Well, another wonderful shift went by today. One day, when the world is right, I will not have to work. I will be able to do whatever I desire including hopping from ice floe to ice floe in the Arctic and travelling to France for baguettes and croissants whenever I get the urge. Of course, this will only occur when I have my media empire or perhaps when I am well-established in the mud bath biz.

Did you know the most dangerous job in the world is Alaskan crab fishing. My friend Marc told me that years ago and I just recalled. Thanks man!

Since this IS a stories link, I think it's time for a story.

Once upon a time, there was a dirty individual (not dirty as in does not bathe, dirty as in the village bicycle - everybody gets a ride) named Tarantula. Tar (as her enemies liked to call her, and there were plenty of them) liked to wear tank tops all year round, especially throughout the long, frozen winters of her native Ottawa. When she went downtown, she would grind with anything that moved and once she even danced with a donkey that made its way into OnTap.

Unfortunately, she had terrible back aches from pushing her chest out all the time emphasizing her "attributes". She also had headaches b/c she found it hard to concentrate on anything but hair, make-up, and the opposite sex. She had a tough life.

One day, as she made her rounds in Vanier and Dalhousie street, she spotted an "attractive" (as in very rich) older man on the street corner. "This is my big chance," she exclaimed and soon she was sitting on his lap. Just has she had all but made him propose to her, he exploded into a million pieces. Unable to cope with this, she began to shake uncontrollably. Soon smoke escaped from her ears and her hair-spray soaked coiff burst into flames. Then she spontaneously combusted and that was the end of her. The town had a parade to mark the splendid occasion.

Moral of the story - Don't be a money-grubbing whore or bad things will happen.

That's it for tonight. Boy, my imagination isn't what it used to be. I will be funnier next time, I promise. Good night, I have to get up early tomorrow to raise money for CHEO (a worthy cause, let me tell you) and that's why this isn't in the early AM. 11:32 PM, May 20.

I lied. I can't sleep. I'm just not used to sleeping before the birds wake up. I figured that this would bore me enough to send me to dreamland.

Something is accessing my cable internet, but it's not anything I'm doing (I don't think). I hope no crazy hackers are accessing all my "exciting" files. I hope that my computer doesn't explode. I rely on it for my music. It's better than CD's b/c I can change the order any time I want and I can get new songs all the time for no money. I've been feeling a little guilty about that recently, only b/c I should support my favourite bands. So I've quasi-decided to buy the CD for a few more-struggling artists popular on my playlists. Anyhow, I don't know what else to talk about tonight.

I know, how about Lindsay?(for one, she's the only one who checks this regularly. It's like checking her email to see if new things have appeared - and they usually do. You should try it.) You see, she can see me on icq, but I can't even find she exists. I type in her number (and we phone conferenced it, so it was right and even before that I had copied it directly from her computer) and icq tells me that she doesn't exist. To put it in her own words: "What's up with that?" I think that she's in the witness relocation program and it's one way for CSIS to hide her real identity from the mafia hit-men she's running from. Alternately, since her boyfriend set it up, I believe he may be attempting to shield her from all the bozos that lurk in the realm of icq (and there are many, I've encountered them, you may be one of them!)

You know the mud bath I was talking about before. It was this colour (although perhaps a little darker, I just couldn't find it on the 1536-colour colour chart) Can you believe I bathed in that! Yuck!!!!!!!!

Maybe I will go to bed soon. Good night, again. 1:01 AM, May 21.

C'est le temps pour un autre histoire. (But not in French, I just can't conjugate verbs properly anymore. I blame Ross Perot and his evil henchmen)

Once upon a time, there was an evil little leprauchan who loved playing tricks on ppl. The only problem was he had a gimpy knuckle joint so he couldn't quite execute his tricks as planned.

This kept on happening and he just didn't know what to do. The only time it really pissed him off was when he was trying to do the oft-revered and perhaps hackneyed flipping of the bird at annoying tourists. His damn knuckle just wouldn't cooperate and the tourists would leave his city of choice without his special form of greeting.

For years, all he could do was intermittently give ppl the finger and this left him totally unsatisfied. He had a hollow feeling in his belly and this could only be rectified by a total re-knucklification. For this, he concluded, he would have to find an unsuspecting leprauchan, and unburden him of the middle finger on his left hand (the evil one, of course).

