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A list of things that bother me:

5) The Wicker Emporium
- maybe 20%-30% wicker. It should be called: "The Emporium That Has Some Wicker"

4) Liberal Academics
-I like liberals, and I like academics, but when you meld the two something goes horribly wrong. This only applies to English speaking Liberal academics, if they speak anything else as their original language they tend to be awesome.

3) Ryan Seacrest
- He tries too hard.

2) Cussing over nothing
-I don't mind it if you have some reason (being hilarious is a reason) between friends, or if you're validly pissed off. But swearing every time something does not go your way is just annoying, and cussing out a stranger is never acceptable unless they called you out.

1) People who carry on loud conversation in a public place
-I loathe them, cellphones or no. Common perpetrators tend to be shrill females, thugs, and asians speaking in their mother tongue. You're exempt from this rule if you're under eight because everything you say tends to be adorable anyways.

*0.5)Diet Food

Life is too short for diet food.

Heathly food is good for you, and can taste great. Diet food is food that is not as good as food that you would like to eat. Diet food is food that is good for you that tatses nasty unless they season it to taste like real food. But it's not the real food. If it tasted exactly like the real food and it was better for you then they would just stop making the real food. Diet soda tastes so horrible, it makes me sad. Also "bacon substitute" is pretty much my least combination of two words apart from pairs of words that have "gay" in them. You get all excited at the word bacon, and then substitute comes along and you know it's just going to taste like expired barbeque popcorn seasoning with extra salt that had been baked into little chunks.

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The blog title changed temporarily because of random similarity to names in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, which I'm reading at the moment.

I ought to continue my series if things I want out of life. For now I'll just say that I want a dog. Probably a beagle.

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People keep asking me what my plans are. My plan reaches almost to tomorrow, but not quite because I don't really feel like doing the work that people will want done for tomorrow.

So I'm just going to make a series of posts of things I want out of life; hopefully in the process setting up a life path that I can settle into. The first is about my ideal workspace.

I want a really hot secretary.

It's not a fetish, I'm not a pervert. I don't want one so I can fool around with her or be innapropriate in any way. Being hot is not the only requirement either, she'd also have to be highly capable, charming, modest, demure, and professional. It would also be beneficial if she had my sense of humour, but only in a receptive sense. If she's too funny I might fall for her and that ruins the whole thing. So cleverness is more important then original humour.

Hotness is essential though. On my ruthless scale of 1 to 10 she'd have to be at least a high eight, but preferably a nine. And I'm referring to natural hotness, not from a revealing wardrobe. A nine would be so attractive in a long pencil skirt and a sweater that anyone who sits in my reception room is instantly put off ease while waiting to see me.

Some people might read this and instantly think less of me. Even more of you will think less of me when I say that if she's in a serious relationship it ruins it somewhat.

You all want hot single secretaries in your preferred genders who you never become romantically involved with too, so don't pretend to be all offended.

I want nice large-ish office with a heavy wood door that reception area for my attractive receptionist. I want a solid wood desk in my office, behind which is a wooden desk chair. I want bookshelves filled with classics, and a nice carpet. There has to have a single large window behind the desk split into small panes. The only other furniture in the room are two wooden chair with cushioned seats on them for clients. I also want a dartboard on a gap on the right wall between the bookshelves. The only other requirement is a chess board that sits on a small table on the opposite [left] side of the room. [There can also be a single large portrait hanging on the left wall to the front left of my desk. The subject should never be anyone in particular and should change every six months.]

The dartboard is just for casual personal enjoyment and when I'm having an informal meeting. Also every once and a while on a slow afternoon I want to challenge my excessively hot secretary to a game of darts. Darts is the best office game. A full sized pool table or some contraption that allows you to practice your short game in golf are both repugnantly oscentatious.

The chessboard is for the cleaning man. The cleaning man, has to be old, and comes and goes before I'm in the office every day. He vacuums and dusts when needs be, but mostly just empties my trash bin every day. Also he makes a move on the chessboard every morning before I come in. And I have to make the responding move sometime during the day. I want him to always beat me no matter how much time I spend thinking about it.

