dear diary,

when i grow up and get a real job and make lots of money,
these are some things i'm going to do:

- buy a digital camera and take lots of silly pictures of myself and my friends. (seriously... if i wait much longer to do this, i'll grow out of it, or it just won't be cute anymore.)

- go out for dinner somewhere fancy and order anything that looks good on the menu, without so much as looking at the prices.

- spontaneously hop on a plane to toronto, just to spend a day walking around kensington market and smoking on patios.

- drink like a fish. live like a rock star.

- get a new fucking bottle of shampoo. who knows, i may even splurge and get conditioner while i'm at it.


maybe beggars can't be choosers, but i simply refuse to forsake my expensive taste in hair products. they'll have to wait for starvation to get me before they pry that bottle of redken out of my cold, dead hands.

i'm some sad excuse for a bohemian.

off early on a thursday night, and i'm taking in

the atmosphere down at the old triangle with a pint of rickard's white in front of me. my co-worker (who's been drinking since the late afternoon) is trying to convince me that i am, deep down, as much a victim of my generation's romantic ideals as any female stereotype - i'm trying to convince him that i have no poetry in my soul. really, we're both just taking the piss. a lovely time is being had underneath the half-hearted guise of a philosophical debate.

there are fiddles, and middle-aged couples dancing, and all the irishness you can handle at one time. the band consists of two elderly gentlemen whose brogue sounds suspiciously authentic, in that daniel day lewis way we know and love so well. i wonder if their beards are homegrown or store bought.

halfway through the obligatory whiskey in the jar number, my co-worker grins and suggests that suffering though the live act must be hell for me. surely, someone with my attitude to life has little enough regard for irish folk music and its traditional sentiments? but, lo! here an opportunity presents itself to screw with his feeble grasp on my personality: i actually listened to enough irish folk growing up that i freely admit to a soft spot for it. that's right. never underestimate the eclectic.

in particular, i tell him, there was one song that haunted my adolescence and has since proved quite impossible to track down. believe me, google has never even heard of the damn thing. it was called 'a-rovin' i will go' and i've never come across another recording of it than the one lived in my parents' tape deck between '89 and '93.
this puzzles my entire party.
"you're certain it's not to be found on the internet?"
"positive."
"well, that's strange. umm... have you tried searching an alternate spelling?"
"i've tried with the g, without the g, with the apostrophe, without the apostrophe, with and without the hyphen; i've tried various lyrics - i tell you, nothing."
"well, why don't you ask them about it? i'm sure they've heard of it before."

and with that, despite my protests, my co-worker snags one of the bearded irishmen just as they're taking a set break. "listen, this lady is wondering if you're familiar with a tune..."
blah, blah blah. imagine my surprise when said bearded guy leans close to me and hums, without mistake, the opening chorus line to 'a-rovin' i will go'.

sadly, that's as exciting as the story gets - he has certainly heard of the song, but that one line is all he can remember. he also doesn't know who and when might have recorded it, but now the whole thing sounds like a bit of a challenge, so he engages his colleague... this lass here knows a song... etcetera.

the colleague peers at me over a pint of guiness. well, perrrhaps if you could quote some of the lyrrrics, he says. and i can, of course.
sweet mary was me sunshine
sweet mary was so true
sweet mary dug me heart out
then she cut it right in two
...ring any bells?

the irishman stands for a moment, contemplating, then shakes his head in defeat. nah, he says, nah i don't know the song. i know the girrul, though. i swear to ya, i know that girrul.

sometimes, i do think about getting my shit together.

you know. like people do. in their late twenties especially. i mean, that's what they do, right? quitting smoking and cutting back on the booze and never ever touching drugs again. going for "a run" before having some green tea and putting cucumber slices on my face. eight square hours of sleep, career commitment, multivitamins and sensible spending choices, sunscreen and umbrellas.

then again, sometimes i think about jumping off a very high ledge, too.

the former and latter have several key things in common: they're all about craving an excuse for escape, sparing myself worry about the future, and not fucking likely to happen.

besides, why would i want to burden myself with responsible adulthood if it only means i get to relapse when i hit my mid-life crisis? christ. i'd rather be doing other things then.