Unfortunately, the only one he found was the nicest one in the whole entire leprechaunville. Once he amputated the gimpy one and attached the nice leprechaun's finger, he was very happy. Soon he found a group of very friendly tourists and decided to ruin their days by giving them his "present".

He raised his fist high into air and just as he was about to unload his package, his arm flayed uncontrollably in a wave-like motion and his normal scowl turned into the most beautiful smile imaginable. The tourists were so happy with their tourist destination that they told their friends all about the wonderful little leprachaun and soon his life was a living hell for everyone came to visit him and his beautiful gestures.

Moral - Live with what you've got, the alternative may be a living hell.

"I've got an electric guitar 
I play my stupid songs 
I write these stupid words 
and I love every one 
Waiting there for me 
Yes I do, I do"

Oh Weezer! I just rediscovered their self-titled album and I really enjoy it. The above is kind of fitting for my insane ramblings. (except for the guitar, b/c I don't play) I'm going to bed now or in the near future. Good night. 12:44 AM, May 22.

Hey, it's me again. Quel surprise!
I didn't really want to write anything today, but I don't feel like sleeping yet so here goes. No one's reading anyway. My one hard-core fan hasn't visited in at least 2 DAYS. I'm getting worried (well not really, her boyfriend IS back in town and they probably have stuff to do). If a few more days pass w/o a visit, I will call the police (or the witness relocation program in case the mafia have caught up with her). I must think of a new snazzy story for my reviewing pleasure. Perhaps a few games of snood or pinball will do the trick. Man, I wish there was stuff to do after 10 PM in Ottawa and my friends didn't have to work early so I could do said stuff with them.

Well, snood and pinball did nothing for me so I headed downstairs to watch a little gameshow network, and, boy was it worth it! I love match game 79 (as well as match game 78 and match game pm) They're all great. I'm feeling good now, thanks to an extra special message from a certain individual who shall remain nameless. I have no story, yet, but due to popular demand, I will elaborate on my mud bath episode. I will write it in the key of C, using the wonderful brown I employed before.

There is one important detail I forgot to mention earlier, probably b/c it was so disgusting that I have blocked it from my short-term memory. I will start from the beginning, however, b/c I must refresh your memory. As I contemplated the little 3.2 fluid ounce bottle, I recalled the "cult members" likening it to bathing in tea. What they did not mention was this tea would contain brown bits of gristle floating in a state of suspended animation. I must admit, when I attempted to pour the murky concoction, I faltered a little (I say attempted b/c the mud was so thick that I had to force it out of the bottle). It was so thick and slimy and brown. I almost couldn't bear the thought of immersing myself in it. What I was unprepared for was the copious amounts of dark liquid the tiny bottle produced. Although the bottle said to fill the tub half way, I let the water run until the threat of it overflowing was too great for me to proceed. As I contemplated the "water" I was reminded of a stream where all the silt had been disturbed, hiding the rocks and leeches underneath. Biting my tongue, so as not to scream aloud, I allowed myself a little wimper as my big toe plunged into the great unknown. It felt a little grainy but the soapy bubbles were nice and it smelled like lavender so I carefully got in (being careful not to overflow the increasingly full tub). It was boring, as I already recounted, and I was paining my back trying not to contaminate my hair (by lying back) or bath tub walls. Since I was already in the briny deep, I decided that my arms and shoulders could use any benefits to be received from this vile dirt so I lay down on my stomach (to soothe my back as well) No sooner had I rested my hand on the bottom of the tub when I felt something odd, yet familiar at the same time. As I slowly lifted my hand, I brought the object to the surface. To my horror, it was a piece of toilet paper, wet and falling apart. I blinked a few times to be sure, but it was soggy toilet paper! I don't know if it came in the dung bottle as I now call it, or if it was in my tub and I didn't see it earlier, but I was thoroughly disgusted. Needless to say, I didn't recall until my friend "kindly" reminded me. Another odd thing about the whole bath was the tiny air bubbles I could feel coming up sporadically all over the place. Quite scary, let me tell you. Let us never speak of this incident again. Thanks.

That is all for tonight. It WAS a story of sorts, I suppose. 2:50 AM, May 23.

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Conversely, go back to review previous fun.