LORENZO RAYMUNDO

Sammo: The Independent Art Scene, Suited Up!

2012-12-19T14:03:00.001-05:00

*Note: Awhile back I was commissioned by a Magazine to do an interview and article on Artist Samara Shuter but before my piece on her could be published the magazine folded. It was a shame to just let the piece just rot away on my lap top so here it is.

Sammo: The Independent Art Scene, Suited Up!

Just over a year ago, I found myself in the basement of some hole-in-the-wall bar watching two guys figuratively “duke it out” for a championship during a Queen West art crawl paint-off. The premise was simple: several head-to-head, single elimination, ten minute “paint-offs” between Toronto's most promising young artists. It seemed like an interesting enough event, so I decided to check it out with a couple of friends.

Several Carling Black Labels later, the last two painters faced off while the crowd cheered... welcome to the championship bout. While I am by no means an art critic, to me the end result looked like Helen Keller took a paint brush to a canvas. Searching for a more credible artistic input, I turned to the girl standing next to me with the non-prescription eyeglasses, wearing the green neon tights and the inappropriately warm leather coat – if she didn't know art, no one in there did.

“So what do you think of their work?” I said, half sarcastically.

“It's absolutely amazing. The way Jason [the winner] combines his use of colour with his subject matter is just surreal. It's so indicative of how globalism was ended during the 9/11 conspiracy.”

... Huh? It looked like a bunch of lines drawn together at random. If these are the best creative young people our city had to offer, we were in some serious trouble.

“The 911 conspiracy? Seriously? ‘Cause to me, it's more indicative of how Jason lacks any talent”

“Ummm...You just don't get it,” she scoffed and walked away.

*************************

Art has always been a reflection of its time – since cavemen began drawing on cave walls with rocks. Each successive period has seen its art movement embody, challenge and express the triumphs and adversities of its respective society. The Renaissance saw the rebirth of classical culture while post-WWI gave rise to Surrealism and its exploration of the unconscious. Even Warhol's seemingly simple multi-coloured soup cans symbolized the effect of consumerism on art and popular culture. But can someone please explain to me the Zeitgeist behind random lines drawn together in a ten minute round of scribble-paint? I mean, just how is a hoard of skinny jeans-wearing, venti non-fat, no foam chai latte-sipping, part-time American Apparel employees going to shock the art world? They won’t - at least not in my opinion. Most of today's art is so focused on the superficiality of pseudo-depth, that it is unable to create anything genuinely relatable. We are a post-existential generation, where who we are is defined by how we appear to other people. There is no meaning beyond the image itself, and so today’s art expresses just that: nothing (except the meaninglessness of the façade itself).

Take a stroll down Queen West during Nuit Blanche, and what you'll discover is not a celebration of art but something akin to an intoxicated block party of fashion-conscious twenty-somethings. Their concern is to embody the image of a starving artist, rather than to represent current society with their work. There will be more discussion of whose after-party to attend than there will be of the art itself. Art parties are intended to showcase art, instead they've become more of a street-cred competition than anything else. But of course, there are exceptions – once in a while, someone stands out and they dissuade from the norm. Their work and what they embody challenges the status quo and when that happens, everyone begins to take notice.

A self-proclaimed perfectionist who is inspired by vibrant colours and symmetrical lines, Artist Samara Shuter has resurrected my faith in today's youth art movement. She deviates from the norm not only with her work, but also with her approach and attitude towards today's art scene. She (and, consequently, her work) represents something original and true.

Better known as Sammo, this Montreal-born, Toronto-raised artist is quickly gaining notoriety in both the art and fashion communities. You might say that Sammo is the creative artist that every fashion- obsessed, Instagram photo-taking, St. James occupying, wannabe artist pretends to be (behind their clear lens, black Ray Ban Wayfarers).

Living in Toronto for the past decade, I have met many self-proclaimed artists; the three things that most of them have in common are 1) an art diploma, 2) they are in dire need of a proper meal, and 3) there is a serious lack of authentic meaning behind their work. Sammo isn't your prototypical Toronto art school-graduate-slash-starving-artist. In fact, she is neither starving, nor is she an OCAD graduate. Although the twenty-six year old lacks a formal fine arts background, she has enjoyed a level of success and recognition over the past year that most artists would aspire to over a lifetime. One of the things that differentiates her from the rest of the artists still trying to establish exposure is what the theme of her work represents.

