Strangely Socialised

I have all this downtime at work right now. I should really be updating more often, instead of dicking around and looking for something to do. Of course, then the majority of my entries would be about dicking around, looking for something to do, so maybe not.

Last weekend was spend up in Dauphin at the annual ACT Festival, where I got to watch more than my fair share of amateur drama, most of which was surprisingly good. (Not that I think amateur drama is bad — I’m involved in it after all — but I’ve seen all of these groups perform in previous years. Nuff said.) I’ll probably write up a little blurb on each of the plays later, most for my own purposes, but also to demonstrate how utterly un-witty I can be when trying to describe a set made up entirely of cardboard cut-out animals. And really, that one should be easy.

Those who know me know that, for the most part, I don’t drink. Due to a medical condition, I have virtually no tolerance for alcohol, and when I am drinking, I have a self-imposed two drink limit. Which makes this weekend such an anomaly because not only did I scarf down wine, beer, vodka, rum, peach schnapps and rasperry sourpuss, in combination, but I didn’t get the least bit ill, and remained more sober than most of the people around me. Hooray for finally being on the right dosage of my medication! (Or so I presume.)

I brought my camera to the Friday night party, where one of the groups showed up all in matching kilts. The camera was quickly stolen from me — by the vice president of the board, no less — and stuck up under one of the kilts to get a picture of whether or not they were being worn correctly. Um. They were. And like it or not, I now have photographic proof. I think the main reason the batteries were dead on my camera by the time the Saturday party rolled around is because everyone heard of the picture the next day and wanted to take a look. (And for the record, in case anyone is scandalized by this, the “victim” of the picture was a perfectly willing one.)

On the downer side, during the first performance of the day on Sunday, there was a medical incident on the balcony (where I was sitting). Halfway through the play there were suddenly shouts from next to me of “Help!” and “Call an ambulance!” House lights went up and the play stopped and I rushed across the aisle to help and it turned out to be someone I knew, from my hometown. He was unconscious and they were trying to find a pulse, and we managed to get him laying on the floor — not an easy task when you’re in a cramped theatre balcony. At first they thought he’d suffered a heart attack but he regained consciousness about a minute later and was lucid and said he was in no pain, though he had no energy whatsoever. One of the other members on the ACT board is a doctor, so he rushed up there to get a handle on things while we waited for the ambulance to get there.

He’s fine now, and home, and spent less than a day in the hospital in the end (it was hot in the balcony, and he had suffered fainting spells in the past). One of the most difficult things was that he was a member of the theatre group that had been on stage at the time, and they were all a wreck, in tears over the whole thing. But much to their credit, once it was established that he was okay, and the ambulance had left for the hospital, they pulled it together and got back on stage and finished the performance. I’m not sure many people would have been able to do that.

So, in general, a good weekend was had by all. And I did, in fact, put my seven hours of bus time to relatively good use,

Just got home from the funeral, maybe an hour ago. A little more. It was really lovely, and there were so many people there. They ran out of handouts of the psalm reading, then they ran out of seats. It almost made me cry seeing that many people show up, even before the service started. When my cousin was driving into the lot, we were sure there had to be more than one group gathering, just by the number of cars.

There was family there I’d never met there. People my mom told me she hasn’t seen in thirty or forty years. And that I probably won’t ever see again. But it was good, that everyone managed to be there.

So she’s gone now.

One entry, just one entry, and then I have to do something productive. Minorly self-pitying again, which is ridiculous because there’ve been a lot worse time in my life than this. Like two years ago, like 1998, like all of high school. Times when my problems were genuine and not just a result of me not really feeling like coping with them.

Nothing much to drink in the house, not that I want anyway. You can’t mix diet pepsi with anything, it tastes like crap. Maybe some peach schnapps and that awful generic, flat lemon-lime drink in the fridge. If the peach schnapps isn’t gone. There’s always vodka, though, and rum. Really wishing I could smoke up right now, which is something I haven’t even really thought about in a while. I’m too fucking tense.

Friends, get online! Because it’s all about me and I’m fucking lonely and it’s your fault. While you’re out having lives I’m sitting here in my underwear wishing I could go skating except it’s too cold and windy outside. It’s quite enough that I’m going to have run errands in it tomorrow.

I need to learn to like drinking water. Everything else is too damn expensive.

I’m going to stop being random girl now and go fix my bed. Yet again. When I move, I swear that thing’s getting trashed. Or, well, given away to someone, whoever wants it. The mattresses are trash, though. There’ve been holes in them since I got it, and that was, what, three years ago? Holes and stains. But I cover it with blankets and sheets and it does all right. I’ve got the futon now, that’s what will be moving with me. I can only really afford a bachelor in Toronto at this point anyway.

Frustration, frustration, frustration.

You ever have one of those days when you’re convinced all your friends are just faking it? Which is just fucking stupid, because why put that much effort in for someone you don’t give a shit about? But still, feeling very sorry for myself and am glad no one’s here to see it and mock me for it.

I feel another sleepless night coming on, and this time not because I’ve napped in the evening and thus fucked up my entire sleep schedule. I read once, I think, that the human body isn’t naturally on a 24-hour cycle. That someone did an experiment where someone, or multiple someones, were kept in an environment where they had no way of telling what time it was or what day it was, and they were just left to find their own rhythms. I can’t remember the natural length of their day, though. I just remember that when they emerged from said environment, they were very wrong about how many days had passed.

Spent my last sleepless night making shadow puppets in front of my window. I’m really terrible at shadow puppets. Menacing wolf looks more like Finnegan. If I could do Casey with my other hand, I’d be set. And a bunny rabbit? Forget it. More closely resembles a television antenna. Writing? Yes, I’m actually quite good. Singing, acting, photomanips, graphic design? Competent, I think. Dancing and shadow puppets? Very, very much not my calling.

I think I would very much like to get more done in a day. Maybe that’s the source of my insomnia, my body not letting me get rest until I thinks I’ve accomlished something. At the rate I’m going, though, that single page of a short story might have to suffice. Maybe if I feed it some more sherry it will settle down into a nice slumber.

Just as long as the headache doesn’t kick again again. Must remember to start wearing glasses more often because, strangely enough, it tends to avert the headaches. Funny, that. Plus, they’re stylin! And poor, unattractive me can always use some class.

Oh dear, back to the self-pitying again. Time for that sherry.