Fruit

I was walking out of the bank today when this women who was waiting in line for the green machine looked at me and half moaned like a cow being force fed a leg of lamb through it's arsehole. "Oh my god", she blarted, "he's so skinny!", with extra emphasis placed on the skinny. She said this while gripping a banana in her left hand, holding it like it was proof that despite all appearances she was actually healthy and slim, and her gluttonous rolls of lard were a mere optical illusion or a temporary glandular problem.

I glided past with all the confidence of a a person fully in command of his diet and body. I could hear her bones protesting as they tried vainly to support her weight, her chubby hand daintily holding the banana which would soon be converted into another extra chin, or early onset diabetes. Driving away I saw her through the window, still standing in line, still holding that banana like Jesus must've brandished his truth, while her carcass bore the weight of her sins with all the grace and dignity of a beached whale.

When she dies, I hope someone places a banana in her hands. As the crematorium incinerates her bright yellow coffin, I'll be there, eating a cupcake and smiling.

Avalon

I've tried, I really have. For all the sarcastic emails and conversations berating people who buy into the white picket fence dream, I ended up in line at the paint store, queing for brushes and tins. For the past two years I've given it my best shot; the mortgage, RSP account, professional career, steady relationships. I own property, am on the ladder in a large and well respected company, and I hate my life. I am a cliche of a cliche. It ends here.

On the plus side to all of this, I've answered the questions that bothered me all those years ago, namely how did people end up like this? How do you go from being young and idealistic to old and bitter, stressed, frantically trying to eke out satisfaction from the most mundane activities. I've been in the professional world for two years, and if my experiences were condensed into a brochure the picture would not be attractive.

Fear of the unknown keeps people in a state of inertia. Security is such a strong motivator that we will sacrifice every kind of risk in order to maintain it.

Earlier today I came across old emails sent to friends while I was away backpacking shortly after I graduated, and was surprised at how creative, spontaneous, entertaining and hilarious they were. That was a time when it felt like anything was possible, when I had a lot to say and was not afraid of saying it. It's been a long time since I've felt like that. I haven't written much recently because there's been nothing to say. I hope to change that in the near future.

Fuck

It's always the mornings when you have to wake up early that you can't sleep. Brain is roiling, won't settle down, retreading old ground and wearing a hole in my mental carpet. Despite my best attempts to get rid of the iron maiden bed I sleep in, it looks like I'll be sleeping in it for a few more weeks; don't have the money to buy a new mattress. The bed realizes its days are numbered though, and is making a last ditch attempt in destroying my neck muscles.

A resurgance of style

One of the things that's always fascinated me is the Canadian obsession with comfort, and how it's often mistaken for style. I have been to third world slums, seen beggars with mutilated limbs and people living homeless on the streets who are for the most part still better dressed than the average Canadian, which is a bit of a mind-fuck. Why do the citizens of a country with one of the highest GDP's in the world dress like crack addicts, and even more importantly why are they proud of it?

Canadians love comfort. They covet it, treasure it, and will do anything in the pursuit of obtaining this vague and elusive idea. It's like a drug, perverting their view of the world and making relatively normal people do crazy things in the it's name. Like every drug, unless you're also on it you don't see the appeal. I'm looking at you 'Roots', and you 'Ugg boots', and you Walmart sweatpants and Old Navy hoodies and your idiot savant corporate ravings of comfort. Wear flip flops in winter, it's comfortable. Wear your pajamas to the mall, it's comfortable. Better buy those sweat pants and extra size too large, it's more comfortable. And so on...

On behalf of the rest of the world, allow me to say: you are all fucking slobs. Where the fuck else in the world would you get away with wearing half the shit I see at the average mall, let alone have it be called stylish or fashionable? How the hell is an XL hoodie more comfortable than a properly sized sweater? I don't want to see your fucking toes in the summer, let alone in a blizzard; encase those feet in shoes god dammit.

I remember going to Sweden and having a revelation. In my small circle of friends I'm seen as a snappy dresser (this is a bad thing) with a slightly worrying interest in clothing and personal style. In reality I spend about 5 minutes a day getting ready, and have a very small wardrobe that consists of carefully chosen items which fit me well and look half decent. The basic pride I take in my appearance is seen as questionable in Canada, but when I got off the plan in Stockholm for the first time I felt like a bum. Everyone was dressed impeccably, kids wearing the latest trends, fitted clothing, adults looking smart in suits and coats, not a single ski jacket or dirty running sneaker in sight! People were riding bikes in a full suit and tie, which was a nice change from the usual North American spandex clad shiny-helmeted freaks zipping around looking like some alien fetus on two wheels. If the Scandinavians can do this, why can't we?

It would be great to experience a resurgence of personal style, where people take pride in what they wear and how they look. To steal a line from another blog, "clothing is the outward expression of a man's state of mind... it's my voice before I ever say a word." Let's have more fun with the way we get dressed.