The chess master janitor, the expensive and selectively furnished office and the spectacularly hot secretary are all I want out of having a career. I want nothing more, and yet nothing less.

I do not know how I'm going to get this office, this secretary, or this cleaning man. I'm working on it.

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http://www.kelleyryden.com/

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When I was little I used to make tiny houses in the woods out of twigs and moss and mud and rocks and bark and anything I could find. They weren't for fairies or leprechauns or bugs or rodents and they weren't going to make any such little creature happy to stumble on in the winter months, but I never let on as much to my little sister.

I got really good at it.

I went down into the woods a couple weeks ago and the last one I made was still standing after seven years.

I didn't come up with the idea, I read it in some book I read when I was little somewhere about a kid whose family vacations at an isolated cottage in the woods with another family whose son is more confident and cooler then the first little boy, so the former little boy spends his time out in the woods making a tiny village out of whatever he finds in the woods. By the end he learns the value of confidence and being yourself.

I probably read it when I was about six, but I could still tell you pretty much the whole story if I had to.

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I have not written a single creative word this week, but I did buy a pipe.

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I have books by all of the "Authors I Want to Read More of" now but I'm almost done Atlas Shugged and I've have some Tolstoi I want to read first before I continue on with the list.

I'm spending too much money on books, which I'd even be alright with if I had time to read it. With working and university right now I pretty much just read while I'm out about town, waiting for classes or work. Once I get home it's all I can do to curl up with my laptop or in front of the TV and idle away the few hours before I really ought to be going to sleep.

I'm going to try to write a novel in november. I'm going to try to write at least 2000 words a day, which will put me at 60 000 by the end of the month. It does happen to be national novel writing month, but the main reason that I want to do it during this time is that is that I want to have written a novel before my 18th birthday on the offchance that I someday achieve fame; my list of acheivements will could begin with the novel I wrote when I was seventeen. Which just sounds cool. Frankly I expect it to turn out to be absolute rubbish for three reasons. The First is that I don't esteem myself ot the that great of an author. The second is that I haven't the freetime to indulge in such an undertaking. The third is that I have no clue what I'm going to write about.

Irregardless, it's to be a learning experience more then much else. Plus I'm going to try post how many words I've written on the blog each night. Which means around 30ish updates. So you'll get to watch me slowly fail.

Finally: I noticed this afternoon at work I was getting a sore throat and now I have one.

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I'm going to buy a 120 gigabyte ipod tomorrow,

-=link=-

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I was walking down around the less busy side of town yesterday, and when I cut across a parking lot to get to Bob's Corner Restaurant, nestled beside one of the nigh customerless businesses there was a bus.

It was just sitting there, parked beside the store, out of view of the storefront, with no one in sight. The door was open. And the engine was running.

At that point I deeply regretted not ever having learned how to drive a bus, because I could have taken that bus.

Granted, once I had the bus, I wouldn't know what to do with it [besides blaring "Bad Boys" over the sound system I mean] and I would undoubtedly get caught; but I nonetheless paused for a moment, standing before the doorway, basking in the low hum of the idling engine, picturing an surreal possibility would never be realised.

I suppose I could just drop out of university and dedicate my life to becoming a bus driver, but it just wouldn't be the same.

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I bought a digital alarm clock a few weeks ago at a second hand store, because my parents wake me up fifteen mintutes before I have to go, and I never have time to get ready. The clock keeps time, and the radio in it works well, but the alarm feature doesn't work. So it did nothing to solve my problem

I'm glad because it gives me an excuse to get one of the solely mechanical ones that you have to wind and have actual bells on them, like the ones that I saw the other day.

I'd rather still have one of those one's with the flipping numbers like in Groundhog Day, but I haven't seen any of those around.

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I saw something today I wanted to put on my blog.

