I think a lot of people are innately inclined towards a prediliction for voyeurism. Of course, I mean voyeurism on many levels. Some of it is sexual -- the way it is popularized now with peeping toms and the inexplicably poplular phenomenon of upskirt pictures on your favourite naughty newsgroups -- some other aspects of it include rubbernecking at accident scenes, watching people walk past on the street outside the front window of a cafe, turning around to figure out what's going on when someone you don't know calls out someone's name that isn't yours, and so on. The point could be made that you're engaged in a form of voyeurism right now -- what with you presently engaged in the daily exploits of my life and all. Some of you know me personally, and some of you, of course, do not, and I'm wondering actually, who finds the process more interesting. There are real-world implications to my tales if you happen to be one of my friends, and it's possible as well that I'll actually be writing about you (especially if you cause depression and/or angsty introspection in pretty boys named Rob quite often); but at the same time, if you don't know me, then I'm just this theoretical blob who doesn't especially exist. Nothing I'm actually saying may even be true. And if something painfully juicy happens, such as getting my arm blown off by an exploding mouse or finding myself crying off of the bed to the computer because I've just been dumped, well, it's just another chapter in the human soap opera. It extends really quite far. Maybe some of my closer friends wouldn't care to know some of the more intimate, personal details of my life (depending), but probably there are a lot of strangers who would in some way dig hearing about my underwear, or hot wax tolerance, or penis specifications, or whatever -- if only because of the amusing novelty, and as well, they wouldn't have to deal with me the next day.

I'm not sure if I'm a voyeur. I probably would be if there more people who changed their clothes with the lights on and the shades open, but more technically I think I just enjoy watching people. I like cafes where you get to see everybody stroll by, and that sort of thing. What's really fun is to pick out people in a crowd, and assign destinies to them. My friend Charlotte and I spent last summer doing that. We sat down at an open-patio Italian restaurant in the Byward Market one night, and figured out when, and how, arbitrarily selected people would die. Some of them were predictable and mundane, and some of them were bizarre. You really had to gauge someone's lifestyle in a matter of seconds -- like, for example, would "that guy" be the sort to get in a bar brawl, and maybe find himself knifed in the back by a Hell's Angel? Or would another person be likely to have downed one spoonful of margarine too many, seconds before his heart explodes out of his chest?

I remember one occasion that was really creepy. In the Market, all summer long, exploitable students are enslaved by companies that pay them to run rickshaws for drunken tourists. You see all these fit guys in sneakers and monstrous leg muscles carting squealing teenagers about, prostituting themselves for next year's tuition. Anyway, it was a slow night, or maybe he was on break, but for about an hour there was this runner parked across the street from us, and his company was an attentive young woman. We ultimately decided that based on their body language, they were two fairly good friends, and she was finding herself falling in love with him. For some reason, he just didn't know, or he chose to ignore it, and as they talked, you could just see how she would forget herself, lean closer, and then take a few steps away -- always yearning, always hoping for his affection. And he really seemed to like her -- it's just that he had no idea how very much she loved him. And then, suddenly, he was back on duty, and he picked up his rickshaw, and ran away.

And to our astonishment, we watched her just wilt as he left, and purposelessly stand around for a few minutes, hoping he would come back. And she just kept stretching and straining, looking over the crowds for him. Finally and sadly, she ambled away, not sure of where she was going, disappointed and hurt once again. And it was then we realized that we were right, and oh, let me tell you, it's been awhile since we dabbled in that black art. Cree-py.

Well, I imagine this summer, we'll be back at it. We thrive off the lives of others.

The point of my snivel tonight had to do with this website I found. What it features is this girl, who for some reason or other, has quite agreeably set up a small camera in her bedroom, and let it run 24 hours a day. Basically the way it's set up resembles my room. The computer/server is on her desk (possibly running off her own PC -- I'm not sure), and through the walleye vision of a Quickcam you basically see one of her walls, the top of the back of her chair, and her bed, which is right in front of the desk. So at any time of the day, you can just visit the site, and peek into this person's daily life. It updates every three minutes with a new picture from the room, providing this continuous sample of her day -- like, you can actually watch her sleep all night, if you wanted.

