My good deed went punished

I just got home from work. On the way into the subway, there was this man in front of me trying to get a suitcase through the turnstile. I offered to help him lift it and grabbed the bottom to work it over the metal bars. As it went over, my finger got caught in the wheels and took a chunk of skin with it. I cried out as it dropped to the floor. I'm ok, I'm ok. There was blood, I sucked on it and continued to the platform but couldn't control the bleeding, so I went back up to the attendant. She tenderly cleaned it and put a bandage on and sent me on my way. I rode all the way home, finger throbbing, blood seeping through the bandage. When I got home, I went to my bathroom to clean it properly, and I noticed a big streak of blood on my cheek, I must have brushed it with my hand at some point. I wondered what people riding with me must have thought. Maybe they are telling the story of the girl with blood on her face as I tell you my story of how it got there.

The ex

I keep seeing my ex. Like everywhere. Except it's not my ex. It's some woman that looks like her, from afar. On the subway, on the street, at the gym, at the grocery store. is that her? GULP. My heart skips a beat, a nervousness comes over me. Oh god, what will I say to her. I look tired, oh why didn't I wear mascara today. It's like that Woody Allen movie where he keeps seeing his mother although, not as humorous, in fact not humorous at all, it's just annoying. I try to think what this means. Does it mean I miss her, does it mean I'm not over it? I have no clue. But the one thing I do know is that there are a lot of women that look like my ex living in Toronto. And that's just not fair.

About last night

So last night I went to a birthday party. It was in the Village — Church Street for those of you who are unfamiliar. We drank, we celebrated, we laughed, we ate a cake, all in all it was a great time. When it was time to go, I walked a few friends up the street to Wellesley, said goodbye and said I would get a cab. I started walking towards Yonge Street. I was feeling lucid. Sure, I was a little drunk and a little high, but in a good way, the way that you know you are not ready to hop into a cab and head home. So, I walked. I walked up to Bloor Street and when I reached it, I noticed people waiting for the bus. I thought, hey, I should take the bus! It's bound to be interesting at 2:45am. So I went to the stop and waited. I knew it would not be long as there were many people there. Yes, drunk people. Yes, sloppy drunk people. I was excited. This is going to be fun. And I was not wrong. A sing a long of Wham's Careless Whisper, the highlight. Followed by a slightly offensive discussion of why George Micheal should not have been caught having gay sex in a washroom. A man standing up, eating a Shawarma, messily, pieces falling onto the floor, dangerously close to a sitting passenger's arm. A couple making out, pretty intensely which had me wondering, why they just didn't take a cab, but maybe being on a bus does it for them. A conversation between two straight women about a rejection that occurred earlier on. I looked at the woman, she was SO beautiful, and being so hard on herself, I wanted to tell her, 'hey, you are beautiful, he's an idiot, forget him!' When my stop came, I wormed my way through the drunk bodies, ignoring the last ditch efforts to pick up. Hey, it's late and hey, I'm gay (I think). Goodnight Bloor bus, I'm glad I took you.

Subway stories

There was the cutest little queer boy on the subway today. He was stylish and self-assured. He was leaning against the doors, filing his nails. I wanted to tell him how cute he was, although I was a bit uneasy about the nail filing in public. But then I thought, i can't really tell him that cause people don't really do that, so I just watched him with glee, until he got off the train and disappeared into the crowd.

Morning

The morning commute is starting to get to me. When I first started this job, it was a novelty. The subway? How cute! It goes so fast! How efficient! Now, I dread squeezing myself into its doors, pushing through the people trying to find something to hold on to. This morning I found a spot, pretty comfortable one actually, then noticed I was trapped right opposite this woman with well, lets just say, ample cleavage. Now, I'm not a tall woman, and often I find myself eye-level to such sights and hey, I'm not complaining, but this was awkward. I tried to look around, find something to focus on. I thought: can I swivel around? Is there room, no. I started sweating, it's too hot in here! I unbuttoned my coat. I looked up, maybe there is a funny ad I can focus on, a poem I can read? Something, anything! Oh the humanity! I then noticed a tattoo peeking out from this woman's sleeve. I looked closer to find it was one word, simply written, in script on her wrist, and that word was love.

Quote of the day

When we are committed to honesty, we help reduce the level of misunderstanding, doubt, and fear throughout society. — Dalai Lama

I age you age we all age!

So, as most of you know, I have a slight obsession with aging. I'm always checking out old faces, studying their wrinkles, saggy skin, wondering how close my face will mimic what I'm seeing when I'm 50, 60+. Then a thought occurs to me, are young women in their twenties looking at me and wondering if they will age like me when they hit my age? And are teenagers looking to these young women to see how they will change and so on and so forth? But then I remember, not everyone is crazy like me and I relax and continue my observations.

Thoughts on oranges

I am eating an orange. It has about 781 pits in it. Is that normal? I mean, 3 to 4 pits per piece? really? Isn't that overkill? And who decides these things? And why do some oranges have no pits while others have way too many? What is the standard? And does it mean that they will taste better or worse? Or is that even a factor? The ones with pits seem more satisfying — probably because there is more work involved in spitting out those annoying pits. And what if you buy 6 or 7 from the market. Now you have 6 or 7 days of spitting out those damn pits! Sigh. Ok, back to this delicious, annoying orange.

quote of the day

To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead. — Bertrand Russell

Slow love

I went to this queer slow dance party last night. I didn't know what to expect, it sounded interesting and a lot of people I knew were going and said how fun it was. So, I went. When we got there, they gave us all a dance-card which I put in my pocket, but later noticed people wearing around their wrists. It was like high school all over again, but high school like I had transported my 30-something self with all my knowledge and experience back into. I danced with some of my friends, focusing on them for that 3 or 4 minutes, no distractions, just nice intimate moments. We really talked! It was like the close proximity made barriers come down, the physical intimacy made it easier to cut through all the shit and just talk. I danced with a lover, who I was feeling a little disconnected from. It didn't take long to reconnect over, wait for it: 'I believe I can fly'. That song became sexy to me, and suddenly no one else was there, nothing else mattered. I was just 'in the moment' — ok, yes, I was a bit drunk at this point, but you get what I'm saying. Later some of my friends were leaving as Celine's 'My heart will go on' came on and I said 'You can't leave now, it's Titanic!' So of course they stayed and of course we danced more.

That's so rude!

I don't like rude people because well, they are rude. From the ones who don't line up at the bus stop but cut in front of you trying to go unnoticed, oh we see you rude one! To the the guy talking on his phone while ordering a coffee, barely acknowledging the cheerful Starbucks employee getting his drink. Pfft - you're an ass. To that Facebook friend who doesn't RSVP to your birthday party, but is on Facebook 24/7, you are rude my friend (oh, and ps: get a life). Don't be rude, it's uh, well, rude.