Laying Down the Straw

I am so tired. Mind-numbingly fatigued. I am sitting at work. It is torture. I am surrounded by beautiful and inviting comfortable furniture. I can't go near any of it. It's too risky. I fear that I will put my head down for just a moment and inadvertently fall into a deep, coma-like sleep. I'll wake up tomorrow morning to find myself still here, my now-dirty clothes rumpled and smelling like the drug and alcohol toxins that managed to avoid my liver but wormed their way through my pores during the night instead. The front door of the store will still be thrown open from today, and I will wonder what strange people passed through here and openly mocked my still and sleeping form before they left with whatever they could carry in their greedy, looting arms. The upside of this scenario is that I am not, for once in my life, late for work.

As you may have guessed, it was a late night last nig... er, this morning. Why the hell do I keep doing this to myself? Granted, I spent nearly all of these early morning hours canoodling with Steve in my living room (whenever his cock-blocking friend Mike would leave the room to use my computer for naughty chats), so it's perfectly justified. But did we have to do coke, too? No. In fact, I didn't really want to do it (cue Grandmaster Flash), but I did it anyway. Not because I don't enjoy it, but because I had dabbled in it on Sunday night, and the Friday night before, and I kind of thought, well, that's enough of that for awhile. Yet I still partook. And just for good measure, we polished off a bottle of red wine, too.

Partook... is that really a word, I wonder? It sounds like a magical spear once used to catch eels in Atlantis. Or perhaps a strange Inuit delicacy. But I'm straying...

I pose the question - am I an addict?

Even as I write it, I can't take it seriously. I'm know I'm not. It's simply that sometimes I don't say "no", even when I know I should. But I can say no. (I'm not unaware of how completely and utterly cliche this sounds. Laugh if you must - I know I am.) Taking complete responsibility for everything in my life is a tenet I swear by - we always have a choice. But I feel like shit today, and I don't like it, so it's time to stop making bad choices. I haven't been paying attention to the road and I've slowly drifted over to the shoulder - it's time to take back the fucking wheel before I find myself head first in a ditch.

I had this epiphany at about five a.m. I was about to lay down my straw when I noticed a bit of blood on it. "Oh dear," I said in a self-deprecating tone that I hoped masked my complete mortification. I casually got up and threw away the straw in the kitchen wastebin, then went to the bathroom to deal with the Stevie Nicks-like trickle slowly making its way out of my right nostril.

I looked deep into the dilated pupils of the fellow staring back at me in the mirror. "You, my friend," I thought, "are ridiculous. This has got to stop." It was truly an afterschool special moment. Then I headed back into the living room and finished up my evening.

So the decision had been made. I know myself well enough to know when I'm letting things get out of control and it's high time I draw the line. I am laying down the straw. Not for good - I don't deal well with ultimatums - but for now. For awhile.

Besides, if my instincts are correct and I'm not misinterpeting the signs, Steve seems to be as into me as I am into him. We met nine days ago and we've hung out for five of them. He actually returns my calls, and even calls me without me having to call first. While I'm still wary of rushing into any grand romantic notions (obviously... I mean, like, wow! he meets my phone call standards!) this is definitely potential boyfriend territory. I don't want to establish a pattern of getting annihilated every time we hang out together.

Thankfully we seem to be on the same page. In between kissing and cuddling, we spent some time last night talking about how we want to spend April going to movies, seeing some theatre, and other low-key, organ-friendly date options. He was very disappointed that I don't own a bicycle - I am hoping to make up for this by suggesting pool/sauna/sleepover nights. I think it's a reasonable trade off.

Despite my fears, I'm giving into the crush. Fuck it. Even if I get my heart broken in the end, at least I'll be able to say I gave it my best shot. All things considered, it's a risk worth taking.

Crush and Be Crushed?

I'm in trouble. I can tell. It could be the feverish effect of the advent of spring, but I can't kid myself. I know spring fever, I love it, I welcome it with open arms, and this feeling isn't it. In spite of my best efforts to distract myself with work, television, and cleaning the house, I can't stop thinking about Steve. I'm in crush territory, and I'm terrified. Because this can only lead to one thing: getting crushed.

