After having finished reading Pride and Prejudice for the tenth time, I was again awash with a sense of misery. Misery because I allowed myself to finish the book, misery because we can't all have a Darcy (or even a Bingley would be nice), and misery because I will miss Elizabeth. Is it strange to miss fictional characters? (Probably is.)

It's the type of book that allows you to fall in love with the idea of marriage while at the same time giving fair caution that not everyone will end up in a happy one. It seems that the formula Miss Austen provides is to be sensible in all things concerning marriage. But sensible like Elizabeth, who allows herself to dream and be romantic while being realistic and sensible of the men around her.

There's a certain sentiment mother's have to their daughter's marriage. Like Mrs. Bennet, my mom does not go a day without thinking of Annabelle's wedding, and is very much determined to make Annabelle's wedding cake for her.

Being a resident expert on reality wedding tv shows, I told her that that was probably the worst idea she can have. The mother of the bride especially should not be doing any work on the day of the wedding except cry and coddle every bit of attention people give her. The mother of the bride should not be making the cake.

Reasons why this is a bad idea:
First of all, wedding cakes are creatures with a mind of their own. If not pampered correctly in the right temperature, it will melt and look like a disaster.

Secondly, it has to be assembled on the day of the wedding, and I don't know how my mom will have time for this on the day of the wedding, considering the amount of attention she will be getting from everyone. And knowing my mom, she will be very disappointed if she cannot accept all this attention without channeling her inner diva and let said inner diva shine through.

Thirdly, hello, only the most obvious fact that she's never made a wedding cake before. And that Vinay's family will probably be very disappointed by the lack of grandeur this first attempt will have.

Fourthly, I am afraid for the people eating the cake. A.K.A, you, me, and everyone else.

But she's grown so attached to this idea of making the cake that I don't really want to burst her bubble by telling her why it's a bad idea. Her intention is to decorate the cake with one thousand white, handmade flowers from fondant. This was our conversation:

Me: *Apprehensive that she will put me to work* So when are you going to have time to make all these flowers?

Mom: Starting today. I will start practicing now and make one a day. By next year I should have a thousand.

Me: *Thinking that one flower a day from now until next year does not equal a thousand* Where are you going to store all these flowers and how the heck are they going to last one year?

Mom: *As if it is the most obvious thing in the world* You freeze them, duh.

Guys, disaster disaster disaster. I advised Annabelle to have a backup cake just in case, but she's also sold by the idea that my mom is making the cake for her and thinks it's cute. Cute! So guys, it's up to me to save the cake. I will buy a backup cake or have one on speed dial just incase something disastrous happens (which I know it will).

I don't know what it is about this week that has just left me completely exhausted. We had a lot of important visits this week, none of whom I actually saw, but there were apparently enough important people visiting that they rented an entire bus. Everyone was in panic mode, including me for some reason (maybe panic is contagious). We've been preparing for the visit since last week, and I was given this list of tasks to do, all of which involved a lot of walking, running, standing, and nail chipping.

So on Tuesday when I was told that half the things I had been doing were WRONG and had to be redone I nearly cried; as in, I felt my eyes water, my face flush, and my palms sweat - but for some stupid reason I still had a ridiculous grin on my face. Whatever. So we pulled through and sweated through a couple of long days.

I told Alison and Glory, who are both on my team, that after a really long day of work one day, I went home, lit my candle, and crashed; to which they just laughed at me for. They just don't understand my relationship with candles. I'll explain: Basically, last February I decided to buy a candle from Bath and Body works and I loved it so much that I splurged and bought one after the other. I am literally burning my money. But candles are comforting and smell good and remind me of all the best books out there.

After I realized that Alison and Glory won't understand my candle fetish, and after realizing that I can't understand what the hype about visiting gay bars are, I came to the conclusion that I am more comfortable talking and relating to the older people at work than people my age. It's the strangest feeling and for some reason every time I think about it an image of a flopping seal pops up in my head.