At first I thought it was some sort of sleazy pornographic web page -- certainly I was probably looking for pornography when I found it -- but the basic idea of the page is merely that she likes being that open with the world. I'm not sure if she gets paid for it, but I'm supposing it's expensive to maintain a constant feature like that, so likely it is at least maintained for her. And she claims occasionally she's naked in front of the camera, but only if for some reason it would be part of her routine -- like changing or getting out of the shower. Basically you are peering into the life of an average person. It really makes me want one for my room, but I'm supposing there would be less interest evinced at the prospect of staring at me all day long, versus being able to peek in on a young woman.

It quickly becomes pretty addictive. Granted, you do not actually know the person in the picture, but she could be talking on the phone, or dashing out the door, or gone all day -- or whatever -- and you might try to figure out what's going on. I looked in tonight for a second and she was sitting at her desk (face close up in the image), looking depressed, and I came back to it just as I was about to exit my browser and check my mail, and she was asleep in bed. Really weird. But you see my point. It's hard to resist the mysteries of someone else's life.

And on that note, you can peep in on me again this time tomorrow.

Oh yeah. Here -- http://JENNICAM.DUTCHGIRLS.COM/ -- select the "live" link.

M a y 31

Today's the day I write a little bit about orgasms.

I decided this would be so just a couple of minutes ago. I think, what with a month that has so far best been described as "inflicted with that unfortunate greenish dysentary of bowel-clenching depression," that I do owe at least a little recognition to those particular aspects of life that, these days, probably fail us least in these taxed times of dire human need. Where better, then, to start than with the spastic seizure of orgasmic tension?

If you look at something like a bank card -- well, it's like having a good friend with a soft touch. That is to say, that you can borrow a lot of money from him, because he has it around, and because he likes you, and he trusts you to pay him back. And so long as you pay him back -- that is, by putting more money into the bank -- he's happy to keep lending it to you when you're hard pressed for currency. But if you find yourself unable to contribute anything, well, the next time you hit him up for a few of them there "spankies" (as my younger brother would call them... well, he's twenty. That's younger in a way; at least if you compare his age to my aged twenty-one), you may find yourself out a friend.

But the purely biological gratification that comes from relying on your other friend -- that is to say, your engorged, throbbing, genitalia -- is in many ways, a limitless and renewable resource. Men and women alike can, for the most part, enjoy blissful release in times of want, or stress, or depression, or even joy.

Orgasms come in many packages. Many of them are self-inflicted daily, by men and women, boys and girls, of all walks of life. Others come from human interaction -- love, and lust, and occasionally even hate. This world seems to be seeing a growing number of people who are less inhibited about touching themselves, and each other. I've also heard about more random cases -- like people who have been prescribed Prozac. Some patients can expect a 5% chance of a spontaneous orgasm to occcur with a sneeze. And there are some people who get things like clitoral piercings, who again more or less by accident (rather, less and less by accident) find that orgasms suddenly come in regular supply.
The average human has something like four thousand orgasms in a lifetime. I rarely mention this to people I've just met. It makes them self-conscious. As if maybe I knew something about them that they thought was kept tightly secret.

I've already had approximately 5475, but that's making a couple of assumptions about my daily routine -- most of which would be inaccurate, if not in fact the subject of legend. I think maybe that's why I believe that the expression "He has time on his hands," is not so much a cliche as it is a euphemism. But I'm not really attempting to discuss the mechanics of this at all -- most people are far too squeamish for such things (including me). What I'm really trying to get at is the uncontrollable sorts of feelings that the human orgasm provokes. A mixture of anticipation, tension, burning, agony, and finally release. The minutes following the climax are usually filled with this uncertain calm, like the silent peace that follows a car leaping successfully across a chasm in a chase scene. All that remains is this silence, even though two of the wheels are still hanging in mid-air off the cliff face, and the car could conceivably either be safe, or plummet downwards and become a flaming wreck. But for at least a few seconds, you're at peace -- panting and sweating and hopefully cuddling up to someone.

My favourite orgasms are the ones I give to other people. There's nothing like being part of the violent thrashing of another human being locked in deep realms of pleasure, and knowing that you're the cause. And that has nothing to do with ego or personal satisfaction, I think, but instead just happiness at triggering such feelings in someone close to you. And I like that heavy, panting blackness after the orgasms stop -- held tightly in the arms of someone unwilling to let go of me, both of us equally tired from our roles in the sharing of such passionate pleasure.

