Ms. Behaven
Before I sleep, before I forget I must tell you what I saw on the way home tonight.
On the Bloor line subway there was a man. A giant man. A black man as large as the sun. And just as glorious. He and his friend were immaculately dressed. His friend in a three-piece grey suit, beige-cream shirt and a smashing tie. However, the large man, the giant man; he was wearing the most enchanting white suit you have ever seen. It was majestic. Everything he wore was white. White suit with white stripes. White shoes with white laces. White pants with white belt. Again, it was enchanting. He wasn't a man, he was architecture! A giant ivory pillar towering over us all, guiding our way to the Land of Style.
The entire time of the ride back, I just kept thinking to myself:
"This is not an outfit, it's a statement!" Astonishing.
Later, at Union station, I made my way up to platform 3B. It's always three-b. I don't know why we all play the charade of waiting for the schedule to tell us all what we already know. Lakeshore West is 3B. Anyway, I'm beside my point.
There was a girl. A rocker girl. A punk girl. She was my perfect, neatly made bad-girl. She looked so tiny yet so strong. She was perfectly put together. Jet-black hair closely cropped and just messy enough. A few piercings in her ears, one or to in her nose. Maybe an eyebrow ring. The world should be so lucky. She had with her a simple black skateboard. You'd miss it if you didn't look for it. A tight black shirt with dark baggy jeans. And those boarder sneakers that have three times the sole it needs.
She was a goddess. My little rocker goddess. For a brief instant, she was my girlfriend.
The night ended with a long train home where three teenagers swigged back green-apple vodka straight from the bottle and debated who was more drunk. The tall ugly one smashed his head on the ceiling, window, and chair on his way down. Later, he disappeared for a while into what I assume was the bathroom. The conductor had to ask the entire car whom he belonged to. His hunched over, red-headed friend claimed him. Everyone in the car made smirking eye-contact as he fumbled his way back to his chair. That's about when he threw up... onto his red-headed friend. That's also when me and the guy across from me walked to the other side of the car.
I shuffled off at my stop with the rest of the late-nighters. Obviously two-thirds of whom just came from the club; the others probably from work. And now I'm here, retelling what was probably the longest hour I've had any night this week.
Glorious!
On the Bloor line subway there was a man. A giant man. A black man as large as the sun. And just as glorious. He and his friend were immaculately dressed. His friend in a three-piece grey suit, beige-cream shirt and a smashing tie. However, the large man, the giant man; he was wearing the most enchanting white suit you have ever seen. It was majestic. Everything he wore was white. White suit with white stripes. White shoes with white laces. White pants with white belt. Again, it was enchanting. He wasn't a man, he was architecture! A giant ivory pillar towering over us all, guiding our way to the Land of Style.
The entire time of the ride back, I just kept thinking to myself:
"This is not an outfit, it's a statement!" Astonishing.
Later, at Union station, I made my way up to platform 3B. It's always three-b. I don't know why we all play the charade of waiting for the schedule to tell us all what we already know. Lakeshore West is 3B. Anyway, I'm beside my point.
There was a girl. A rocker girl. A punk girl. She was my perfect, neatly made bad-girl. She looked so tiny yet so strong. She was perfectly put together. Jet-black hair closely cropped and just messy enough. A few piercings in her ears, one or to in her nose. Maybe an eyebrow ring. The world should be so lucky. She had with her a simple black skateboard. You'd miss it if you didn't look for it. A tight black shirt with dark baggy jeans. And those boarder sneakers that have three times the sole it needs.
She was a goddess. My little rocker goddess. For a brief instant, she was my girlfriend.
The night ended with a long train home where three teenagers swigged back green-apple vodka straight from the bottle and debated who was more drunk. The tall ugly one smashed his head on the ceiling, window, and chair on his way down. Later, he disappeared for a while into what I assume was the bathroom. The conductor had to ask the entire car whom he belonged to. His hunched over, red-headed friend claimed him. Everyone in the car made smirking eye-contact as he fumbled his way back to his chair. That's about when he threw up... onto his red-headed friend. That's also when me and the guy across from me walked to the other side of the car.
I shuffled off at my stop with the rest of the late-nighters. Obviously two-thirds of whom just came from the club; the others probably from work. And now I'm here, retelling what was probably the longest hour I've had any night this week.
Glorious!
3 Comments:
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Email Service, the Blog?
My dreams have been answered.
Stupid spam.
I'm averaging almost one fake comment per post now. Does any of this advertising work?
I'm tempted to use that word verification system Blogger is now offering. But that adds more complexity to what should be a fluid conversation.
Forget it. If someone's hawking something on this site, you know they're fake.
If they're spamming you, at least that means your blog is worth spamming. Validation, even spam validation, is better than none. :)
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