dal niente


Time: 23:00

Batteries: 30% (Redline!)

Morale: -_-‘’


It’s raining like mad outside tonight.  I just happened to upgrade my splashguards from a compact Louis Garneau  Tail Streamer to a more serious looking MTB set (it looks kinda strange on my road bike, but well).  But a set of splashguards really only works when you’re going through puddles—not when the sky is trying to murder you by dropping a tidal wave on you.


I was away from Canada for more than a year so, but I don’t remember the weather in Montreal being quite like this.  By ‘this’ I mean slingshotting within the span of a single day from unbelievably sunny to pouring rain, and then doing so for like 3 months straight.


Meanwhile, Texas is undergoing an extreme drought, so much so that police are patrolling the suburbs and fining anyone caught watering their lawn.


Yeah sure, global warming is a myth.



Truth is, I normally actually love riding home at night in pouring rain.  I find it therapeutic, like some sorta spiritual cleansing.  The distance between my workplace and my apartment is ideal, at about 15 minutes during daylight conditions, and between 20-25 mintues at night in suboptimal ones.


I’m not sure what I like about it.  It’s really sort of bittersweet because right now, I guess I’m not in all that great a mood.  It’s the sleep deprivation.  I went into this work marathon in probably a B- sleep condition, and now I’m really hugging the D- grade right now.  I’m going to be working essentially 10 shifts in the span of 8 days.  You may wonder if it’s illegally dangerous, or dangerously illegal.  I dunno.  All I know is that I wish I was paid overtime for that, but I’m not.


Last night I worked from 23:15 until 7:15, then I came back to start at 16:00.  I’m going to be here until 00:00.  I’ll be back here in the morning at 8:00 again.


I’m basically functioning as if my workday cycle had 20 hours and then I’m squeezing in an extra workday somewhere.


I’m eating like crazy nowadays and I’ve put on some weight despite the constant cycling.  I think it’s muscle mass, but a lot of it is pure carb weight too.


I suppose cycling explains part of it, but I think it’s also the bad sleep.



The thing about sleep deprivation is that in the first few days, it’s kinda fun.  I don’t stay up due to stress nowadays—I mostly stay up because I feel like I don’t have enough hours to do everything that I want to do in a single night.  At first, in that sense, it’s a good thing to squeeze an hour or two extra in before going to bed because it feels like you really got a lot out of that hour, while the benefits of sleep are often a lot more subtle.


But then it quickly (and inevitably) gets out of hand.  I always tell myself that I’ll have more discipline when the work days pile up, but what actually happens is the opposite—on workdays, because I have less time to do what I want, I end up taking out more and more of my sleep bank, and it exacerbates the whole situation.



I guess bottom line is that right now, I’ve got 40 more minutes of this shift and then I have to bike home in the pouring rain.  Normally that’d be cool but at the moment, frankly, I’m tired. I just want to sleep.


I feel like I’m getting cranky.  [Kingston] told me to have dinner with her tonight after she finished her shift—I happened to be at work and having my half hour break remaining at the same time—so we ran out to the Maison Bulgogi for a quick bite on her treat before she went home and I had the rest of my shift to do.  I just wasn’t very sociable. I don’t know exactly why. It’s one of those situations where I have no explanation except that I’m tired—which, perhaps, is all the explanation.


The whole world is different when you’re tired—you’re never yourself, or perhaps you’re too much yourself.  At least, I am.



I’ve been thinking about this whole thing with [Kingston] and it reveals something about me—maybe I’m desparate.  I’m reading into ‘intentions’ of hers that really aren’t there, I’m just seeing things in this light.   I am the Ted Mosby who screws things up by getting too deep too fast.


How long was it since the last person I had a crush on?  It’s been just over a month.


[Kingston] has only been around for two weeks, and I’ve been blazing through all this even though this is really, really doomed.  I guess that, as much as I really like her, I know it’s not going to work and I’m just seeing this through.   I don’t even intend to tell her—because what would that accomplish? It’d make things awkward, it’d highlight that maybe she’s been spending more time with me than her boyfriend would like… who knows.  This is all supposition.


But what does this say about me?


Doesn’t this make me insincere?


How many crushes have I had since January?  How many times have I spoken of them as if each of them was the end of the world for me?


But it can’t be true, can it: because the world didn’t end with one, or the next.  And I hate that it feels like I cheapen each one like that.  I don’t meant to because every one of them is special—but what does it take?  What does it take to really make anything work?


If there is a girl out there who turns out to be ‘the one,’ is it a good enough for me to be myself and risk it all, all over again?  Or will she want something original, something specifically for her that makes her different from all the others?


Well, they’re all different.  The girls I have crushes on, I mean.  I don’t mean to seem insincere, but sometimes, I just feel that if things were different, if the timing was different, maybe…


I guess tonight, I hate that I need somebody to love.  I hate it.  I’m tired.


I’m not perfect. I just wish I were sometimes so that I would never feel bad.




It’s been an abnormally long hiatus from posting online.


