This is a chance for me -- Gord -- to rant ceaselessly about whatever may pop into my mind. If I know you, you are here to look at the background, not to read the text. I don't care. I couldn't care less if you were at home spreading "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"across your naked chest while working out to your Thighmaster to the tunes of Boney M Christmas albums. What matters, kind of like a really shitty family gathering is that you're here and that -- until you hit the "Back" button you probably see in your top left corner -- you belong to me. *LICK*

Not that belonging to me is a bad thing, many pairs of socks have without complaint. Damn, I miss those socks... Do you think that they could ever miss me?

However, I could stand to be missed by some things or people...taxmen, snipers, rabid dogs and poison darts to name a few. Damn those taxmen...

Maybe once -- just once -- I could get a chance to fall in love with a woman who loves me back. Just once, that's all I ask. In isn't too much to desire a loving, caring relationship based on trust, mutual appreciation and hot sex with other couples?

And thus Gord goes off to plant his trees...seeding the orchards of your futures. Seeding his own pocket. Making the big bucks, yesiree...

Truly aware of his surroundings and truly oblivious to what he sees...Gord returns. I wound up having to pay the $50 to the Computer Services Gestapo for my summer account (the bastards). I owe MTS and Columbia House lotsa money (the bastards). Not the fruitful summer I had in mind. No sirree. The bastards.

The ghosts of my individual, but separate pasts haunt me in succession. They prey upon me with faded memories and razored emotions. Then I get hungry and forget all about it. Burritos have this special healing power.

Gee, there it was, sitting all alone. All shiny and abandoned. But useful, oh how useful it could be. If only you knew...

Wow, it's starting...the reclamation of a lost past, the rediscovery of lost knowledge, the unearthing of the lost twinkie caught between the couch cushions. Can it be, can it really be? Is this the start of a new era? Or just another monumental letdown? I'll decide over that twinkie I found...

Stretched out over a sprawling nation, we are. Tied together by knots of cement and wrought iron. Bound by our service and ground by our servitors. But, for all their abuse and occasional disdain, we are adored. Until the cable car comes back, that is.

Why do we grant human charcteristics to inanimate objects? We curse our "cranky bitch" automobiles when they don't start on a frigid morning. We bang our "useless bastard" televisions when reception is bad. We tell our "horny sonnovabitch" dog to stop fucking our legs. Well, that is kinda animate.

Please, please, please...I hope she likes me. Not that I need a woman -- however gorgeous she is -- to validate my existence, mind you. Just because I am attracted to a beautiful and graceful creature, and just because she might tolerate me for a while doesn't make me any better of a person. Well, it helps.

Again and againer, alone and aloner, togeth and together. Doesn't make sense, does it?

Oh, how vain we are. We talk about freedom and personal expression with one breath and condemn nudity with the other. We discuss our hypocrisy with light hearts. We curse our dogs and we steal our burritos. Bah.

Thus, broken upon the rocks of time's passage, our inconsistencies show their faces. We see, for one brief moment, how vulnerable we are to the tick-tocking of the unseen clocks. Some weather the storm, some become fossils, some are never seen again.

What can be said about human attraction that hasn't already been over-analysed? What can I possibly try to illustrate that isn't already a cliche? Probably nothing. Yet, recently I have seethed and sought to advertise my anger. I have also regressed and attempted to shelter my depression. All the while, I desired a mutuality with another -- the comfort of shared anguish and common understanding. Thus is life.

Dylan Thomas died after drinking 18 straight whiskeys. His last words were "I think that's the record." Gotta admire that...

I'm a little bit less-than happy. I'm all bruised up from football. I haven't slept. I get shat upon by women. I've missed two good movies in a row. He beat me at pool. That's what the rant is for I guess...

Relationships and I don't get along. It seems that the women I like are always attracted to other men. It also seems that I'm never attracted to the women who like me. Some of them annoy me, others are too "friendy." Are the monastaries recruiting?

Hell, exams are here and I find myself playing with my bloody webpage instead of cramming the chemical formulae of the inosilicates down my throat. Hmmm...I should really fix this page up...

Tectosilicates have a unique "crankshaft" structure that derives from the four tetrahedra unit cell. Aluminum often replaces one of the silicon ions, bringing a sodium or potassium ion along with it. Man, I need to study more.

I think that airports tell a bit about a city's character. Winnipeg's is open and unassuming. St. Louis' is elegant, but hardworking and efficient. Toronto's is just rude and confusing.

Yay Kiran!

Man, my ass is sore. I spent yesterday playing all sorts of sports (hey, that rhymes) in an evil thing called the "Rez Sports Marathon." It was an interesting mix of the active (basketball, floor hockey), the not-so-active (billiards, table tennis) and the outright bizzare (goalball). I'm looking forward to next year.

It's so easy for you. You have your warm homes with your warm parents and their warm hugs. It is so easy for you to judge me by your standards, with your sheltered eyes. It seems so easy to look at me like you would look in a mirror. But it isn't, is it?

I will always rue the fact that the ones who want me aren't the ones who I want to want me, but the ones who I want aren't the ones who want me to want them. They want my brothers.

What a wonderful thing it is to be wanted. What a confusing thing it is to be wanted by many at once. What a horrifying thing it is to be wanted by *them*. Heh.

She says that she was kidding. Yeah right. I think that I will hold a grudge for a while. Even if she massages my scalp...mmm...well...maybe not.

It's over. The contest has been won, my heart the prize. Again, I shall throw myself headlong into a confusing melieu of emotion and confusion. Ain't love grand?

Erin, my dear, you asked to be here. Now you are.

3 out of 4 dentists e-mail Gord -- blandscotsman@hotmail.com

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