But of course, I'm also terribly fond of the feelings others create in me. In spite of my maleness, I, like my sweeties, am often prone to multiple orgasms, so usually, like with a tube of pringles, just one is perfect but fleeting, and a cruel torment. There's a heightening tension immediately following a first that now refuses to fade -- demanding satisfaction before I can be at peace.
They can be most powerful during stress and emotional upset. My depressive tendencies this month have left me insatiable for most satisfactions. Even Going out and socializing is a remedy I cannot slake my obsessive worries with, for any free minutes leave me ample time to plot. That is why the amazing, exhausting, distracting dimensions of our nervous explosions and muscle contractions come in so handy. Perhaps I am being too judgmental, but certainly instead of any expensive dependence upon alcohol, or addictive drugs, or gambling or any other such costly crutch, I myself merely suffer a crippling addiction to lying down.

If you haven't yet tried life with orgasms, try one today. They come in assorted varieties, and could transform your meaningless daily drudge into something equally meaningless, but more fun.

e-mail me for directions.

M a y 30

Which is perhaps why my small problems are elevated into troublesome calamities. It's worse because school is over now, and I have a fair bit of time to squander by worrying excessively about minutia that would otherwise be occupied by riding on buses, taking notes, meeting up with people, and filling my brain with information. In between my flirty social endeavours and under-the-covers explorations I now have all this time to -- like magic -- fret.

I'm so tired of this, though. I'm tired of waiting by the phone whenever I'm home, hoping that Lilith will call. And my friend Burrhus made a good point by questioning my readiness to call and write all the time, whenever I felt the need to hear from her, or engage her in a moment of her free time. Maybe I just call/write so much that she feels it isn't a really big deal; that eventually I'll get in touch with her, so it isn't a big deal if she doesn't call back the very next day like she originally (and sincerely) intended. And certainly her schedule is a lot harsher than her intentions... but I still get very hurt, and take it very personally knowing that I can basically count on her not calling or writing when she says she will. Undoubtedly I've complicated and worsened our affairs by making an issue of it. I'm not sure whether or not to regret it yet. That's the worst part about not hearing anything, of course. In the absence of any information at all, all I can do is expect the very worst outcomes.

And over this, I'm making myself miserable. I've lived so many days in this self-inflicted pain, guilt, and self-loathing because of what's happening. Yet if you look at the lives of other people, well, what have I got to complain about? Even one of my friends -- he has it pretty well too, but he's still got his troubles. He was kicked out of university for two years because he found other things to do instead of sitting in class, he doesn't have a job, his friends have moved away, and he's even started selling his comic book collection (I'd rather sell a kidney) to keep himself in cash for gas and hash. And yet he's perfectly happy with his life -- and furthermore, he probably ought to be. In a lot of ways, his perspective is really quite healthy. I wish I could live like that.

However, I wouldn't be the same lovable, self-loathing neurotic if I went that way, now would I? Even with the possibility of job prospects I find things to sulk over. Yes indeed, I might find myself gainfully employed -- doing web pages full time, no less. My friend Charlotte came back to Ottawa on Tuesday (as is so written below), and even then she already had three people interested in offering her a job. She had one interview this morning, before she left for Cornwall to catch up with her father, already on his way to whisk her to the magical city where her old apartment, and presently all of her stuff lie in wait for them. And because she's personable, charming, intelligent and skilled, she got the job on the spot, so happily my dear friend is employed full time now -- which means she can think about getting her own apartment (for the moment, she is living with her sister and her sister's ultra-Christian friends... brr... I likes me them Christians...), getting out of debt, and finding herself an ISP (which I shall be wheedling and cajoling her into as soon as possible).

So, in any event, there are still all these people from before who wanted to give her an interview, and one of them wanted her to help them with their web site. So, sweetie that she is, what has she done but insisted upon declining politely and yet, in her stead, offering them my geeky head to help fulfill their needs. She's actually going to call them up today and recommend me, and my multi-talented services, to them. Now, the word MAYBE here is written in block capitals that take up the entire page, and are underlined, but nevertheless, I'm hopeful and happy, both at the prospect of getting a wonderful and satisfying job, but equally getting a job without the heartache job hunting.

