Do you ever get really excited about things that people around you don't seem to care about?

Do you ever wake up really excited with a kick start to a bright sunny day, only to have someone rain on your parade?

Are you ever more into being into people than the people around you?


Welcome to the "We Like to Enjoy Life Club".

Membership is possible in just five easy steps:

1. Read from a text book on Canadian colonial history every morning, this allows for a greater appreciation of the finer things in life, such as the fact that the first few sentences of this post are written in blue font (Cool!).

2. Wake up three hours later than everyone you know, the day is already a better place.

3. Drink obscene amounts of alcohol when you go out and black out (or at least say you did) the actions you take in a less savoury light. This way every night is a good night.

4. Tell your friends they're boring (can be used as a clutch to get out of awkward situations), this makes you feel like you're capable of having more fun (there's always something better out there).

5. Pay the $250 membership fee.

Once these steps are completed you too can enjoy a life of fulfillment.

First you will receive your very own "I went to the Cumberland Pencil Museum and had an amazing time!" t-shirt, along with a "It's three in the afternoon and I just woke up, isn't life just swell" coffee mug.

As a member you will have the opportunity to take seminars on:

• How to make learning about the life span of a Californian Redwood Tree exciting
• How to do absolutely nothing and still enjoy yourself
• How to enjoy listening to white noise
• How to dance to your internal beat
• The proper way to Free Stand (whether on your own or as a building)

And many more for all your needs, so come on down to our office, located in the Pulp and Paper building, right beside laser room 821 (because life is better when your living on edge, but you already know that).

Don't forget your $250 cash or cheque (think of it as a secure investment; funds to keep you far from an eternal lack of appreciation of life).

See you there.

Strangers (Waiting, Up and Down the Boulevard)

WHEN YOU BROWSE the Internet, your browser communicates certain things to the sites you visit. Some of this information is useful for designing websites--for example, your operating system, browser, or screen resolution--and some of it is useful in targeting content: to visitors' language, location, and point of entry to your site.

Dessert Tickets traffic breaks down 66% direct, 26% site referral, which includes blogger.com and Google Reader--and 7% search engine referral. Of that 7%--41 total visits as of this writing--a few are wacky keywords that brought in the sort of hit that immediately leaves (a "bounce"). That's one guy in Dixon, Illinois looking for "coronation rickshaw grab", which led him to my demented analysis of that Vampire Weekend song, one in the U.K. searching for support for his "fear of soggy food"--Animal Crackers, that's your love--and even one in Saudi Arabia curious about "how mankind use dessert?" In Shelby, North Carolina, someone seems to agree with the "so bfore you knock it" school advanced by The Kid. And in Miamisburg, Ohio, some poor soul wanted an answer to the question that haunts us all: "what is peroggis?" Having never had access to this kind of information before, and in particular never having had a piece of my own home on the Internet like this one, that motley crew of sad searchers--online vagabonds who roamed by our door, paused at the threshold, and turned away, back into the rainy night--simply breaks my heart. I want to invite them back in, have them pull up a chair and a ticket and warm themselves by the hearth--but they're long gone into the dark, swept up in the click-click, place-to-place, constant, frenzied search for satisfaction and answers. Oh, and nine hits came through on "baconnaise dessert" this week but I'm pretty sure they were all me and ghost. We're the top result! (Trust me. If you go try it, I'll know.)

10 were hits for "dessert tickets bernice". Eight were "dessert tickets blogspot"; four were "bernice dessert tickets." This is an interesting cross-section because it represents people who were looking for us, and usually stay when they find us, but don't know the URL or can't remember it. A lot of these are casual visitors, friends of friends, regulars on computers without bookmarks, fine. But there's a surfer in Denton, Texas, who found us with a search of this kind and visited four times last week, spending more than ten minutes looking around once and only bouncing out once, presumably because there was no new material. I can't make heads or tails of that, but I'd love to know the story. Do we know anyone in Denton? Can we think of any reason a stranger would search "dessert tickets bernice" from Texas without knowing about us? I'm stumped.

Denton, if you ever blow back this way, stick around. We'd love to have you aboard and hear your story.

Overheard at Mcgill

Guy 1: You know what would be awful?
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: Getting pneumonia.
Guy 2: Yeah?
Guy 1: I mean what if some homeless chick spits in your mouth.

(10/27/2008 Arts Lounge)

Bacontrepeneurs

It's our dream to make everything taste like bacon.

