Last week was a little disgusting. I say heartbreak (not mine), gross inefficient use of time (as per my legendary time-management skillz), worst date (ever), and no alcohol whatsoever to offer sweet, sweet life-lubrication.
I made a conscious decision to go on a self-imposed exile of sorts during the long weekend (Saturday notwithstanding, I was entitled, I maintain). But, really. Went on a date-date last week, a date-date. I thought it would be charming, it was so unexpected. But, no. It would've been ok if he were a social retard (like Jonno); but, no. I can handle awkward silences, they comprise the story of my life, I can laugh at awkward silences. But don't be obnoxious, ok? Don't regale me with stories of your cousin's Filipina maid and expect me to laugh at your disgusting punch lines. Don't wax poetic about your new Prada loafers and expect me to bat my eyelashes and coo appreciatively. Don't babble on about your mother, for fuck's sake, and expect me to have anything to say about a woman I've never met who sounds like the worst sort of bigot. And don't try to hold my hand while walking to your car, not after that. (But thanks for dinner, it was delicious.)
It was just one of those nights, I guess. My head was hurting like a mother by the end of the night; too many forced smiles and futile wishing that the night would just end or there'd be a switchblade hidden in my moussaka. There were just too many things wrong with that night. Now I just have to find creative ways to avoid sitting next to him in class. Three more weeks (right?) anyway, it shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway, so my long weekend was cold, lonely, and too delicious for words. The benefits of a thick, immensely readable paperback (Gabaldon -- a lot of sex and cinnamon hair and history, ok) and some lazy cold-rainy-day tunes (Interpol, Josh Rouse, a little Sufjan, a little Oh No! Oh My!) are astounding. Sweet.
And woo, there's a strong possibility that I'll be spending this new year's in Edmonton! I just have to find a decent flight first (to uphold my less-than-$300 promise to my Poppa). My sweet, sweet Poppa. I miss him enormously, really. My older brother'll be coming in less than 2 weeks (right?), and with him he'll be bringing all the glorious possibilities of a balikbayan box. Or whatever it's called outside of the Philippines. I'm having him bring a few of my books (Whoever's still got my Mankiw book is a cunt! Just kidding, but its return would be ecstatically appreciated.), my beat-up Prada hand-me-down, and my Econ 131 notes (which I doubt he'll find, but whatev).
A blast, a blast, I say.
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