March 2006 Archives

In a conversation with someone who has just been introduced to my site, and is just learning that I left UWaterloo after a horrible year and don't ever want to go back, it's common for them to talk about how at least I learned all these great HTML skills. This is flat out not true. To make your understanding of my experience at Waterloo even more powerful, I'd like to tell you all that nothing you see me do with web programming is a result of what I learned at UW. This is because the only major thing I learned at UW was to be really picky about naming conventions for classes and functions.

Everything to do with web programming I taught myself. Except Javascript; I avoid Javascript like a bad case of the clap. HTML I learned slowly in grade eight. I taught myself CSS in grade eleven, and PHP in grade twelve. Every once and a while I forget the exact name of a function in PHP and look it up, but like all programming languages, if you can do something in one there's usually someway to do it in the others. So now you know: UW really DID suck that much for me.

Sunday I did something different than my usual antisocial book reading and spent the day from beginning to end with people. It was stressful and my patience was near breaking a number of times. It also allowed for more laughing than I had experienced in a very long time. The cause of most of the laughter was something so usual yet socially taboo. Everyone was farting.

Well not everyone. Sharai was the only person who was really farting. For such a small girl that girl can really let them rip. Most of the time you don't even know it happened until she's fanning at you. Then you smell burnt fries and you cry a little on the inside knowing that FART has just entered your system.

Throughout our whole game of cheating monopoly, Sharai was farting. The farts must have left on three minute headways, because like clockwork there would be a new one coming out every three to five minutes. And, like clockwork, every three to five minutes we would all be gagging in between laughs.

This came back to bite her in the ass though. While waiting for the elevator, Sharai suddenly realized she had to poop. Not only did she have to poop, but she had to poop RIGHT NOW or she might die. She could feel it coming, and if we didn't do something soon it would get really dangerous! Now I was already choking on my laughter because I just couldn't handle the potty humour anymore. Then Nancy brought out the big guns and ask, "Are you turtling?"

Realizing what this meant was too much for me to handle. I was literally rolling on the floor laughing. I couldn't speak; I could hardly breathe. I was afraid that I might start hyperventilating – purse lipped breathing be damned, my jaw hurt.

The only person whose reaction to this was worse than mine was Adam. Adam, being the proper scholar he is, was laughing until his face turned red. Then, the most amazing thing happened. Adam laughed so hard he actually FARTED. Can you imagine how much you have to be laughing to FART?! Well, Adam can, that's for sure. So as if all of Sharai's pooping wasn't enough, Adam had to go and fart. Then I died.

Now when people ask I too can tell them that I, Mike Haddad, also have a funny story about farting.

So my house doesn't normally have a lot of drama in it. Or maybe it does and I just never notice. The men in my family, myself included, tend to be very irate and hot headed. As a result, I stay in my room and avoid confrontation, only coming out when something is bound to get interesting. Today was one of those days.

I was downstairs reading at the island in my kitchen when my brother came in with food. He was yelling back and forth with my mother about something stupid before sitting down to eat. Only he never fully sat down, and he never ate. All I saw was him ripping apart the shawarmas he had before storming off again. I made a snide remark about him being way too angry, and went up to my room.

When I heard the front door slam, I knew it would be good so I started to walk back downstairs to be a spectator and mediate if need be. My phone starting ringing before I made it to the stairs, so I ran back knowing that I needed to pick two people up today. I was trying to hurry Nancy of the phone when I heard a huge bang, and then my mom scream "Nicholas!" I promptly ignored anything Nancy said, told her I had to go and hung up in time to hear "Now how are we going to fix that?"

My brother stormed past me going up the stairs, allowing me full view of the damage when I turned the corner. A hole the size of my head in the door to the front closet greets me, and for the first time in a very long time I'm actually left with nothing to say. I stayed that way until well after my brother stormed off to Canadian Tire on my mother's orders, something my mother immediately regretted. Having an angry, hormonally unbalanced and extremely hungry son in a vehicle has so possibilities to go horribly wrong.