"How did I ever eat burgers without this?" - Jessica M.

"I would eat that with a spoon." - Steven K.

The Way That We Sing

pulling up a chair, dessert ticket in hand.

!Welcome to the break-out

It’s a stake-out (A steak-out

A good-bye-good-riddance-to-doubt-out

The thing the-people-gunna-talk-about-out

(i started it all wrong and the apologizes are my own)

(This isn’t a shout-out)

(This isn’t a building-clout-out)

Well come to the break out

It’s a take-out

A hello-hi-hello-myfriend, giving-what-you-can-out

A don’t-gotta-plan-out

Living-like-we-is-are-am-out

?A cana-hold-your-hand-out

I like this, just you and me – the FFAC – just kids and a tree – You see,
Paper is the best clubhouse, there’s always more room to pull up a chair.

Keep those fingers warm.

­What a dull, miserable day. But there are solutions.

First. Remember that caffeine has no negative consequences, unless you stop drinking it.

Second. Montreal is a haven for really heavy, fatty dishes that offer warmth to tall, thirty-two inch waist persons. Above is the pied-du-cochon from the restaurant of the same name.

Third. Tomorrow I will be sitting outside of Shatner at 6:00 am to book rooms for a campus club. You will be in a warm bed, viz. today isn’t that miserable.

So keep studying and writing those papers. And remember that like in Scrabble, long words are not necessarily best. Qi for example is often worth twenty-two points.

Bad choices

"How did we get into this mess?". The words slipped out of my mouth, crept around the strange women in white masks and found their way across the closet-spaced room. My brother replied with the same urgency and uncertainty in his voice, "I don't know". We were old enough to make our own decisions, but too young to make the right ones.
It was the summer of 2004 where my family embarked once again on our almost-bi-annual trip to Beijing. My brother, a year my senior, and I decided that this would be the year where we did not need the supervision of an elder to navigate the massive city. We traversed our way around the circular city with ease, stopping occasionally to "ooh" and "aah" at the surrounding history. I traced my pointer finger along the subway route until it met with our final destination: the shopping district of Xidan.
As I held the rail on the train car crowded with black heads swaying in unison, I couldn't help but wonder how many millions of people have touched that exact spot. I made a mental note to wash my hands when we stopped.
A homogeneous stream of people poured out of the train at our stop. The first thing to greet us as we stepped outside was a damp cloth of humidity that smelled like millions of meals being cooked simultaneously, followed by countless solicitors seeking our business. The stock response was, and has always been, "wo bu yao" (I don't want). But for some reason, the words "free" and "come try" have sifted through my language screen and intrigued us enough to stop the flow of foot traffic to listen fruitlessly to what was being offered. The frustrating language barrier could not be broken, as it stood proud and mighty, laughing in our faces. This was when the lady spoke universally with a motion of her arms: follow me. I'm still uncertain as to who took the first step, both literally and figuratively, to the most questionable and sinister experience of our lives thus far...

Sizzurp

I'm getting a tiny bit fed up with my body.
This is not to say that I think I'm ugly or want a new ass or anything like that.
But on Friday morning, I had a bad hangover.
the worst hangover I've ever had. It was horribly depressing. it was slightly saved by the fact that i got to discuss a rudimentary Xena Warrior Princess with the friend from afar for grades, but it kinda sucked nonetheless.

i had a smoothie, which was delicious, but six dollars to make me feel better.
not even it could help.

whats happening to me?
seemingly i used to regularly destroy myself with liquor and greasy food and it only made me feel better.
i want that back. tomorrow night, when i drank, im going to drink hard.
a pact. to rid myself of hangovers and bad mornings by drinking them all away. (after midterms, of course)

who's with me

Genesis

In the beginning, there was Bernice.

And Bernice created a firmament, dividing Dessert Tickets from everything else, and it was good.

