You must understand, of course, how fraught with activity this world has been for me, and why this sometimes affects my ability to get involved in much more than these activities themselves. For the next two weeks I shall be the sole guardian of Charlotte's treasured pet ferrets, as once again she goes away. This is certainly a delight for me, because I like the creatures just fine and I like Charlotte even more, and yet complicates my affairs somewhat, since it basically means my days shall be completely filled. The trip to and from her apartment, even with favourable buses (and when does that happen?), tends to run about half an hour each direction, and somewhat longer if I am forced to walk by pleasant weather or a lack of pronounced lack of mass transportation (as will happen at midnight). And the monsters themselves require at least two hours of stimulation and care (icky icky ritual that cleaning out their cage can be), so even assuming I did only that after work, I'd still not be getting home before about nine in the evening. Which then leaves having to eat, wanting to do some reading, and writing, and god forbid getting into bed and sleeping, which of late tends not to happen before midnight. And maybe I should just shut my big mouth and stop whining, because I'm sure most of you have regular jobs, and busy lives, and obligations and desires and dreams which keep you from falling into your beds at any point before three in the morning and thus you never get more than three or four hours of sleep and yet you don't complain, but I suppose what I'm saying is that I need someone to just tell me that and shut my mouth for me.

Which isn't really to say that I'm upset with my lot; it's just that when I get behind on things like updating my web page, or I start falling asleep on the bus, or I can't finish a letter or write a poem, I start feeling guilty, and that makes me stresse d and irritable, and then at long last, when I can suppress it no more, I externalize it at long last in a burst of sickly whininess, like a can of Jolt you've been shaking in your fist for ten minutes, then threw down the stairs, played hacky-sack with, shot into space, subjected to re-entry, broiled in the oven and then tossed into the microwave. Eventually I calm down, but it's that initial burst you have to stand back from lest in all my complaining I manage to reduce a thriving suburban neighborhood into a miserably smoking crater with a three-mile desolation radius.

But.

I still like to think I am pretty darn happy.

Like it were Christmas, I am looking childishly forward to the shiny moments of Wednesday night, when Corben and I once again meet up for the sipping of beverages and the blabbering of English, at an as-yet only roughly determined time, and a completely unknown location; which is, I suppose, something I ought to work on refining. I'm again slightly nervous, but this time it's only in the sense of perhaps also being anxious and eager, and not really knowing what to wear or if I'll be hit by a bus when I finally step out the door. In our on-going duel of trivia, Corben successfully answered a question about smooth muscle tissue, but did not get a reference I made to the Fantastic Life and Suicide of Mr. Mary Holiday, and w as thus punished by having to decide her own fate, although preferably something that involved me. Conversely, I missed an allusion towards a Beck song in a question of her own, so I suggested that perhaps it would be suitable to incorporate our two lots . Corben returned with the decision that my punishment would be to purchase for her anything she might happen to fancy at whichever restaurant, or pub, or cafe we choose to descend upon, and her punishment would be to let me. I thought that was irresistibly cute, and anyway I necessarily can't say no, so "Rob's treat" it shall be. At any rate, she never accepts such offers, so in a sense it will probably be torture to have to sit there and let calmly me count out my pennies and dim es to pay the bill... although, on reflection, it's entirely more likely that -- in fact, no, she won't find anything unpleasant about that at all.

In any case, I'm looking quite forward to seeing her again. I've been getting such delicious helpings of attention of late that quite in spite of myself, I eagerly crave more and more of it, like our greedy salamander who now destroys crickets which only a few weeks ago could so brazenly dance upon her head, and all in one surprisingly proactive (to steal a useless word) gulp. Ah, love and attention; one is my tofu and the other my peach juice.

And if only I weren't so busy, I'd talk about that passion a whole lot more.

It's times like this morning I really appreciate what a good egg Rob is. After spending all night taking care of a Charlotte's ferrets (malicious little devils...) Rob sauntered home at 6:00am, having only managed a small nap at Charlotte's while the beasties nipped his toes, and (I'm assuming) collapsed in bed. I didn't wake up until 8:00am myself, and by that time, he was in the shower, frantically scrubbing the ferret smell off of himself to be presentable for work. He raced out of the house moments ago to catch the bus that will take him to his beloved land of employ, hoping true that for once, the bus would be on time. I mean, honestly, all I had time to do was stuff a cola and Little Debbie snack cake in him, and I'm of the opinion now that it will probably do more harm than good, but, maybe the sugar and caffeine will keep him going.