Her subject matter is unlike many of today's young artists’ – it doesn't pretend to depict a struggle that is clearly not our own. It doesn't hide behind clichés rooted in a show of sympathy towards third world struggles. Instead Sammo paints what she knows and what we all know – suits.

You might not want to admit it to yourself, but suits are relatable to most people in the western hemisphere... especially those born with access to universal health care. The suit is a North American staple and, regardless of how one might feel about the suit and what it embodies, most any North American has had a personal interaction with the “suit.”

When asked why she chose suits as her subject matter, Sammo responded, “Men's suits are just visually appealing to me. I'm drawn to the symmetry of a suit: the lines of the lapel, or a tie, or the way a man's shoulders sit. The look of a man's suit just makes me want to start sketching. I think my favourite part is always when I get to the lapel. I always get most excited to draw the lapel.”

A year ago, a writer quoted Sammo stating the reason behind her inspiration is seeing her father's daily corporate attire every morning growing up. Another writer suggested her sexuality had something to do with her subject matter. Sammo asserts that it has nothing to do with either. She says, “I think that was taken out of context. Although, there were some mornings when I saw my dad wear a suit to work, that's really not the reason why I paint them – and I'm not secretly trying to express my sexuality through my work. A lot of people have attempted to give deep meaning as to why I paint suits, but – for me – I just love the traditional elements of men's fashion. I've always been visually attracted to the image of a well-tailored suit, as well as what it represents.”

If you were to ask, Sammo would tell you that “it's not about the person wearing the suit, but what wearing the suit itself has signified in society for so long. The suit has represented something for decades: power, productivity, strength, economic prosperity, and hard work.” She will also tell you that she “love[s] how you can take any man, dress him in a suit, and automatically the world views him differently. [She] admire[s] how it expresses a certain quality of confidence.”

I just so happen to agree with her, and so do most art buyers and art critics. This is the reason she has gained so much notoriety in both the art and the fashion communities in such a short period of time. Similar to what her work embodies – hard work and productivity – her approach to art as a business has correlated to her success. She has spent the past year working on her first series: Introduction. During the last year, however, she hasn't locked herself away to create this series; a majority of her time has been dedicated to promoting her work and building her fan base. It takes a lot of work to become a career artist and this is something she understands - “people just think you’ll paint something and then sell it, but it’s so much more complex.”

The 26-year-old artist quit her five year career in the film industry just over a year ago to pursue her passion in fine arts. She equates a lot of her recent success to her experiences running a film production business. She understands that many aspects of business are involved with art – it's not just talent, it’s also a lot of hard work. She says, “it's a constant hustle. The social networking is a full-time job on its own. Not only do you have to produce your work, you also have to worry about marketing your work as well as yourself. I had no idea what it took to be a career artist.” It's this kind of attitude that is missing in most of today's young artists.

*********************************

A few months ago, I was standing in a parking lot-turned-art show next to a sea of locked-up fixed-gear bikes, watching a writer from BlogTo snapping shots of empty PBR cans and stylish people. I turned to one of the said stylish dudes who was standing next to me. I've recently seen him frequenting art parties and catching the eye and cameras of art bloggers. By the all the attention he has recently garnered, I concluded he must be someone relevant to the art scene. On this particular night, he was wearing a pair of grey sweat pants with brown Florsheim Imperial Westhaven wing tip shoes, a bow tie and a straw hat; either he was mentally disabled or he was possibly the coolest fucking guy I will ever meet. I asked him what piece of art he liked best and why? He looked at me bewildered, laughed and said, “Truth be told, I don't know a thing about art. I just come here for the party.”

These are the people that are apparently relevant at art parties nowadays.

Later on, I searched for the piece on BlogTo about the art event. The article mentioned PBR multiple times and indirectly tied it to the success of the event. The article discussed how “cool” the party was more than it mentioned the art.

These are the reporters who discuss the relevance of art, nowadays.

