all day breakfast

If only I worked for Jim Burgess' brain. Or NASA.

Love. Yes/No?

Thursdays means binbiru + feeling the love.

I love: the Seabus, Thursdays, curls in lockets, trigonomic tables and the thought of being in Tokyo in less than a year!

I hate: mosquito bites, budgeting, work + teenagers on the beach all of whom are way way way hipper than me.

I have also decided to embrace the PFO's. The more PFO's I get, the less chance I have of articling. The less chance I have of articling, the more likely I'll go to design school. This smells like happiness.

They call me PhD

With articling apps have come reality: nine-to-infinities, hour lunches, navy carpeting, waiting for the elevator, fluorescent tanning, login passwords, send/receive, file names, sitting laurels, keyboard elevation, and making sure I eat enough snacks. Downtown for life! Eeeeeps!

And then I discover a school called Brain Co. And another one called the Portfolio School. And I look at their websites. And I click on allllllll the links. And I think: These places are SCHOOLS?! Holy smokin' Simon! Camp Awesome is more like it! Where were they when I was 18? Can I go back? Tell me more about this law school "leave of absence" business...

Grump Awesome

Why NOT get fired in the first week of work?

An icky feeling about my future crept up on me today, and it begins with me anticipating involuntary unemployment within 24 hours. Perhaps that's only wishful thinking. But I am in panic mode. And Mr Carson only added some fuel to the fear: What am I going to do for the rest of my life? What if I never figure it out! What if some people just get to work in airless offices and glaze into a computer monitor all day, pining for coffee breaks and some conviction?

Okay. Calming down now. Until I GET FIRED! And then I need to get DROINK. And go DANCING. And see my dear KUBA play at the Media Club on Saturday night. And then weep. And then get ON with it.

typolust

You know nerdolatry has broken a personal record when you find yourself thinking: Yeah. Typewriter. You're kind of sexy.

And when you think it can't get any geekier, David The Frickin' Carson decides to come into town. And give a little talk. Just for you. Heart. Exploding. Must. Stop. Lusting. After. Helvetica. Hurting. Typewriter's. Feelings.

hug your future!

I'm on the letter-fucking-P of this stupid BC law firm articling book FOR CRYING OUT LOUDER. 9 letters left in the alphabet. 2928309248092 cover letters to mail merge. 2928309248092 PFO's coming back to me in the mail. Bloop!

Now, if I could only be more like Monsieur Van Kay, who got offered articling! They were right: the Polack clearly is the brains of this operation. HURRAH you! I'll bake you a Congragucake! And you can wash it down with some fine binbiru! And then we can run around the town flaunting your employment to the world! You are the future Van Kay, the FUTURE, ya hear?!

The finest wine in humanity -- I want it here, and I want it now.

So I was all psychologically pumped (ok not really pumped, more like not whimpering anymore), about starting the fabulous, the splendid past-time of work tomorrow, when I get an email saying I don't start until Monday. I don't know if I should be overjoyed with 2 more days of freedom, or annoyed that I was pumped for naught. I hate being pumped for naught! There is nothing worse!

Well, except for being pumped about pants with side-of-the-thigh zippers. Ain't nothing worse than THAT. Shiver. I need a drink.

nerdolatry needs love too

Monday night! Playing with CSS! Damn you code, you are so sexy.

I-5 or die

Seattle. Road trip. Hoooooollaaaaa. Keeping in mind: the World's First Folding Chair Ever, cowboy shirts, "oatmeal", pinball deficiencies, sake that could clean a subway washroom, a dude that can play 2 (two!) trumpets at once, tamales for breakfast, Japanese lessons, booty booty booty booty rocking on 42nd Avenue, and the ever-present, always-pleasant mano-a-mano luvin' (that is one very special relationship, boyz). Oh, and of course there was some stumbling around Beltown, flush from bad margaritaville, a strapping lad on each arm, and pouncing on some sweet (I mean, MAD SWEET) Garrison caps! Brow-raising veterans calling me darling? Check. Staff sargent + special operations pins? Check. Street steez down the gutter? Hells yeah. Banana-like pyramid hats are the lullaby that puts your street cred to sleep. G-caps reprezent yo!

Why, this is excellent

Besides not starting a single articling application, and really doing nothing constructive, the Monday of the Last Week of Freedom was superrrrrrb. Pepin the Red and I went for a turn around the neighbourhood, where I was confronted by bands of children on tricycles, chased by a wee dog, found my dream house (which is being sold by the owner, a super cool old man with suspenders who just retired and is moving to London to be with his son and grandkids), and watched a high school football game until my mind shut off. Then I lay in my backyard for half an hour and listened to "Lay Lady Lay". And then made myself a turkey sandwich with a side of leftover roast lamb. Yessssssss.

Some call it disgusting, but really, laziness RULES.