I had actually written up a post a couple of days ago to put on, but because I had forgotten my USB key back at my parents’ place from the last time I went there, I was using an old MP3 player as a temporary storage device instead.  That MP3 player doesn’t work very well and as a testimony to that, it just decided to eat my post without so much as a thank you.  The reason why I need a USB in the first place is that station where I often work overnight, at triage, doesn’t have internet access, so I need to save my writing for later uploading. This post comes courtesy of network shared drives– during my boredom last night, basically reading all openable files it occured to me that a lot of these drives must not be local.  My guess was pretty good– turns out that although the triage computers don’t have internet, the ones in the doctors’ station do, and they’re linked by network drives.  That means that I can save my data onto the drive in encrypted, cleverly named files (such as “Infectious Disease C8482 Study”) and nobody will be the wiser.


Well, so what’s new with you folks?



I was thinking about something recently, and that’s this whole thing of ‘staying in touch.’  The whole expression, it seems to me, has to do with just shooting the shit with people every now and then.  But how important is that really?  We can do that peripherally with a 4×4 inch IM window at the corner of the screen, which we tab into periodically from watching How I Met Your Mother streaming online.  You’ve heard it time and time again that the internet changed everyone—staying in touch at a certain point no longer meant that you needed to within a touching range with someone.


Social networking sites are kind of paradoxical in that way because activeness in cyberspace is often inversely proportional to activeness in meatspace.


Well, so what’s new with you folks?


I guess you can say, I’ve been keeping busy.



I introduced [Kingston] a few posts ago and the reason being is that lately, she’s become somewhat of a constant in my life.  And that’s problematic.


But let’s start at the beginning.  After that first night when she joined my group at Tokebi’s for Korean food and drinks, she texted me the next day saying that because of what we’d been eating the night before, she suddenly had this homesickness for instant noodles.  Being the gentleman that I am, I invited her over to my newly rearranged apartment for a dinner of instant noodles with dumplings and veggies.  These were eaten over a few bottles of soju and half a bottle of Metaxa—Metaxa being a god awful brandy derivative made by the Greek but used by the Portugeuse use for honoring the dead—and well, things got a bit tipsy.  The evening began at 7 and by the time we had worked our way up to 1am when my roomies came home, we’d talked about a fair number of useless things, from the mud in which dead men lie, to the laughter that defines the human condition.  You know:  Shooting the shit.  It was sorta like keeping in touch, except not over a phone or in front of  a screen, but in front of a live person.  Being in touch range.


Which is why I say that it’s problematic.  Because as the night progressed, so did my urge to get closer to her.  But that in itself isn’t why it’s problematic—there’s nothing wrong with being attracted to someone, of course.  Thankfully my roomies came home and after brief comical introductions, we decided to call it a night.


By the time we’d had enough for the night, it was late and the trains that she needed to take home had ago chained their gates shut.  She decided to stay the night.  She took a shower, borrowing my only towel, and used a clean pair of scrub pants and one of my Street Fighter shirts for pyjamas.  She was pretty exhausted and just fell into the satellite chair in my room, already half asleep and insisting that she sleep there and that I take the bed.


Gentleman that I am, I picked her up and threw her on the bed, and drew out the spare mattress for myself.  I think I was more drunk that she was, and in that sense, it’s significant that was still able to function the way I did.


Although I lay on the mattress next to hers and we were both pretty exhausted trying to process all that alcohol, somehow I ended up in the bed with her and we spent who knows how long, of all things, checking out the names on her phone.  We made fun of the names one by one in the dark.


And that was it.  Eventually she fell asleep.  I rolled myself off the bed, and slept pillowless and blanketless on the spare mattress.


You see, she’s got a boyfriend back in Vancouver.


And I keep telling myself, you are not a homewrecker.

You are not a homewrecker.



The next two weeks, leading up to yesterday still, we’d meet eachother almost everyday to do something.  Half the time it was her idea.  We went out to bars, restaurants, shows.  I’m sleep deprived, but I feel great.

Sometimes we did groceries and instead decided upon cooking dinner at my place.  Yesterday after I finished my overnight shift, she came over in the morning and made me berakfast: butter and peanut butter on toast.  I’d never heard of the combo before but it’s not half bad.  After breakfast, despite my exhaustion, we watched a movie before going out for coffee.

At the Just for Laughs Festival, we went to see Ethnic Heroes of Comedy, as we were spilling champagne because we love racist jokes that much, it was then I realized without a doubt that I was fucked—I was falling for this girl.  That she worked in a healthcare setting and understood parts of my life related to it wasn’t enough on it’s own.  Nor was it that I like her style, her bluntness, her purposeful alternation between miss-know-it-all and the atypyical dumb-blonde.  Nor was it that this or that– in the end, it was because when she laughs, it makes me think: this is someone I don’t want to lose touch with.


I almost told her right then and there.  But you know me– as much as I can find rationalizations to do anything, so too can I find rationalizations to do nothing.

And as much as I’d like to flatter myself, the homewrecker principle isn’t the only thing holding me back.  I’m just scared, to be honest.  She’s going back to Vancouver at the end of August (how do I always find girls with mileage problems?) and, of course, there’s one detail:

she keeps in touch with her boyfriend.  And he sounds like a good guy, from what I can force out of her.


I don’t think I can deal with being the replacement boyfriend in the meantime.  Yet I persist, because my heart’s in charge of operations.

And when has my heart ever let me down?