The first warning signal came yesterday. After talking to Steve, I dragged my tired ass out of bed and had a scalding hot shower. After washing-slash-burning the previous night's sins right out of my hair, I decided to park my ass on the couch and enjoy the final hours of my extended weekend off with a favourite movie. I popped in Amelie, a beautifully shot, whimsical French film about a lonely young woman who avoids dealing with her messy life by playing do-gooder interloper to those of the people around her. While capable of orchestrating elaborate schemes to ensure others get what they deserve or need, when it comes to her own life our heroine is paralyzed. She uses her strategies to get herself face to face with the man she loves, but confronted with the reality of him, she finds herself unable to act. In the end, of course, they get together, and naturally one assumes they live happily ever after. Saturated with vivid colour, sunshine, and the gorgeousness of Paris, it's the definition of a perfect romantic movie. When it finished, I lay there stroking my cat, a blissful smile on my face, feeling like all was right in the world. My thoughts drifted to Steve. Wondering what he was doing, wondering if he was thinking about me...

Danger! Danger! Thinking about me? Please. Probably thinking I'm obviously a harlot and completely unsuitable boyfriend material... wait a minute, boyfriend? Where did that come from?

The next clue came during a commercial during Prison Break, when, out of nowhere, I started laughing to myself, thinking about how funny it was when Steve called one of the Best Ass contestants David Cross. When my roommate asked what was funny, I found myself telling her about our heckling. And then she gave me this look, a look that said "and the point of that story is?" There was no point, other than wanting to randomly talk about Steve.

And then today I randomly texted Steve some news about Annie's new album that I read on the internet - despite having read an article in this morning's paper about how people are relying way too much on technological communication as a substitute for truly meaningful conversation. And here I thought texting was a cute little way to say "Hey, I thought about you just now." But maybe it's not cute at all. Maybe it's annoying. Maybe it says "I don't like you enough to actually pick up the phone and call you."

The true crush clincher arrived a couple hours later. My phone rang, and my immediate thought was "Is it him?!" followed by heart-descending-into-stomach disappointment when it was someone else. While the phone call was good news - I was asked to do a gig at a club I've never played at before - I hung up feeling shaken and stirred. This won't do. This won't do at all.

The last time I had a crush, I started out feeling safe, confident, and certain that I wasn't rebounding. I got every signal in the book that he was into me: dropping what he was doing to hang out with me immediately, passionate kisses, meeting his friends. But when he wouldn't return my calls for days, I became a total mess. I would obsess about him, wondering if I had done something wrong, and would be on the verge of a complete breakdown. My poor friends had to listen to me irrationally worry for hours, constantly talking me down from the proverbial ledge.

Then he would call and it would be completely fine, and I'd tell myself to not be an idiot, and to not put myself through that again. We were dating. It was perfectly acceptable to not talk every single day, even though as a passionately obsessed Scorpio I wouldn't have minded. And then he wouldn't call, and of course I went bonkers all over again. It was a rollercoaster I kept vowing not to ride, but somwhow I kept finding myself in the front seat, oscillating between wild joyfulness and scared shitless. In the end, it turned out that he really liked me but had so much personal damage to deal with that being in a relationship with me was never going to happen.

I was - surprise! - crushed. Heartbroken. I told myself I would be more careful next time. To give things time, to not let my heart rush into places without my head by it's side. To start behaving like a reasonable adult, instead of like a starstruck teenager. Besides, what the hell is attractive about a lovelorn teenager? Nothing. I distinctly remember being a lovelorn teenager, and it didn't get me anywhere then either. There was Trisha, who I loved for all of fifth and sixth grades, and Erin, who I adored for the seventh. Then there was George, who I lusted after for most of my high school years, and who didn't do me any favours by eventually giving me a blow job and letting me spend the night (though I was understandably ecstatic at the time.) All crushes, all doomed.

I'm asking myself now, have I learned from these experiences? Or am I simply wired this way, doomed to jump on the rollercoaster over and over only to be left in the lurch? Have I grown up enough, at 28, to be able to pursue this potential relationship in a lucid and reasonable fashion, rather than succumbing to unrealistic expectations and overwhelming emotions? Do I even have a choice in the matter? As the lovely Tracey Thorn once sang, I think the heart remains a child.

This is, at the core, simply the fear of another heartbreak, I know. I'm hoping I've reached a place where I'm secure enough to pursue this with confidence without investing too much emotion too soon. But I don't know if I'm there yet, and that scares the shit out of me because the one thing I can say with certainty is this: there's only one way to find out.

