On second thought, scratch everything I said in the previous entry.

Despite possibly contracting rabies, as documented in my previous entry, I'm actually doing better lately. I don't know if it's the weather, the people I'm spending time with, the things I'm doing - I have no idea what's caused this shift in perspective. Maybe it's the medication. Whatever it is, I'm thankful. Life has been much more pleasant and enjoyable. I actually find myself wanting things, things I didn't think I would want. I feel... normal. I feel like I'm starting to understand. It's really, really nice.

My new favourite thing to do is drive around late at night, without a destination in mind. I'm starting to concoct adventurous plans, though. I want to do out-of-the-ordinary things. And I want to enjoy them, and not worry about anything while I'm doing them. I want to live in the moment.

I took Reese for a walk this evening, and while I was otherwise occupied, she quickly ran into the middle of the road to sniff a dead squirrel. I realized what she was doing and pulled on her leash; she came running back happily, then proceeded to lick my bare leg.

GROSS.

I work in a public office building a few nights a week, as well as during the weekend. Most of the building's staff works the regular 9-to-5, obviously, so when I'm at work, the building is relatively empty. This is fine with me, save for one issue: that of my personal security.

I'm sure the daytime staff are satisfied with the services of their capable, qualified security guards. I've seen the daytime security guards, and though they aren't the biggest and strongest people I've ever seen, they are reasonable; calm; and from what I can tell, sane. The same cannot be said for the (in)security guards that work the evening and weekend shifts.

In times of crisis, namely when a man fell in the foyer and an ambulance was required, the weekend security guards have been comical at best. At times I've felt as if I was watching a reenactment of a Three Stooges episode. I've seen running in all directions; I've seen scrambling for walkie-talkies; I've heard fuzzy white noise after the walkie-talkie has been found and misused; and I've had to call the police when the security guard was unable to do it himself.

If there's ever a crisis, I know I'll have to take matter into my own hands. Once calm has been restored, I'll let the guards resume their fingerpainting and macaroni crafts.

Up until today, I actually enjoyed going to the doctor. I enjoy having looming questions answered; problems resolved; and, my favourite, medication prescribed. Today was a bit different, though, because I was meeting my nemesis: the gynecologist. (Disclaimer: I'd like to address the fact that I am shameless, evidently, and all too willingly to blog about my vagina. Yup.)

The problem with today's visit can't be summarized simply; instead, it was really a pot pourri of awful, awful experiences. To begin, I arrived at the doctor's office at 12:30 PM, half an hour before the walk-in hours started. I thought this half hour grace period would at least assure me a decent place in the inevitable waiting list of walk-in patients. This was my first mistake. I waited for two and a half hours before my magic number was called, and my response was of the Price is Right contestant variety. I leaped into the belly of the medical beast, where I was, to my dismay, taken to another, albeit smaller, waiting room. After a short period of time I was called into a consultation room (I'm actually not sure if this is the technical term, but it sounds correct, and who are you to question me?) by a male nurse and his male medical student apprentice. Imagine my excitement. After talking to two men about the female reproductive system for far longer than what I consider comfortable, I was led back into the small waiting room. I waited here for another thirty minutes. 

After four hours of waiting and talking, I was beyond ready for the main event. Fear, discomfort, and anxiety were about two hours behind me; I just wanted to get this over with. My number is called, and again with game show calibre enthusiasm I leap into the examining room. The nurse tells me to strip from the waist down, cover myself with what can only be described as a giantesque paper towel, and wait for the doctor. At this point I think I'm home free. I'm hungry, tired, impatient, and FOR GOD'S SAKE JUST PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY. Ten minutes pass; pantless Elisa is waiting patiently. After twenty minutes, I begin to get stir crazy. After thirty minutes of sitting alone, wrapped in Bounty, I'm starting to feel angry and embarrassed. I start to whimper and tears start to swell in my eyes. Of course it's at this moment that the doctor walks in.

I will admit that if I had to pick a doctor to get to third base with, this doctor would be near the top of my list. She was very nice, very cautionary, but her one flaw was the uncanny ability to multitask during one of the few times I would actually prefer one to have a one-track mind. As she's about to skewer me with the plastic jaw of death, she pushes the giant paper towel aside to better display my graphic t-shirt, then quips, "Oh, I wanted to see who was on your shirt! Is it Einstein?", to which I reply, "Yep." What I wanted to say? "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE SHOVING SOMETHING INTO ME. LET'S STAY FOCUSED."