Artist used to be defined by their work, but now it seems that they gain more credibility by their wardrobe choices and beer preferences. Art used to speak to something inherently true to the generation that produced it. What does it represent now? We have no great war and no great meaning. We are a post-existential generation no longer seeking to be defined by anything intrinsically genuine. But the truth is we don't have to look far for authenticity – we just don't like what we find. We don't like the fact that we are the middle children of history, that we lack a great struggle(and for some reason, meaningful art has always been equated to the amount of struggle a population has faced). The definition of our generation doesn't earn “street-cred”. We are defined by our vanity, so we drown ourselves in the causes that are not our own in order to feel a false sense of depth.

Samara Shuter refuses to fall inline with the masses. Her and her work are authentic and relatable to our generation. She paints suits and – at the end of the day – it really does embody what we know: negative and positive. What I envy most about Sammo is that everything about her deviates from a tireless cliché. Sure, painting suits doesn't earn “street cred,” but the whole idea of “street cred” being defined by a class of individuals who attempt to escape their own wealth and privilege by immersing themselves in the sympathy of a life that is totally foreign to them is absolutely absurd. I went to Occupy Toronto, and here's a news flash: by my estimate, at least ninety percent of the people there had no idea what it was even about. It was a bunch of bored hipsters congregated together regurgitating left-wing political catch phrases while they posted Twitter updates declaring how politically aware they were – being there somehow validated that... the Instagram and Facebook profile pics of them dressed in army-like attire was just a bonus.

I'm tired of these so-called art parties and the work being showcased. I used to be a regular art party connoisseur. I used to buy into the starving artist lifestyle. I used to claim the only reason I hadn't “made it” was because I refused to compromise. I hated what the “suit” embodied. So I kept it “real,” I surrounded myself with like-minded individuals and we collectively went to Bloor Street Cinema and watched Zeitgeist 3, pretending to be revolutionaries. But as I get older, I start to realize all that is nothing but bullshit. I hadn't made it because I didn't get it. The real world isn't evil corporations preventing the people from rising. The real world is what you make of it, and Sammo's work represents just that. The real world is “painting the suit” and working hard. Painting suits might not earn you much “street cred,” but you hang out with nine broke artists long enough, and you're bound to be the tenth.

Midnight Messiah Part 2 - Hashtags

2011-09-26T01:55:00.006-04:00

2:22 a.m. May 1

There aren't many moments in one's life when the best course of action is to get into a vehicle with a virtual stranger, but this is definitely one of them. I can't remember exactly what happened or how I got here, just bits and pieces... like a waking dream. But it's the middle of the night, and getting in her car sure feels a lot safer than wandering the city streets, faded and tripping out on my own thoughts. I should have never taken those pills from someone I'd just met. #LessonLearnedNeverTrustAnyoneWithaFunnyShapedHead

“Did I call you?” I ask as I enter the old red Ford sedan.

“Ya, you did.”

She smiles, shifts from park, and drives. She doesn't say a word and neither do I. We had only met once before and had barely exchanged words when we did. I don't know exactly why I called her, or why she even came. I can only guess it was partly because at the time I wasn't myself and she probably felt it was her Christian duty. Needless to say, I'm embarrassed. The last thing I want is to be judged - especially by someone who I asked to help me with my research on religion and redemption. #Irony. The only thing I can do at this point is damage control. I know the less I say, the better; obviously the drugs haven't completely left my system, so trying to play it cool and stay silent is not as easy as it sounds. Sooner or later, when your mind has been compromised by narcotics, your thoughts bear arms and begin to hold your reason captive.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask. But before she can answer, the drug induced jabbering takes over once more. I start with my Star Wars comparative theory on how the relationship between Darth Vader and Luke mirrors the stereotypical upper middle class coming of age struggle.

“You see Darth wanted Luke to join the Dark Side and when Luke didn't, Darth cut off Luke's arms. You get it? That's like your dad wanting you to go into the family business and when you refuse he cuts off your arms. Well, metaphorically of course. You get it?” If she didn't know I was high before, she definitely does now. So much for impressing her. It's bad enough that she knows I'm under the influence, now she also knows I'm a Star Wars obsessed loser. There goes any chance of sleeping with her. #HighSchoolAllOverAgain.

When I finally manage to shut up for a second, she breaks her silence and asks, “Do you trust me?”

I nod. She momentarily turns her gaze away from the road, looks at me, smiles, places her hand softly on top of mine and says, “You're going to be okay.” Even in my current state of paranoia, for one reason or another, I believe her.

