But should I get purple or brown?  The brown is very chocolatey and delicious and would look good with my hair.  The purple is very vibrant and delicious and would also look good with my hair.  My first instinct was CHERRY PRINT!  GET THE CHERRY PRINT!  but I have curbed that instinct because the goal is to look like a classy 1950s beach vixen (from space), not a late-1990s-rockabilly-loving teenager who spends their allowance at Hot Topic.  Um, leopard print is also open for consideration at this point as well.  Polka dots are out because they are kind of played out these days.

And also, Dear Esther Williams, please will you redesign your website so that you look like you are running a reputable business, and not an identity theft ring?  I’m not worried, because I know you actually do sell swimsuits because I know of people who have bought them (and write excellent fashion blogs), but, honestly.  It looks like someone made your website out of paste.  The kind in a jar, with a stick, commonly found in kindergarten classrooms.

Hey, so we went to see a movie at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and it was super!  Seeing a movie in the cemetery, I mean.  The movie, not so hot.  It was this terrible thing with Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie, and the entire audience got a bad case of the giggles when Donald came on screen with his curly mop and rather distinguished moustache, and things just went downhill from there when Donald took off his pants. And then he was murdered by a troll!  There, I’ve spoiled the ending, now you don’t have to go see it.

And I went to the doctor today regarding my mysterious mystery ailment of the past few weeks, even though I’m feeling better, because whenever I’m sick I just assume I have syphillis or plague and I like verifying that that is not the case.  The doctor did not disappoint.  She diagnosed me with “some weird virus that has gone away.”  So that’s reassuring.

One of the worst things about the internet is how it has enabled me to become an irrational hypochodriac.  Like, last week I had a rash.  The Mayo Clinic website provided me with a fascinating list of conditions and ailments that cause rashes, syphilis being among them, so I immediately decided that, clearly, this was what was wrong with me.  Nevermind that my rash did not in any way resemble a syphilis rash, which is normally found on the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, whereas mine was ON MY LEGS – I immediately assume that not even the worst-case scenario, but the stupidest-case scenario, must be true.  So, that’s how I spent my last week at home in Canada:  worrying about syphilis, an disease that I could not possibly have actually caught.  But all was not for naught, for now, I am a self-educated expert on the disease.  Did you know that there are four phases?

1.  You get a giant, gross, painless sore at the site of infection.

2.  You get a rash and flu-like symptoms.

3.  You go into a latent phase where there are no symptoms.

4.  You become Friedrich Nietzshe.

Anyhow, that’s all.  I didn’t see nearly everyone I meant to see while I was home, due to my non-syphilitic “weird virus”, and also because I did too much traveling and got tired so next year you all have to come to see me.  This post was incoherent and I miss my mom and dad.  But what can you do?

I want a Tim Hortons ham and cheese tea biscuit.

OH WAIT!  I almost forgot about my big news.  My big news is that I have decided on a new tactic regarding boys.  My new tactic is:  celibacy.  It’s going really well so far.

Also, as a result of my delirium, I am incapable of reading anything other than children’s literature because everything else makes my brain hurt. This unfortunately means that my plans to get through a stack of pretentious books (see sidebar) have also been shelved, but I’m really not that disappointed because I’ve worked my way through the Louise Fitzhugh catalog and tomorrow I plan to start on Patricia C. Wrede. Louise Fitzhugh is funny – there are times when her novels definitely come across as products of their time and sometimes there is some weird race/class stuff that makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable (especially in The Long Secret) but I can generally move beyond these issues, because her young, female protagonists, have such genuine character and really manage to speak to my Quirkyalone condition even though they are all around eleven years old. They’re all these quiet, smart girls who don’t fit in anywhere and read books and write a lot, which is kind of what I was like as an eleven year old. I have re-read Harriet the Spy SO MANY TIMES, and for some reason there are parts in it now that make me cry and cry and cry that never used to, and I love it so much and Harriet is my favourite fictional character ever, hands down.

Anyhow, my mother thinks my Mystery Ailment is a result of me doing too much gallivanting about and not enough resting while I’ve been in Canada, so here is my plan for when I come home next summer: I am going to sit in the backyard with a pitcher of margaritas. And you can all come to me. And my dad will make us pizza in his pizza oven and we will get good and shitfaced and it will be amazing.