And Bernice created I Can't Give You Anything But Love.
And Bernice created Frank White, and Frank White couldn't get behind porn.
And Bernice created Shake'n'Bake, and Shake'n'Bake was for flexing the mind, and was recognized.
And Bernice created The Kid, and The Kid did not download movies online.
And Bernice created Mr. Sir, and Mr. Sir did not want to be quoted.
And Bernice created Terry Collier, and Terry Collier pondered the Sean Turner Problem.
And Bernice created fiverforthelips, and fiverforthelips considered the nature of injection.
And Bernice created Astolphe, and Astolphe was mysterious and wrote about soap dispensation.
And Bernice created Michelle Obama Has a Rabbi in the Family, and Michelle Obama Has a Rabbi in the Family spun poetry like records.
And Bernice created paul who is a ghost, and paul who is a ghost was a dreamer, and dreamed.
And Bernice created Animal Crackers, and Animal Crackers was cibophobic.
And Bernice created Hot Ice:Cold Cash, and Hot Ice:Cold Cash lamented and was busy.

And there were others, whom Bernice had created but who had not found their voices; there was thug wrangler, and there was Kierke-a-dizzal, and there was friend from afar, and there was The Tourist, and none of them had found their voices.

Blessed are the quiet ones, and may they find their voices.

Preliminary Expectoration: On the Bull Market

I WANT TO SHARE a bit of science dropped by my man Gideon Rachman last week, because it's a great idea.

We hear occasionally about a "marketplace of ideas," which is a tired term that means that in an open society, anyone can produce ideas and only the good ones will be purchased. This is sometimes problematic, insofar as it gives us a reason to tolerate things like Holocaust denial, on the grounds that no sensible people will "buy" it--but it also provides a flexibility for creative output that no heavily censored society could provide. This "market" has a mechanism to communicate the relative value of certain kinds of ideas (and thus help to allocate intellectual resources) that works just like a price system in any other market: when people pay attention to, implement, and especially agree with a certain kind of ideas, minds flock to try to produce comparable ideas. (It may seem like an idea is unlike a product in the sense that an idea must be original to be sold, but that isn't the case. In fact, just like products, a slew of factors like marketing make it possible to get rich selling an idea you did not invent. But just like the Model T or the iPod, a really good idea still changes everything. Sometimes something hits the idea market that is so obviously successful that everyone reorients themselves around the new paradigm.)

Rachman's insight is that this market, like any other, is subject to wild swings, bubbles and busts. Actors in the market perceive trends and jump on the bandwagon, trying to strike it rich. They can do this as consumers, by repeating ideas they think will be valuable at cocktail parties (analogous to buying shares in a company because you expect it to pay dividends), or as producers, by thinking and then talking and writing about fashionable issues or, more dangerously, in fashionable ways. Just like in a stock market bubble, when too people are moved by the share price of an idea instead of its fundamental profitability, sooner or later there's a bust and whole idea industries can deflate. Just like in 2000 it became suddently unpopular to be involved in the dot-com industry, so too are we now finding it unpopular to believe in the kind of Reagan-Thatcherite market capitalism whose 30-year bubble has just burst.

The United States Federal Reserve has made it its policy to clean up after bubbles post facto rather than try to anticipate and deflate them--again, roughly analogous to our declining to use government thought control to prevent people from getting too excited about any one set of ideas, for who can say whether an idea is priced too high until after the fact? It's absurd, as well as dystopian science fiction, to consider regulating the marketplace of ideas. But neither is there a central bank which can control the currency people use to buy ideas.

We have yet to find a way to calm the positive feedback loops that form in asset markets. I wonder if there's a way to make people more skeptical about the ideas they buy?

(I'd write more but there's work to be done. If anyone shows interest in this kind of discussion in comments, I'll be happy to write the rest.)

Upgrades.

I added a bit of punch to the colour scheme. What do you think?

A Little Weekend Moral/Edible Philosophy

This one is for I Can't Give You Anything But Love

In running with the theme of the overarching philosophical importance of the sandwich, it has come to my attention that our dear friend "the sammy" is guilty of many of the faults attributed to morality by one Friedrich Nietzsche.

Point the First: Just as morality provides a strict guideline for living that proclaims itself superior to any other ways to live, so do does sandwich making provide a strict guideline for eating with equally superior connotations (as the good Dr. Frozenbluth once, “Man, there is nothing better than a properly made sandwich… not even boobs”).

Conclusion the First: Sandwiches=morality!

Point the Second: Just as morality implies that our existing nature/desires are flawed and unacceptable so does the sandwich imply that alone, without such processing and systematic limitation, there is something flawed with our ingredients or rather with eating them alone. There is nothing wrong with going to town on a package of smoked turkey.

Conclusion the Second: The laws of sandwich making are diametrically opposed to life!!

Point the Third: Just as morality, by definition, limits our possibilities in action so do the laws of sandwich making limit our culinary possibilities.

