So you see...

A few things that are on my mind that need to escape:

1. Now you know first-hand what it's all about. All those times that I've complained and b'itched about it. You've seen it. You know what it does to me. It eats me up inside. I think you are now amongst one of the very few who have heard me at my lowest. It's different though this time. You were there. Hopefully it gave you a more clear idea of what I really grieve over. It's different when you're actually there, eh? It's quite ironic how it always stems from the same issue(s). Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for having been there. Thank you for sticking around. After walking out of that room, you made it 10 million times easier for me.....just by being there. I feel somewhat silly for letting those things get to me. I mean, it's not the first time this has happpened...I can tell you that much. I don't even know why I let it get to me. I suppose it's because I'm weak like any other being. The sheer hurt, if anything, was overwhelming. I tried to hold strong through most of it. By the end of it though, tears started to stream down uncontrollably. I tried to fight them, but words are powerful, I guess. Yea, it did hurt. Maybe tears didn't express it all too well...but deep down, it hurts just as much as it did the last time this happened. I wish I could just not care. Either way, it means a lot that you were there afterwards. I couldn't begin to really express everything on my mind right now. More than words. It's racing at a million miles per hour, and at the same time I feel like an emotionless lump. I feel numb. Nonetheless, that doesn't go to say that I don't truly and meaningfully say this: Thank You.
2. I have a reason to hold to for my actions now. He was right to say that you're hard to figure out. You're like an enigma of mixed messages. Whether you do it consciously or without knowing, people get hurt. People have feelings. Not everything is a game in life. You know the kind of person you're dealing with. Beyond the seemingly strong exterior, you know the fragility that lies beneath. I'm drawing the line. Goodbye. I'm outta here.
3. I'm going to leave off on two notes:
   
   "Who can say where the road goes
   Where the day flows, only time...
   And who can say if your love grows
   As your heart chose, only time..."
   
   "What it meant to me / will eventually / be a memory / of a time when I tried so hard...
   And got so far.
   But in the end...
   It doesn't even matter."

Check it out!

IT'S BACK!

And it's bigger and better than ever before!

The York University Badminton Club (YUBC) site has been re-vamped and looks spectacularrrrrrrr!

Go take a peek! Many pages are still under construction, but it has come a long way!

Woo-hoo!!

Gettin' in the groove

Lately I've been listening to a lot of guitar-y pieces. I haven't really touched any of my rock and alternative tracks for the past while, simply because I haven't been in the mood for them. It's hard to say which genre of music is my 'favourite'. I don't really have one. So for one to ask me, "What's your favourite musical genre?" or "Who's your favourite artist?", I would have to answer with something like:

"This is a tough one. I listen to a wide variety of musical genres, ranging from alternative, to Euro/dance, to slow mellow tunes, to the occasional hip-hop/rap song. It really depends on the song itself, if you ask me. I always find myself making exceptions for tunes from genres that I don't normally take to."

It has such a calming effect. Well, when I say "it", I mean the tracks currently on my playlist, at least. I still have yet to meet my guitar player. =)

The other night, I told Nobleton Dan to listen to the version of "Behind Blue Eyes" by Limp Bizkit. He just scoffed and laughed at me. Yes, The Who had done the original cover, and I indeed did give it a try. I must admit that I don't like it as much as Limp Bizkit's version. Sorry, dude...

Anyway, so here I leave you with a few of the track names. Give 'em a try, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I have thus far....

• Dishwalla - Angels And Devils
• Eve 6 - Here's To The Night
• Lifehouse - Everything
• Lifehouse - Take Me Away
• Lifehouse - Take Me Away (Acoustic)
• Limp Bizkit - Behind Blue Eyes
• Jason Mraz - You And I Both

"Don't Do This in Public"

This article was written by Patricia Volk in the April 2004 issue of "Town & Country". I found it to be such an amusing read that it's worth the effort of typing out and sharing with you all. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Annoying habits that belong behind closed doors.

The first time I saw somebody do something repulsive in public, I was in a car. So was he. We'd both pulled up to a light. The man was picking his nose. Did he think, because he was in a car, nobody could see him? Do people do horrible things out in the open because they're so used to being alone, they forget they're not?

The computer has something to do with it. A woman files her nails in front of her laptop, so she files them on line at the movies. I used to work with a man who publicly self-manicured with a shiny nail clipper. Crisp clicks accompanied parings that flew through the air. I silently prayed that the projectiles wouldn't take out an eye.

