(no subject)

I need a cellphone with a larger message capacity... not more messages, but longer messages. I got a news txt from CBC this morning: "... Teen charged after store employees doused with-" and that's it. With what?
And CBC has made "improvements" to their net broadcast, after taking it offline for two weeks for the Olympics. Guess what? It doesn't work. Not for me, at least. I went and updated to Media Player 9 and everything... Hmmm. Let's try it again...
HEY!! It works. Of course, I think it has less to do with the technology, and more to do with me having Tim Hortons in my coffee cup. Similarity. It's a basic tenet of majique. Majique- it's like "magic" but much, much more pretentious.
Bear Spray. If you didn't click the above link, that's what he sprayed. Bear Spray. That's another term for pepper spray, but it sounds like ursine urine. Ew. Scary mental image.

Spookycon reality check 1

Got my plane tickets in the mail today. Thinking of shipping my books there a week early, but I don't want to relinquish control of them. I could consider sending them back via Fed Ex, but I'd still worry.
Someone suggested disposible clothing... socks, underclothes that I can just trash after wearing, rather than bring home. I like that idea.
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Saw Garden State today. With my mother. Yeah. That was comfortable.
I need a movie pal.
Besides my mom. She's great for "lite" flicks but I always feel guilty for putting her through stuff like that... let's see, crazy people, drug use, parental abandonment issues.
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Little Bird, Annie Lennox.
Beautiful Day, U2.
Bittersweet Symphony, Verve.
Clocks, Coldplay.
and a whole bunch of other stuff...
I found a cd in the trash this morning. A sampler disc that someone had thrown away. It's kinda cool.
Sooooo... why throw it away? I like to imagine a breakup. A nasty one, with all sorts of misunderstandings and accusations. No matter what context, she'll hear these songs in a completely different light, something bitter and angry, such a antithesis to the light tone of the whole collection.
She'll come in drunk one Saturday night, and hear the tunes in the hall, and she'll snap, and start banging on my door, calling me names she's reserved for whoever hurt her. I'll call the cops and when the get here, I'll have something else, Phillip Glass maybe, playing, and I'll deny knowing why she was screaming. They'll have to sedate her, because she KNOWS what she heard, and I'm in on it with whoever, and two days later, she'll wake up under sixpoint restraints at Norfolk General, groggy from the sedative mixing from the alcohol. She'll have missed work, and gotten fired. That'll cause her to lose her apartment, and she'll be homeless.
Employment will be impossible, because they want you to have an address, and a check with her prior employer will inevitably yield the comment "The chick who went crazy."
She'll track down whoever, and stab them with a steak knife she's stolen from some downtown patio dining resturant like Kincaids that she steals scraps from. Then she'll take her own life, because that's the way stories like this end.
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Yeah, Clay, stuff like that's sure to find you a date...