Seals are fat, blubbery, and make awkward sounds. They flop stupidly on land, opposite to their graceful movements in water. I'm a seal! I feel like one at least. When I talk to people my age I feel like I'm just making awkward noises and I become self-conscious of my fat and blubbery texture, as if flopping stupidly.

But just because I can't relate to them doesn't mean I can't laugh at them and their problems. Here's a list of problems people my age who are not obsessed with candles and think of them as seals face:

1) Gay bars
Apparently, if you are an attractive girl, going to a gay bar is a serious insult to your good looks. As Alison explained it so poetically, "Can you imagine entering a room where no guy is in the least bit attracted to you? And they all ignore you because they just don't care? It just feels so bad. But after it's ok because people start to talk to you and compliment you on your clothes and nails and stuff and call you honey."

2) Love Triangles
The best part about work is when there is work drama, and it's even better if you're not part of it and get to quietly giggle in the sidelines.

3) Rotating Schedules
No, not a rotating work schedule, workout schedule, or any other type of self-improvement schedule. Rotating schedules as in going out with a different girl or guy (depending on your gender) everyday of the week. When I heard this I was like, What? People do this in real life and not just in How I Met Your Mother? And you're asking me to be Tuesday on your calendar? This is probably more exhausting than work.

And that's all the problems I can think of. But one problem I don't feel like an out of place flopping seal at is when random guys stalk us. As in:

Today I was helping a guy pick out the right lampshade to go with his lamp and after half an hour, I ran into him again. My other coworker asked if she could help him, and he said motioning to me, "No, the she can help me." I didn't think it was a big deal but my coworker pointed out that the guy had a crush on me because of the way he rejected her. I brushed it aside but then I noticed that he kept on popping up out of random corners where I would be. This guy was stalking me! Whatever, he didn't follow me home, so it's all good.

I've made a list of plot scenarios from the Plot Scenario Generator, and this is number two. Number Fracken Two! I've wasted enough time on this one, and frankly, I don't know how to end it. If anyone has any ideas, let me know!! I've rewritten and tossed and rewritten this so many times I just want to forget about it for a bit.

Plot Scenario Generator:
The story starts when your protagonist can't get a cab.

Another character is someone from another galaxy who has been spying on your protagonist.
(I even started reading The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the Phantom Tollbooth and re-read A Wrinkle In Time for inspiration.)

---

Though fairly tall and only somewhat attractive, Jack has only been on the third date four times his entire life. The first time being with an experimental girl in high school he dated because he firmly believed that he needed someone to practice being in a relationship with; the second was with a girl who used him to get over her pathetic, yet successful, ex, and who, on the third date, realized she'd be better off by herself than with any man; and the third being with his overly religious coworker whose faith he found drawn to simply because of her fanatic energy towards it. When this last one ended on the third date because she decided Jack smoked far too much than what is deemed healthy by scripture, he realized something must be wrong with him.

Much pressure was then put on his third date with Ashley, considering his bad luck with third dates. Everything went badly this night: Being agitated from limiting his smoking to half a pack, he fought very hard to ignore the constant twitch of his fingers and the constant oncoming nicotine cravings he felt. Then, sweating profusely, his shirt, particularly the area under his arms, were drenched, causing a certain stiffness in his walk incase he might offend Ashley with his body odour. All this made Jack appear like a ridged twitch, unable to hold up a conversation because, along with his limit of cigarettes, he vowed to limit his smart aleck jokes which usually made up the bulk of anything he ever had to say, and therefore he had nothing to say except compliments paid towards her.

Ashley was bored. Even the all you can eat clams couldn't entice her to stay longer. Her initial attraction to Jack dissipated quickly, and before the waiter could suggest tea or coffee, she gave a sudden outburst of realizing she had forgotten to feed her cat, Mr. Whiskers, who must be starving to death by now, and whom she must get home to. Jack gallantly paid the bill and outside he told her he'd hail a cab for her, though with no success.

"The bus is just across the street," Ashley said, overcome with the awkwardness of the situation. There was still a part of her that wanted to appear kind and appealing to Jack, though she made up her mind that there were no chances their relationship could ever blossom.