So with no one left to yell with, and me standing awkwardly in the great room, my mother turned to me to continue yelling. She yelled at me while I went upstairs to get socks, she yelled while I was putting on my jacket and shoes and she continued to yell until I opened the door and she realized I was leaving. "Where are you going?" Where else am I going mother? We have a giant hole in the door, and your son might actually punch someone until their head explodes; I'm going to find him.

And that ladies and gentlemen, is why you should never let your hormones get out of whack. Testosterone supplements never help anyone's doors. The note is totally amazing though.

When I was in elementary school, one of the things I despised the most was attendance. This was followed closely by the horribly repetitive social scene and the fact that you really had to try hard to fail out. The big one was attendance. Up until the beginning of grade seven, I just floated through school not really caring enough to do anything. So when people acted out and were clever it destroyed my sanity.

I hated speaking out in class fearing being wrong. The spectre of this problem followed me through high school until I finally got the fuck over it. I would have been a lot better off had the teachers been a little different, but it was their teaching style and I respect them for putting up with that shit day in and day out. Attendance drove me crazy because you HAD to speak up. There was no way around it. Worse than that, people took it as a chance to show off how fucking clever they were.

For me, a simple "Here" was all that would come out of my mouth. For some other people that wasn't enough. In my class there were three friends; two twins and another guy. They also happened to be three in a row on the attendance sheet and for them a simple "Here" wouldn't do. No, they had to go bigger. Mediocrity wouldn't do.

When you came up to the three friends on the attendance sheet, I would always groan inwardly. They were at the top of the sheet, maybe 4 or 5 people in. The first two brothers would set the pace by answering "Present" instead of "Here." That would get the ball rolling for the big punch line that everyone knew was coming. When the third guys name was called, he would yell out "Gift" because he was so fucking funny like that. Of course, this would be followed by a ridiculous amount of laughter - laugher that I would participate in, while on the inside I just wanted to hit something. Yes, I was one bitter preteen.

It should have been a regular uneventful Saturday. I should have just shopped and loafed around. Instead I find that my fingers are throbbing and on the verge of a very violent mutiny against my body, and there's no one to blame but Nancy Silverman. Nancy Silverman, who is never satisfied and always wants more, has caused me immense finger pain.

It wasn't enough for Nancy to just spend some time with me shopping. Never mind the fact that this shopping took place at Sherway Gardens, perhaps the greatest mall in Southern Ontario which she had never even been to before. Never mind that we scored her a sweet, sweet "TEAM LC" shirt at Hollister. Don't even think about counting the Cinnamon Dolces, because we always get those. No, it just wasn't enough for Nancy.

Nancy had to have more. So when we got home, we started playing the piano. For those of you who have known me long enough to remember when I used to take piano lessons (Alyssa and Stoner), you'll remember that I despised it. I loathed my piano lessons as one of the worst forms of torture imaginable that my parents used as a punishment for only aspiring to be adequate and nothing more. Six years later, I was still just as ready to give up after looking at 3 flats in the key signature, and ridiculously annoying octave notes that stretched my fingers farther than they've been stretched in years.

Only that wasn't good enough for Nancy. As a result I've spent the last two hours slaving away at the piano trying to get the accompaniment for Stop by the Spice Girls just right. It shouldn't be as hard as it is, but six years is just the right amount of time for my brain to have forced most of what it hated out of memory. On top of that, I'm going to probably spend the next two or three hours trying even harder to make it work. Nancy Silverman, I'll get you for this.

Yesterday was supposed to be an amazing day. I didn't work at all. I was supposed to pick Jeremy up, I was supposed to get Starbuck's with Nancy, and I was supposed to drive Jeremy's roommate Alex to get boxes to move out. I was going to get sweet Asian dinner and play monopoly.

When you think about it, I still did all those things. I also did something else, something so incredibly stupid that it makes even me shake my head in pity. After almost causing three separate accidents at Sheridan, I stopped to talk to someone and chipped my tooth on the window of my car. That's right: I CHIPPED MY TOOTH, on the WINDOW OF MY VAN.

