The day I Iost my way

The day I lost my way started off as a pretty normal one. I left home, went to work, spaced out for 6 hours, had lunch, spaced out for an extra hour, answered emails, said goodbye and left. I usually found my way back home using the CN Tower as a reference. Now, I guess everyone does so, since she is especially useful at night with her colored lights. But this day in particular, she was nowhere to be found, so I had no idea how to come back home. I walked to the right. I am aware of the fact that Torontonians, or rather, citizens in general have a basic knowledge of street names, directions, etc. I just never did, I had the CN Tower since I moved into this city two years ago. Walking to the right seemed like the correct thing to do, so that is what I did for half an hour, without finding my apartment. Seriously confused at this moment, I decided to ask someone about the mysterious disappearance. I approached a woman in her twenties, walking rather cheerfully down the road: "excuse me, do you know what happened to the CN tower?". She replied: "What do you mean?". Appalled by her ignorance I said hysterically: "IT'S NOT THERE ANYMORE, CAN'T YOU SEE?" She did not seem affected by my emotional ways and said calmly: "Well, I hadn't noticed, but if that's what she feels like, we might as well let her be."

I continued walking to the right, muttering. I found the Manulife center, and, given that it was almost 8 by then, decided to go up to the bar on its top from where I could find the missing 553 meters high tower. I entered the bar, walked straight to the counter and approached the bartender. It is a rule in city life that bartenders and taxi drivers know everything. I said politely: "Do you happen to know where the CN tower is?" To which he responded looking unsurprised: "Oh, no, not really. A man last night mentioned something about it going away, but I didn't pay much attention, I thought he was just a drunk man talking nonsense." I said now hysterically: "But don't you care?" He shrugged his shoulders and walked to the other side of the counter to serve beer to customers willing to make more banal conversation.

I found myself on the street. The night had fallen and a freezing cold wind slapped me on the face. Snow was imminent. Toronto was hitting me with its hardest blows. I walked and walked, not finding any street or building that looked familiar. After an hour or so, snow was falling on me, threatening to enter my eyes and freeze them. And I was still lost.

I suddenly found myself in the middle of Queen's Park, surrounded by statues, fountains, trees and beautiful buildings. I sat on a bench, contemplating the Parliament and I began to cry. I loved this city, it was beautiful, impressive, unpredictable, exciting. It had everything a city needed to have. Its citizens, like the citizens of any great city, shared its qualities. But that cold and harsh night, I could not understand Toronto nor its citizens. I felt like they did not show me its appreciation. I could not cope with the quality of those Torontians that did not seem to respond to my fit of madness. Toronto was irresponsive, it was ignoring my problems and feelings, mocking my desperation to understand what was the reason of the disappearance of the "tower that defines its skyline".

I strolled down University Avenue until I found a Tim Horton's, went in and ordered a double double and three Timbits. While taking a sip of my coffee I understood. Torturing myself with the thought of Toronto not loving me enough to show the CN tower and letting me go home would lead nowhere. The city had seemed selfish and capricious before, but I did choose to live here. I chose it knowing of this unusual events that made me uneasy and insecure, hoping to learn how to adapt one day. And this seemed to be the day when I had to read the city through the behaviors that confused me and show my love.

After finishing my coffee I was no longer worried about not finding the CN tower or my way home. I loved Toronto, and I should love the way it behaved. So I decided to enjoy its unusual behavior and use it as an excuse to stroll around its beautiful streets, going to every place and loving every part of it.