Hedonism Collision

Just when I think my life can't get any more ridiculous, it does. I'm starting to think I'm a living breathing stereotype. If it's true that life has stopped imitating art and now only imitates television, I'm trapped in an episode of Queer as Folk.

I don't go on many dates. I have a lot of encounters (one-night stand sounds so run of the mill) but an ongoing, getting-to-know-someone kind of relationship has been largely absent from my life. It's not that I don't want one - there's nothing I like better than clicking with someone and savouring the sense of gradual discovery as your personalities slowly unfold to one another. But I didn't expect that when I found one that it would have a head-on collision with my increasingly over-the-top sex life.

I realize that perhaps my sex life isn't all that interesting or more than averagely lively, but since mine laid fallow for so long, it certainly feels like it to me. Being single after many years in a relationship feels, to me, like swimming in deep, unchartered waters. It still feels new, and it's true: there are a hell of a lot fish in the sea. And last night I was with four of them.

So how does a first date lead to crazy group sex? Apparently it involves a fair amount of alcohol, a pinch of drugs, trying on a jock strap for fun, and some fun, open-minded people. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Steve, the guy I met at the Annie show, called me on Friday night and invited me out. I was spinning that night, so I suggested he come to the club instead. He did, and during our sporadic moments hanging out together throughout the evening it became apparent that my initial appraisal of "not getting a hook-up vibe" wasn't quite right. (I always have been rather slow in this regard.) There was a bit of flirting, some kissing, some roaming hands, and most importantly, lots of laughter. Had a bit of an afterparty at my place after the club, so he and some friends came over and we had a pretty good time. We didn't call it a night until about six in the morning. I think we both wanted everyone else to just go away, but maybe that was just me. Regardless, it was nice to not hop into bed right away. Funny how I have no problem jumping into the sack with someone if I know it's just sex, but put a potential relationship on the table and I slow right down. At least in theory.

Sunday afternoon I get a text message from him, wondering if I want to meet for a drink. I did, but I had plans with friends so I was gonna suggest another night instead. Thankfully, my friends, upon hearing this, told me not to be retarded and to go. We met up at a local pub, had a drink, and it was... fantastic! Amazing, completely unawkward, interesting conversation, and stuff in common. We talked about stuff we want to share (the "oh my god, you have to come over and watch this with me" or "you have to come with me to this night" kind of stuff) and shared a little of our personal histories.

We ended up at another bar, where we cuddled and heckled the contestants of the Best Ass Contest. I enjoy being able to be an asshole with someone without fear of judgment, and to do so on a date was a whole new world of fun. Next we stumbled into a karaoke night and drunkenly sang "Since U Been Gone" to no one's amusement but ours. After this, things get hazy. We ended up meeting up with some mutual acquaintances and went to one of their friend's condo for more drinks. At some point, Steve passed out on the couch. I tended to him for awhile, but somehow ended up caught up in a game dress-up (the owner of the condo had just moved in the day before, so there were clothes strewn everywhere) and found myself modelling a jock strap. Next thing I know, a hot boy is going down on me, and things escalated from there.

What the fuck are you doing? was all I could think, and yet I couldn't stop myself. What if he wakes up and catches you with all these boys? What's he going to think? You've met this great guy and you've killed it before it's even begun. Good job.

Oddly, the atomsphere was completely casual. We'd get up and have a smoke, then head back in for more sex, or those not participating would walk around, watch for a bit, then go back to whatever they'd been doing. Basically I've reduced myself to a party favour.

Steve did wake up. I extricated myself from the sweaty limbs immediately, but seeing as my pants were temporarily missing in the sea of clothing and I only had a shirt on, it was pretty clear what was going on. I wasn't trying to hide what I'd done, but it seemed inappropriate to continue right in his face.

And then something odd happened. It was fine. He simply joined in. Me and one guy on the bed, him and the other guy on the floor. After, when all was said and done and our clothes were back on, the two of us made out for awhile by ourselves. Then a bunch of us left. Steve and some of the others went to find breakfast and I went home to bed, after we made plans to get together later in the afternoon at his work (which Steve correctly predicted I would sleep through).

Upon waking, I text messaged him to apologize for sleeping so long. He called me back shortly thereafter. I thought maybe there might be weirdness, but it was fine. He told me about his shift, and we confessed to each other that we hadn't really encountered a group sex situation like that before. And then he said the most perfect thing. That it was really great that we could share such a crazy new experience together. And there was definitely the implication that we'd be spending a lot more time together (though not necessarily in such insane circumstances, I'm sure.)