I don't even know how that works. I don't think I would ever be able to recreate the position my body was in when my face slammed into the window and I chipped my front tooth. I do know that I spent most of the day feeling like an idiot while the nerve endings in my teeth were freaking out at each other yelling "MAN DOWN! MAN DOWN!" It's been throbbing ever since.

Now I'm lucky that my dentists also happen to be my neighbours, and that I can freak out and hopefully get it fixed really, really soon. However, if you do see me before that happens, do try and be casual as you try and figure out which tooth has been chipped. Or else I might punch you in the face to return the favour and chip your tooth too. It's all out of love, I promise.

When Crash won the Oscar for Best Picture, I remember thinking about how homos everywhere would be screaming about how they were robbed of what they deserved for being gay. Then homos everywhere screamed about how they were robbed of what they deserved because they were gay. Everywhere you looked you saw people commenting on how Crash was a way for the Academy to look hip and cool but still hate homos. So many people said it, it had to be true! Then I saw Crash for myself.

Don't get me wrong, Brokeback was sad and twisted, and all together horribly moving. It was also incredibly boring, and the slowest moving movie I have ever seen. It was like Titanic in the sense that you knew that there was no happy ending, and you were just scratching nails on a chalkboard waiting until it happened. I loved how it was directed, and acted out. I just didn't enjoy the story itself so much.

I loved Crash. From the very beginning to the very end, I loved every moment of the movie. It was completely and totally the kind of movie that I would love. I loved how the story played out, with all the ironies. I loved how the storylines all tied together so perfectly. Most of all I loved just how much it told you that yes, life really is a big bitch.

Recently I've found myself getting extremely frustrated with people, almost to the point where I don't want social interaction anymore. What's the point? I can't have an intelligent conversation with anyone. Anytime I do people either pretend to believe what I say, but don't, or flat out tell me that they don't believe me (Thank you, Adam Steczkiewicz).

I've noticed that most of the extreme arguing happens when it comes to people's schools. Tonight cheerleading came up. I don't know how it did. I mentioned something about Western's Saugeen being the largest student residences ["Saugeen-Maitland Hall opened in 1969 as the first co-ed residence on campus. It is currently home to 1,252 students and remains the largest student residence on campus."], and then all of a sudden we're talking about cheerleading, and about how Western has the best cheerleading team in the country and the only one to compete in the US.

Well, not so, says I. I distinctly remembered that: (1) UW placed third in Nationals, (2) Queen's did better than us because they had an amazing performance, and (3) for some reason I remembered York winning. Of course, Adam jumped on that as an opportunity to say that I just make shit up and argue with people, and that people know I don't know shit. Well fuck you too. I mean it's not like I was right about UW.

Now I will admit being horribly wrong for assuming York was good at something. Although it was the fact that I was convinced York was in there that made me bump Western out of the rankings. Simple logic error: If there are three spots, third going to UW, and one going to Queen's and another to York, then there isn't one left for Western.

So typical of a UToronto student to get upset that their school isn't the best at everything. Especially when it comes to reputation-based rankings, in which UW competes against all the other schools and comes out on top.

So what's the point? I mean, I wish I could be a better person and not get annoyed with people. It's not even a matter of school pride for me. I'm transferring to UToronto because I despise UW with the fire of a thousand suns. Anyone who knows me knows that. It's just the fact that I can't stand people making me look stupid. That's definitely what causes the fire to burn deep in my soul. I spent too much time in elementary and high school knowing the answer, but not wanting to speak up to waste what I have now.

I don't spend hours reading things like the Economist and spend hours on Google and Google News to be made to look like an idiot in conversation. I can make myself look like an idiot normally. I mean, that's what Weezer!Mike is for. Fuckers.

On the day I lost what was left of my faith in people I had an incredibly bad day. Actually, it was a horrible day when you consider that I didn't even blog about most of the shit that happened earlier in the day. For the record I'm not referring to my relationship at the time either; relationships very rarely affect me emotionally.

