Offer of Admission:

Dear Miss Kane,
We're pleased to offer you admission into our program. Your offer includes a $50,000 scholarship, a puppy, deep green velvet curtains, all-you-can-eat dark chocolate (at least 70%), cookware, a taxidermied animal of your preferred species, 135 books of your choosing, a kitten to keep your puppy company, fresh socks everyday, an office, a greenhouse, a proper lampshade for your bedside lamp, however many moleskines you want, and travel expenses (for a trip to California). Please respond within four weeks of receiving this letter.
Best,
The University of What You Fantasize About Before Bed

Well, somebody has to do it.

Today the baby wearing a raiders hat played peek-a-boo with me on the bus. I had no choice but to comply.

I remember this from grade 12:

Hairdresser Says to Cac: "You cut your hair yourself? Ohhhh she does it for you. Heh. Do you know how much these scissors cost? Didn't think so. $500. Yeah. That's why you don't cut your hair yourself."

What a fucker.

How Mine Mind Works:

Today the snowflakes were the size of apples. (Small apples). I would have liked to pause to look at them from a cafe window. (At that moment what I wouldn't have done for a custard pastry). But I smelled something like slept in stockings, unwashed hair, curry and herbs, and faintly of sour sweat.
So I walked through the flakes, but just barely. They grabbed my coat and stuck to it, and to my face, not really even seeming to melt. I was spotted all down my one side. I met a wall of them, and then a wall of more of them, and these walls tumbled into pieces on the bridge of my glasses and all over my black tights.
I came home and I cooked an egg and a breakfast pita and, with the scent of days old gin lingering in my bedroom air, I read the rest of my novel. And it was so (so so so) lovely.

We Go Bowling

currentsundercurrents

Last night wins the award for worst dream ever though it started out okay enough. Enter: Paul Reiser. In my dream he was in or nearing his 40s, more Indian than usual, and cute. Make that Cute. I complimented him on his role in Aliens, and he was very flattered, and very proud. I asked if he had won an Oscar for that role, and if not then he should have, I said. I said you were just so slimy, you really had that down. And he said "Slimy! That's the word I was looking for, yeah, that's exactly what I wanted to achieve." We bonded, you might say, and then exit Paul Reiser. Enter: Real live aliens. Or, to be more correct, enter aliens one at a time, creating all sorts of suspense. There was this one part where I was watching a play and the characters had to drag themselves out from under a building, that was like the stage, and then they acted on their bellies like gross under-building-dwellers. Anyway, the aliens. Well eventually they turn into real-looking people (after a very long sleeping-time of being absolutely terrifying looking) and I have to kill one with a pitchfork, it's the only way. Except for the first twenty or so stabs it's impenetrable. When I finally "bust through" I have to keep stabbing it, for what seems like forever. I get one of the prongs through its neck and make a hole and it still lives. We tell it to swallow a scarf and it does and then when it's in its throat it pulls it through the hole, like "taa-daa".