I continue my pointless blabbering for a few more hours. Finally, after driving for what seems like forever, she parks the car on the shoulder of the freeway. I can't help but wonder just how far away from the city we've actually driven. We're surrounded by trees in the middle of nowhere. She gets out of the car, quickly makes her way towards the guardrail and hops on to the other side. She stops for a moment, turns towards me and motions for me to follow. I do.

On the other side of the rail there's a narrow dirt trail in the midst of all the green. I fight my way through the bushes, branches and foliage to keep up with her. It's difficult. She's moving swiftly with a familiar ease. We eventually reach a clearing that extends towards a cliff side overlooking a small rural town. She takes a seat on the edge. Having a phobia of heights, it takes me a minute to gather enough courage to take a seat beside her, but inevitably, I do. We sit there for a while. I continue to talk, she continues to listen. Just as dawn begins to break through the horizon she looks at me intensely and asks, “Do you believe in fate? As in 'meant to be?' In the idea that everything happens for a reason?”

“When it's convenient,” I respond. Finally sobering up and becoming aware of the situation, I ask, “Why did you take me here?”

“Do you remember what you said to me when you called me earlier tonight?”

“Of course I do.”

I have no idea. At this moment, I'm practically sober and I can barely remember how I got here. So remembering anything that took place in the height of my drug frenzy is nearly impossible, yet alone something specific I said over the phone. I'm not even sure, why of all people, I chose to call her. But she ignores my response and continues as if I had answered with complete honesty - she seems to have a keen sense for the truth. #TheBenefitsofBeingaFormerAddictAndDealingWithRecoveringJunkiesOnaWeeklyBasis

“I don't think you meant to call me. When you called the first thing you said was that you loved me and you continued along those lines for awhile.” She playfully laughs. “I meant to stop you but you were determined on professing your love for whoever that call was meant for. I was about to hang up but then you said something that made me believe that you accidentally dialing me was meant to happen. You said you needed me to save you. That no one else in the world was capable of saving you but me. So how could I refuse?”

I didn't know what to say. She was right. I meant to call someone else entirely. Part of me is relieved that I had called her instead of that other person, but part of me is embarrassed - mostly because, in all likelihood, I didn't necessarily mean saving in the existential sense of the word but more so in the literal. I was in a chemically-perpetuated hallucinatory state at the time. Cats were pawing at my shoulder. Voices were in my head. I really thought I was going to die. #CocaineOxyAndGodKnowsWhatElseIsOneHellOfaDrug

The truth is, I don't really need saving – I was just high as a motherfucker. I don't have any of the intense reasons behind my drug binges, like the junkies she regularly deals with. But a huge part of me is compelled to impress her which probably has a lot to do with her short blue denim miniskirt and long legs that my eyes are glued to. #Haven'tGotLaidInaWhile I want her to think I'm profound and not just some upper middle class recreational drug user that was never molested by anyone. #ChildhoodTraumaEqualsArtisticDepth She already knows I'm a Star Wars dork. I can't have her discover that I'm also just a malcontent little bitch who's having a hard time with a breakup, and not actually the tormented writer she seems to be expecting. So who am I to ruin this moment with the minor details of the truth? So for the first time in the entire night, she's the one that continues to talk, and I'm the one that doesn't say a word. Surprisingly, my silence somehow begins to connect us in a way my earlier words never could. She starts sharing a piece of her past with me.

“You know, my father took me here when I was a kid.” She stands up, looks towards the horizon and continues, “He was a photographer. We moved around a lot. We would end up in all sorts of places, on all sorts of adventures. He told me we were chasing the perfect photograph. That it was somewhere out there waiting to be captured. One month we would be living out of a motel somewhere along the east coast looking for old shipping boats, the next, trespassing on a half constructed, seven-hundred-foot, skyscraper, taking photographs of industrial beams. Then one night we stumbled onto this place. I was ten and at the time it seemed higher than any place I'd ever been. We sat together on this same spot, watching the dawn break. That night the edge of the cliff seemed to extend to the end of the world. I remember being cold and just wanting to go back to the warmth of the car. I remember being angry at my father and finally asking him why we couldn't just live in one place. He held me and said that nothing would ever be this beautiful again. He told me that he wanted to show me the beauty before the damage is done. At the time I didn't know what he meant. I couldn't appreciate just how amazing the view was that night. I didn't notice how fresh the breeze was. How it smelled like the innocence of rain drops and wild trees. How it would probably be the sweetest smell I'd ever know. I didn't understand that being brushed by the wind and being held that high above the earth was my soul being touched by beauty. That same morning my father died of a heart attack. All he left me was his camera. From that moment on, this place became my spot – my solace. I come back here a lot, sit for hours, just looking out at the world, waiting to capture that perfect photograph.”