That night to cheer myself up I drove all the way to St. Catharine's to get crunk with Torie. There's no way to say it and still remain respected by the elders, but we got CRUNK. It wasn't even a respectful drunk either. After driving around for 20 minutes trying to find a decent bar we just went home and went straight to the liquor shelf. I would have said liquor cabinet to seem cultured, but it actually was just a shelf with a lot of liquor on it.

Two shots and a beer and a half later and Torie and I couldn't even stand up straight. We stumbled to Katie's room to bother her while listening to sweet, sweet music. After the first step I fell down the whole flight of stairs into her basement. While watching The O.C. we found it more amusing to try and sing along to the theme than to pay attention to the show. Looking back on all this I realized that, bruises aside, it really and truly is much more fun to be a cheap drunk.

For those of you who've never been to homohop, and for those of you who haven't even seen a drag queen, it's hard to explain what happened last night. Drag queens have a tendency to perform songs that are either really popular at the moment or are old school classics. Perform also means perform, not sing, because it's very rare for a drag queen to actually sing. Instead they just stand on stage and pretend to sing to a track they love.

So last night at the homohop you can understand why I expected another cheesy, overplayed pop hit for the show. Something like Ashlee Simpson, Pink, Britney or Madonna. Instead I got smacked on the head by the song that came on. There was a second girl on the stage, and it took a while to understand why someone was saying "Elphaba, why couldn't you stay calm for once?!"

I know exactly who Elphaba is. Anyone who spends as much time with Sheridan students as I do would know. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I've heard the soundtrack to Wicked, but I can tell you that it's only slightly less than the number of times that I've heard people sing along to it. I mean, Nancy and Jeremy had spent most of the day singing songs from Wicked. Partly because I'm so sick and tired of Rent, and partly because they know I love it.

So standing near the back of the crowd with about ten other Sheridan students, it was like being caught in an explosion when it clicked in their heads what was going on. If you thought people could normally scream loud, then you've never heard music theatre students scream when a drag queen performs a song from a musical. So as the show went on up on the stage, we stood in a horribly formed circle singing along at the top of our lungs. I'm not sure what the best part was: the fact that Defying Gravity was on, the fact that we were singing, or the fact that most of the other people were too tasteless to even know what was going on. No, that's a lie. The best part was when I got the witch's hat at the end of the night.

I know that I'm a horrible person. If someone was to have a horrible day and I didn't know them very well, I wouldn't do much more than fake sympathy and then laugh. That's why I knew I deserved everything that happened to me yesterday and the night before. It was all just my bad karma finally coming back and biting me in the ass.

When I got home Monday night my body was in shambles. My big toe on my left foot was throbbing and had swollen to twice its normal size. I could bend it down, but not up. I spent most of the following twenty-four hours limping like an idiot. I didn't get any sleep at all Monday night because my head was throbbing. Instead of just sleeping normally, I slowly passed in and out of consciousness as if I was on tons of hospital (or street) drugs. As the wise Nancy Silverman put it "Leave it to Mike Haddad to have a concussion and not do anything about it."

As a result, my day at work was less than pleasant. I could hardly hold a conversation because my brain was screaming "SLEEP!" over and over again in the back ground. I nearly slipped and fell three or four times. Despite all this I strived to get as much done as I physically could. I'm just lucky that a lot of it was prepping. Especially since the compressor on the display unit freaked the eff out near the end of my shift and starting making a noise so loud and obnoxious that it could rival the noise that most teenage American Eagle girls make. Suffice to say that I was convinced that the universe might finally hate me.

Then there was a light that made everything better. Alyssa and Kaitie showed up near the end of my shift and kept me sane - literally. The store refused to cooperate when I was closing it. Remember that loud and obnoxious noise the compressor made? Well the printer made an even louder and more obnoxious noise when it ran out of paper. It took three of us to figure out how to get the paper to go back in. By three of us, I mean the two of them. I had completely given up and just tried counting the money near the end. If they hadn't had the patience to figure out how to get the paper to feed through, then I definitely would have cried, screamed and vomited before leaving the store half closed with a note say "your store hates me, I quit." Only I didn't do that. So I'm working again today, for a killer eight hour shift. Maybe I'll use the note tonight.

