It’s ten to seven, and I’m sitting inside the greyhound station restaurant once again. My nose is fucking blocked, and I’m sipping the honey & lemon tea that doesn’t taste like honey at all. My hair has gone all static and won’t stop falling out; I’ve never had such thin hair in my life. Using volumizer shampoo is cheating and not good for my hair, either.
The neon lights are hurting my eyes. I wonder where all these men are heading. Yesterday’s seat partner was called Phil. He was from Ottawa and lived in Whistler, a fellow stoner–a very nice guy looking to become an ancient history teacher.
This place feels homely, despite the ugly lights. How do you lock/unlock the door and flush the toilet in a public washroom? -You hold a piece of paper, and then you touch the lock or the flush handle with it. I know I’m a germaphobe.
I had a good 27 hours in Vancouver.
My aunt gave me back the rent money I had left her the last time I stayed with her. I feel bad.
Re-reading my old short stories. I can’t believe I came up with such fucked up ideas.
It’s so dark outside; the mountains’ snow reminds me of my friend’s wedding cake. Her husband gave me a piece of cake that fell over on the plate. All of you know what that means… It means I won’t get married because my mother-in-law would disapprove of me.
I’m tired of blogging from my phone. I even tried getting Nick Cave tickets on my phone, but it didn’t work.
Still no announcement of when the bus is leaving. I see Calgary written on it.
Let me in, please. In fact, this place is making me feel loopy, and I’ve walked in circles way too many times.