I'm acutely aware that, on the surface, all this appears distinctly unhealthy. Drinking! Drugs! Group Sex! What the fuck? It was less a first date and more a crash course in hedonism. And yet this was probably the most honest date I've ever had - we put it all out there in one go.

Perhaps I'm deluding myself, but I've never been more intrigued. We click and there's no bullshit. I don't want to weight it down with my overly optimistic romantic expectations, like I always do, but I suspect that this is the beginning of a truly unique adventure together.

And if not, at least I can say I've had what has to be one of the craziest first dates ever.

I Think I'm Alone Now

All this talk of bugs and afflictions must have had a detrimental effect on my immune system: I woke up yesterday feeling decidely fluish, and today I'm officially sick. It's not too bad, though, I'm not bedridden or anything. I am confident it will pass quickly.

I did something on Tuesday night that I almost never ever do: I went out by myself. It wasn't planned - I had tickets to see Annie at the Mod Club and was supposed to go with a friend, but he fell victim to food poisoning and, quite understandably, bowed out. After a couple of beers and a couple of hours calling everyone I could think of who might want to join me, with zero success, I threw up my hands and went anyway.

Upon arrival, I stood around, drank a couple of beers, people watched, and watched one of the opening acts (a local outfit called the Russian Futurists, who were neither Russian nor particularly futuristic - about half their set was pretty good, the rest sounded like unfinished songs). At first I felt awkward being by myself, thinking anyone who noticed me must be wondering "what's wrong with him? why is he alone?" I felt like the creepy old guy in the corner that no one would ever want to talk to. I'm not sure why these feelings came over me - it's probably residual insecurity leftover from junior high, where I was often alone and hyper-sensitive and fearful of what everyone thought of me.

This got tired very fast. I realized I was being ridiculous, insecure, and self-absorbed. No one gave a shit about little old me. Upon examining the crowd, I realized that half the people there who were with friends were simply standing around and not even conversing anyway. I eyed the area near the stage carefully in an effort to determine which group of people looked the most fun. I didn't want to watch the show next to a bunch of stand-arounds.

As it turned out, it wasn't necessary. I bumped into an acquaintance of mine on the way back from the loo and ended watching the show with her. We danced the entire time, natch, and I befriended the guy next to me during a particularly disco-esque moment. Steve was incredibly nice and fun, and when we got tired of waiting for my friend to reappear after the show, the two of us left with his friend Paige and shot the shit on the way home. We exchanged numbers so hopefully we'll hang out again. He was kind of cute, but I wasn't getting a hook-up vibe, which was rather refreshing.

It's a good thing I'm still capable of meeting new and interesting people. I'm rather distressed that out of all the friends I left messages for the night of the show, I only heard back from two. Ouch. I used to think I was, you know, kind of popular, but I've definitely been taken down a notch. That's a Scorpio for you, though. Always assuming the entire universe loves them.

I wish sometimes I could step outside myself and get an accurate picture of exactly how I come across. Based on what I've been told, it's not exactly warm. In fact, something akin to a glacier seems to be the general concensus. When someone does actually deigns to strike up a conversation with me, I inevitably hear something like this:

"You're so down to earth. I totally thought you had attitude when I first saw you."

Great. So all the people I don't converse with think I'm a stuck-up bitch. That's just wonderful. No wonder nobody approaches me when I head out alone for an evening. I'm standing around, insecure and longing to make a friend while everyone around me thinks I think I'm god's gift.

I've tried to think of ways to combat this. As I am actually a pretty okay guy, it pains me to think of the number of people who have a brutal misconception of who I am. I've tried to be more smiley, but I either end up looking faker than Pamela Anderson's breasts or as insanely chipper as Don Knotts on Prozac. I try to manage my body language to look less tense and defensive, but I either end up looking more standoffish, or so languid I'm about to melt into a rippling pool of water. I try to strike up conversation with people, but it doesn't come naturally. I think I'm damaged from all the "don't talk to strangers" warnings I repeatedly heard as a child. I end up sounding like I'm desperately trying to make a new best friend to stalk for the next few years - very appealing.