After the unpleasantness of the day's actual, physical events, the part that makes me the most distraught is the amount of time I spent waiting, waiting, and waiting. I can't even emphasize how much WAITING took place. HOURS AND HOURS OF WAITING. Adding insult to injury, the clinic's policy on walk-in appointments isn't first come first serve, but rather based on the nature of the concern. Apparently mine was low priority, putting me at the bottom of the food chain. There's nothing I hate more (aside from swabs going places no swab should go) than watching someone who just arrived get called in to see the doctor before I do. There's something so unjust about that.

I'm back on medication, and one of the (many) side effects is forgetfulness. When I was first warned about this particular side effect, I wasn't too worried. I thought its appearance would be minor, if at all. Well, I was mistaken. I can't remember the smallest things, like what I walked into another room for, or why I'm writing something down, or what happened in a novel a page prior to the one I'm on. The memory loss was quite apparent last night, when I was hanging out with two of my friends. The three of us were sitting around my kitchen table, swapping stories and sharing opinions, and I couldn't keep up with the conversation because I kept forgetting what I wanted to contribute. I would think of a great addition to the conversation, and by the time I had the chance to share it, I had forgotten it completely. How frustrating!

I'm really hoping this side effect is temporary, as many of them are with the type of medication I was prescribed. Yesterday my doctor assured me that the side effects are worst at the beginning, and slowly fade with time. I'm writing this part down because I want to remember it five minutes from now.

The other day I was on my way home from work, and because I take the same bus almost every day, I've grown accustomed to the route; I know the order of the stops, the length of the trip, etc. Anyway, at one point a man in his 50's gets on the bus and asks the driver if the bus goes to a certain stop, one that happens to be the very next one. I'm thinking that this guy has no idea where he's going because there's literally no other way the bus could go except to that stop. There are no possible turns, change of directions... nothing like that. The man sits down across from me, and the bus starts speeding towards the next stop. We're getting close to the stop, and the man has yet to ring the bell to indicate that he'd like the bus to stop, so I politely get his attention and say, "Excuse me, sir, but the next stop is going to be the one you want." Nice thing to do, right? Confused out-of-towner needs some help, and thoughtful girl helps him out. Not the case! He responds, with disdain, "I KNOW. That's where I'm planning to get off, THANKS." Well geez - GOD FORBID I TRY TO DO A NICE THING FOR YOU. I couldn't believe he was giving me attitude! I could understand if I said something like, "Yo, idiot, next stop is yours. How come you're so stupid?"... but I didn't! I thought I was doing him a favour, but instead I ended up feeling humiliated for the rest of the bus ride.

And that is why, from now on, I'm not going to do any good deeds. Because no good deed goes unpunished. That's the moral of this story.

Sometimes when I get really sad, I think about all the people I know or knew and what they'll be to me years from now. For example, let's take Kelsey. Right now she's my best friend, and in a few years I hope to be either living with her, or near her, and having dinner parties with our boyfriends or mutual friends, and laughing a lot. When I get married, I think she'll be there. When she has kids, I think I'll be there.

On the other hand, there are people I no longer talk to, who have drifted out of my life. Sometimes I get really sad when I think about how they'll go on to live their lives. I won't meet their future husband/wife and/or children. I won't be there when they grow old. One day they'll die and I won't even know. How does someone once so close get so, so far? It breaks my heart. Twenty years from now, I want to know that they're okay. I truly think I'll still care.

Sometimes when I'm out, and I see a child with his or her parent, I take a mental snapshot of them in my mind. And I try really hard to remember what they look like. And a week later, I try to remember those faces. And I picture those faces growing up, experiencing life, and growing old. I'm not sure if this practice makes me satisfied or even sadder. Maybe both.

So I went on the hunt for a big, giant, full-of-writing-room agenda with which to organize my life, and wouldn't you know it, agendas are a "seasonal item" at practically every store. I searched high and low for a 2009 agenda, and honestly all I could find were 2010 agendas. My question here is: who plans THAT FAR IN ADVANCE. Anyway, I settled for a 2009 refill for an agenda; it's bound, thankfully. I bought some wrapping paper and made a cover for it, so it no longer looks like the innards of a bigger agenda. Success... sort of!

