Here I go again (on my own...)

Sigh.

Looking at the date for the first time in what seems like months (and which is probably close to the truth), I know it's time. School was out for summer, and now it's nearly back in session, and with an intimidating Masthead class and a far more daunting internship approaching, this can only mean one thing: It's time I re-learn how to write.

In the last two months, the longest (and most clever) passage I've written lies in a Facebook message, and nothing more. I chose to take a leave from Torontoist with travel plans in mind, and then with them botched I took the break as a vacation from writing, being far away from the goings-on of the city I was to be in the know about, and knowing I'd have plenty of the writing to do come fall. And what started as Torontoist hiatus turned into a full-fledged internet hate-on, something appropriate for a summer outside and away from the screen, but also one that left my blog blank. Many a time I've been in this same position, hit with personal guilt when I open 'my diary' to see the last entry two weeks, four months, one year ago. And it's not like I'm letting any readers down (right?). But now, it's not just personal, it's... professional. Well, semi-professional, at least.

Practice makes perfect, and though this blog isn't written for broadcast, it's a turn in the right direction. Turn-in/in-tern heading in the right direction. Right.....

explosions in my brain

All you need when course readings are rough (and when you don't have time to maintain a real blog).

(Click-the-pic)

Bad karma from above.

This is what happens to bad journalists....
Bloggers beware.

oh dear god.

Froshies are trodding on my territory.

Scads of Abercrombie-clad clones are trampling all over my home stomping ground..

My backyard is backed-up with over-eager freshmen and all of the o-week, type-a's, busy pumping up newbie spirits and putting a damper on mine.

When I walk, I want to walk fast, mission-walk, through clear streets. I've got a lot of limb from the waist down and don't want to put it to waste. Call me a claustrophobe, or a country folk, but I just need some room to stretch out on my home street.

Personal Ventilation System.

*Disclaimer: The following are actual quotes from actual journalists from an actual website. Proceed with caution.

Angry Journalist #3708:

I’m angry that I can’t use a three-foot apostrophe to beat seven shades fo shit out of the next wanker, who uses the professional moniker of journalist, who fails to understand singular and plural, etc…

I feel beating them with a ‘grammar’ truncheons may both teach them via negative reinforcement methods and act some for of therapy for me… and it would be fun.

That is all. Now I must go relieve myself in the editor’s coffee cup.

Angry Journalist #3444:

i dont get paid enough to pay rent

Angry Journalist #3326:

Journalism degrees are toilet paper (I have one).

Angry Journalist #KASS:

j-school ruined my life, two years later I don't know what to do and I'm scared to live in poverty. It's 3 a.m. and I'm still paying to do homework.
The weather welcomes outside and the night is nigh but the bright lights of my laptop are all of the nightlife I get to see tonight.
My scanner and printer are on the fritz that means extra work extra time extra money.
Please, j-skool, don't make me move to Regent Park...

Read, write, repeat.

I remember the day when I first discovered the word "repetitious".
'Twas once upon a time when my age was just one digit, in my neighbour's living room, listening to a little Marvin Gaye ditty, a song I thought was entitled "Sexual Feeling". I didn't found out its actual title 'till a couple years ago, but what I did learn was that when the same words (or as I would later see, activities) repeat themselves over again and again, and this means they are "repetitious".
Now, I can only dream that repetition means simply listening to Marvin Gaye on repeat.

Every day, I wake up and write (at least some) notes in class, read my 'readings', write for a blog, read books for English, write down orders at work, read e-mails, write replies, read news, write my own version of news, repeat. My life as of late resembles some never-ending laundry cycle—brain-wash, rinse, repeat.

I started reading for pleasure (about pleasure) in I'm With the Band, the Pamela des Barres epic where she reveals vivid detail of the sexual feelings and healings of her wild-child, effortlessly-cool, hippie-chick youth. Not only have I had to cut myself off from social life and living in general, but I had to cut myself off from living vicariously through the enticing life of a groupie extraordinaire. School and serving have me home(and)working all the time, and no time remains for workouts or working the rest of my life out.

TSN turning point (and possible internship, but more on that later):
Forecast for tomorrow: 13 degrees. So what if its raining, I'll sing in it. 19 days, nine-teen days 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19. I'm going to be such an optimistic person.... soon...