Old shipping boats? Waiting to capture the perfect photograph? Truth be told, I have no idea what the fuck she's talking about. But I'm a sucker for emotional scars (in all likelihood to make up for the lack of my own) and there's this feeling of thrilling tension between us that I haven't felt in a long time - a sort of shared understanding that only two kids plotting their next piece of mischief would know. I'm not sure if its good or bad but it's one of those rare feelings in life that makes you take notice of the moment, makes you feel like you're really there, like you really exist. And she's pretty fucking hot, so I make my move – I lean into to kiss her.

“What are you doing? I think you're missing the point. That's not why I took you here,” she says as she gently pushes me away. “Rome is burning and yet here you are wasting the best days of your life. Can't you see that? You claim to live in the moment, but are you really? It's not live fast, die young. It should be live fast, die alone. I used to be like you, so caught up in how fucking great everything was in the past that I couldn't fully appreciate the beauty of now. Just look at the world. Everything is backwards; everything is upside down. Doctors destroy health, lawyers destroy justice, universities destroy knowledge, governments destroy freedom, the major media destroy information and religions destroy spirituality. We're all so desperate to feel something... anything... that we keep falling in to each other, mistaking good times for actual substance. We're all blindly numbing ourselves towards the end of days.”

I'm pretty sure the last part of that is a Michael Ellner quote. Where the fuck do I find these girls? If I wasn't lost for words before, I definitely am now. I don't know if that was some rehearsed, recovering junkie-injected, diatribe she regularly feeds people to sway them towards a drug-free lifestyle. Some spiel about how all of us poor souls lacking in the presence of Jesus in our lives are all missing out on anything really worth living for. But her passion is paralyzing - not only in speech, but also in belief. I know I won't be attending Sunday masses anytime soon. But being up here, sitting beside her, overlooking what seems like the edge of western civilization and watching the dawn set fire to the clouds on the horizon, you can't help but see the world from a different perspective. You begin to embrace the meaninglessness of your life and the insignificance of your problems. Before tonight, I never really understood why junkies always thanked Jesus for saving their lives. But it's all starting to make sense. It's not necessarily about religion or Jesus. Rather, it's the idea of surrendering yourself to something greater, an inexplicable higher power beyond your control. That something out there greater than yourself exists.

We sit there for a little while longer and eventually make our way back to the car. We drive back to the city in shared silence. She drives me home and we exchange hugs. I don't know what to make of the evening. It's a rare night for me to connect with someone on that level and not - at the very least - make out with them. I know I should be thankful for the new life perspective she's provided me with tonight. But I'm still me - I can't just one-eighty overnight. I still need to know what she found so unappealing about me that at the height of our emotional intercourse, she decided to push me away. So I ask, “I don't think I'm crazy here, but I thought we had a moment back there? I thought we were really vibin'. What's the deal?”

“It was the Star Wars thing.” She laughs. #SuperCute “I'm just joking. Maybe if we met in a different life... I'm with someone and we're very happy together.” #ChallengeAccepted

Midnight Messiah – Part 1 (Story #16)

2011-08-26T04:20:00.010-04:00

8:00 p.m. April 20

“...And I know it's hard, but bad things happen. That's life, and you just have to learn how to deal with it. I thank God every day that I'm alive and I can still live. So I make up for my mistakes and take it one day at a time. I found Jesus and he saved my life. My name is Brooke and I'm an addict.”

All the people in the room stand up and clap encouragingly. The woman, barely out of her mid-twenties, smiles at the gesture and steps down from the wooden podium. One by one, she exchanges handshakes as she makes her way through the crowd to the back of the church room where the complimentary donuts and coffee are provided. I just happen to be standing there enjoying a free Boston Cream.