Whether I get this job or not, I most certainly owe her hours of oral sex. Not that she would collect on it or anything -- but I like to think sometimes that there are still people in the world who would consider an earnest offer of emphatic oral pleasure to be at least as flattering as cash.

And now back to my usual self-deprecating modesty.

Robins are my least favourite of birds. Everyone's always delighted when they come back in the spring, but here it is, not yet four in the morning, it is pitch black outside my window, and yet to spite me, the blasted things have already begun to sing. Just because they want me to feel guilty for being up this late. I hope some scruffy nogoodnik crows beat them up, or small rodents steal their eggs, or something.

M a y 29

I'm sorry. Stay tuned for tomorrow, though.

M a y 28

By constantly pressing her into a metaphorical corner, making demands on her limited personal time, and space, working from my own selfish needs of her affection and attention. Now, maybe I feel entitled to these aspects of our close and involved friendship, and maybe anyone would be -- but it could really be threatening to have to answer questions like "When are you going to be able to see me?" when you hardly have time for yourself. And so, maybe she retreats -- and maybe not out of resentment, or hostility, but nevertheless, she is being cornered, and it's possible that my friend is right -- and that what I need to do to end this cycle of my emotional denial - my paranoid inquisition - her defensive retreat, is just to allow time to pass between myself and my dear friend. Act as if she's just another friend, and not a love, and hope her own feelings of love, and a sense of safety, will bring her back...

It's hard waiting, though. Even when I'm out all day, gallavanting downtown with other close friends, there's this loneliness pressing against me. I can't help but to think of the moments we've spent holding one another, calling each other beautiful, and wondering with melodramatic tragedy if our friendship as we knew it is over. And that makes me want to call all the more... even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know I should just wait until my friend gets over whatever feelings of confinement, or anger, or depression, or realizes that she's going to have to call me if there's going to be any healing of our affection and friendship. Or even until she just has more than a few minutes of free time.
It's just so difficult to think of how long I'm going to have to wait.

Anyway, speaking of close friends, my dear comrade and focus of my manic energies, Charlotte, returned this to Ottawa afternoon. We spent the hours taking in the sights of this city she hasn't seen in nine months. Of course, I horrified myself even in a situation of pure happiness. We sat down in a cafe in the market, and I bought us some tasty cool beverages. And we chatted, and giggled, and laughed and reminisced, and all that dear old reunited friends routine I like so much. But she had to make some phone calls to prospective employers to let her know she was in the city, so we got up to leave. To my horror, in the heat of a late Spring afternoon, and my foolishly heavy clothings, I left this big sweaty spot on my chair. I was mortified. I might as well just have thrown up right on the table, or farted or something, for the indelicately unpleasant moment it created for me. I'm sure to most people that wouldn't be a big deal, and even poor Charlotte was merely sympathetic, though she laughed uncontrollably, and gave me a big wonderful hug to make me feel less like a big sweaty slob, but even now my self esteem is in terrible shape.
And I should footnote that I'm mentioning this unpleasant and meaningless tale to you in order to establish with gruesome honesty that I'm by no means perfect, and occasionally suffer terrible expressions of my human flaws like everyone else; and I'll even admit them for the whole world to see, and -- if necessary -- mock me for. In a way it's kind of therapeutic to admit to yourself and the world that you're pathetically average...

I don't know if anyone remembers Doogie Howser, M.D., but at the end of every episode he sat down in front of his computer, and wrote something of a journal that was appropriately concise and introspective based on the events of that episode, such as to present a kind of moral to the whole story thing. There are times when I write this that I feel quite like Doogie Howser.

Whatever happened to Neil Patrick Harris, anyway?

