Babe Magnet

I apologize for every post beginning on this note, kind of like those pre set intros your cell offers as appropriate and apparently popular text messages like "I love you," "Sorry I'm in a meeting," or "Fuck off and give me back my sweater with the blue and yellow stripes, yeah, I think I saw it underneath your bed you dumb whore," but the other day at work...

...I was watching two friends trying to decide what to get. They were probably in their early thirties, laughing and talking to each other, and I read what was written on one of the guys shirts.

"Don't Make Me Laugh --
I'll Fart."

It brought about a certain air of nostalgia, like I was back in grade six when wearing t-shirts that said things like "The man" (with an arrow pointing up) and then "The Legend" (with an arrow pointing down) was soooo cool. But hey, I mean, who am I to discount the act of wearing obnoxious t-shirts to 12 year old boys as if it's annoying and way over done. There are plenty of people, adults even, who love to wear t-shirts with messages intended to be read. Like Paris Hilton for example, that girl loves a dumb shallow slogan like "Your boyfriend things I'm hot" written across her chest, and hell she's being honest. Maybe it's because her "Legend" (arrow pointing down) is so undeniably legendary! Atleast for the little boys the comedy was in the irony...

Rantings aside, in the midst of being apathetic and self loathing at work, I decided to comment on the guys shirt.

"Your shirt is so charming," I said in a flat tone with eyes that conveyed a certain sense of amusement.

He and his friend laughed simultaneously, and then the friend gave the guy a good couple pats on the back. My shift was far from being over, and the desire to provoke some unsuspecting, seemingly innocent man was far too tempting to ignore.

"You must get a lot of ladies in that shirt eh?"

And with that I got the workplace laughing, the fellow employees, the people being served beside him, and even the old woman selling pottery that no one buys. I guess I'm a bit of a vulture, but hey, he had neither irony nor an internet sex tape going for him.

For some strange reason the guy bought nothing, walked away, and probably said something like,

"Dude, you see that girl? She was all over me, man this shirt works EVERY time!"

Not His Finest Moment

My dad: Nice sweater, when'd you get that?

Me: When did I get this? I dunno, years ago when you gave it to me.

My dad: I gave that to you? No.

Me: Yeah, when you were in the states. You brought it back for me.

My dad: Hmm. Well then, I have good taste.

Me: Yeah, and apparently not the best memory.

Siamese

My parents contemplated separating us at birth but eventually decided against it. They thought we'd be best friends, but the truth is, she's really starting to get on my nerves.

I think it's pretty clear which is the annoying one...

My Appearance

The random and uncalled for Hunger Strike hasn't been treating me too well these days, and sometimes I find myself wanting to strangle people. As I was leaning against a counter at work, staring off into freedom, I heard someone pipe up and say something.

"Looks like you need something to do," he said with a smile.

I looked back at him, directly in the eyes, and mustered the most believable smile I could. Yes customer # 6895, ten minutes before closing on my third ten hour shift in a row, that HAS to be the look on my face. If I could give you an award for accuracy I'd be handing it over to your proud little hands right now. Surely my face didn't say "I'm tired", or "I haven't eaten in a week", or even "I'd LOVE to be anywhere but here". Let's break it down for you gramps, there's no way in hell I didn't have "GO AWAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD" written blatantly across my forehead in thick red facepaint. Maybe you also think that hobos "look like they need some caviar," because that'd be right on the money.

I picked up a container, and started filling it with his overflowing obliviousness.

Hookers With Attitude

There are prostitutes running rampant around the city making everyone's lives a living hell. I don't mean the kind of prostitutes that wear one cowboy boot and a kitchen sieve on their head, but the kind that drive around in the big SUV's and honk at me. The ones that don't know how to drive, get intense road rage, and then blame their inability to steer and simultaneously press a gas or brake pedal, on me. Alright, they're probably not "hooker" hookers, but there's a good chance that they're doing someone old and rich...for money, and that's teetering on the exact definition. When I tell myself that they're hoes it makes me calm down a bit, like maybe, I'll let them off unscathed sans my middle finger in the rear view. Whatever gets you through the day right?

Once I got out of the sardine can that is downtown and onto the highway I felt much better; hookers will disperse and become less frequently encountered on highways. I think that was one of Newton's Laws or something, but then again, my highschool physics teacher did sign my yearbook by drawing a picture of me with my head on my desk beside the caption "In need of momentum Carmen?" Quite the clever one he was...

Nearing the end of my trip I saw a guy wearing tear aways, let me repeat that for added emphasis, TEAR AWAYS, yes the pants you can rip off your body in the blink of an eye, and I felt so betrayed. Wasn't there a collective action among "young people", an unwritten agreement that we would leave those in our elementary past? But then it clicked, the puzzle pieces started to come together in my sadly perplexed brain, hoes in escalades, juveniles wearing easily removable pants, HOOKER IS THE NEW BLACK.

It's not that girls all over the world haven't been dressing like hoes forever, but they definitely haven't all been making money! C'mon sweet thangs, you've gotta capitalize on that shit!

Desperation

Al is eagerly awaiting one of the most intense computers I've ever heard about. I don't know the first thing about PC's (I'm a faithful mac user), but gauging from the familiar techno sparkle in Allan's eyes this machine is gonna do just about everything except spoon feed him. He's teetering on the edge of insanity waiting for this piece of ass, and driving me to the same place in the process. Not a day can go by without him asking me to drug him and maintain his sedated state of mind until the sweet arrival of his baby. I was thinking of using either rufis or tranquilizers, but suggestions are welcome.

We've already named her Lady Electronika, because she's referenced far too many times in a day NOT to have a better name than "that machine that's going to take your place as my favourite female". He didn't exactly say those words but I'm no idiot. If you don't believe the severity of his craziness, then check this out. The poor guy is making cut and past collages like that of an eight year old...

I haven't met Lady E at this point so I can't form any real opinions about her shady character or fat ass, but it's only a matter of time. She better learn her place quickly though, because I'm a tough competitor.

War's on bitch.

PS - I'm dying

For some completely unknown reason I can't eat anything. I just tried to force feed myself a creamsicle; then I spat it out. I'm feeling particularly emaciated on day 3 of this random disease of non-appetite. For the little girl who always cries wolf (medically), I may just be dying! My 16 year old self would have begged for this problem, if only I could have timed this better. Then again that would imply that I have some control over this absurd predicament. Has anyone ever heard of this nonsense?

Bad Timing

Today on the bus a little boy with winding curls looked up at me and pointed. He pointed at the window, his dad, his mom, and then at me; so I pointed back at him. He smiled because I played his game, and then we played peekaboo and counting to ten. The peekaboo made him laugh, it made the lady beside me laugh. His sister asked my name, "Carmen" I said, "Carmen" she repeated, and let it sink in. The boy screamed for apple juice, and then he blew me kisses. "Thank you!" I said, "Am I your girlfriend now?" He smiled again and nodded vigorously, then blew me a couple more in confirmation. His dad took a picture of me and said that he wanted to remember his sons first girlfriend. It would be a short relationship I thought to myself, and then I got off at my stop.

I told this to Al when I got home and he laughed at all the right parts, making me feel good. His smile transformed into confusion, and then to slight anger.

"You cheated on me on our anniversary?"

"Sorry."

Next Week, I Moniter The Growth Of Tadpoles Into Frogs

Since I may or may not have a problem with an aforementioned bout of forgetfulness here and there, I never ever manage to watch prime time sitcoms regularly. People around me in class, or friends when I'm out, will always talk about the latest episode of such and such where some troubled guy or girl is smoking crack, shooting someone, being a slut, or involved in some other very unpredictable story twist. Essentially I abstain from watching these shows, and having to admit that I have an insatiable addiction, all because of my own retardation. It's as though I have this built in mechanism that saves me from jumping on bandwagons, or getting caught up in trends that result in the purchase of The OC barbies.

Carmen : 1, Media executives trained to pin me as a demographic : 0.

Alas, I write this in hindsight because those execs are smarter than I thought. They put the episodes TOGETHER, so you can watch them in 24 hour long marathon sequences, on little pieces of rainbow-y circles called DVD's. How dare they swat at my achilles heel? And make it cost money? More money than the free-ness that was on TV? I throw up my hands in defeat; I'm LOST...

That intro could only lead to the painful reality that was myself and Allan in the let down of Tuesday night. When we pulled up to Rogers Video I felt good, I knew that my fix was near and man, was I fiending. We looked in the usual section, "TV", but couldn't find it, our beloved, ADDICTIVE show. I'm sorry, Emo Rogers Worker, what do you mean, LOST isn't "in". IS LOST LOST?

I was devestated to say the least, and when the shock of our situation began to wear off, the realization of something else rolled in. We were a couple, milling around, grazing in Rogers Video, looking for our night's plans just like a million other couples. Movie rental places, like nowhere else (except maybe the grocery store on a friday night) make you feel like a grand loser. Everyone mopes, adjusts their sweatpants, and eventually someone says something like "Well you're just gonna have to pick between this Hilary Duff movie and your Denzel Washington one." The implications, consequences, and internal battles being fought seem to resonate of the walls there. The place reeks of disagreement and last minute plans.

I think the video store experience would have been OK, survivable, if Mr. I-sat-near-you-in-highschool-english-class didn't come up and have an akward conversation. I recognized him, but had no delusions about the extent of our friendship. It bothered me that he didn't abide to the unwritten rules of video store etiquette (#37 - Akward conversations should be avoided at all costs, this includes but is not limited to, people you used to sit near in previous classes.)

"Oh Carmen, hey!" he said as he gave my boyfriend a "manly" head nod.

"Ooooh. Hi."

"What have you been up to lately, well besides renting movies."

"You know, working in the summer, going to school."

"Yeeeah, me to, working TWO jobs, and going to school, so you know."

I got out of that situation as fast as possible, but couldn't help feeling that he had pushed me over the edge. Him and his trophy girlfriend, the one he never had in highschool, me and my boyfriend, just having a conversation in the TV aisle of a video store. It gave me an overwhelming loser feeling. I'm young, wasn't I supposed to be snorting lines off the hood of my friends car? Or maybe dancing on tables with a moose hat on thinking that this, this is where it's at. I should be riding down streets on a bike that I just stole from a snotty eight year old, a bike with no brakes and a unicorn bell. I should be getting ugly chinese character tattoos symbolizing "peace" and then regretting them five months later.

But maybe then, the media execs would catch on, they'd see the "trends of the young" and make a new hit show called "Sk8ter Girlz" with rampant drug use, careless acts of deviance, bandanas tide around heads; and I'd hate for them to pin my demographic once again. So for that, I'll remain a big dork, having akward video store reunions, and knowing that no one, would ever, ever, make a show about that.