"Haha, no, just er, wait. I'll get you a cab," He said, flailing his arms to try and catch the attention of an oncoming cab. The driver, seeming intent on ignoring Jack and his sweaty underarms, drove past him.

After five more minutes, Ashley lost all intent of appearing well and only having Mr. Whiskers in her mind, left Jack and crossed the street where luckily, the bus had just arrived.

"Ah screw it," Jack said, lighting a cigarette. Sadly, even this somehow failed to satisfy his craving.

On his way home Jack didn't know what to do with himself. It seemed to him that everything he did was a waste of time, and had no interest in anything but perhaps smoking steadily, even his approaching dragon boat race with the Banana Boats couldn't excite him. He longed to be somewhere far away, maybe on a deserted island where he his chief occupation would be surviving for himself only, gathering wood and making shelter and killing the occasional pig to roast.

This happy imagination occupied the rest of his thoughts on his way home, and just as he was imagining his perfect companion on the island with him - a shipwrecked female and a vulgar pet parrot - he suddenly became aware that the door to his apartment was unlocked. Annoyed that he might have left if unlocked himself, he stepped inside to the smell of toast.

Before he could shout, "Who's there?" Mrs. Howsit popped out of the kitchen in front of him.

"Hello Jack, I'm just helping myself to some toast, hope you don't mind. Do you have tea? Coffee? Anything besides juice?" And then noticing that she had been rather rude said, "Sorry, should probably introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Howsit, you've probably heard of my cousin, Mrs. Whatsit and her friends, Mrs. Who and Mrs. Which. Sadly, I'm their much less traveled and far less interesting counterpart. I'm only here because I've been spying on you from a galaxy far, far away, as cliche as that might sound, but I really can't explain myself any better than that, as much as I've tried to think of how to better explain myself in your language. As you probably already know, we don't speak English in our far, far away Galaxy, Jack, and everything here is very amusing to me, as Mrs. Whatsit told me it would. English is such a limiting language, don't you agree?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Bemused, Mrs. Howsit, who seemed to be unable to limit her nonsensical talking, went on to explain how language in her part of the galaxy worked, which frankly, from the bits that Jack tried to understand, thought that it was far too complicated. This so called 'woman' in his apartment was dressed in the most peculiar way; her figure, seemingly dumpy at first, might have actually been rather small, hidden away by the layers of oversized shirts, bulky sweaters, jackets, and scarves tied around her neck and head that caused her dumpiness. Her skirt was long and overbearing with tassels hanging loose and wore large, distressed boots.

It soon occurred to Jack that this woman, this 'Mrs. Howsit', might just be a homeless woman who wandered into his apartment. Feeling suddenly sympathetic for himself, Jack let her babble on as he settled on his sofa to contemplate on how to kick her out.

"And that is how I learned to tesseract, although I still have to think of a way to prevent that stretched feeling I get. You know, if only I could teach you how to tesseract, then maybe your evening with Ashley wouldn't be quite so disastrous."

Jack was pulled out of his own thoughts. "How do you know about my date with Ashley?"

"Never mind about that," Mrs. Howsit said with sudden indignation and flick of her hand, "That reminds me, I haven't told you why I'm here. Did you know, Jack, that throughout my study of happiness - for I'm actually a Chief Observer of Happiness in my far, far, away galaxy, and not just some crazy old stalker as you're thinking this moment - that people's unhappiness are caused by their belief to be happy? And that people's shattered dreams could help them realize the purpose of a dream, so a dream of any kind, should be enough to make someone happy. Therefore in conclusion, and to sum up, I'm here to tell you that you're basing your happiness on the wrong things."

Compelled by this last thought, Jack forgot his go on with his plan of threatening her by calling the cops and asked, "Why is that?"

"Money, for one, cannot make you happy. Love, if un-noble and selfish, cannot make you happy. And this sudden chief preoccupation people have with themselves certainly cannot make them happy." Mrs Howsit paused and sat beside Jack. "And so I thought, why, Mrs. Howsit, you're just a Chief Observer of Happiness, not a Chief Doer of Happiness, why would you suddenly think of going to Earth to tell people how to be happy?"