M a y 27

Periodically I'll immerse myself in inane little projects that I pretend have some real purpose, but in reality may only be serving to assist me in making a fair mess of my room. You can do a surprising amount of things with some Letraset, watercolours, model paints, a glue stick, and construction paper. I mean, not necessarily all together like, or anything, but each has many meritorious properties that can be applied to the creation of letters, attractive envelopes, Valentines, Hallowe'en Cards, meaningless yet sappy gifts, and so on. I like to create memorable little tokens to send to my friends (particularly those friends who have been known to cuddle me, smooch me, and immerse me in backrubs. I have no pretentious aspirations to dispel my reputation of being a cheap attention whore). I'm people that does things for people. It's my way of pretending I'm an artist, without having to quantify it like pretending I could ever make any money.

I mean, in a way -- in a sick, sad way -- I'm really kind of a surly, caffeine-addicted, penis-slinging version of Martha Stewart.

Gee.

Admittedly, the creations I put together are significantly less tasteful and suburban than those of our illustrious homemaking maven, but nevertheless it is true that I do a lot of craft-oriented things. I bake, I wrap, I dye, and decorate, and I even arrange things in interesting ways. The only difference between Martha Stewart and myself is that she and I live opposite lifestyles (I go to bed at six o'clock in the morning), and I don't have an obsessive army of artistic freaks following me around.

Man, I wish I did, though.

The thought of being able to direct the lives and hobbies of so many people is endearing to me. I'm sure every great dictator or rising emperor knew how to manipulate masses of willing suckers simply by instilling in them a patriotic love of needlepoint, or knitting, or quilting, or winemaking, or anything else that occupies sweet time that might otherwise be squandered upon independent thought.

In any event, a little while ago, when Lilith and I were on slightly better terms (which is to say, before I lost my faith in her affection for me and desperately attempted to call her on it), I, during one of my many little excursions, saw something, as often I do, that I thought she'd like. Often when I'm spending money, I'll just see things that I want to buy for people I'm close to. I mean, I'm not that quick on the draw with my bank card -- usually I'm hitting dollar stores. But nevertheless... I have a keen, and genetically instilled, eye for the very best crap. I think some of the coolest things in the world are plastic Jesus nightlights. They're creepy and flesh-toned, and the box says with the utmost saccharine, "Let His light, light your way," and yes, I just eat them up.
Hey. They're a buck.

The other thing I prize are dollar store vibrators. I'm not sure who manufactures them, or under what pretense, but essentially they're just plastic, off-white battery operated phalluses (they used to come in day-glow colours) that I presume are supposed to be "personal massage wands," or somesuch. The boxes are unmarked. Anyway, my greatest lament is that I don't have the appropriate contours or orifices to accomodate one (and before you even mention it, I could shove way more interesting things up my butt -- and no, I'm not about to...I'm saving my anal virginity for a man with a surprisingly large amount of money), and it is for that reason that I've never purchased one. I should really come up with something artsy to do with a cheap vibrator. Hey -- I'm open to suggestions.

So back to the plastic Jesus (which is an amazing Flaming Lips song). I purchased one for my beloved friend, such as to make her room a brighter, more ironic place to live and sleep. My older brother has taken a fancy to these things too, and, being the artsy type himself, has taken to painting them up and giving them around. He painted my friend Johnny's night light for him, for example, and to me, that's the bee's knees in terms of style. Johnny and my brother, Sour Ottawa Boy, are astonishingly cool people.

With helpful advice from my brother, I've been painting this Jesus all proper like. I decided that a Jesus statue would be more creepy and yet less blasphemous a statement (my friend Lilith having parents and all), so the first step has been a liberal coating of dark gray paint, with a sponge to give the colour a stoney texture. Then, I've randomly dabbed on patches of lighter gray (and the folds in his robes are a holy bitch, let me say) to create an aged effect, and then some even lighter gray, with white, to represent fading, damage, and bird droppings. The next step is going to be some moss (mottled green), and finally, blood flowing from the hands (they even cast him with nail dents for it to trickle from) and some from either the forehead or his eyes, like tears. I've not decided yet.

So I would like you all to follow in my footsteps. Become my army of Martha Stewart-like deviants, and join me in ruling arts and crafts. Together, we can destroy Martha Stewart, and end this destructive conflict. We can bring disorder to the galaxy, and rule as a father and his children. Go forth. Procure, decorate, elaborate, defile, create and, most importantly -- share.