No means no

Yes, I have a turtle. Yes, I know they don’t do much and they just sit there, biting on lettuce every once in a while. But Terry has a sense of humor that is very similar to mine and we get along just fine. Sometimes I sit on the bus, apart from him and everything is just so banal. I can picture the bus crashing into a big truck and everyone panicking, running in circles, being cut into pieces, their blood mixing up with the pieces of metal flying all over. Bones cracking, blood flying, people screaming, chaos. But not me. I don’t move. I don’t care. Terry is in the shoe box he calls home, in my room, next to my lamp on my desk. Probably missing me, but not showing it. He is so much like me and people like me will never admit when they are missing someone. I come back everyday and find him there, and he comforts me after those long days of banality, full of nonsense studying that seems to lead nowhere. But not that day. I came back and no Terry. No box. No nothing. I ran to my mother’s room and demanded the truth in tears. He was dead. D-E-A-D. Mort. Muerto. Shindeimasu.
I ran to the kitchen, followed by my mother, grabbed the biggest knife I could find and held it in front of my chest. I was determined. My mother was screaming “Nooooooo!!”. And I said: "Right. No means no”. And then everything was OK again.

The Sadistic Act Of Eating An Orange

Round oranges. Plenty of them. Lying one next to each other, sometimes one on top of the other. Eine auf dem ruecken und eine ueber ihr. Beautiful oranges sitting on that tray. I take one and save it for later. It shall satiate both hunger and thirst when night falls over me without asking if I am done with all my day's work. I shall be filled with exasperation to read those lines that seem to become longer and more complex as my eyes try to catch them.
I will carve my teeth through her skin. Without mercy. Without having pity on ruining such perfect shape or depriving her of garments. I will find her trying to protect herself with that bitter white cover that I will bite all the same, for my desire for her sweet inside will be stronger. And I will proceed to alternate between bitting off the acid peel and the pulp. I will enjoy biting the porous bit of her structure, even if when it makes my lips hurt in an unusual way when the acid is splashed on them. And I will be mocked by everyone who happens to see me soaked in sticky orangy juice but I will not mind. And I will not mind either the persistence of the pain in my lips and the bits of pulp that remain in my teeth even after brushing them twice.

Facebook is the devil

http://www.xkcd.com/355/

It was a Saturday afternoon when he poked her. Yes. In an impulse, he decided to go for it and click the left button of the mouse and poke that woman he had seen about 6 times, sitting usually three rows ahead in phi876h. She usually held her hair back in a ponytail and yawned a lot in class, and dressed modestly, but in her profile picture she usually showed her real self: smiling with a group of friends and showing her qualities with a better angle than the one he could see from back there in the classroom. So he poked. Just to see her reaction. Just to give it a try. Maybe she had also gone through his pictures once and once again in the night, and maybe she also knew the names of all his friends and all his pets. And so a few days went back and she poked back. Oh my god! She poked back.
This was followed by a series of poking back and forward that concluded in the greatest event: they friended each other. And then writing in their corresponding walls began and life was ecstasy. Life was good. They asked each other if they had handed in the essay, they commented on the upcoming social activities, on music. And then, with an email notification, she found that he had sent a message, a private message that none of her friends could see, but would soon receive through a copy paste on a msn message. He was asking her out. And she did not know what to reply. Could she say she knew him? They only waved in class but were very active in their Facebook interaction. Always fast to reply, always had some witty commentary. She said yes.
They had been sitting in a Starbucks for an hour now and the conversation was good. They had relatively enough things in common and uncomfortable silences were not too many to be concerned of.
A month after this encounter, their profiles did not say single anymore, but In a relationship with. But he had doubts. He noticed her staring at that piece of information a few times, probably wishing she had not said yes to: confirm x as your boyfriend?
It was a new Saturday afternoon and she was taking a shower, getting ready to go out with him and some friends. And she forgot to sign out. And he saw it.
A guy she had mentioned before. He was in the basketball team. No, in her French class. Was it him? Whoever it was, he had poked her. And he needed to say something. He asked her for an explanation. She said she had not poked him first nor back. She was confused. She felt trapped. He wanted answers and she was hiding behind lack of proof. And then he asked her to show him her Inbox.
That was the end. It was not only poking, it was also messages, tons of them. He could never continue a relationship with someone who was poking and sending messages to another man. And he erased her name from her Friends list.