The fog is thick outside, heavier than the streetlamps. I wish I could take a picture off the balcony, but instead I’m sitting in my room eating poor-girl sandwiches of peanut-butter, honey, and cornflakes. It’s what I had in the kitchen. Tomorrow/later today I need to get groceries. The ferret needs to be packed up and moved, the bank must be visited to manage funds for the trip down. It’s going to be busy. I’m to visit Angus at the tattoo parlour, I have to stop by my lawyers office as well, sign the release forms that let me leave the country. Somewhere in there, I’d like to grab Dominique and try again this being girly thing, make out with the commercialism of Robson street for an hour and get lipstick all over its too trendy collar. I’d like to see what it’s shopping mall girlfriend might say to that. I’m listening to Sneaker pimps and thinking of Post-Modern Sleaze. There’s a certain something in the term that’s sweeter, more piercing, than I feel, that I’d like to try out. Maybe when I get my tongue cut I’ll make an attempt at renewal. Relearning language seems like a fantastic time to start. I hear of people deciding to change themselves, I remember people telling me to try and fit in, so it must be possible to choose such things. I know I’m set up for a certain measure of it. I decided once that I wasn’t going to be scared anymore of certain things, and then, just as suddenly, I wasn’t.