trixel

"And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
Why silks and linens of yesterday's gowns
To all tomorrow's parties
And what will she do with Thursday's rags
When Monday comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown and cry behind the door

And what costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown
For whom none will go mourning

A blackened shroud
A hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks - a costume
Fit for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow's parties"

-All Tomorrow's Parties by The Velvet Underground

I've been lost in the world of corporate aspiration this week. I was lucky enough to be part of a three day seminar/interview. I vied with thirteen other regional candidates for a supervisorial position. We had to give speeches, brainstorm through workshops, persuade our comrades etc etc I even used a logic tree at one point to solve a problem.

Throughout the entire thing we had a panel of four judges (evaluators) marking us. Welcome to the world of government competition. I'd apologize for the gap in journaling and replies, but to me it feels like the past six days have been in some sort of quasireality. I remember turning to a competitor during the round of speeches and saying it felt like Canadian Idol. Hell, it felt less real than a reality tv show.

And I don't even have tv.

What does this have to do with the Velvet Underground, you ask? Not much. I am getting ready for a party of sorts though.

It's Pride Sunday right now. For those of you who were around for my Summer Desires journal, I had planned to kiss and dance my way through the Pride Parade this year. Instead, I was seduced into pancakes at the Pancake House by my sister and friend Travis.

It's just as well with Hep A & B prevalent. These days one can't even share an innocent kiss without repercussions.

I'm supposed to be getting dressed up for the fairytale ball of the queer world. Instead, I'm sitting here naked, hair up and wet, listening to sad music. Well Elliott Smith, Independence Day at this very moment. I'm lamenting the loss of my slave. He's disappeared. I hope his eventual Mistress is good to him. He's a musician and I was listening to a few of his songs earlier and getting all misty-eyed.

So here I am, on the veritable eve of the ball with no motivation and no sugarplum dress. There are no bluebirds flying around with ribbons in their mouths.

I'm torn between: my hair up in princess leia buns, my hair down in braids, or my hair up in three's company chrissy ponytails.

I think it's gonna be ponytails, a tight t-shirt, black peasant pants and runners.

I'm hoping the music is good. Dancing will distract me from all the paired off snuggling. I can't drink. I can't get drunk.

I'm craving drugs.

I will be good.

Added after a few minute's consideration: I will find my dancing spirit and I will dance myself into summer even if all I have to work with is Madonna's "Vogue"

Added Later: I've been waiting for an hour and a half for my friends to get their shit together. Fuck it. I hate waiting and they have my ticket. I'm ditching out.

Ok, I'm over myself. Eating a bowl of soup. K called and cheered me in a very aggressive manner.

Oh this helped me feel better. I don't even like sweeties, but apparently when I'm PMSing I do. We used to get these all the time when I was a kid and we were travelling. Good British sweeties.