Listening to:
the whir of the copy machines.

Not that this is entirely a bad thing, of course. Sure, I've done a lot of complaining in the past about how dull it is here, but that's mostly because all I ever do is complain. The truth is, it is convenient and delicious to be able to sleep in the car while my dad drives me to and from work, it is nice to have a job where I can be sure that my paycheques won't bounce, and (oh yeah!) the money is excellent. I hear, too, that it's been tough to find summer jobs in Toronto this year, what with the whole double-cohort going into University and needing money thing, and that pesky sars stuff ruining the tourism sector.

Being back here is weird, though. My mother, though I love her dearly, has the most disorganized and nonsensical way of arranging things on her desk. Mum is at the best of times a little discombobulated, so her desk is pretty much reflects that. Kind of a Self Portrait With Stapler, if you will. There's hardly any room for opening files (I had to move a copy of The Pelican Brief (the novel, not the brief itself) and last week's filing in order to use the keyboard), the piles of paper are sprinkled with gum packages, blocks of stickies and paperclips. And the time on her desk radio, I kid you not, currently reads 8:24 am July 25, 1997. It's chaos.

Woah. Okay. what is going on? Someone is playing Hotel California in the office. That would be music. In the office. This office. There's never music in the office. That is so weird. I'm creeped out. Also creepy is the fact that my mother has programed her computer to make what I imagine is supposed to sound like a baby giggling at every hour. It scares me every time because it sounds not so much like a real baby, but like a creepy phantom baby from The Turn of the Screw. Cree-pee.

Blah, blah, blee-blah. Something more fun.

Okay! Here! This is more fun! This, my dear friends, is my new obsession. I have been reading this journal for the past three weeks, but have neglected to tell you because a) I like to keep secrets, b) I like to make sure I like something, and that takes long-term considerations, and c) I have been neglecting you as well. Mimi's mix of pop-culture bashing, philosophizing and liver-crushing humour makes me laugh at inappropriate things in inappropriate places (namely, here at the office and in the library reading room -- oh, the shame, the shame of it all). My favourite part of her entries, though, is her byline at the end of each entry, for example: "mimi smartypants wants to know who is going to get these dogs back in." Too cute.

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