So I give up. I'll be myself - strangers can draw any conclusion they want and I'm not going to worry about it. There are too many of them to worry about what they think. If you want to get to know me, you'll just have to forego your preconceived notions and talk to me. I promise I'll be nice.

Destination: Movement

I haven't made my list yet. I'm still planning to do so, and I will, but I got a little distracted this past week. My eyes have cleared up, though to my surprise the opthamologist told me at my final appointment today to keep going on the steroid eye drops every other day for another week. I didn't tell him that I finally broke down and wore contact lenses on Saturday night, but I felt so guilty about it I stopped in at my local eyewear place and made an appointment to have a proper eye exam next week. I figure I may as well get a thorough vision and health check before ordering contact lens refills. Hopefully the virus didn't leave any damage in it's wake.

Now that my vision is clear, I have a new affliction. I have succumbed to the dance bug. I'm hooked on dancing again. It started when I took Bambi and Collin out last weekend. It was retro night, the music was great, and I danced all night and loved every second of it. Then an old flame called me on Wednesday night (I'm sure I'll have more to say about him in the future, not to worry - he's harder to kick than pink eye, and re-occurs with equally alarming frequency) suggesting I go out with him and a couple friends to a club. Since I can't say no to Shawn about anything, and even though I had a major meeting at work the next day, I went.

And to my suprise, I had a fantastic time. It could have been the miracle that I actually spent a night out with Shawn that was free of mixed signals, heated exchanges, and other faggoty flora and fauna generally filed under the heading "Drama," but I arrived home with a big shit eating grin on my face and collapsed happily into bed. I woke up feeling great and had no hangover, a feeling I'm not accustomed to having after less than six hours of sleep. I proceeded to have an awesome day at work, and left it that day feeling re-energized and re-acquainted with my fighting spirit. That night, after a dismal failed attempt to pick up a cute French guy at local martini bar, I refused to crawl home in defeat and called my friend Troy and made him dance with me for an hour at another bar. My confidence was a little bruised from the failed pick up, but the dancing made me feel better.

Anyone who knows me knows I love to dance. I'm the one who's always shaking a little booty at a house party, or twirling around the dj booth at full tilt while spinning. For years my friends got annoyed with me because once I hit the dancefloor, there was no getting me off. I've always believed dancing is good for the soul, and still do. But somewhere along the line I stopped doing it with any kind of frequency. For me, that's the equivalent of a religious zealot forgoing church for a couple of years. The Ex, I admit, kind of put me off the clubbing scene for awhile as he, from my perspective, fell into the drug-fuelled Dark Side of the Dancefloor, as place I'm not keen on spending time. This past week reminded me of the good parts I've been missing.

It's hard for me to explain in words what dancing does for me, because it's a feeling. There's just something about getting to that place where you're body is connected to the music so perfectly that it knows exactly what the music is going to do next and responds, even when you've never heard the piece of music before. And I've always found the idea dancing fascinating. It's ridiculous in a way, when you think about it: a bunch of people in a room moving their bodies around to sound. There's no point to it, really. It's movement without a destination. And I love that. For me, it's about getting to that place where your just completely in the moment and everything else falls away. There's no yesterday, no tomorrow, you're totally enmeshed in the now. I suppose it's kind of a Zen thing.

Saturday night for me was the clincher. I was at a birthday party and had instigated a dancefloor area. Two very cute and friendly boys were there who were visiting from Texas, and it was there last night in town. We hit it off, and they said they wanted to go out somewhere as it was their final night in Toronto, so I agreed to take them out and show them a good time. We headed to the club, hit the dancefloor, and it was game over. I felt confident, smart, and sexy. Before long the cute blond Texan and I were making out and doing pretty much everything you can on a crowded dancefloor without taking it out of your pants (which I've witnessed, actually, and I don't think it's really appropriate, although undeniably entertaining). I think the other Texas boy felt a little left out, but it didn't occur to me until the night was over that maybe it should have been more of a dancefloor threesome. But whatever. The chances of me seeing either of them ever again are very very slim, and there's nothing I can do now. I enjoyed myself, and while some may feel such blatant displays in public are wrong, I simply couldn't help it. In my defense, to all those thinking "get a room!" I did whisper in his ear that if he wanted to come home with me for a few hours, to let me know anytime and I would make it happen. Instead, a few hours later they were whisked off in a cab back to the place they were staying, and I went home, alone - but feeling like one satisfied sexy bitch all the same.