“Excellent speech,” I say to her.

“Thank you. I've seen you here the last couple of weeks, but you never share.” She glances down on the piece of paper stuck to my shirt “Dylan is it? Funny, you don't look like a Dylan.”

“Umm...you got me. That's not really my name.”

“It never usually is,” she smiles and continues, “and you look a little too...” She pauses, “healthy to be an addict.”

I think she just called me fat. “Can you keep a secret?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“You're right, I'm not an addict. I'm just here to do some research for something I'm writing” The free food was an added bonus but no need to inform her of that. She already thinks I'm fat.

“Interesting. What's your piece about?”

“Redemption and Religion. I never quite understood the correlation between Jesus and kicking a bad habit. And I figure no one can be more of an expert on the subject than someone like you. If you have some time maybe you'd like to grab a drink or two and I can ask you a few questions? Help me with my research. Drinks on me, of course.”

“You do realize that I'm a recovering addict right? I don't think drinks would be the best idea.”

We laugh and exchange numbers. I finish off the last of my cream filled donut and leave as I see her gather up the attendees in what I'm sure is a “praise Jesus, I'd be dead without him,” prayer circle.

12:05 a.m. May 1

It's around midnight and the drugs, alcohol and paranoia are beginning to take hold. I'm held up at some party in an obscure, dingy basement apartment on the lower east end, somewhere between Broadview and Pape. I'm here with a childhood friend, Terrell, who ironically is the same person who introduced me to the Narcotics Anonymous group I've been attending for my research. He was, at one time, a drug counsellor. But at this very moment, he's tucked away in a corner under some blinking Christmas lights that hang above the entire place, fiercely and manically crushing and mixing a remarkable amount of OxyContin with other substances. He's a mad scientist busy at work - no one quite knows how to mix narcotics together like a former drug addict.

After he finishes, he makes his way towards me through the sea of people, who are drinking and talking. He takes a seat between me and some stranger with a funny-shaped head that I've been chatting up for God knows how long. He offers a tray full of his alchemistic concoction to both of us. The stranger politely declines his offer. Good, more for us. We both blissfully inhale and fall back into our seats staring at the flashing, out-of-season lights. My skin warms, and suddenly I'm raving and jabbering at this poor guy sitting between Terrell and I, saying something like, “I feel good - do you feel good?”

I turn towards Terrell and he's stroking the fabric of this misplaced stranger's sweater, asking him something like, “Is this cashmere?” But before he can answer, Terrell starts laughing uncontrollably and shouts aloud, “Dude, this is the way to live!”

“Calm down man,” I say.

I turn my gaze towards this stranger who has unfortunately found himself seated between us. He's got a phony smile and his eyes look nervous. He's beginning to make me nervous. What if he leaves and reports us to the cops? What will happen then? Or maybe he wants to jack us of our substances while we're under the influence? Either way, it goes without saying that I can't just let him leave. Wait, oh Mary Magdalene, did I think that or say it aloud? Was I talking? Did he hear me?

I smile at him. He's still silent but noticeably a lot more uncomfortable. I glance back at Terrell and he's still laughing like a hyena. I think I better have a talk with this stranger. I'll explain to him that we're good guys, just out having a good time. That we're not avid drug users – there was a purpose behind our evening's drug binge. That we were actually on an essential post-existentialist journey and the only vehicle to reach that destination were these illegal substances. Then he'll understand and we won't be imprisoned. It makes perfect sense. I mean, I really can't blame him. I would have a look of absolute fear, too, if my sweater was being stroked by a six-foot-three black man delirious on God knows what chemical mixture.

“Listen here man,” I say. “This here is Terrell and he is a guru of music. Don't let his racial...” But before I could finish, Terrell interrupts and firmly grabs the poor guy's arm.

“You're not racist are you?” asks Terrell.

“Oh, god, no sir!” shaking his head.

He just called Terrell “sir”. We're screwed. Terrell's gone and done it. There's a look of absolute fear on this poor sap's face. He's sure to rat us out to the cops now. I wanted to shut Terrell up and reassure this guy of our fun-loving yet philosophical journey. But at this point, I've also become completely overcome with laughter. I'm helpless. I can't seem to get any words out. Nietzsche be damned!

