Consider this letter from "White Oleander" by Janet Fitch, which made me laugh out loud this evening:

Dear Astrid,

ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?? You may not 1) be baptized 2) call yourself a Christian, and 3) write to me on that ridiculous stationary. You will not sign your letters "born again in Christ!" God is dead, haven't you heard, he died a hundred years ago, gave out from sheer lack of interest, decided to play golf instead. I raised you to have some self-respect, and now you're telling me you've given it all away to a 3-D postcard Jesus? I would laugh if it weren't so desperately sad.

Don't you dare ask me to accept Jesus as my saviour, wash my soul in the Blood of the Lamb. Don't even think of trying to redeem me. I regret NOTHING. No woman with any self-respect would have done less.

The question of good and the nature of evil will always be one of philosophy's most intriguing problems, up there with the problem of existence itself. I'm not quarreling with your choice of issues, only with your intellectually diminished approach. If evil means to be self-motivated, to be the center of one's own universe, to live on one's own terms, then every artist, every thinker, every original mind, is evil. Because we dare to look through our own eyes rather than mouth cliches lent us from the so-called Fathers. To dare to see is to steal from the Gods. This is mankind's destiny, the engine which fuels us as a race.

Three cheers for Eve.

Mother.

I love that line about the artists and thinkers. Brilliant. Almost as brilliant as Milton, though not as quite: "Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."

I've absorbed myself in books lately. If I am not at work or at the gym, I am reading. I pity those who choose not to read, they have no idea the kinds of worlds they are missing out on, the people they are choosing not to meet and learn to love and frown, laugh and cry with. They're pushing away the power to learn new and interesting things about our world, our existence, our very souls. Who could push that away? Books open doors. Books open minds. Close-minded people don't read. If they do read, they read what my English teacher always called "Good crap" - Stephen King and the like. I don't like King at all actually, I despise his writing style, save a handful of his short stories. But who can trust a man who pukes out novels like a goddamned machine? How much thought do you think he puts into his writing? Enough to make a living, that's how much. Money, money money. I appreciate authors who spend years on their debut novel, who write maybe 5 novels in a lifetime, at most - people like Wally Lamb, Barbara Kingsolver - authors who take time to research and edit manuscript after manuscript. In "Finding Forrester", the most inspiration film for a budding writer, Mr. Forrester is questioned on why he only wrote one book. It was a good book - high school kids study it. But he only wrote that one book his entire life. Why? Because that was all he needed. He said what he wanted to say, and there was nothing else to be said. That is the kind of writing that I admire. To write because you have something on your mind, because you want to get your words out there. Not because you want to make money. You write about something YOU want to write about, and when it's done, it's done. Maybe it will take you 6 novels, 100 poems, 1 single short story. Most good writers cannot live off of their writing. With the exception of Margaret Atwood maybe, who is arguably a crappy writer anyway (I personally love her, but you either love her, or you downright hate her). Writers who make a living, they attract the readers who think they're such smart people to be reading, but what good are they doing themselves reading conversational American English about rabid dogs who kill their owners, or telepathic girls who go psycho on prom night. My favourite King book is "Skeleton Crew" - his collection of short stories. The shorter he writes, the better. Less of the garbled crap.

Now that I have bored all of the non-readers out there plus offended anyone who loves Stephen King, I will continue with my thoughts of the day.

In exactly 8 days I will be 19 years old, which were I live is legal age. It's not going to the liquor store and being able to buy my own alcohol that excites me. I'm not too hyped on the idea of getting tanked when I'm 19. What I'm excited about is ordering drinks in a restaurant. Yes, I'm weird. But I aim for class, no? It's just this thing - going to Milestone's for dinner with friends the other week, there was nothing more I wanted than to order a Mai Tai or cranberry cocktail. Nothing to get buzzed off of, just a nice glass of white wine or maybe a lime margarita. Something with a little taste to go with my meal. That's all I ask for. In 8 days I will taste the sweetness of holding a real ID in my hand and getting away with it. Legal, yes. Adult, no way. Age aint nothin' but a number...to quote old school TLC.