It wasn't the shard of a vinyl record that I picked up off the side of the road when I was on my lunchbreak.
It wasn't that part of the label was left on it, that any writing had worn off of it, nor that the weathering had faded the rich turquoise label into a variety of jewel tones that set off against the shiny black lacquer of the record marvelously.

It wasn't the mother pushing her child in the cart across the parking lot, pushing faster and faster until she had enough momentum to lift her feet onto the rack underneath and ride on her momentum.
It wasn't that I smiled warmly at her and met her glance.
It wasn't that she smiled back.

It wasn't that I hate obligations.

It wasn't the perturbed look that you get in response these days as you look people steadfastly in the eye as you pass them down the sidewalk.

Nor was it the man who came through my checkout today; he was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and he came through with his wife and his young kid.
It wasn't the greyish-brownish blazer he had on that was just like one that I would wear or the grey shirt underneath, like I've been looking for for the past while: the long sleeved, but thin cotton like a t-shirt and buttons at the collar, but isn't a polo, and looks good under a blazer, but yet you can take it off and scrunch up the sleeves and look more nonchalent.
It wasn't the ring on his finger that I saw as rifled he through his wallet looking for his reward points card, the ring which was classy looking, with an intricate yet tasteful crest.
And it wasn't that on his head he sported a worn out Coca-Cola hat, grey, with the brandname on the front in those white cursive-esque characters, as if left over from working for the company years ago. Just like the one I'd wanted for years.

What it was was something very clever and profound, but not complex. Something that gave an an impression of deep and contented wonder. But I can't remember what it was for the life of me.

Monday

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On Monday I happened to be walking up by my old school on my way to a used book store and down the street towards me came a fellow who at first seemed truly unremarkable.

He wore a White Yankees Cap with the iconic black stripes and the brim perfectly flattened and worn slightly ajar. He wore a grey sweatshirt with white symbols all over it that formed a pattern, it was two sized too large. quintessential baggy pants the onlooker to see more of drawers of the subject than their footwear. I'd seen hundreds of guys like this at my high school over the year, of every creed and size. This one -as most are in my area- was Caucasian, he was averagely tall, averagely stocky, with light brown hair in the short style favored by the group one would associate him with.


The first thing that struck me about him was that he was smiling, not sneering, not smirking in smug defiance, but instead he wore a wide genuine grin. This was unusual, but not unprecedented. He was by himself, not in a pack of seemingly like minded people, with his head held high as he walked down the incline of the street. But he was missing a shoe.

One foot was clod in a Lugz workboot, but the other strod right alongside down the sidewalk in only a white sock. There was no shamble, no hopping, and no sheepish look appeared on his face as we passed by one another. It was as if he didn't even know.

That was monday, and nothing more interesting has happened to me since, but now I have my laptop back after a month, so I can update a bit more readily.

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Because my father's a pastor there are a wealth of people in the world who think they know me, but I wouldn't know from a hole in the wall.

Over the past few years the question of my life plan has crept into the forced conversations that they often intrude upon me, and I'm in turn obliged to satiate their volley of feigned social intrigue.

So they ask where I'm studying.

I tell them I at UNBSJ, to which they give little more then an understanding nod, because UNBSJ really isn't very prestigious (I say this not as a slight on the faculty, many of which I respect and admire, but that any high school graduate can get in, and result in any student intellectuals wading through a mire of people who ought to go to community college, but instead will fail their way through university and dilute the value of academia; and will reuslt in the whole lot of us not getting good jobs and the people smart enought to go into trades making off like bandit; but I digress)

Then they ask what program I'm in; to which I reply "Arts", and elaborating by listing a few courses if they pretend to be especially interested.

And then they follow up with the worst question of all: "And where do you think that will take you?"

I fade off at this point into a haze of uncertainty, claiming that I'm not sure yet, but mentioning Law as a possibility or maybe Teaching.

In reality I don't have much interest in either of those occupations after thinking them through.