The poor guy is squirming in his seat. He finally builds up the courage to get up and attempt to leave. He says something like, “You guys are cool but I gotta' go. Here, my treat.” He proceeds to buy his freedom from Terrell's demented clutches by handing him some free pills and then swiftly disappears around the living room corner.

Terrell immediately crushes the pills with the butt end of his lighter – again mixing them with God knows what. He commences to snort the powder, and I follow his lead. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I feel light brisk brushes from behind me like cats gently pawing at my shoulder. I frantically look around but there's nothing there.

“Did you feel that?” I ask aloud.

I don't know what was in those pills but I went from humorously paranoid to dangerously twisted. Somehow, I don't think this is what Kierkegaard had in mind. I start to feel exceedingly detached and estranged from reality. I'm seeing and hearing things. Maybe it's the lack of sleep combined with all the extracurricular activities that I've turned from habit to routine. Or maybe it's my conscience finally speaking to me. Or maybe it's just those Goddamn pills that funny-shaped head motherfucker just gave to us. Whatever it is, it's beginning to take hold. I'm trying to keep it together in the midst of falling apart, but I'm clearly unravelling. I'm tripping the fuck out.

Time is moving in snap shots: One minute I'm sitting on a couch attempting to calm myself down. Now I'm standing in front of a marble sink splashing water onto my face. Then on my cell phone, frantically panicking to someone on the other end. Now I'm in a moving streetcar - half awake - on my way to God-knows-where. And finally, I'm aimlessly walking the city streets.

Where am I? Why did I get off the streetcar? Why am I walking on this particular street? Did I have a specific destination in mind? I somewhat remember having a reason for being wherever I am now but I can't for the life of me remember right at this moment. Then, out of nowhere a car pulls up slowly beside me. The windows roll down and a soothing voice from inside the vehicle says, “Thank God I finally found you. Get in.”

Haikus, Hipsters and Morrissey (Story #15)

2011-08-02T00:44:00.008-04:00

12:30 a.m. April 16^th

It's been several months - almost at the half a year point. You've had many break ups but never has any of them hit you this hard. You keep telling yourself that you will get through this like you did the others in the past, but you really don't believe it. In the name of moving forward, you should be trying to meet someone new and forgetting about her, but instead you downloaded The Smiths' “Louder Than Bombs” album and listen to it nightly as you write melodramatic poems and post them under pseudonyms on Okcupid.com.

You are trying to keep it together in the midst of falling apart, but it's definitely not working. A clear sign of that is that your poems don't even rhyme. Instead, the words “dark” and “tormented” are unnecessarily overused. You're at an obvious low point in your life and your only comfort is the fact that it probably can't get any worse. You're just going through the motions and trying to keep some semblance of a career together.

Tonight, you find yourself standing outside a stylish Japanese restaurant-turned-nightclub in the heart of the city's “creative” district for a lame ass pseudo cool, pseudo work function. Surrounding you are the same miserably fashionable people who are at every party and who you are pretty sure know who you are, but who have yet to acknowledge your presence (possibly because they read your online poetry). In all fairness you intentionally ignore them as well. You're not quite sure why you do this, it's just the way it is. You've come to accept this and have practically embraced it as social norm.

Everyone, yourself included, is standing outside the unspoken designated smoking area, loudly expressing their mutual disdain for this party and this trendy club. Yet here you all are, as always, crowded around in the cold, pretending not to know one another. You've grown to hate these functions. You only attend them for two reasons: to network and to take advantage of the open bar. The first of the two reasons is somewhat misguided since the guest list for these events always chronicle the same names, thereby nullifying any valid expectation of supposed networking. In front of you stands a flock of your peers, heavily engaged in deep, shallow conversation.

“God I hate these parties,” loudly scoffs Monica, a freelance photographer who recently had a collection of her photographs published in a national publication south of the border.

“I know exactly what you mean,” says one of her new-found minions, eager to validate her statement.

“There's never anyone worthwhile meeting in these events.”

“I know right.”

No one says anything to disagree. The two of them take the silence as a cue to continue their condescending back and forth discourse of the people that currently surround them. Until recently, Monica hadn't done anything significant and was actually one the few people you could stand. But apparently with new success comes new attitude. But you are not at all unfamiliar with the tone of their statements, since it's often the sentiment of anyone who is marginally successful. The lack of defence to Monica's obnoxious attitude is increasingly getting you agitated. Although, secretly, you hope to one day be on the opposite end of that exchange – the snob not the snubbed.

