An explorer in the abstract...

So. I'm completely addicted to the Sims 2. It's alright. Workopolis allows me to email my resume to prospectives. And that's what I've been doing. Please keep your fingers crossed for me. There are some really cool gigs that I found recently, all of which I think I'm qualified for. Most of which I don't have the paper to prove I'm qualified for, though. It's tragic, really. And I have an interview with a temp agency on Monday. I'm not sure if I'm looking forward to that or not.

Now, the Sims. My elderly couple were getting on nicely in their lives, working out, partying, enjoying the woo hoo and their two over acheiving sons (I'm seriously not sure if I love or hate those kids) when all of a sudden, one of the ladies developes this severe shoulder displacement. As in she was walking around the room with her arms straight out behind her. She does yoga on her head. She levitates. It's creepy beyond belief. I've taken pictures, but I can't find them on the computer, so you'll just have to imagine the disturbingness of it all.

A big yay for my Nana. This woman is always landing herself free tickets to stuff. I saw Tommy twice when it was in Toronto, and Phantom once, nevermind all the shows she's sent my parents to see. Anyway, she's branched out from Honest Ed sponsored musicals into "true" art. Cosmo and I are going to see the Opera tomorrow. And it's one he's been itching to see, too. Lucia di Lamamour. It sounds wonderful. And I'm probably spelling it wrong, but my Nana mispronounced it, so I'm at least a little bit cooler than a 72 year old woman.

I recently found an old notebook from about five years ago. In it is some strange, sleep deprived rant, and a story. The story I think is pretty good, but the dialogue is terrible. Okay, it's not terrible, but people don't talk the way I wrote these people talking.

It starts out like this:

"In the beginning, there was a cool, clear evening in October but the crickets refused to sing over the blast of the stereo. There was a roof top and a fire escape and a romantic with a cigarette. A loser escapee from high school, with a safe job and a small apartment. Three months away from paying off her first year in college, which hadn’t yet started.

So young for an old soul. So old for a young body. Never having belonged she sat and missed something from another life. Without knowing it, born back into this world as an oddity – that one which is born backwards. An addict of sorts, this addiction merely one of living in a past not hers. A random accident, some sort of deficiency of those who had borne her.

Cruel, beautifully twisted. She dreamed of hurts and a final revenge she would never be strong enough to exact. Instead she writes herself long diatribes during which she tries to convince herself to be recreated better, more whole.

A day sleeper with nothing to do at night, she slept through her work, coming up with another way to make it less important to her life, for she was afraid of what she saw in her future if she didn’t leave it soon. An explorer in the abstract."

I'm probably deluding myself into thinking it's good, but it's not really because it's mine. I keep looking at these words, and they're in my writing, and I even know the apartment I'm writing about, but somehow it doesn't feel like I wrote these words. Quoting that beginning to the story almost feels like plagiarism. So strange.

Oh well, the good news about it is that it's made me want to start writing again. In fact, I want to fix up that story, 'cause it seems to be good, just surreal.