Years ago, I declared the dancefloor my church. And now I've rediscovered my faith. It's where I go to feel connected to something bigger than myself, to tap in to some higher energy, to feed my soul, where the music can truly touch me. And where apparently hot boys can, too.

This is one affliction from which I have no problem suffering. In fact, it just permanently made the to-do list.

A Reasonable Facsimile of Accomplishment

I have, as a friend pointed out to me today, been slacking with my blog. But never fear - I have, as usual, a small arsenal of excuses to explain my long absence. The pink eye turned out to be a rather nasty virus that would not go away. Staring at a computer screen for more than a few minutes became a painful experience. Any kind of light made me want to reenact that scene from Saw where the unfortunate victim has to cut out his own eye with a scalpel in order to save himself from the jaws of death. My eyes were dry, scratchy, and constantly covered in crust and flaking skin tissue. No, sir, I was not a pretty boy last week.

After four visits to the doctor, I was sent to an opthamologist who prescribed a corticosteroid-slash-antibiotic drop that has at last banished the inflamed redness and infection. However my eyes have become so accustomed to the 'roids that I'm still applying the drops daily. They're addicted, I think, and now I'm on a prescribed cycle of gradual weaning so that my eyes can one day live free of chemical dependence. I haven't worn contact lenses in over two weeks and have had to face the world wearing my glasses. Which I don't mind all that much, but it means that I can't wear sunglasses (I don't own any with a prescription) so when the sun is blinding, I have to take it - and when my eyes were inflamed, I had no way to hide their ugliness from the world.

Thankfully the infection disappeared in time for me to spin on Friday night and to entertain some out of town guests for the past three days without infecting all who came into contact with me. My dear friend Earl, whose Oscar party I attended last weekend at the height of my infection, did not fare so well. I'm not sure he's forgiven me, but he seems to have gotten past it enough to continue speaking to me. I'm thankful that at least his bout of red-eyed freakiness didn't drag on half as long as mine did. And to think I saw the Ex that same night and he came away clean. I'm not mean-spirited, but if I had to choose one person to infect... well, let's move on. I obviously have some residual bitterness.

So I've just spent an amazing three days with my oldest friend (22 years!) who was visiting from Thunder Bay. Bambi (yes, that's her real name) brought along her best friend Collin, who I had not met previously but who is fantastic, and enjoyed a lot of drinking, shopping, dancing, and laughing our asses off. We walked past the Olsen twins outside of Holt Renfrew as we were trucking across Bloor Street on Monday. At first we weren't sure it was them, but seeing as it's Fashion Week here in Toronto and Holt's was covered with security and television cameras, I figured it's safe to say it was. Besides, what other celebs look like emaciated troll dolls with giant shades on and travel as a set? I'm not really the fawning type (well, maybe in the face of legendary and respected talent I'd get a little gushy) but at least Bambi and Collin have a sighting to share with friends back home.

Now that they're gone, though, I've become a bit melancholy. It's not that I miss them - we had a great time, but it's nice to have my house back in order, you know? - but something else. I'm feeling a bit lost lately. I don't know where I'm going. I look around me and I see all these extraordinary people and I think, what the fuck am I doing with my life? Why have I been running a furniture shop for three years when it's not going to get me anywhere or contribute anything of value to the world?

Bambi, after a decidedly uncoventional and definitely tough upbringing, is now married, has two university degrees, and is now employed as a teacher. Collin, whose mother is a parapalegic former Olympian, is a drug and alcohol counsellor and Thunder Bay's reigning Empress of drag. Another friend of mine was recently offered an amazing position at the bank he works at and appears to be on the verge of a brilliant career in television. My sister is an out lesbian police officer, putting herself out there every day not only protecting society but doing her bit to change it, too.

I read my bio (look to the left) and realize that when I said my job provides money to live and structure to my days, I'm selling myself short. It's not that that is all I require of it - it's that it's all this job could ever provide. And while I do derive satisfaction from playing music for people, I'm not doing it nearly enough to make up the difference. So where does this leave me?

My first thought is that I'm lazy, but upon reflection I know that's not true. I am getting lazy in my current job, but that's because I'm bored and have lost interest, not because I'm inherently lazy. I am generally a living example of the whole "a job worth doing is a job worth doing well" concept and will apply the same attention to detail to cleaning my toilet as I would merchandising my store.