Conclusion the Third: Although sandwiches themselves are totally legit (not to mention delicious), the laws of sandwich making are a plague upon humanity and a symptom of a deadly societal disease!!!?!

Now, I like sandwiches as much as the next guy but this is unacceptable. The laws of sandwich making must be brought back down into the muck and the mire that the rest of us live in so that life can continue and our growth as a society and as individuals is not stunted by this constricting entity. Rise up friends, rise up and eat open face… hell, eat no face!

Just some food for thought...

Do the Time Warp?

So... I have a theory that the laws of physics cease to function systematically, or rather predictably, in the Burnside basement. It's more than just the altered conception of space and time that comes from hanging out under fourteen floors of towering mathematics, it's the overwhelming feeling this place always give me that there is in fact nothing else in the universe. Period.

It's fucking weird down here.
I am kind of freaking out.
This place has a remarkable propensity for giving me panic attacks.

Terry Collier is beside me eating a potato chip sandwich (Tomato and Ranch chips on whole wheat in case you were wondering)... the basement cafeteria is serving pork chili today... and three math majors are eating fucking Mr. Noodle dry and straight from the package while analyzing (poorly I might add) the role/impact of violence in pop culture.

Maybe it's just the laws of nutrition that cease to exist down here...

Hope all ye alls have an excellent Thanksgiving.

Caused by.. brownie crumbs?

*begin British accent*
MAN: Hello Mortimer.
Giant rat in top hat called MORTIMER: Hello there, my good man. May I gnaw on your face?
MAN: No, sir, you may not.
MORTIMER: Oh fiddlesticks!
// piano falls
*end British accent*

A Friendly Reminder.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that we don’t see of enough of each other. The royal “you,” that is.

I think we’ve all come to realize that this year is different than last. We’ve left the incubator of Upper Rez and on are on to bigger and better things. We’ve got real mailing addresses, morning papers, grocery lists, methods of transportation (be it bicycles, scooters, metro passes or our unlucky two feet), phone bills, and the weight of the new semester’s text books.
Our days are maybe less scheduled. We’ve got classes to attend but no 6:00pm dinner to catch. Or, maybe, we’ve got a tight timetable, living breathlessly between extra-curricular meetings and library hours.

Most obviously, though, we don’t have the same proximity to one another that we used to. Keeping up tabs is easy when it means walking a matter of feet to say hello. It’s a different game when a couple miles and incompatible courseloads are keeping you apart.
And, like the Kid rightly reminded us, we don’t have BMH (or dessert tickets) to keep us in constant check anymore. Dinner was, if anything, a simple reminder of our continual presence and affection. Regardless of whatever academic responsibility was eating at time, BMH was always a necessary period to slow down and recharge, acting as a daily and, in retrospect, effortless interaction.

This kind of shit was important.

Maybe I’m alone here, but I certainly suffer from an inability to keep up the same sort of habits that BMH so easily lent. I’d like to think otherwise, but, when push comes to shove, I have a tendency to be scattered -- maybe even flighty. Some of you might have noticed this.
And, to make matters worse, I’ve come to grave realization that I’m not, in fact, super human. Not for lack of trying, I just can’t be in 2, 3, 4 (or, really, any number past one) places at once. Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

Basically, what I mean to say is that I still like you (yes, all of you). In fact, I really like you.
While it may be true for a lot of things, “out of sight, out of mind” does not apply here. While we may be busy with new friends, new homes, new responsibilities, new hobbies, and new life declarations, I’d like to think we all carry a little piece of each around. And, whether or not if it's always materialized in a phone call or house visit, I’m certainly have you all in mind.

Maybe this doesn’t need saying. Maybe we’re all confident enough in our friendships not to need this sort of affirmation and be satisfied without little reminders. But I sure like to hear, and hopefully know, that I still matter to those I love. Or, at the very least, still take up space in their consciousness. So, whether or not you need it, here’s validation that I’m thinking of you. Of everyone.

Keep it real, kids.

Just a Taste of Something Different

Have you ever had a fear so consuming, so real, so much larger than life that you can't shake it no matter what you do? Welcome to my life. I start each day facing some of my greatest fears the second I walk into my kitchen.

Yes, I have a fear of food, food preparation, and many of the utensils needed to have such food. It's not easy to watch your friends prepare a meal knowing you couldn't do it yourself. Knowing without them you'd be living off frozen Pizza Pockets is a hard thing to come to terms with, luckily I've had years to cope.