I read "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" recently, and while the novel was beautiful in its entirety, a few parts really struck me. I found myself nodding as I read them for the first time; they are alarmingly similar to the way I think. I'm impressed by the author's ability to accurately depict a depressive/anxious person's thoughts and emotions.

Here are a few of the passages that really stuck with me (literally - I sticky noted them).

"I walked over to the hill where we used to go and sled. There were a lot of little kids there. I watched them flying. Doing jumps and having races. And I thought that all those little kids are going to grow up someday. And all of those little kids are going to do the things that we do. And they will all kiss someone someday. But for now, sledding is enough. I think it would be great if sledding were always enough, but it isn't."

"I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn't change the fact that they were upset. And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn't really change the fact that you have what you have. Good and bad. Just like what my sister said when I had been in the hospital for a while. She said that she was really worried about going to college, and considering what I was going through, she felt really dumb about it. But I don't know why she would feel dumb. I'd be worried, too. And really, I don't think I have it any better or worse than she does. I don't know. It's just different. Maybe it's good to put things in perspective, but sometimes, I think that the only perspective is to really be there. Like Sam said. Because it's okay to feel things."

"As we went into the tunnel, I didn't hold up my arms like I was flying. I just let the wind rush over my face. And I started crying and smiling at the same time... I was crying because I was suddenly aware of the fact that it was me standing up in that tunnel with the wind over my face. Not caring if I saw downtown. Not even thinking about it. Because I was standing in the tunnel. And I was really there. And that was enough to make me feel infinite."

I was standing outside a restaurant today - a restaurant that happens to be on the corner of two streets, at an intersection. I'm standing there, talking, and this van full of teenage boys pulls up. Because the blood is rushing to their crotches instead of their brains, they all try to stick their heads out the same window, rather than opening a few. If you're going to harass me, at least do it properly. Anyway, the 6 or so floating teenage heads all yell, "How much?" as they come to a stop at the corner. I shoot them a dirty look, and there's this awkward few seconds because they have to remain at the stop until it's their turn to go. Again, not thinking this through, boys.

The best part is, this was in suburbia, and I was wearing leggings, a tunic top, and sneakers. What part of this scenario says "hooker looking for her next trick" to you?

This summer I want to:

- Take lots of photographs
- Paint
- Start my website with Kelsey
- Work out regularly
- Keep on top of my summer class (Children's Literature!)
- Spend time with the people who matter to me, not the people I could do without
- Write in this blog more often
- Laugh often
- Cry less
- Take things in stride

Last night I was talking to Kelsey online, and out of the corner of my eye I see something move. I instantly know danger is on the horizon because I have white walls, making it impossible for anything to camofluage itself. In this case "it" was a giant fucking spider of epic proportions. This sucker definitely pulled an A-Rod and beefed himself up, either with my mom's plant food or some itty-bitty spider-sized protein shakes or something. This was no ordinary spider. The size of my fist. Literally.

Unfortunately for me, Sumo-spider decided to show himself late at night, after my dad (aka the resident bug killer) had gone to sleep. I'm convinced this spider waited patiently until I was alone before attempting to execute his plan of room domination. So as to not wake up my household, I silently screamed into my hands for a few seconds, frantically ran for my nearest pair of shoes, and TKO-ed the monster before I could think about the other possible conclusions. I mean, would he spin a web around me in a Spiderman-like fashion? Would his minions come and finish me off? Could he possibly be the baby of a larger, hairier, scarier spider, and killing him would only bring on the mother's wrath? So many possibilities.

The story doesn't end here, my friends. This spider's guts have tattooed themselves onto my wall, forever reminding me that I should sleep with one eye open lest I be carried away to the land of the enormous arachnids.

I went shopping with my mom, aunt, and grandma today. We picked up my grandma around noon, by which time my mom and aunt were both very hungry, so my aunt quickly vultured it up in grandma's fridge. She came running out of the house with, to my amusement, two large sausages wrapped in cellophane. She handed one to my mom, the driver, who ate half of it before putting it down so she could, you know, drive the car. The sausage ended up rolling onto the floor of my car, ending up at my grandma's feet. She unknowingly put her purse on the sausage, thus inviting the following conversation:

Mom: Mom, your purse is on my sausage.
Aunt: Your sausage fell?
Mom: Yeah, and mom just squished my sausage with her purse.
Grandma: Oh, Pam, it probably didn't squish. The sausage is hard. It's a hard one.
Me, Mom, Aunt: Hahaha.
Grandma: What?

