these fishy days

the 'scope this week is excellent. Apparently the stars are aligned and the power to organism from deep thought alone is within sight.  I need to harness the pisces birthright, apparently. Owning the equally wild and disciplined parts of personality to experience holy bliss... 

I hope—figuratively speaking—to get laid and paid. 

Inspiring the sending of mail, the gathering of fruit, the quiet time with guilty pleasure writing, the neglecting all that is necessary for 45 minutes and thinking up all the 'wild' things I can possibly do in the upcoming week instead is just the break I need. Doing it without pants and coffee-stained teeth, vintage fur 'round shoulders, channeling an inner-grandma is also fucking divine. There is something about fur without pants that is reckless chic.  

This is also a weak-but-necessary preface into the debauchery of Hween—where they say that people release their inner darkside when they wear what they wish they could the other 360 days of the year. It might be true, considering how everyone's garb was quite fitting really: Aly was the lamb of god, Richard a sun/feather golden boy, JJ was an octopus-wish thrown in that bottle of red by the river last summer (my wish hasn't come true either, william).  All fitting. I was the one who changed five times at work before settling on badass blue biker Babcia—naturally sans pants. 

The first thing we do once walking onto the metro car is experience a brawl that leaves me kicking a couple of predators as hard as I can in their ribs with raised boot. Costumed Canadiens fans (no less) fight fucking dirty.  After that spook—wiping blood from our costumes—the dancing began in living rooms of ex-pats (the lovely Christiane et Benoit), followed by socializing the Mile End, getting on the WRONG bus to industrial St.Laurent North, stranded without pants and blue beehive in the middle of rape-me-alone nowhere and an interesting taxi ride to the wrong party (fifty doors from where I shouldn't have been anyways), before strutting home through the parc with a joint in mouth. 

I better be the coolest fucking grandma ever... 

The next day was early to the office feeling *just great* before experiencing an aftermath 2 p.m. hangover with just enough energy to put on a bra and attend this. 

(the random, cool assignments are the reason I bust my balls on the boring stuff, I think. Just how fabulous a journalists life can be! Munching vegan ChuChai goodness, rubbing elbows with the creme of the non-carne crop, talking to Montreal Canadiens celebrity Georges Laraque... it's fun when it doesn't feel like work.)

But already that was last weekend and this one coming up couldn't be more polar. The Queer issue will kill me. Same with the job. Same with the moonly desire to let the walk on the wild side intersperse with these disciplined, regimented hours. 

fuuuuuck those fishy ways. Lo.