So, for this whole week, and another after that, Rob's taking care of those ferrets. For a whole two weeks, he's got to go to Charlotte's in the evening, let them terrorize every sock and patch of carpet in the apartment for hours, (otherwise they won't be happy, healthy, vicious ferrets) then stagger home, nap, and get to work for 9:00a.m. and somehow manage a life in all that. And he'll do it, oh yes...and without complaining too...but I think we're all waiting for him to snap. We're just waiting for the day when someone asks, "Hey Rob, would you like a cup of coffee?" and he giggles like a schoolgirl for 5 minutes before dumping the pot on his head and proclaiming "I am the Coffee King!"

Ah well, what can you do? If you love Rob, today is the day to tell him so! He's a hectic sweetie and love, my moppets, is the only thing that's going to stop the creation of an ulcer. Sometimes, it's exciting to have events in your life chase each other around the calendar. Gives you something to look forward to... But let me rant for a moment and say that (obviously) stress lowers the quality of your life. There's got to be some free time for you to relax, or hell, even just to sleep. Happy people are productive people, and productive people are people who have a sense of self-worth. And really, doesn't it all come down to self-worth? I know I'm wasted for the day if I haven't had my full eight hours of rest, plus a leisurely shower, plus a hot breakfast, but then again, I'm spoiled.

Wishing you all the best in sanity, Moppets...

Love, Broken.

Particularly because I happen to be in an especially fine mood, I have all sorts of energy today, although I expect I might yet require the entire long weekend (which itself promises to be quite intensely active) to properly recuperate from the pressure chamber that is my day-to-day. As mentioned, last night Corben and I had planned for our second rendezvous, and nervous though I was, I was frisky and excited and eager, too. Ostensibly just because laundry day is long overdue, but secretly because I like dressing up, and I wanted to look purty, I put on a suit yesterday. Well, the suit. But it was an expensive suit, so I can't say as I feel ashamed that I don't own five. I nicked the comfortable dark blue cotton shirt which has been in Charlotte's custody for what must now be well over a year, although was once mine, affixed a new, plain black tie (I am amazed at how difficult the job of finding a plain tie is; most of them are atrocious, and any solid and attractive ties I have ever seen are clip-ons, which strike me as being rather sacrilegious), climbed into my dapper black suit and transformed into quite the dandy, I do say. People kept asking me if I had some sort of interview to go to, because the environment at work is just so casual, and I felt almost guilty, or inadequate, confessing that, no, actually, I was just dressing up for a rendezvous later on. Even my bosses don't wear suits to work, and there I was, looking like a mobster. Then again, it's comforting to know that I can easily slip between extremes, ranging from "the purple haired guy who hides in his office all day," to "the sexy and slick hottie who hides in his office all day" with only a minimum of effort. People find it more difficult to figure you out that way.

Corben and I had agreed to meet at seven inside the haven of consumerism, squealing children and surly squeegee punks known as the Rideau Centre, it being familiar to us both and lacking any particular or overt dangers, like wolves, or swirling portals opening into mysterious dimensions, or resurrection men. Whenever I'm in a public place like a shopping centre, I do try to consider the fact that walking among we the unsuspecting happy shoppers are likely to be any number of unseen horrors, especially in terms of, say, serial killers, where Nobby Nobody lined up at the Orange Julius could be two years, three months and six days away from killing his first prostitute (moving on from there to a hideous and yet media-glorified career of terror and savagery), or someone just waiting for a stroller to be left unattended, or even just a creepy voyeur type, maneuvering clever cameras and mirrors under the skirts of his unwitting victims. I know it's weird, but more and more men are getting arrested for this every day. I think the moral is, and I feel vaguely reminded of my mother here: for the love of God, make sure you have some underwear on when you go out -- clean or not. I do, of course, digress, and to get to the point I suppose I should say that I'm always thinking of things like this (having a large brain and a vivid imagination), but I was nevertheless just happy to pace awkwardly outside Mrs. Tiggie Winkle's for five minutes (being early) until Corben (dead on time, being dutifully mindful of punctuality) arrived in her funky, if expensive, new green jeans (Now there's someone who is sensible about her knickers).

