Monday, January 26, 2009


Waking up with the boy I like in my house (n.b. mom: I know you're most likely reading this, and you can rest assured that nothing of that sort happened) was categorically pleasant, as was our trek to a sit-down breakfast place a few blocks away on a bright, sunny, minus-fucking-nineteen-degrees-Celsius Toronto morning. Of course the brilliant idea of his to make our way over to this specific breakfast joint required that we had to wait in line for twenty minutes outside in the horrendous-fucking-minus-nineteen-degrees-Celsius weather to be seated...

But thankfully for such boy the bacon, eggs and toast were excellent. For had they not been, boy-I-like may have quickly and irreparably turned into boy-who-made-me-wait-in-the-cold-for-a-sub-par-breakfast.

Which he abandoned me halfway through, mind you. Waiting in the aforementioned treacherous line-up discussing the weather with a bunch of proletarian metropolitan well-to-do's meant that our strange, pseudo-date time of eating hangover homefries and cryptically flirting with one another was cut a bit shorter than initially planned. He had to go to work, which I could have and probably should have accompanied him to (I was, after all, merely nursing a third cup of coffee at that point), but I truly didn't mind being left on my own in a breakfast joint I didn't.

In fact, I think it's safe to say that I don't understand or want to associated with anyone who does mind being left alone in a busy downtown breakfast spot run by charming French people with their thoughts and a recently updated iPod on a cold Saturday morning.

My half hour of solitude in such restaurant turned out to be so lovely that on my walk home I determined that it could be followed by none other than a trip to the bookstore in a similarly glorious state of being by myself. Even the rude shopgirl who curtly explained to my visibly-hungover ass that "some authors are more prone to theft" when I inquired as to why the Bukowski book I wanted was furtively hidden behind the counter couldn't bring me out of my I Love Being By Myself high. I didn't even respond to her in an equally bitchy fashion (which, might I add, is perhaps the second time this has ever happened without first undergoing duress from those around me) and instead thanked her so much for her assistance and politely paid up.

I finally arrived back at The Very Strange Apartment I Share With Very Strange People at some point mid-afternoon only to find...
Broken glass in the kitchen? Check.
Clothing and jewelry that aren't mine strewn about my room in the aftermath of OneHellOfaFridayNight? Check.
Too many empty bottles to even think about throwing in one garbage bag? Check.
A phone beeping with text messages from boys I'd rather not respond to? Check.

$2.75 and a six minute streetcar ride later, I arrived at my safe haven (a.k.a. my mother's home which no one resides in on the weekends). It's not that I needed to escape...well yeah, actually, I think I kind of did. But anyways, thank fucking god for the safe haven. Everyone should be so blessed as to have such a thing.

So I proceeded to top off an already-glorious Saturday with listening to 'Open Heart Surgery' by the Brian Jonestown Massacre on repeat for two hours while staring out the window and timing the streetcars going by, and eating more Turtles than I thought humanly possible. Oh, and I eventually cracked open Portraits of a Wine-Stained Notebook. Which, naturally, merely led to writing (read: self-pityingly whining) in my very own wine-stained notebook about how, while I may be a drunk asshole, I will never be as good at being a drunk asshole as Charles Bukowski was.

Saturday was a brilliant day.

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