I've always been a picky eater, spending much of my childhood eating bread and butter sandwiches for all meals. On major holidays I have peroggis while my family has turkey or ham, cooked to the right perfection, with such a lovely aroma, only to stop myself from eating it out of fear. Save perhaps a two month stint when I was ten, I can't tell you the last time I've eaten any type of poultry. Is it the feathers? The overall cute appearance? The fact that you can tell it's an animal ready to pounce on you as it sits on your plate? The threat of salmonella? I couldn't tell you. What I do know is that something physically stops me from eating foods in this category. This summer I accidentally ate a piece of breaded chicken thinking it was pork, and the second I was told otherwise I was physically ill. People often think I'm crazy to not eat something I may find visually or aromatically appeasing, but not eating these foods is survival.

Hot Dogs are an essential part of any summer, and I love them.

Think of your favourite food. For most of my life I've loved bacon. Yet living away from home I now face the stresses of food preparation. My fear of touching raw meat now takes the forefront. The cold, slick, slimy texture of raw meat is enough to keep me from having my favourite food. This fear extends to eggs (I only started eating them last year), which I actually have to get one of my roommates to shell for me. It's embarrassing and makes every second in the kitchen a struggle. Will I ever be able to cook for another? At the rate I'm going fears need to be faced fast. The first piece of raw bacon, raw meat in general I've willingly touched was only last week.

Ironically, I like my steak rare.

My fears extend into the realm of other food groups as well. I can't eat cereal with milk (unless it's Cinnamon Toast Crunch or NesQuick and even then I eat quickly) for fear of soggy food. I will only eat dry oatmeal smooth peanut butter. Not to mention my intense fear of being grated by a cheese grater which prevents me from touching one and the use of knives larger than a butter knife is usually a no go. Brusselsprouts remind me of aliens ready to infest my brain and the fact that capers look like baby cucumber gives me the creeps. Diced tomatoes are just too odd looking to eat. Salami is the only lunch meat I'd buy, ham is aiight ( a little skin like) but the others are just too icky looking. Cauliflower lacks too much colour, lettuce is too flaky (as well as filler and a flavour waster), zucchini is like an expiring cucumber turning yellow, and if anything may have in any way come in contact with raw meat I'm deterred.

Hot Rods are safe, they're super saturated in salt.

The most perplexing to many is my fear of hamburgers. Up until a couple of years ago I refused to eat most meat. Then I jumped in and ate a steak. I went as far as to eat fish and chips, which is still one of my greatest fears (it has to do with the scales and the eyes, and the smell) and promptly got drunk and threw it up on my new veranda in front of the neighbours. In these two years I began eating burritos (only from Taco Bell, try the Cheese Burritos) and no longer pushed the meat sauce to the side of my pasta. Still I can't quite bring myself to eat a hamburger. I recently tried a veggie burger, and while I like the taste, I just can't quite bring myself to eat ground beef in burger form. The way it's packed together just instills a paralyzing fear I can feel creep up my spine and shoot through every nerve ending. I can't quite put into words how hamburgers make me feel.

Still it's not all bad, I'll always like beef (excluding burgers) and broccoli.

Just something think about the next time you make your tuna casserole or chicken Parmesan, you never know how it might affect someone.



This one's for you Lil' J.

Skim Milk and Whole Wheat

As I sit in a cold, whitish room, staring at the irritating glare of a luxurious widescreen monitor much better than one i could personally afford, i look around the melieux of student devotion around me.
Oh look, there's a dude reading deadspin!
That's awesome, I love deadspin!
Hey, a girl writing a paper!
I too have papers to write. I identify with her.
I faintly hear music coming out of somebody's ipod!
Maybe I should turn on mine.

The girl across the table from me just accidentally kicked me. Seriously, right now, as I type.
Why?
It was an accident, but was it out of frustration, exhuberance, or just plain muscular movement for the sake of it that made her kick?
I try and figure out, hoping to further identify with everyone in the room, to remember through dark times - like being trapped in a computer lab with bitch-till-we-all-cry amounts of work to do - that there are tons of people immediately around me who are trapped in the muck and the mire, too. I feel it, I feel them. They work at what I do, do what I do, maybe even play like I do. Some are anonymous, some are not, but nonetheless, they are all here, with me, in the whitish brick room, staring at expensive computer machines.