Mrs. Howsit stared unblinking at Jack until he was compelled again to ask, "Why is that?"

---

And then my mind stops working. I need an ending!

With the onset of getting fewer hours and possibly quitting ELC in the very near future,  I decided to write one thing a day. Most of the time it will probably be stupid, sometimes meaningful, but the majority will end up in the garbage. This is the first of my "I Write For the Garbage" series.

Plot Generator:
The story starts when your main character opens the closet to find clothes that aren't his or hers.
Another character is a clone who doesn't like animals.

---
You can believe my surprise, Jane, to finding Terry's clothes in my closet, at first, but my initial surprise dissipated when I realized the Yeti must have willfully let the clone stay with us once again. The blue bloused tops and chiffon skirts wedged between the short sleeved and long sleeved shirts was utter disregard for the science I've organized my closet with: It's always sleeveless, short sleeves, long sleeves, shorts, pants, jackets, and then dresses - and mind you Jane, each category has to be sorted by colour. Personally, ROYGBV makes sense to me, so I follow it closely, and Terry's blue bloused top clearly didn't belong before my pomelo vest.

At first I pretended like it didn't bother me and said, "Look Terry girl, this here is a type blue and this here is a type of green, so maybe when they created you from cloning Merry they forgot to test you for something of your colourblindness, I'm pretty sure myself Merry isn't colourblind but her husband is."

Terry is not easily humoured, as you probably know, Jane. Remember last week when the goat got loose? The Yeti and the twins went mad yelling and chasing after it and when it made it's way to Old Benson's place we just prayed his appetite wouldn't be up for a full meal that night - that goat was pretty much as good as gone, walking like a suicidal act to Old Benson's place as that. Then, oh what a howl, you remember Jane, I was making my way in the door when I see Terry with a crowbar and the goat bleeting at it, Terry I mean. What a sight! We were in cahoots laughing at the clone, but Terry's terrified of animals or something, always going on about being assumed to be less than them.

Terry's the type of clone to make an assumption like that true, with the way she acts around animals. Ask your husband for me, and then ask about Terry's colourblindness. It's not that animals are better than clones, but sometimes they're easier to get along with. I like things organized: By colour, by size, or by usefulness; Terry's staying with me has caused a lot of arguments between us. I don't even know why she insists on using my closet for her clothes, she can very well just keep it in her suitcase seeing as how she might be out the door the next time she catches a whim.

When I confronted her all she said was, "You like using things the way they're suppose to be used, I'm only putting my clothes where they belong, in the closet."

Imagine that sass? I told her I wouldn't mind so much if she just followed my scientific flow of organization, and she goes on to calling me insipid! If she only knew what I say about her, people would think my words were make believe, and sometimes I wish they were. Really Jane, this Terry girl is more headache than she's worth, I only put up with it because the Yeti likes having her around. And you know how the Yeti is, if it's not happy it might not be seen for another year.

I've been perpetually trying to dye my hair.

I found three year old box of hair dye in my drawer last month and decided to give it a try - even though the possibility of ending up bald kept on pressing in my mind the entire 10 minutes I dared myself to use it.

When that didn't work, I bought a box of hair dye (it was on sale). I got cocky using it, thinking that I should be an expert with hair dying by now and didn't bother reading the instructions or the labels on the bottles. I mixed the tubes together and let it sit on my head for 30 minutes when I realized I had mixed the wrong things together and frantically squeezed the last tube in my hands to work it in my hair.

Needless to say, my hair is still black. Plus the nauseating smell of hair dye gave me a huge headache.

I don't know why I care so much. Hair is just hair. Since last December, I've gotten into the habit of putting coconut oil in my hair once a week, have been using a hair growth shampoo, and have been using different kinds of serums. I've also stopped torturing it with my straightener.

And if you guys are wondering, no, I have not noticed anything different. All this vanity is futile and the only reason I keep up with it is because I am too stubborn to stop.

Anyway, ever wonder how Korean guys have such beautiful hair? Sometimes it's so natural that it looks like their born with it - but I've found the secret.