I regret to inform you that I need to apologize about tonight's horrible closing at work. A number of things went terribly wrong and you need to know about them.

First of all, I proved once again to be lacking in enough upper body strength to unscrew the veggie juicer. Only this time, I also lacked enough upper body strength to unscrew the dishwasher too. Never fear, I still ran the last cycle. Only I couldn't clean everything properly.

Also, I may or may not have slipped and dropped half the yogurt on the floor. Not to worry, I mopped it up. Only I just couldn't make anymore because we didn't have anymore milk.

Oh, and for future record: Do we own a first aid kit? And if so, does it include something for broken toes? Because I could seriously use something to help the swelling go down.

Sometimes people are so fucking stupid, that I have trouble trying to figure out if what they're saying is real or if they're joking. I'm not claiming to be a fountain of dating wisdom; my track record would prove otherwise. I've dated skeezebags, street kids, boys who look like little kids and boys who act like little kids. With all that though, I still have enough common sense to know how some things work when it comes to dating people.

I have a friend who can only be described as a whore. Not even a slut, a whore. Not that he has any idea that the gifts are because he spreads his legs for them and not because they have any real interest in him. If I was any more of a horrible person I probably would have told him to his face instead of leaving him to find it here on the internet for everyone to see. Actually doing it this way is what makes me the horrible person, and I can deal with that.

It's so typical of gay people to not have any fucking clue how to date at all. I will admit my attempts at real dating have been limited, I still know in theory how it should work. Meet someone, hang out, go see a movie, go for coffee. Maybe after that you can attempt the horribly cliched dinner date. After all that, if you don't want to stab the person or gouge their eyes out, you might consider dating. Unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be common knowledge. Or maybe I just hang out with the biggest collection of sluts and whores in the world.

If you want a long term relationship, the way to start is NOT by getting naked on webcam the very first time you're chatting. The capitalized 'not' is for emphasis; an emphasis that will be completely wasted on the people who should take note of it. There are certain points you reach that are hard to go back on without looking like an asshole or an idiot or both.

For example, if you are to starting fucking someone and then start fucking his friends afterwards, none of them are going to consider a real relationship with you. It's not how it works. If someone is dating, or even just seeing someone, then you show up and two days later you guys are sucking each other's cocks – odds are not in favour for the relationship to last. Actually, odds are it never was and never will be a real relationship in the first place. Odds are it was just another in a long list of people who have fucked you just because they can. Good luck getting them to go see a movie with you after that.

To add the cherry to the oh-so-sweet cake that is all of the idiocy displayed here, like a true whore he thinks that what he does is dating. I can't understand the thought process behind all that. The fact that all the sex, the random blowjobs in parks, the naked camming and everything else comes before REAL dating means that nothing with that person qualifies as dating. Do not pass Go, do not receive $200.

It's the kind of situation that frustrates me to the very core of my being, so that all of the little cells in my body run around screaming "Oh shit, some idiot fag pissed him off again! Code red! Code red!" I'm sure part of it is jealousy because of all the sex. No, I take that back. I like sleeping comfortably in my bed. I'm sure he can sleep comfortably in beds too, just they're not usually his bed and when it is he's probably joined by his good friends S, T and D. It's times like this I'm thankful that I have common sense. I'm also thankful that this person lives provinces away, giving me a large buffer to protect me from blunt objects.

Tonight I entertained myself by attending a Music Theatre strike celebration party. See, I told you sooner or later I'd end up doing something half interesting and then remember that it happened. Music Theatre students party for all sorts of reasons, usually with a theme. Tonight's theme was 'Summer Party' – we found out when we got there. The night started with a bang.