This little tale has a point.
Why am I here? Why are we here?
Ostensibly, university is a means to an end - go to class, get your grades, your degree, your job, your life. Cool, can't wait.
But, there must be more, there simply must. It seems that a mere 32 months of hard work and sleepiness and bad weather would be a fine tradeoff for a life, no?
Eh, not really.
Fact is, those months of hard work aren't enough. We need to get something personal out of our experience. Even if a degree and a job were foregone conclusions anywhere I'd do my best to feel this computer lab, to feel this paper, to feel this silly history assignment due friday at 5 P.M. It might be nice to live dedicated and devoted, with real purpose and goals. That's probably why deeply religious people are so happy (or at least think they are). Yet, I'll take my wandering mind, my deadspin, and my tears of the phoenix that Gil Troy will rise in me late, late this coming Thursday night.

She just kicked me again.

I like being trapped in this computer lab, and I like bitching about my homework. I think going out and getting drunk and then being mad at myself is fun. Mainly because I get to get drunk, but the fact of the matter is that it means I care.
I care that I learn, that i work, and that I turn those 32 months into more than a means to an end. Part of me certainly wishes I didnt, but I quickly silence that part with some Garg and an episode or two of Skins between my nightly fights with Edmund Spenser's Trochaic Foot.

Because that's what I like about it here. Having the freedom to push limits. First, its the feeling that you won't make it - exhilaration. Then, the relief when you do - exuberance.
G.K. Chesterton once said "There is your lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren...and your [tree], rich, green, and living. Yet you only see the tree with the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree".
The dark times are important, all. they really do make those light ones better.
Without the ugly lamp, we can't see the beautiful tree next to it.
Try and make the most of the lamps and the trees, that's why were here. Share them. Enjoy them.
Perhaps even come to the computer lab, or the library, or the cafe on the corner. Take a look at others, who feel for you without even knowing it.

The girl, across the table, who keeps kicking me. She has a nose ring. I miss my nose ring.

In case things get too heavy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDtdQ8bTvRc

Hang in there, friends.

better blogs to come

Why are so few of us ever where we want be?
I’ve been there before. The air is sweet and the drinks are free. Nothing in the world can get you down, because the real world no longer exists. It’s been a while now and I’ve decided I’d like return sometime very soon

There are too many people I love unable to find what they want as they go through life. I believe that we will all find a permanent residency in this place some day. But as we sit around the waiting room, I wish that the visiting hours were not so strictly controlled by some cranky old nanny sitting on his high horse. Programming robots to feel disappointment and regret, only to feel a little better about the fact that she himself created a far from perfect world, and there’s little that can be done about it now.

I am an optimist.
I know better times are coming for all those who truly deserve them. And I’m not talking about happiness on a death bed. Fuck that wait. I mean next Thursday. After my two midterms. Me = drunk of my ass.
Meet me there and bring your umbrella.

Z

Am I kidding?

I'm not sure whether to laugh at this or run away in horror. Or both. Or weep

. 

This seems like the kind of idea that my brain generates on a regular basis. It typically will kick around in my head for a while, get me excited, and make it to some form of planning and discussion. Eventually, after some amount of time, depending on its absurdity and outside stimuli, the sheer stupidity of the idea ceases to entertains me and fades away to nothingness in the very small (but cavernous) depths of my mind. 

Clearly this is reason why I'm not a millionaire yet.

BTW: are you bald? They're hiring.....

http://www.baldmedia.ca/about.html

Opening salvo.

Not long ago I was immersed in a dream so attainably close to reality that I almost believed it myself.

I find these dreams to be the hardest hitting - when you dream of saving the world from invaders, hitting a slugger with Babe Ruth, or winning the lottery, the disappointment upon waking is so much easier to take.

Haha, what a silly dream.

When you dream of something pleasingly plausible, the truth is that much more sobering. No, there is no beautiful, intelligent girl who wants to rendezvous in my room regardless of how many exams she has next week. She won’t be there waiting when I get home, she won’t be there to hold my hand and rough up my hair. She could be. But she won’t. A few minutes ago, she was. Here, she isn’t. Here, everything is so ritualistic, so mundane, so repetitively dull. Still just plain ol’ me with nothing special going on.

I like to think that it’s not an impossible situation - but maybe, when I’m awake, it is.

Reality, you disappoint me.

How to live your life