It was thrust into my wishy washy hands as to where we might venture for our evening, and I'd already sort of had Wim in mind that day, so it was the venue I suggested. Corben had never been before, and this seemed like a doubly good reason to go. I suppose there are a certain number of you already familiar with the environment of Cafe Wim, but for those who are not I shall attempt to describe it. Located for as long as I can remember on Sussex Drive, nestled in between posh shops and other such tourist traps and just a few scant metres from the Rideau Centre's doors, Cafe Wim is a Dutch-flavoured establishment, dimly lit and reasonably quiet, although its popularity has grown and thus borders on trendy. This trendiness has, fortunately, subsided slightly within the past year -- once was the time when there were so many patrons making so much noise that any and all appeal was completely lost. As well, Wim's managers got it into their dang fool heads that the Sunday brunch crowd, always trendy and hovering somewhere in the vicinity of the upper class, could be enticed into becoming a much favoured lot of regular clientele, if only they could chase away those dang freaky kids who kept hanging around and solving mysteries all the time. That was back in the days of Wim having a set minimum order price, and a relatively enforced dress code where ripped clothes and excessive makeup (or, in the case of young gentlemen, any makeup at all) would get you a stiff request to just leave. Still, although scurvy young people don't spend all that much money, they do make up for it in volume, and Wim has been enlightened enough by greed and cold hard reality to relax this attitude. Anyway, the service at Wim has been consistently terrible for years, though in some sense that's a reason in itself to go. You can sit there for hours -- all day -- without being disturbed, at least this was the case when I used to actually frequent the place, four years ago. I spent a significant portion of my summer there, hanging out with friends, writing, drawing, sipping coffee, and relaxing in a sort of commercial home away from home. Still, I've had friends who actually spent so much time there that they forgot to pay their bills, and the staff would neglect to mention this or, say, come back at all, and after a long day they'd just leave, and only upon getting up the next day would they say to themselves, "Hey, did we pay last night?" Which is just something that you had to accept in the relaxed atmosphere of a cafe where you could sit with an empty cup for half an hour or more before someone bothered to offer you a refill.

Wim is also expensive, but offers excellent food, and desserts bordering on perfection. As per the arrangement of our mutual punishments for each failing to answer our respective trivia questions, Corben decided that her punishment would be to let me buy her anything she liked (normally, apparently, refusing such generosity), and mine, of course, was to buy her anything she liked. She settled upon hot chocolate and this strange concoction -- a raspberry chocolate brownie cake of some sort, covered in pink icing and obviously resulting from the work of no less than Satan himself, because it was sinfully good. Corben was quite insistent that I try a piece, and stubbornly saved the last bite for me to sample, although I was politely hemming and hawing and declining to taste it at all. I myself had simply ordered a coke, and was nibbling a small caesar salad, not being very hungry and additionally having certain reservations about eating in public which I shall not get into because I couldn't explain them properly. To venture a guess, though, I think it's because I truly enjoy long conversations, and eating disrupts them, and also because I'm mortally afraid of spitting some small piece of food across the room while going off on yet another of my tangents. I know, it's amazing I ever even leave the house, isn't it? At any rate, I had just picked up the wonderful photos I'd taken the day Corben and I officially met, and proudly I showed them off to her. I was hoping Corben would like them, having made doubles of each print should she want to retain copies of her favourites, which she most graciously did. My dinky camera did a surprisingly good job of documenting our first day together, and when I have a second to myself I'll get them scanned so that you, too, can see how well everything (the pictures, that day, things in general) turned out.

