In which I wake up. And see cacti.

I think I need a shower.

Chapter 1: Forgiveness can be tried on in a size 7 1/2.
Chapter 2: Drinking and shopping.
Chapter 3: Bad play on words that is only funny to me.
Epilogue and notes.

Gin and tonic? Walk like an Egyptian? Awake before noon?

OMFG!

Time insists on moving forward in steady second-length increments. Cursing.

It's one of those quiet Saturday mornings after.

There have been many events that I have glossed over recently in an attempt to discard them as inconsequential. Now that they are becoming less stressful, further from my control or need to control, I think I can let it out a little.

But just a little.

My knuckle is swollen. It's the second one, the big lump where my middle finger connects with my hand.  I am a little disappointed with myself; the third knuckle, the ring finger, is swollen too. This means that I have been punching wrong. That even though the drywall gave an encouraging buckle under my fist, and there is a strange little dent in the wall where my ring tore off a bit of the paint, I hit wrong. My wrist wasn't lined up. I am pretty sure the first two shots were aligned, so that leaves the third, the angriest, as the punch I slipped on and couldn't even hit right. Especially in moments of extreme anger, a girl should be punching properly. Also, it would also seem that I am incapable of writing a coherent diary. edited

Disclaimer: The water in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia (that's New Scotland), Canada (pronounce it like looks like except with a K) must have something incredibly potent in it. I have been unable to determine whether it is a hallucinogen, carcinogenic (but who really cares, everyone smokes out here anyway - 'cept for ni the pink lunged pussy), tiny leprechauns sent from Ireland to fuck with us for messing with their alcoholic schtick (but that may just be an argument for the hallucinogens) or if some smart-ass programmer kid working on a philosophy degree (don't worry, I laughed at him too) re-routed our tap water to the brewery in Halifax (but honestly, I don't think he would be able to manage the menial labour, he probably hired some poor Newfie [no I take it back, no Newfie deserves an adjective] for him) for the always patriotic (not like those traitor Molson fucks, just like you deserve theantix) Alexander Keiths Pale Ale (which is far more refreshing than ni's idea of a double gin and tonic, which in reality is just a glass full of gin that in it he spit [take that Winston, try and out drink us.])

Also, I registered earlier my professional opinion that I should have been restrained as soon as I got here (dropped the ball on the handcuffs, didn't you ni?)

A quick and unintentionally rambling look at my ambition.