I'll elaborate on my genuine aspirations later though, because the point of all this for now is that when people ask me what I intend to do after university I'm just going to tell them that I'm considering becoming Batman.

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This morning my brother shaved off his beard and left only a really hideous mustache. And that's today. I know nothing more interesting is going to happen today.

Don't stay home for university.

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Whever I looked at people I try to peg them.

As who I think they try to be, as who I think they don't want to be seen as.

I know enough to know that people are more complicated then that. Everyone lives a lifetime.
Everyone wants, everyone goes without, everyone tries to be something more. When I walk through a crowded room, or better yet through a surging corridor, it often occurs to me the marvel that every one of them has a soul. Every one of them is looking for an assurance that they're not really alone. Every one of them must think around those lines.

And yet how many of them are really happy.

I can't be the only one marvelled by that. I lose sight of it all the time myself. I try to finish people's sentences under my breath before they themselves can gather the words. I pretend that I'm better then them. That I know more and feel more.

But doesn't everyone feel exalted by their own, readily accessible, perspective? Or is it just me that stares at a classroom of younger students and looks for some anolog of myself. I look for someone staring past everything.

I've never found one.

At the end of the day I've only made myself clever enough to recognize the bitter irony of my life, bored enogh to dismiss good people, and myself wish all the girls that catch my eye were as lonely as me.

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Yesterday my gag reflex started kicking in and I started coughing up my thoat lining, so now I have a sore throat. It happens everytime just before I get a sore throat.

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I'm addicted to Lemon Juice, I use it as an upper. When I'm feeling down, or discouraged, I sneak over to the fridge, checking over my shoulder to make sure no one sees me, and I take a swig. I like how it makes me feel.

I've been taking Halls Cough Drops as a downer for years though.

I guess that would be my gateway drug.





Also whenever I get a toothpick I leave it in my mouth like a cigarette, usually clutched tight in the corner of my mouth with my back teeth, but occasionally rolling it around my jaw, taking it out if I intend to talk at length only to replace it only when I finish my point, and sometimes -if no one's looking- flipping it top over bottom against the roof of my moth with my tongue.

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a countdown of people I admire:

9) Oscar Wilde
8) Alan Alexander Milne
7) Mitch Hedburg
6) Craig Thompson
5) Jim Henson
4) Winston Churchill
3) Charles Shultz
2) Charles Chaplin
1) Bill Watterson


As you can see ("you" in this not being an actual reader, but a subdued sense of self-scrutiny) I haven't been updating this much or been putting much of anything worthwhile on it.

I like listing things though, which is responsible for this past little trend. I intend to start posting more interesting stuff on here. Soon.

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a list of things to do in the next couple of days:

10) find something poignant
9) be more aphoristic
8) learn some new words
7) read batman fanfiction
6) figure out how to get to a party on saturday
5) draw something nifty
4) finish Richler's "Barney's Version" and Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast"
3) finish tidying up and do my paperwork (organizing stacks of random paper)
2) make more lists
1) write

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a coundown of Authors I Want to Read More of

5. Vonnegut
4. Kipling
3. Hemingway
2. Wilde
1. Nietzsche

Technically I haven't read any Kurt Vonnegut, but my impression of him is that of someone epic, and that's enough to make the list. I feel like I'm forgetting someone though, but I'll remember that later.

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They always told me I could do anything I wanted with my life if I set my mind to it.

I set my mind to a great many things, but the problem was that after dwelling on them I never wanted them; and when I did finally find something worth my arrogant while, I wasn't ready for it.

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Turnips taste like sadness. It's a pungant, unshakable undertone in every bite.The aftertaste is the worst bit, the forlorn sensation lingering on after the deed like the forbidden fruit [or root vegetable in this case]

I eat turnips like I read sad poetry, not for enjoyment, but a lesson in despair: a portal to a deeper world of dismal underwritten detachment confined forevermore to bitter depression. But you don't have to boil poetry, and doesn't leave the room filled with musky turnip stank, so I stick to that.