I would like a new liver for Christmas. And a pony. But not a pony's liver.

Here is my itinerary for the next few days. Does this entry sound a little downtempo? That's because it's raining and I'm (attempting) to study for my linguistics exam tomorrow. Oh, and the paper went well. I stayed up late Sunday night finishing it off, and I even included coloured copies of the prints and analyzed in the text, then related the analysis to the three theories (Baudrillard and Smith, and I'm hesitant to call Klein a "theorist" but her book, while a refreshingly light read, wasn't the usual postulating I'm accustomed to in sociology) throughout the paper.

So, I'm going to Iain's birthday party on Thursday. It's in New Westminster at some bar, where I hear offers one dollar shooters. If you really want to get blotto, and quickly, then buck-a-shots are fine. But I bet the cheap booze employed to concoct these "drinks" would make the palate "shrivel up like a spider with a pin in it." (Ellis, 2005: p. 3). On Friday, the Terminal City get-together. One thousand dollars. A handful a people. The handful of people will be eating and drinking an entire one grand.

MENACING, GRAVELLY VOICE: Ten strangers, locked in a comfortable bistro, must somehow survive the evening as they are subjected to a grisly test: one that will twist their wills, shatter their nerves and inflate their buttocks. They must blow one thousand dollars. Or they die. (The voice trails off, replaced with the dim hum and clatter from inside a restaurant.)