Today is going to be a spiffy day, because this is the day Charlotte, my delightful and coveted friend, is returning finally from her faraway studies in a faraway city. Like with any dramatically reunited pair, I'm meeting her with excitement at the train station, where I'm going to pick up some luggage, welcome her back to her rightful home, and absosmurfly smother her with my obsessive brand of affection.
To my orgasmic delight, she called tonight, and (to less orgasmic delight, but I was still gleeful) told me to sit down. Next she told me that next fall she's going to be studying right here, at my precious Carleton University. I can only feebly describe my pleasure at this prospect. For one thing, Carleton is just the swellest of swells, and I endorse it as the place for higher education for any and all humans of this world. But in addition, now its gorgeous campus is going to be graced with the enormous dimples, voluptuous beauty, and manic footfalls of one of the treasures of my existence. And yes, I'm deliberately spreading the marzipan a little thick here, because I know she'll be reading it, but the moral of my little ramble is that I can only be happy when my best friends are close to me, and selfish as it is, I'm glad when they're here.

I tell you -- there are times when I actually like the idea of waking up the next morning.

M a y 26

And some more are just weirdoes -- religious types mostly -- who have some sort of ideological problem with either the medium, or the message (for all you fans of Marshall MacLuhan or historical vignettes), or the medium of the message.

And for all of whatever Television is -- good and evil -- I like to, in these situations, refer to Michael Moore (who is on the wish list of every culture jammer ever that didn't drink Pepsi), who pointed out that it's foolish not to "Know your enemy." You should watch TV. You should subscribe to the Wall Street Journal (or the Financial Post, or whatever). You should keep informed about what they're up to.

I watch TV. I admit it. Sure, I don't watch a lot of it, but that's because I'm a busy person and because I'm a feeble little boy who hates leaving his bedroom where a television is, but the cable isn't, and all I can watch comes from tapes recorded in other rooms, or through the sweat and labour of having to spend some time away from my precious computer, beloved books, and sweet masturbation. If I had cable in here, I'd have the television on constantly, and while that makes for great empty noise while I'm working on something, it also can suck you down onto the bed and have you staring vacantly at a source of considerable radiation that isn't a monitor, and I'm too wishy washy to make the choice between e-mail and Star Trek reruns.

And I must say, that the limited amount of time I put into television each week means that the shows that I do watch, I watch with fanatical zeal and devotion. In my average week, I'll try to watch The Simpsons, Law and Order, Deep Space Nine, Voyageur, and Babylon 5. And maybe a little Conan O'Brien, MAD TV, or Politically Incorrect if I'm really slacking it. And that's it. Perhaps it sounds like a lot, but compared to a continental average of 4 - 6 hours a day, I'm pulling in maybe 9 or 10 hours a week.

And when I have to miss my stories, I pout. I pout like a small child with an ice cream freshly fallen to the floor.

And tonight, tonight those bastards deprived me of my science fiction. Really, Babylon 5 is my gem. I thought, when it started, that it was kind of a nasty Deep Space 9 knockoff, but I've come to love it for the brilliantly written and conceived spectacle that rightfully it is. I've followed the storyline for years, and it's the only thing any mortal could possibly look forward to -- with the exception of real human activities like backrubs or other things involving nudity -- on a Sunday night.

So why, then, does my cable pick this critical hour of need to be completely nonexistant? I mean, this episode was going to be intense and priceless and everything. They were attacking the evil corrupt government of earth this evening, you bastards, and thanks to you, I MISSED it. Meanwhile, everyone in the civilized universe got to watch their church shows all dismal day long, and yet I am deprived of the one shining ray of quality VHF yet to be found on this bloody Sabbath day.

The most galling part of it all is that Rogers has been airing all these obnoxious 90s cyberculture-esque ads for the past two months, talking about their amazing technology and commitment to the 500-channel future in a very AT&T way ("Have you ever had evil robots rise up and destroy you? YOU WILL."), and meanwhile, I'm eating static because some naughty monkey pressed the "Make Rob's TV fuck up when he's pathetically clinging to science fiction like some obscene starship shaped nipple" button accidentally because the bright and shiny future they're ushering in apparently doesn't include people who want to whip the remote at the screen, rip off their clothes, and hop around grunting and urinating like some insane anti-technology ape.

Bah!

As an informal aside, people who don't have telephones are immensely more annoying.

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

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