2.22.12

Five am, and I can't sleep anymore, though I've only been down for about five hours. I'm desperate to get back on schedule, and wish more than anything I could let the dog out and then pass out again. I know it's impossible, though. I'm up. My best bet is to stay awake as late as possible tonight. The closer to two am I can fall asleep, the better. That's the schedule I need to be on: down between two and three, up around ten or eleven. It's the only way to survive nightclub hours.

There's no coffee, since I still haven't replaced the french press I broke last week while vacuuming. At Famima, I notice that while I've been filling my cup, the machine is still dripping. A small pool of coffee has collected on the counter. I quickly replace the pot and ask the cashier for a rag. He tells me not to worry about it. Oh, no sweat, he says. I don't get anything to eat.

I fiddle with the layout of my blog for a while, and work on a few of the pages. I revise my statement of childfreedom, though I'm still not happy with it. I don't know what it's missing. I don't know how to say what I want. But I feel ready to write my statement of atheism, and I do so, in one fervid shot. It comes quickly and easily, certain turns of phrase still floating in my mind from the last version I wrote. I re-read it a dozen times, wondering if I should pull a punch or two. But when I open the compose window, I instead find myself pushing it further. I don't want to compromise on it, so I let it stand, heavy and loud and unflinching.

Chaucer and I walk to the park, but it's hot, and we don't stay long. Back at the building, we're joined in the elevator by a neighbor on my floor, a husky man maybe five years younger than me with a floppy haircut and light blue eyes. Upstairs thinks he's gay, but I can't get a read. He's always very chatty and friendly with Chaucer, and he invites us to see his unit, which he knows I've got my eye on. Same square footage, same price, much better layout.

He insists on letting Chaucer, who he calls Big Doggy, come in. While we discuss counter space and pay raises, Chauc wanders around sliming IKEA sofas and Expedit bookcases, still panting from his walk.

It's 11 am, and I'm already exhausted. The dog is wiped out from the heat, and I realize if I stay at home I'll want to nap, too. I run errands while catching up on texts with friends. It's a high traffic day on my phone: A girlfriend is having a small dinner party tomorrow night, and can I come? (Yes.) Another friend asks whether I caught Colbert last night (Not yet). My new Vancouver bestie sends my first weekly city pic and an update: he and his boyfriend have broken up, and when can I come up north to pull wingman duty? (When I've got the scratch, honey.) Another friend has the girl trouble blues, so I send him a Mom Jeans screenshot.

Upstairs sends me a pic which I stare at uncomprehendingly. It's the desk in our lobby, and on it are two boxes of plastic dog poo bags - the tear off kind that come in rolls. The bags are always there, for the use of residents with dogs. I see nothing remarkable about the photo, and I say as much. I'm urged to look closer. Then I see it. One box says "puppy poo"; the other, "people poo". It's beautifully done, seamless really. He even got the reflection of the lettering in the desk's glass. I guess a lot of people from our building have been going number 2 on the street, he says.

You photoshopped this? I ask incredulously. For your viewing pleasure, he says, with a smiley.

You're insane, I write back. I love it.

Back home, I troll job listings. I spend a little while tweaking my resume, but don't send anything out. I don't return my dad's call from yesterday, though I make a promise to myself to send an email tonight.

Chaucer's ready for another walk, and since it's so mild after the hot day, we stay out until near dark. He gets an unusual amount of attention this evening. People stop us on the sidewalk, wanting to talk to or about him, wanting to pet him or take his photo. I always forget how huge and out of place he looks, walking through the city streets.

A few steps from my door, a dark-complected man walking towards us calls out and moves to greet Chaucer. He smiles broadly and says something I don't understand. It takes me a moment to realize it's the Frenchman from the creperie around the corner. He doesn't think I recognize him, and he gestures quickly towards his chest and the restaurant. I assure him that I know who he is, and we have a short conversation in French 101. He's solicitous and warm, and encourages me to use the informal construction of verbs. I'm excited when I get out "Le meilleur Croque Monsieur du ville!" smoothly, though I've no idea if I've strung it together correctly. He tells me his name, and says "Enchantee!" as we part.

I send a tweet, and realize I'm fast becoming addicted to saying ridiculous, even scandalous things on Twitter. It amuses me enormously to not censor myself, to say things I'd normally only say to friends after a few drinks. I realize I need to write a post admitting I was wrong about Twitter, too.

It's 8:00 pm, and I have six more hours to go.