07 November 2002 - 10:52 a.m.

How did I manage to have such a busy day yesterday?

I guess it started off with the fact that my early Monday class was moved to yesterday because my professor had a deadline. Oh, boo hoo. A student's reward for being a procrasshole is stress and shoddy work, not a rearranged schedule. Grr.

(By the way, I procrastinated a lot this week, which means that I had to spend lunchtime working. But that is such a minor detail.)

Then class and class, both of which were dampened by talk of papers. No wonder I don't have time for this D-land crap - I only have three weeks of school left! Heavens.

What, am I eighty all of a sudden?

I only have three weeks of school left. Fuck!

That's better.

But after class I got to eat at the market building, at which I decided there are way too many ways to pronounce gee-why-are-oh. Because the guy there, who had an accent that I will assume was Greek, though what the crap do I know, called it "gee-row." Well, okay, but if you're going for authenticity, isn't it "yee-row?"

I'm perfectly happy ordering yeerow at places like Tom's Diner, where "Gyro" is proceeded with "(pronounced 'yee-row')," but otherwise, it's gyro-as-in-gyrate. To me, just going around dropping the yee-row bomb in someplace as pedestrain as Pittsburgh or Roanoke is the equivalant of pronouncing "mozzarella" with an Italian accent or actually paying attention to the fact that "lasagna" means one wide noodle whereas "lasagne" is plural, and the correct term for the pasta/cheese/marinara dish we all know and love: correct, but sort of insidious.

The way I see it, if you go out into the back yard, wrestle a lamb to the ground, kill it, skin it, roast it on a spit and make a sandwich, you're eating a yee-row, and more power to you.

However, if you procure it at a foodcourt, with tsatziki on the side in a little plastic container with a damn lid, you are eating a jhy-row, my friend. Jhy-row.

All this to say that I ate at the market building yesterday, and then went on to an unimpressive but not bad overall reading of some guy's memior at a bookstore downtown.

Unimpressive readings always make me sad, because afterwards, I have to sigh and think, "Well, I guess this is what my life's going to be now."

Whereas, after impressive readings, I think, "Wow! I guess this is what my life's going to be now!"

It's a subtle difference in print, which is why they should really come out with the book-on-tape version of my diary.

After workshop, we of course headed to Don-Ho's. If you ever wanted to be tipsy after one vodka/cran, either shrink to my size or have Dreama mix your drinks. Tinsel will be happy to know that Ms. V. and I spent a few moments squealing over a crumpled piece of paper, but not in the bathroom, because there is this gross male pin-up with huge nipples that I'd rather not have to look at while overanalyzing things written for/about me.

But it didn't feel middle-schoolish at the time, because a.) we were in a bar and b.) I'm pretty sure Will was eavesdropping, but didn't really care at the time - see above where I talk about Dreama's vodka/cran prowess.

After which point I proceeded to make the shallowest statement of my life : "I hope I get famous while I'm still good looking, because if I don't, what a waste that will be."

Ew.

Okay, and I don't care who you are, whether you have me on your buddy list or not, whether you have ever signed my guestbook, or if you look me in the eye when you see me, but if you are reading this, you had better fucking go over to Ms. Virginia's diary, and leave her a note saying not to drop out of grad school because of a smelly boy.

I am serious about this. I know how many of y'all read this, (*cough* Stalkmeter *cough cough*) and much as I respect your desire for anonymity, I don't. Some things are bigger than you finding my diary amusing, but not wanting to say so. Sorry, but it's true.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: