Bloody, bloody hell. I just got a call on my cell phone. I was all excited, thinking it was
It was the rental car place, telling me they “weren’t sure” they would have a truck or van available for my reservation time tomorrow, and “how big does the vehicle need to be, exactly?”
Fuck fuck fuck I just want to get this OVER with, already. Aaaarrrrrggggh.
Movers beware: I may have to stall until Saturday. Will keep everyone posted/phoned.
After receiving a very upsetting letter a few days ago – for the record, not from Justin – I’ve been in a state of intense mental agitation and worry as to what to do about it. I tried to tell my brain to just let it go, that it was a rash piece of writing sent in haste and that I should disregard it, not respond, wait for the feelings to pass. But my brain would not listen. It kept reminding me of the letter, of certain painful phrases contained within, and I wandered for hours, zombie-like, up and down the streets of Toronto, quietly obsessing.
Before I proceed further with this story, I want to make it very clear that I am not a mouth-breather. My jaw is usually returned to its upright and locked position after I have finished talking or eating. Therefore if you see me walking, eyes vacant, lips parted, with my oral cavity hanging ajar, it means that something is terribly wrong. It means I am for the moment living entirely in my own head, oblivious to how my body is being perceived by others. This rarely happens, but when it does, it means I am mighty upset.
So I was heading up Bay Street through the wet drizzle on Friday morning, at a pace that could easily be overtaken by octogenarians, with my cakehole wide open, stewing over this letter. I was chewing over its accusations, gnawing at the words and sentences like a dog with a bone, wondering how its author could have come to feel this way about me. My stupid, mad brain was running in circles.
Suddenly, a taxicab driving past me sank its front tire deep into a gigantic pothole in the road, unleashing about three gallons of icy street water all over my face, neck, chest, crotch and pants. A direct hit! You may be able to guess where this story is headed: a solid half-cup or so of putrid sewer cocktail made it directly into my gob, and the shock of cold water unexpectedly hitting my tongue made me swallow.
Now, I walk up Bay every damn day. I know what people dispose of in the downtown gutters. Cigarette butts. Phlegm. McDonalds containers. Dead squirrels. At first I was really, truly grossed out by this. I mean, haunted. Seriously, that street water was gritty, not to mention slightly viscous. I briefly debated buying a bottle of bleach to chug as a chaser. What more harm could it possibly do?
Five minutes after the incident, relieved to find myself still not dead, my train of thought quickly reoriented in a more positive direction. I began to harbor the very reasonable belief that surviving physical pollution of this caliber probably meant I was even now developing superpowers.
I can only speculate as to what sort of magical sewer-related abilities will be mine, but I will keep everyone posted as to the results.