eight hours

Attention all short, fat, half-Asian girls stomping around Vancouver in discount clothing, second-hand boots, and terrible hair; with a permanent scowl on your face as though your once-amazing job has turned into some kind of devastating Gift of the Magi/Monkey Paw nightmare and you are utterly depressed about your reality and don’t see a way out: there’s a guy named Steven somewhere downtown who would like to “do that” for eight hours straight because you are perfect and amazing and just what he wants in a woman.


I was scowling my way to work when a guy stopped me at the corner of Dunsmuir and Hornby. He looked like any other guy you’d see downtown at 9:30 on a weekday morning – dressed on the casual side of business formal, carrying a leather portfolio, tidy haircut – a normal-looking dude. When he stopped me, I assumed he just wanted directions or to know the time .. but instead, he wanted to stop me to tell me that I was his perfect woman, and please say there’s no husband or boyfriend “doing that” *gestures to my body*. When I said I was indeed married, he was disappointed; saying he would “do me for 8 hours” because he loves everything I have going on and I am gorgeous and I should tell my husband to have sex with me for 8 hours because he would do me all day long and *aroused grunt* oh man, the things I would do to you. I laughed – what else do you do in that situation – and said thank you but I needed to get to work; all while he was insisting he would do me right and demanding my husband be told I deserve sex for 8 hours and also I am gorgeous and perfect and exactly his type mmMMmm.

So, that happened.

I know that as a feminist I should be terribly offended that a random man felt he needed to tell me I made his penis daydream about marathon sex, but I’m really not. I didn’t feel threatened or even creeped out .. it was just funny. And let’s face it – I never get hit on. I am no one’s (well, except for this guy) “type” even when I’m not a walking wall of doom, so it was kinda .. nice.

Okay, back to being depressed.


catch them all

Someone stole my soul on the bus this morning.

I was sitting at the end of a sideways row of seats, talking about salami online. No one was sitting next to me, and only one woman sat across the aisle, two seats down. Suddenly and without a word, she pulls out an iPad, aims it at me, and takes my picture: I know this, because she briefly turned it around so I could see myself on her screen. Then she giggled, sang “Got you!” out loud, and put her iPad away.


Did she steal my soul?

Later, when the bus was more full and she had seat mates, she pulled out the iPad again and showed the lady next to her something. I may be paranoid on account of having no soul, but they both kept looking up at me then back to the iPad as if to compare my soulless reality to the likeness now trapped on her screen.

Seriously, I’m kind of freaking out. This is weird, right? Many strange things happen to me that I consider routine, but this is totally not normal, is it? Am I an item in a scavenger hunt? A Pokemon? Is she playing Dark Cloud? WHAT IS GOING ON?!

Joke’s on her, though: I took her picture right back. SO THERE.

omg wtf.


Here’s a helpful tip from me to you:

Don’t put yogurt in your pocket.

Specifically, don’t put yogurt in your pocket and then forget you put yogurt in your pocket.

You will inevitably squish it and end up with soggy yogurt in your pants, and then people will laugh at you.

I’m not sure if they’re laughing at the giant wet spot or the fact that I had yogurt in my pocket, but they are definitely laughing.

Now I am sad and soggy and probably sticky.

Today sucks. THANKS OBAMA