No, looking at the examples above, the common denominator I see is discipline. These people have worked hard and diligently to get where they are. I, on the other hand, usually take what falls into my lap and run with it as far as it can go - rather than go out and go after what I want. Making the most of opportunities is not a bad thing, but at some point you need to play an active role and coax the opportunities into existence.

Part of my problem is that I'm not sure what it is I want. Faced with an abundance of choices, I inevitably become overwhelmed and choose to pursue none of them. So I'm going to sleep on this and in the beautiful morning light of a fresh new day, I will do what I always do when I find myself feeling lost: make a list. The little jobs I've been putting off, things I say I want to do but haven't quite gotten around to do doing, ideas I've had that I'll forget if I don't jot it down. All the shit swirling around my head will have a new home on a piece of paper where I can revise, edit, or cross them out as I see fit, and later I will look at it and feel a sense of accomplishment.

Or at least a reasonable facsimile to get me through until the real thing comes along.

Instant Pink Eye

Apparently karma works it way back to me quickly. I'm sitting here, squinting from the glaring light rays of my monitor because I have conjunctivitis. Pink eye, if you prefer, which I do. It sounds more gay to me, which makes me laugh, which makes me feel a little better. I've also put on The Cure's "Mr. Pink Eyes" to add another layer to the shenanigans.

That's why I love iTunes - fill it with everything you love, and the always-fitting-to-the-moment soundtrack constantly playing in my head can be accessed with the click of a mouse. This is also why, by extension, I love my iPod. Nothing soothes the annoyance of weaving your way through a crowded subway station than doing so to the bubblegum beat of "Bizarre Love Triangle."

This is starting to sound suspiciously like an Apple advert. What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yes. Pink eye. Karma. I never used to get pink eye. Then a few years ago the Ex got it, I caught it, and now I come down with a bout of it every few months or so. I wake up with my eyes feeling swollen and excessively crusty. Upon inspection, I find Bjork staring back at me from the bathroom mirror. I suppose it's tame compared to most of the diseases a partner could potentially pass on to you, so in a way I've gotten off lucky. But while it's an oddly pleasing thought, I can't really pin this one on the Ex - I'm sure it has more to do with sloppy care of my contact lenses than anything else. I discovered on Saturday morning that in my drunken stupor the night before, I had put both the left and right lenses in the right eye compartment of my storage case.

As I reeled from the horror of a wrench being tossed into my seamless and orderly morning routine, I found myself faced with a minor dilemma: toss both lenses immediately, or try to reasonably sumrise which lens was which and put them in anyway? Seeing as I always take my left lens out first, I thought it fairly likely that the lens resting in the bottom of the case was the left one. So I put them in based on this. But then they didn't feel right, so I switched them. That didn't feel exactly right either, but if I stood in front of the sink debating this any longer I would be late for work. So I said fuck it, and left them where they were.

Typically, I was late for work anway. And now here I sit in my glasses, prescribed anitbioitic eyedrops resting at my side, trying not to touch anything, since pink eye is brutally contagious. As soon as I'm done this post I'm going to draw the kettle and pour boiling water over my keyboard to kill the bacteria. It's the only way to be sure.

Is this what I get for my debaucherous behaviour in the past week or so? Sleep with married men - voila! Instantly struck by painful eye bacteria and confined to quarantine (in theory, at least. I shouldn't even be going to work tomorrow because this is so contagious but I need the hours. I promise to use the hand sanitizer every ten minutes). Not that I particularly want to leave the house in this state anyway. Walking home from the doctor today I got more than a few strange looks. Didn't realize until I got home and stepped into the mirror-walled elevator that I looked like I had just smoked about an ounce of weed.

I suspect I'm not so highly evolved, however, for my karma to turn around so quickly. Which would mean I'm paying for something else I've done. Probably not even something from this lifetime, but some previous incarnation. Perhaps I caught someone's eye on purpose, just to see if I could, and caused them to distractedly crash their bicycle into a cotton candy vendor, where they emerged from the rubble covered in the vendor's crude obsenities and sticky pink floss.

When I consider how much I've done wrong in this life, I think I prefer to keep deluding myself that karma can behave in a speedy, nearly instantaneous fashion. The alternative is way too depressing.

Now, should I cue up John Lennon? Or Alicia Keys? Hmmm...