The waitress could barely understand a thing I said; in fact, she couldn't actually understand any of my attempts to order, and communication was only truly possible after I'd repeated myself for the third time. Which confused me because while I am deeply aware of how fast I speak (my friends occasionally need to translate; my friend Jason Corelli would treat it like a second language whenever I was introduced to somebody who was not initiated to my ways... ), I didn't think I was being that incomprehensible. There are times when I know that what I just said sounds nothing like the smooth and evenly enunciated sentence in my head, but last night I thought I was being quite clear, but eventually in exasperation she simply said, "Has anyone ever told you that you talk really fast?" and even Corben thought I sounded more blurry than normal, and she's a fast speaker (fast brain, fast speech) too. I guess I was excited and nervous last night, which should be something which needn't even be said, but I feel that perhaps some additional emphasis would not hurt my narrative too much. I was still feeling uncertain about how things were going in terms of our ability to really get along; like maybe our first day together had just been a lucky coincidence of two people managing to find things to aimlessly talk about, and that any subsequent time spent together would just be painful or forced. As much as I was impressed by my new friend, I had many doubts about myself, and it was only later on the evening, after we'd met, and sat down, and talked for about an hour that my fears were chased away, I think, forever.

Sadly, as it turned out, the book was not to be found, although muddling through the erratic policies of their categorizations, I may simply have overlooked it. Still, Corben herself managed to find a couple of books which interested her, and I must say I was charmed by her selections process. We were wandering through the science/biology/astonomy section, and as many titles in each category appealed to her as they did me. Corben, of course, is much more familiar with the literature on most subjects of science than I am -- I try to maintain a working "dumb guy" knowledge of most scientific terms and theories and principles, but until only recently have I had any sort of money to put towards buying books, which sadly I still only do seldomly. Which is not to say that I'm ignorant or completely unread -- just that Corben beats me completely in these matters, and I am not ashamed to admit this. Of note was a point in time when she turned her nose up at a selection of books dealing with quantum mechanics, claiming that she found the entire subject to be especially dull -- and I had to really find this sweet, because it simply meant she was so extremely learned that she could dismiss the purchase of anything from that section. It's like, most people would walk right past books on psychology, biology, cosomlogy or physics, citing the entire concept of scientific books to be dull, and this would stem largely from a personal disinterest and an ongoing resentment of high school classes from however many years ago. Corben, however, could tell you all kinds of things about quantum mechanics, because she does read up on such things -- it's just that she can do so since she herself has the knowledge at hand to permit herself the luxury of proclaiming certain things to be dull, knowing full well that she's not missing out on anything.

I can't now recall the title of the book she bought, although I know she was looking for something by Stephen Hawking (which is by no means to say this was what she settled upon -- their selection was limited and I swear Chapters still needs about twice as many scientific books as they had on the shelves). Up to that point, though, Corben was decidedly torn about which book to buy -- she had two in her hands, the other called (I believe) "The Whole Shebang," and dealt with matters of the universe ranging from the big bang to black holes to (I'm sure) quasars, pulsars, Hubble's red shift and other sorts of comprehensive sundry relating to our knowledge of the universe in general. It looked mighty interesting, and Corben was so uncertain as to which book she really wanted, I simply took it from her and told her, "You buy that one, and I'll buy this one." She protested mildly, but I reminded her that I was technically supposed to pay for "anything she wanted" that night, and thus was bound to honour my agreement. More selfishly, though, I'll admit that it made me extremely happy to se how clearly happy this made her. On a related note, I've decided that altruism is real and possible from humanity, although you'll hear it argued against on the claim that people who do good for the pleasure of doing good are actually being selfish about it. I would argue that only as humans do we have the intellectual and emotional capacity to take such pleasure from self-sacrifice, and those who insist that the objective merits of doing good supposedly have to take moral precedence over the base pleasure taken from helping another ignore the spirit of their humanity as much as someone who insists that sex has merit only when it is directly and deliberately implied for the greater good of making babies. I mean, that's just stupid. And another reason I love philosophy and hate philosophers.

So I bought Corben a book, she was happy, and I was happy, and if that's not altruism, then at least it was fun.

In any case, I have more to say, but it will have to wait, as I am due to take a train out to Smiths Falls for my younger brother's going away party, and even now I only have one boot laced up.

I also have at last the developed pictures taken to document the momentous day upon which I met Corben, so once I can get these scanned I'll display them proudly for you. Oh yes, I do bring many good things. Just you wait and see.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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