By a bang I mean I walked in, up the small flight of stairs, turned my head to the right and was assaulted by the spitting image of an ex-boyfriend. If there's a better way to start a night, I can't think of it. Although it will definitely help to mention that this just happens to be the ONLY ex-boyfriend I have that I'm on bad terms with. I have ex-boyfriends that I have no terms at all with, but only one that I can think of that I would be on bad terms with. Lovely, isn't it? I stormed off to my spot on the wall and got cranky.

It also didn't help that by some fluke I was wearing my red Lacoste polo. I wore it to work today because it worked and never changed. It's been well over a month since my last Music Theatre party. You know what though? I wore my red Lacoste polo last time over my white one. You know what else? Music Theatre students are the epitome of gay - even the straight ones. They ALL remembered. I have never been so embarrassed in my life. If there's anyone you need to look good for, its Music Theatre students. What are the odds? I own FIVE SEPARATE Lacoste polos, on top of god knows how many other shirts I could wear. Someone hates me to make me wear the same one to two of their parties in a row.

By this point I was dying for a drink. It'd been a long week without a weekend working, I've been emotionally traumatized who knows how many times, I was on the verge of passing out despite needing to be up at 4:30, and now this. Talk about major, major frustration. I'm surprised I didn't try to cut someone so bad they'd wish I never cut them so bad. Although looking back on Friday night, it's a good thing I didn't.

I'm sure a majority of you would like to hear about how I crashed and burned in front of all the Music Theatre students after this point. I might just have to disappoint you. Although whoever was spiritually in charge of that party had something against me, the universe on the whole loves me. I was lucky enough to be wearing an American Eagle shirt that worked with my pants. Recovery +1. Then it turned out that it wasn't the angry ex-boyfriend, but Colin. Recovery +3. I don't need to be a raging alcoholic just to cope anymore. Apparently I'm not pleasant to be around when I'm drunk, so it worked out for the best (goodbye drinking).

I spent the rest of the night listening to people tell the same stories over again, have people ask me where Jeremy was for periods of minutes at a time on ten minute intervals, and try and figure out if I knew any Buddhists. I need a Buddhist, because I could so use the ability to catalyze the alcohol. Or at least the Buddhist wisdom on how not to be a crappy drunkard.

How have you been? It's definitely been a while. What can I say, I've been busy. Attempting to support myself through decent work again has been a struggle. I've worked more hours in the last five days than I have in the last five months. Hopefully it'll all be worth it when I get my paycheques. Two jobs, neither of them the one I had hoped for, should at least be rewarding monetarily. If not then I'm going to just crawl in a hole and cry.

I finally finished applying to universities again. I like to pretend that a collective cheer has gone up all over the internet but for some reason I doubt you're caring enough to bother. What good would the internet be if there was emotional attachment? For the record though, I can't wait to start going to school again. Working full time is absolutely horrid. I don't know how people do that for the rest of their lives.

Jeremy's finally started to rub off on me. I got drunk Friday night. No, I got right smashed Friday night. Unfortunately so did that poor mushroom lamp. I'm never going to stop feeling guilty. I should know better than to take my frustrations with people out on people.

I followed up by getting drunk on Saturday night. Woody's and O'whatever. Jeremy's friend was down after his audition so we took him out. Not that we really needed to – he went out before we got there, and then went out again after we left. I would know, I got a phone call at 3:00am from a drunken Newfie who couldn't find his way back to the hotel.

Sunday night I got drunk again. By this point my liver was going to kill me. It didn't help that it was a bunch of Newfies I was trying to out drink. If I was to classify something as the biggest mistake of my life, that would be it. These people can out drink elephants.

I wish I had done something extremely interesting, or at least taken some pictures. Alas I didn't. So I'm stuck with this. It should hold you over for a while at least. I'm going out with Torie on the weekend to promote my body again- probably sites downtown. So there will definitely be pictures after that. Until then, purple monkey dishwasher.

The most interesting thing happened yesterday. I'm not talking about going to Playdium with Olek (who was 45 minutes late) – as interesting as that was. No, last night I started would could be a fulfilling moonlighting career as a mechanic.

