10:43 p.m.
my hair smells like campfire and i don't want to wash it out.

*

i think that the girls from my childhood playground would have been proud of me last night.

On my way to bed, I found myself overcome with a wave of ?longing?lust?frustration?all three? and there was truly nothing i could do about it. I could not talk about it - i can't even articulate it to myself - and i hate it, and all of a sudden i was just so MAD about the whole situation.

So mad that in true grade-three-styles, i *punched* the object of my thwarted affection. hard.

Eighteen years ago, at least i could blame it on the ongoing love-hate war we waged with the boys in our class. I once gave my grade three crush a bloody nose. When i think about it, the urge to punch probably stems from the same thing, but this time i'll blame the wine.

I'm laughing about it now (i punched him?), but at the time i cried a few sorry-for-myself-i-don't-know-why tears into my sleeve and went to sleep. I'm a brutal drunk... all over the place emotional. Are we are most honest when we're drunk? tell me that's not it.

[i had to use a calculator to confirm that 18 years ago, i was seven. It's time for bed.]

if i could be anywhere tonight, i would be in Yellowknife at my sister's Drunken Balderdash party.

2005-10-16

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