My mom hates bees. I'm not talking about a generalized hatred that encompasses all creepy crawly bugs, but more like, she has sought out psychological aide to remedy this particular phobia. She saw a specialized psychologist a few years ago, and to this day whenever I see a bumblebee, I think of the treatment my mom had to work through. It started with looking at a frozen bee for minutes, to sitting with the psychologist while a bee flew around the room, to sitting alone in the room while a bee flew around, to bringing a bee home in a jar. Finally, after all these steps, my mom was able to spend time in our backyard - gardening, having barbeques, reading.

The other day I told my mom about this giant bumblebee I saw while walking through a park, and it seems time has not healed her bee-related wounds. We talked about this bumblebee for a good long while - its texture, its size (extra large, for your information), and its intentions. My mom came to the conclusion that this particular bee must have been the queen, and that she was probably looking for a male. Or succulent human flesh, the next logical conclusion.

I think it's kind of funny that after all this time my mom is still frightened of bees. Regardless, I look forward to swapping more bee stories with her, and watching her garden while wearing sound-canceling headphones and a beekeepers net.

Today was a good day. Though I worked for the majority of it, I managed to escape the confines of my cubicle with enough time left to enjoy the beautiful 30-degree weather. My friend met me outside my office building, and we walked aimlessly for a few hours - 12 kilometres in total. It was nice to be without destination, without a time line, without worry. Refreshing.

Along our journey we stopped for ice cream, and a disgusting Italian soda called Brio. My friend can't get enough of it, but I happen to think it tastes alarmingly similar to the teeth cleaner the dentist uses. After these treats, my friend's girlfriend joined us and the three of us went out for asian food in Chinatown. We always go to the same restaurant, and I always order the same dish. Somehow it never gets old.

After dinner I returned home, where I sat peacefully in my room for all of five minutes before Emily called, asking if I wanted to come over to visit. I love having a friend who lives across the street; keeping in touch is so easy. We talked about somewhat serious topics before deciding to counterbalance thoughtfulness with silly Youtube videos.

Now I'm home, freshly showered, and feeling calm. Days like today remind me how lucky I am, and how wonderful the world can be.

Last week I met one of my friends for coffee (well, tea for me) at this neat little place downtown. I like to think of it as an unenfranchised, underground Starbucks, because the drinks are prepared in an intricate, sophisticated way, yet the atmosphere is cozy and unique. The place is frequented by hipsters, with-the-times businessmen, new-age hippies, and apparently my friend and I. Interesting demographic. Anyway, I order my tea from this tall, tattooed, good-looking guy. He starts joking around with me, then fumbles to give me my change. He's all blushy; it's all very endearing. As my friend and I walk away, she informs me that he was hitting on me. How I was supposed to know this, I'm not sure.

Next we take a seat on the patio because it's a shockingly nice day, albeit a bit windy. A few minutes later a gust of Mariah Carey music video calibre wind blows the napkin of a guy sitting a table over to my feet. Because I hate litter, I pick up the napkin and use my cup as a paperweight to keep it from flying away again. The guy turns to me and quips that he was actually hoping to hold on to the napkin, to keep. I frantically apologize, at which point he, his friend, and my friend, start laughing. Cool, Elisa. The guy tried to keep the conversation going, but I turned away and reconvened conversation with my friend. Again, I unknowingly shut people down. She thought it was pretty funny, how I'm so gullible and oblivious to come-ons.

That, my friends, is what two slices of bread, 5 eggs, half a package of shredded cheese, and steak sauce look like. I think I just felt my arteries tense up in fear.

Sad part is, after taking this picture I asked the master chef (read: my brother) to make me one. I won't even deny that it was delicious.

Rudy: That's life, Henry.
Henry: Yep.
Rudy: You know what life is?
Henry: Life is a horrible little giggle in the midst of a forced death march towards hell.
Rudy: No it isn't.
Henry: An interminable wail of grief...
Rudy: No. Life is a single skip for joy.
Henry: I know.