I’m not terribly sure if I believe in fate, or even a remote concept of fate. Most of the time I subscribe to a fairly existential frame of mind, complete with all the guilt, gluttony, and gloom that Mr. Sartre can fry up. Now, one could assume that my lack of faith in fate is my own fault, since I’ve fucked up most relationships that ever meant or could have meant the world to me. And I dwell in those relationships. I dwell like a masochistic fiend. The people I still love the most are people who have forgotten my name on purpose. Ok ok ok, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m being all woe-is-MP and look-at-me-I’m-sad… and I am. Truly, the people I love most are the people who are most present, let’s not kid ourselves. But for the sake of this blog, I’m going with the latter statement and the woe. Woe me up. And here we go.

Well, I’ll have… oh wait, Jeff Tweedy just sang “I still care and I still love you”… a sign? Who knows. Anyway, I’ll have you know that I most certainly AM going somewhere with this dejected introduction. The point IS, my dearest friends, I had a dream last night. It was incredibly vivid and has stuck with me all day. In fact, it pretty much ruined my morning crossword. The point is, I like to think that this dream does have some sort of fateful message woven into its hazy pockets of memory. And maybe, just maybe, it is a call to action. A call to get back in touch, and remember teenage friendships before they were fucked up by impending adulthood and personal discovery, and places where we didn’t have to wear uniforms or sit with people on the bus.

It was a high school dream. I was in my music class, or maybe band practise. I’m not sure which. I was wearing my uniform shirt, but couldn’t seem to find my kilt… which is bizarre and kinda slutty, I know… but I was wearing tights and cute little blue shorts. I think my kilt was in my bag. Whatever. Moving on. Everyone was there. ‘Everyone’ being my high school confidants with whom I have fallen far and widely out of touch for not real reason, I don’t think, other than the fact that I’m a lousy correspondant, narcissistic, and far too wrapped up in the mundane happenings of this MP… and the fact that I’m just plain lousy. (Stop putting yourself down, MP. It’s neither helpful nor attractive). So I’m there, in the music room being the music geek that I was and still am, with all my fellow music geeks being witty and clever. And then a certain trombone player who will always hold a chapter of improtance in the Bio of MP, hell, he’ll probably even be a motif throughout the first half, or maybe a lingering image that will mark moments of bittersweet semiotic lessons in life or something, pulls me into one of the practise rooms (the one that’s actually more of a closet that holds all of the extra saxophones and tubas). He holds onto my elbow and says the same words to me, over and over, almost pleading. “I need you to think of me.”

And so I have. I am. And now, what to do? Have I done enough already? Or perhaps it’s all the other way around. I need you to think of me.

And now here is another list of things I’m not terribly crazy about. They are not things that I hate, per se. They are just things that I don’t really like all that much. I’m sure there are many people out there who like them a lot and would put them on their “I like” lists, and that’s alright. They are perfectly likeable things… just not by this MP.

Pancakes, soap operas, Fight Club, orange juice, Uggs, bagels, PCs, olives, coldness, football, crowded buses, pizza pops, socks, bread crusts, pigeons, apes and chimpanzees, The Three Stooges, bacon, high heels, heavy traffic, Big Macs, wearing a coat, curry, sudoku, biscotti, parallel parking, butter tarts, turqoise, televised award ceremonies, tight pants, beets, paper cuts, pastry, cool whip, pit stains, Touched By An Angel, chin ups, eye touching, people with loud shoes who walk too closely behind me, American spelling (ie. color, neighbor, etc), sore knees, gravy, pastel green, “ain’t”, “this film has been formatted from its original version”, Entertainment Tonight, black jeans, Big Fish, Large Marge, angry music, Boxing Day, pasta, and Danielle Steel novels.

I do not recommend making one of these lists. it is a little bit difficult, and will leave you feeling somewhat morose and a little bit grumpy. So long, suckas.

Mr. Stephen King knows how to write. I am convinced that, if he had it in his mind, he could write the most intelligent mind-blowing piece of literature we have seen since… I don’t know… Thomas Hardy? or Thomas Carlyle? … too many Victorians. Let’s say… since… oh… fuck, Chaucer? Alright, I am probably talking shit but I don’t care. Stephen King knows how to be compelling; and when I’m lost in his words he can convince me of anything… even telepathic, levitating zombies. Sure, he’s an easy read but frankly I appreciate that. He knows to fill my head with his precise intentions. And sure, when I put his words away and let my mind meander around the plot, I sometimes laugh at the things he has got me caught up in. And yet, I love it. I just finished reading Mr. King’s newest contribution to the world of thrilling literary gore. The novel is Cell, and the premise is one that I hold dear and close to my heart (especially on cold and lonely nights when I can overhear neighbour’s heartbeats): zombies. I can’t get enough of ‘em. But more on that another day. Right now I’m in that I-just-finished-a-book mode that feels more like I’ve lost a good friend and it’s time to go home. At any rate, I know that one day ‘Cell’ will make a wonderfully awful horror flick, and I will love it.

P.O.S.T.S.C.R.I.P.T.

I do not like it when books of our present day date themselves by referencing pop culture. It bugs me. Perhaps this is because I hold literature at a level above social media concerns (which is a place that it may or may not deserve). Perhaps I shouldn’t let it bother me so much, since it will allow future readers into a culture that perhaps they can study and look upon with enlightened knowledge of associations and cultural definitions. Whatever. I just don’t like it when people like Brad Pitt worm their way into literature. Go back to E-Talk Daily.