It's been two years that I've been working at ELC now, and this entire time my best student friend, Andy, has baffled me with his magnificent tuff of hair. It's admittedly better looking than any of the girls' hair, hands down. Then he shared his secret with me: He uses a hair straightener.

Ho ho ho ho! Was my only response.

A guy who knows how to use a hair straightener properly is amazing. Ok going on a bit of a tangent: After my first year I met this guy who always had hair that was standing up; literally straight up from the roots to the tip. I always thought that he should have dyed it green because it was so uneven like any other patch of grass. One late night on MSN, he told me that his hair stands up like that because he uses a hair straightener. Seriously, I peed my pants laughing.

But Andy's different, he's Korean. He has mastered the art of the hair straightener and doesn't make his hair stand up, he uses it to make his hair perfectly, beautifully shaped.

I know some of you might think it's weird for a guy to be blow drying or even straightening their hair, but I appreciate it. It's better than having unkept hair and shows that they care about how they look to the general public.

And no, I won't be dying my hair again. I think I've wasted enough money on this entire hair dying business. I'm just going the old fashioned route and use hydrogen peroxide.

I have secrets scattered in my room hidden between the quiet spaces of my diaries. They're tossed everywhere, sometimes lying where I've dropped it years ago. It takes an eternity to fill one up, so far I go through one every five years. The one I'm working on now started in 2010, so it has roughly about two more years of putting up with me.

This is how I chronicle my life and to never forget those random days that mean nothing then, but ages well like fine wine through time.

Example:
August 15, 2010:
I have a little bit of time to waste before having to go to Ama's house for dinner so I decided to write here for a bit. Leo is coming back tomorrow and I am on vacation from work this week, I also have an exam to study for on Thursday.

Last Friday, I had lunch with Christine Yen and Hannah. Christine left to attend another year of her training, and we saw her just in time. We had lunch at Mr. Sub before Hannah and I went to Cecil to study. Hannah had to practice for her piano exam. We were there for a while before we had to go to Metro and buy snacks for Light House.

This week is the last week of our small group! This has been the best small group I've ever had, and everyone in the group is awesome. Unfortunately, I am am stuck with John for another year and I'm not in the same group as Tabitha :(

But yeah. After Light house we went to Ka Chi, then went home. It was a really long day. Next week is the Gr. 12 BBQ, how do I invite Matty to go there?

---

Chronicling life like this has helped me distinguish patterns and trends. For example, I've discovered that all of my major life events happen in May: I started this diary in May, this important person's bday is in May, I begun going out with so and so in May, I got a job in May, etc. The most dramatic moments happen from September - January, and February is a month for loosing friendships. My happiest times are usually from June to August.  

In middle school and high school, I wrote in three different diaries simultaneously: One for my deep dark secrets, one for the journal I felt pity for and couldn't bear to not use up, one for my friends to read, and another for my imaginative conversations.

I love these diaries. Sometimes I go through periods of months of not writing anything, only to feel like my head is heavy with memories I keep replaying. So I jot them down. Sometimes, I rewrite these memories and blog about them later. Mostly, I love them because I will never forget the moments I felt the most emotion, those times when you're crying and can't understand why, and the tears translate themselves into jumbled chicken scratch on paper. I look back and later realize these moments are caused by my family, that they're the ones who make me so frustrated and hopeless that the very seams of my fingers feel like they will explode.

Then there are the moments when you feel like you have to talk to someone but there's no one. This is when I get romantic and write them down so that I can later on share them with my husband, that one and only other person my 9 year old self decided would be the allowed to read my diary. Every one else will be locked up for trespassing on my thoughts.

Looking back, the reason I even began writing in diaries was when I discovered my mom's diary. When she was first married, she started one which went up to the time after my first birthday. I would read it and be boggled by my mom's humanity; that this person who conceived me had real thoughts and juvenile handwriting. Later my sister took over the diary and filled up the rest of the pages, which was a shame but Annabelle was always the better speller, so it didn't really matter to me.