that book is now in it's 987 edition, that ancient 985 edition just won't do. But, it will be a bargain at $200. Just sign here, we'll take good care of your soul...mwahahahahaha..." *shudder* Who knew buying books could be so-so scarring??? Books, books, books...