Highlights of the Game

I really must start getting to sleep slightly before midnight. Write that down.
Highlights of the weekend are too many and too good to get into detail about or I will be up until the wee hours. Who am I kidding? I’ll be up anyhow.

- Saturday night at the Bishop with Chrissy, Scott, Phillipa, Conor, Joe, Joyce, Dan and JVL and their lady peeps was excellent. Once again, a little bit of poison was had with the unfortunate Jager/Schlager/amaretto/sambuca/other combination (I always forget this is a bad idea at crunch time). On the bright side, at least Dan and I learned our lesson about Wombats (horrible rum-based shooters). I got to meet the infamous and awesome Glenda, Joe got in touch with his – and Justin’s – masculine side, photographic evidence suggests I may have smooched Joyce, and I think we prank called J.Wilson. Good old fashioned shenanigans. The only thing missing was Melly, who I hope feels well enough to come out and play soon.

- Sunday morning my Gadget Liver did a champion job of filtering my toxic bloodstream into a good semblance of normality. Ed cooked me a lovely greasy breakfast involving the key elements of tea, eggs and chicken bacon, and with the help of a lot of fluid I was on my feet and serving the comic book reading public. Spent the whole day upstairs at the Snail cleaning and restocking miniatures, and am appalled to discover that I now know far more than I ever wanted to about D&D Harbinger uncommons. Egad.

- Sunday afternoon I began working myself into a mild panic about my MRI, but was happily distracted by the unexpected appearance of *Christian Slater* casually browsing on the first floor. Apparently it’s not uncommon for him to drop by our store, but I was having some difficulty processing this information and will now be mocked until the end of days by Sarrah for being starstruck. Come on, people! Heathers? True Romance? Interview With the Vampire? Name of the Rose? Pump Up the Volume? Hell, even Bed of Roses? Did nobody but me see these movies at an impressionable age?

- Sunday evening began with me being hospitalized, deafened, paralyzed, piercingless and partially naked for about half an hour. Stupid broken brain. Stupid MRI. Nothing makes one feel less sexy than wearing a hospital gown, unless it’s wearing a hospital gown WITH a disposable blue hair net. Hospitals are just so nasty. I don’t mind loud noises, or remaining perfectly still, but both at the same time is no fun. Especially when all you can look at is a metal cage hovering inches away from your face, and the pitch and rhythm of the noises changes ever six minutes. First jackhammer, then car alarm, then broken furnace. Once it was over, I took the streetcar back along Queen and then met up with Julie and Sarrah at Spadina. By the time I got home I felt well enough to call my Mom and then debrief with Chrissy.

- Sunday night was spent at Chrissy’s apartment, where I stole and ate some pizza and chocolate transfat biscuits enveloped in transfatty chocolate coating. Mmm. We indulged in a little photoshopping magic, insulted Cleio, laughed a lot, goofed around and suddenly it was eleven o’clock. And here my weekend endeth.

Employed X2: Mutants United

“I heard I got the job,
I heard I’m the new girl at the comic shop
- Shah nah na nah na nah na nah.
Brother what a night it really was!
Brother what a fight it really was! Glory be!”

Woot! *victory dance*
(lyrics for my victory dance provided courtesy of ‘Night Chicago Died’ by Paper Lace, sung in the echoing hallways of my mind by Jack Black)

I start my jedi training this weekend.

That would be the same weekend where I’ve absurdly overbooked myself to celebrate Aly’s birthday very belatedly, hang out and consume curry with the old UC residence crew, attend the Santa Claus parade with a hyper four-year-old, and meet up with Chrissy’s lovemuffin from abroad.

And, if I can just push past my mental block about it, call my parents. I’m just so worried that when I call, I’ll get bad news, and I know that putting it off isn’t helping any, but every day that passes is like a little breath of air into this balloon of anxiety in my stomach. Its like my parental anxiety appendix, throbbing and huge and waiting to burst and kill me. How did I achieve such a high level of drama with this situation?

First thing on the schedule: meet philipisPDR.

What the heck does ‘PDR’ stand for, anyway? Is it something so utterly horrific that it cannot be expressed openly in words, so must be referred to only with an acronym? Should I be braced to meet someone who is Pretty Damned Randy? Who has Pathetically Damaged Retinas? A Potentially Devastating Ruffian? Pustulent, Dank, Repulsive? Programmed Destructo Robot? Poorly Defined Rump? Pink Dermatitis Rash? Pectorally Dominant Rambo? Psychotic Duplicating Raelian? Pedantic Defunct Relic? Pedophilic Deranged Rogerer?

No, no, wait. This is terrible. I’m overreacting: given Chrissy’s glowing Mona-Lisa-esque smile when she talks about him, he must be an incredibly sweet and wonderful individual. He’s probably too shy to mention what a gem he is, and has cut the appropriately lavish self-description to three letters to avoid embarrassment. He could be a Positively Delightful Rabelasian. Pedagogic Diplomatic Rhodesscholar. Particularly Droll Raconteur. Politically Democratic Radical. Pleasing Dashing Rascal. Person Delivering Rapture.

The man could be any darned thing, and I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out. I hate mysteries. And waiting.

It occurs to me that this is entirely the wrong forum for such speculation. Too bad I Personally Detest Restrictions and Promote Diary Relations.