I know that the collective internet is now laughing at the thought of me changing oil, but it's true! Last night I had to drop my van off at Ford for its oil change check up nonsense. You know, the kind of thing that should only take maybe 40 minutes but takes four or five hours just so they can charge you for the time? That's what my van needed. I needed a ride afterwards so AJ and Jeremy picked me up. The plan was to get downtown to pick up Donny, and then go get shit faced. Only, just like any other night, things hardly went according to plan.

Being jerks we got onto the QEW at Trafalgar. Before we could even hit 100 AJ's van had a heart attack. Like full on, would require a quadruple bi-pass surgery heart attack. A random light lit up on the dashboard and the engine started revving and un-revving like crazy. I've never seen anyone's car's RPMs go from 3000 to 6000 and back again like that.

AJ full on freaked because he's good at that. He pulled over at the beginning of the off ramp for Royal Windsor and shut the car off. So now we're sitting on an off ramp that's used by tractor trailers doing 140. It rocked. AJ phoned home and Jeremy and I tried to find a manual to figure out what light came on. Of course there was no manual, because that would have been too easy. AJ's dad also just had to not be home, solidifying my belief that the universe hates me for hanging out with musical theatre students. So I had to guide AJ to the nearest gas station, and phone my dad to try and get his input.

Did you know that oil needed to be changed/added regularly? It apparently plays a very important part in keeping your car engine from exploding. Did you also know that when you finally pull that stick of oil out and there's NOTHING on it that's generally a very, very bad sign? Yes. Apparently there was next to no oil in the van, which could have lead to possible engine exploding had we kept driving.

My dad had to phone a friend of his to verify what type of oil the van should have. I didn't even know that there were different types of oil. So we had to buy oil and put it in the engine. Also known as AJ had to buy oil and put it in the engine while I watched because I have no coordination. Then I checked the oil stick while my dad was on the phone.

After two bottles we were apparently good to go. At least good enough to get McDonald's, pick Donny up from the GO station after forcing him to take a train, and go get right shit faced. Hopefully we didn't screw anything up in the process of doing this, but I can at least say that I can change oil. I also got pictures to document the irony that is a van breaking down right after I dropped mine off for its check up.

I reserve the right to make up words when I'm this excited. See, I love the whole concept of prom. To me prom is something that's supposed to be like cute and lovey. The prom episode in Laguna Beach is something that I would consider like my perfect prom. Michelle Branch included.

My prom was less than a perfect experience. It took place after breaking up with a boy I had been rebounding with for a month after my girlfriend of half of high school and I broke up. I wasn't emotionally bothered by either, and I loved that Heather and I went together. Both of us being recently single at the time, it worked out perfectly. Only it wasn't my perfect prom.

Graduated from Holy Trinity was hardly liberating. I disliked most of my graduating class. Prom was worse. I disliked a lot of my friends' dates. We ended up going to Liuna Station which, while being somewhat pretty, sucked royally. The music sucked; the food was sub par. Actually, the music more than sucked. We had a Z103 DJ who was just plain horrid. I wanted to throw my shoes at him by the end of the night. By the time the after party came around I just wanted to go home. I didn't want to stay at Sheridan because Jess and Barone were half broken up and it was awkward. Josh and I ended up going to Alyssa's and then I left early to sleep.

Tonight my friend jokingly asked me to go to his prom with him. He lives around the Ottawa area. I don't think he expected me to say yes. Then again, he doesn't know how much I live for the idea of the perfect prom. So I'm going.

I'm going, and this time I'm going to do prom right. I don't care if I have to spend money on it. I'm going to get a gorgeous suit. I'm going to get a nice limo. I'm going to get an amazing hotel suite. More than that, I'm going to plan it so that we can still do the after party before going home. Most importantly: I'm going to finally get my prom. Can you feel the excitement? I know I can. So can my chair, desk, and floor. Shaking violently caused them to feel it too.