Restaurants bring out the worst in people. Lipstick at the table is bad enough. (Why should anyone have to observe you smacking your lips as you apply your Coral Belize?) Preening doesn't belong in public. It's too intimate. It floors the brakes on conversation. Chanel No. 5 perfume is dandy, but not spritzed over my tarte Tatin. And face powder? There's food below. Stuff snows off the puff. You dont' know that?

Cole Porter set his table with a gold toothpick at every shot. (And you thought he played the piano after supper.) My mother's most elegant friend, Harriet, is the proud owner of a solid-gold toothpic that she keeps in a padded red leather case. Harriet makes an elaborate ritual out of picking her teeth, as if it's oaky because the toothpick is made of a precious metal. That does not, in fact, make it any less offensive than if it were wood or plastic. But the worst is my dear friend who suffers from compromised bridgework. "I know this is terrible," Beverly laughs, fishing for her floss. At least she doesn't do all thirty-two. i can understand how awful it must be to have confit trapped between your bicuspids. That's the second-best reason ladies' rooms were invented.

Every new convenience comes with the potential for public abuse. I speak here of cell phones. It's impossible to think while walking down the street or read on a train when someone is discussing her ovaries or what's for dinner. One of my friends, New York bon vivant and flâneur Peter Rauch, tells the story of a woman at La Côte Basque who placed her cell phone by her fork. The phone rang. She picked it up and launched into an intrusive high-decibel conversation. Heads turned. Eyes rolled. Finally, Peter's guest leaned over and said to her in a loud, brusque voice, "Would you please STOP THAT?" She said it in the tone you'd use with a tiresome child who should know better. The offending woman was not impervious to chiding: her jaw dropped. She turned off the phone and slipped it into her purse.

Strangers have no right to co-opt your brain cells. I never again want to be hostage to someone's phone conversation in a public place. On the other hand, "in public" does not necessarily mean physically in front of others. Now that cell phones enable mobility, some friends conduct conversations from the bathroom. To Whom It May Concern: flushing is audible. So are other things. A simple rule: if you normally do it in the bathroom, don't share it.

To the filmmaker I had dinner with who blew his nose in the restaurant's linen napkin, I want you to know that I will never, ever invite you to my home. I will never eat at that restaurant again either. What if I got your napkin? ANd what about the busboy who cleared? Was he wearing rubber gloves?

Speaking of rubber gloves, the people at my local gourmet grocery store must wear them by law. But please, I'd like to know, if you scratch your head and then catch falling slices of apple-smoked turkey breast with that same hand, do you really think I'm going to eat it? Has it occurred to you that's exactly why so many freshly cut packages of meat and cheese are left behind instead of being brought to the check-out line? I wish I could tell you not to scratch your head before you touch my honey ham. But I can't. I can, however, mention it to your manager.

Here's something terrible that's only getting worse: theater - and moviegoers who chat during the action or, worse, loudly predict the outcome. They speak up as if they're vying to be the first in class to blurt out, "I bet she's going to lock the door when he goes down to the cellar." Or, "You watch. He's going to fall in love with her friend from the Laundromat." I turn in my seat and say "Please!" or "Shush." When that doesn't work, I even say beseechingly, "You're ruining it for me." The transgressors look back at me, invariably shocked. Perhaps they thought they were at home, sitting on the sofa in front of their television.

And then there's name-dropping. I suppose the real unpleasantness I experience in the company of people who practice this habit comes from how sad I feel for them. Name-dropping is a desperate and obvious attempt to impress the person you're with. That said, I should feel flattered when people name-drop because it means they're trying to impress me. But it's as wearisome as any exposure to raw neediness is. Interesting how the worst name-droppers are the people who tell you how much they loathe name-dropping, as in: "Henry Kissinger and Nan Kempner both told me they can't stand name-droppers, and frankly, I couldn't agree more."

It would be counterproductive to ask someone to lower his boom box when it's turned up to DEAFEN precisely because its owner wants to impose his music on you. Cuticle gnawing, trichotillomania, California hair flinging and leg pumping are nervous tics and fall into a separate category. They're compulsions. Who am I to tell you to stop? So I walk away or study my shoes. Correcting something a persion has no control over would hurt his or her feelings. Good manners are based on being concerned about how the other person feels. They're the cornerstone of civilization. The late C.Z. Guest knew that. Her generation even had a word for it. It's a word that's gone the way of "How may I help you?" and "Would you be so kind?" and "I beg your pardon." It's a word you almost never hear anymore: decorum.