Tomorrow I work in Langley, in another of our outlet stores. They needed me to come out because two of their girls have their grad stuff this weekend. All people have been telling me for a month is how I will be the cutest thing to ever walk in that store because the other girl I will be working with is fat and ugly.

All I ever get is cute. I'm never pretty or hot, or beautiful. Maybe I've been sexy once or twice, but always cute. I don't know if that's a good thing of not. It only confirms my suspicions that I really do look 4 years younger than I actually am. Not that I can help my height and body type. Maybe when I'm 40 and look like I'm 30, I'll love looking cute. For now, I feel like guys don't ever look at me with interest. I'm just that "cute" girl who looks like she's in Grade 7. Hell, I haven't changed since Grade 7 anyway, except my ass and hips are bigger. My only claim to puberty.

Wednesday night was spent eventfully. Haven't had that much fun in ages! Spent the night with a few friends I hadn't seen in a while. Smoked a couple joints and laughed so hard that we were actually crying from the pain in our stomachs. Most of it was due to the high, but I know that even when we're sober, Michelle, Lindsey and I always laugh together. We figure that weed must be pretty good for you, due to the amount of laughing we do (calories spent and the best ab workout of all time). I can't remember a night where I was happier. I honestly can't. I think it must have been last year. Or never. Hell why don't I just write down every detail. I don't want to forget the funnest night of my life.

Michelle, Oscar and Linds picked me up at 9, and we drove to Jesse Wowk elementary to smoke at the playground. It's usually okay there at that time of night but as the sun goes down later nowadays, it was still light outside and there were still people walking around. No matter. We smoked anyway, and it got rowdy right then and there on top of the castle thing we were sitting on. We laughed for 15 minutes straight, no joke. The pain was unbearable but we couldn't stop. Lindsey was practically convulsing - and I mean shaking, wouldn't open her eyes at all - I thought for a minute maybe something was actually wrong with her, but she turned out fine. Oscar kept wanting to walk to 7-11 down the road, but we insisted we were in no state to go to sev. Finally he coaxed us down, and after declaring we would not be able to handle walking that far, we just drove. I know, it's so bad to drive stoned but I swear on my LIFE Michelle is a better driver when she's high than when she's not. I almost trust her, aside from the times she starts screaming-laughing and takes her hands off the wheel.

We were hoping Tony would be working (an old-time friend, ex-drug dealer) but it was some old Chinese lady they call cunt-face or cunt-bitch or bitch-slut or something to that effect. I was trying really hard to be normal while getting my slurpee, but as soon as I met Chelle and Linds at the candy isle we started to get rowdy again. I wanted chocolate so badly that I bought two king-size chocolate bars, after starting to cry about how I wanted two white-wrapped ones but had to buy one red and one white because those were "the Canada colours". Lindsey was freaking out because she needed a drink and kept saying her throat was going to close and she was going to die. After the adventure at sev we went to Boston Pizza where we ate way too much and laughed and talked about bullshit I can't even remember. I remember all 4 of us rocking back and forth singing to the Spice Girls song on the jukebox at one point. And another point where Michelle and I were screeching about something and it must have been pretty loud or crude (most likely both) because everyone around us was staring.

After BP we hit the Breadgarden for coffee and cake. By then our highs were starting to burn out. We had a few giggles and what not, but maybe 45 mins later, I almost fell asleep right there on the table I was so burnt. So we went home. I fell into a deep sleep that always happens after I smoke. It's so peaceful, and so easy to drift. No stress, just complete relaxation...so sleepy...

That was the night in a very small nutshell. I need one of those nights at least once a week, really.

I'll end off here, only because I want to continue my book.

15 days until Mexico.

Adios!

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