See, this is what I was afraid of.

So my friend sez to me, she sez "How I make you a blog?". An' I sez, sure, why not, it can't be so hard to write down random thoughts every so often, can it? But meanwhile I'm thinking "I don't really do the diary thing so much, I'm not so good at regularily replying to long emails -- what's to stop this from becoming just another correspondance I have to keep up once the new&excitingness has worn off?"

And lo and behold, my fears have been upheld. I'm not really a creative person, if I am it's in spurts. But I feel bad when I don't update at least, say, once a week, because I know how it feels to want to see an update on a friend's page, and be constantly disappointed.

Trouble is, I don't have a very interesting life. I mean I'm busy -- but I'm not one of those people whom stuff happens to. The guy (John) I had up to the QCF retreat (which went fine, although we had waaaay too much food) has had nine near death experiences. Nine! And he's thirty-two! He's been in a Hurricane, had his car picked up by a tornado, been caught between a love triangle gunfight in Bolivia, been attacked by a shark, woken up with a black bear licking his cheek, and fought a forest fire (however, he has not, as far as I know, been fired from a fry cook opportunity ;).

Point is, stuff happens to this guy. On the plane home to Calgary, he sat next to a guy from Nigeria who talked about his sausage factory for four hours. Yes, I know that would be terribly boring, but still -- who sits next to a guy from Nigeria on a plane from Toronto to Calgary?? Also, John is a great storyteller -- funny, good sense of pacing, knows when to end it and where to put the punchline.

I am not a great storyteller, nor does interesting stuff happen to me. If I had been on that flight, I would have sat next to some white guy and we wouldn't have said anything beyond "Hello."

Sometimes I have interesting thoughts. And I write about those. But when I'm not having interesting thoughts, since I don't have an interesting life or a funny way of describing things, I try not to inflict those who read this post with too much inanity.

But I feel guilty for not posting more.

So I'm stuck.

Perhaps I should take up tornado-chasing as a career...

Little Feet In Giant Combat Boots

There's a fambly living upstairs. They have two small children who like running around. A lot. A linguistic interpretation of my current ambient noise: thunk-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-THUNKA-THUNKA-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka. Repeat. Occasionally add tiny squeals of childish glee.

It's kind of annoying, but I don't mind it too much. I mean, I'm writing an essay right now, and it's not really bothering me (although this writer's block is --hence the blogging). So far, our new neighbours are a lot nicer than our old ones, three pot-head townie yahoos who were loud, rude, had many drunken friends, and frequently sounded like they were bowling above our heads on Friday nights. [As a note, in the time it's taken me to write this post so far, the thunka-thunka-ing has stopped, and as far as I can tell, there could be no one living above me right now.]

And now, because that was the end of my burst of self-reflective creative energies, I present you with -- a list.

Last Food Eaten: homemade apple sauce. yum.
Currently Annnoyed About: having left the davision-feistner food at home. Boo! No chocolate cake and almonds for us!
Still Amused By: My dad's strange urge to hug my housemates goodbye upon having driven us to K-Town, which ended in much embarrasment for all involved.
Still Feeling Bad About: telling Hart that no, I didn't need a ride back to Kingston -- yes, I did -- no, it was all too complicated. I don't like flip-flopping, but sometimes it's unavoidable, what with all the shenanigans and goings-on. I'll just buy him a pint sometime, I guess.
After Posting This, I Plan To: go make potato latkes before my stomach starts digesting itself and my approximately 12 pounds of potatoes get any older.
Amusing Way To End The Post:'May your forehead grow like the mighty oak!'

un-sigh.

Less than twelve hours later, and I'm eating my words. There are about a hundred things I have to do and buy and organize, and not enough time to do half of them. And while I really shouldn't feel guilty for not being able to make soup for my housemates before I go, I do. Such is the life of a guilt-junkie, I guess.

I still think everything will go fine, but I've just realized how much work I still need to do.

see you when it's all over!