Fear of being deemed a hypocrite or, worse, an outcast, you have, in the past, never let anything of the sort bother you. In fact, you have once or twice been deluded by the thought that those statements refer to everyone but you. You have been guilty of saying “who invited that guy,” or “they just invite anyone these days,” as though you bear any importance or credibility.

But tonight, for one reason or another, it is bothering you. Maybe it's because you've finally come to a point in your life where self actualization, like Maslow once promised you, has finally occurred. Or it could be that nightly Morrissey influence on your “dark” and “tormented” soul. You decide that you're going to write a Haiku about this when you get home. You are going to call it “The Dark and Tormented Hierarchy of Needs” and post it under “Contemporary Maslow.”

In the midst of your newfound existential awareness you, decide to muster up some courage and say something.

“If you hate these parties and no one here is worth knowing, then why the fuck are you here?”

Imagine complete silence within complete silence in a Buddhist temple during a vow of silence - that's what it sounds like at this very moment. Instead of being celebrated for asking/stating the obvious the crowd of people decidedly pledge their allegiance to Monica by treating you like a fifteenth century leper. Monica breaks the silence by ignoring your question and recounting a story of her run in with a marginally famous celebrity. The crowd cheer her on with their questions of validation.

“Dude, why would you ask her that?” you hear a guy from behind whisper to you.

“Well it's the truth isn't it? I am so sick of these people not saying anything. I just don't understand how they can put up with that bullshit. She used to be nice. Whatever happened to treating others the way you want to be treated?” Oh yeah, you also rediscover your Christian moral rectitude.

He laughs. “Don't you know that's been reinvented? In our line of work, the categorical imperative, the golden rule, is now to treat others as if they were about to become incredibly successful. Want to go inside and grab a drink?”

You agree and a few moments later you are standing at the bar and your new friend is handing you a drink.

“Hey thanks for saving me back there,” you say gratefully.

“It was my pleasure. Besides I've been eyeing you at these parties for some time now and was looking for an excuse to introduce myself.” He seductively places his hand on the small of your back and hands you a napkin with the words, “my place or yours” written on it. Caught off guard at the gesture, you step back a little (just a little – after all, you don't want to come off as a homophobe).

“I think you may have gotten the wrong impression of me. I'm afraid I'm still one of those old-fashioned guys who still only prefers the company of the opposite sex.”

He laughs and insists, “Oh, come on now. You're fashionably underdressed and your jeans are tighter than mine. Not to mention you're at a fashion party, for God's sake. Don't play straight with me!” He squeezes your ass to emphasize his point.

You step back even further. “Sorry dude, I don't swing that way.”

He is offended and the claws come out. He becomes all homosexually cliche and the pitch of his voice becomes increasingly higher, yet strangely, also more confident and intimidating. “Well, I don't know what all that attitude was back there with Monica, cause honey, you're not successful or gay enough to be that difficult. What a fag!” He laughs at you one last time and trots off.

At the start of the evening you were sure that you had reached a new low in your life. Well, a gay guy just called you a fag. You stand corrected - NOW, you've hit rock bottom.

You hear the people around you giggling. You are super embarrassed for several obvious reasons, the main one being that you were just called a “fag” by a gay guy. Quick to defend your manhood with its societal correlation with heterosexuality you attempt to make conversation with the next available member of the fairer sex.

You spot your target. She's wearing large hoop earrings, a beige Chloe Sevigny baby doll dress, worn-in ankle boots and a pair of unnecessary non-prescription eyeglasses. You walk over to her. The two of you exchange introductions and begin to converse. You attempt to impress her by stringing a collection of intellectual words together to describe some random nearby observation. You don't want to sound pompous, so you're quick to toss in a pop culture reference and you also curse, just to let her know you've got a rebellious side. You recall a recent observation by Klosterman and you decide to make it your own.

“What's with the people at these parties? In the past, I was capable of differentiating homeless people from hipsters. Currently, it seems implausible. Now, it's hard to even tell the difference between hipsters and retards. Take for instance that guy standing by the DJ booth wearing the grey sweat pants with the brown Florsheim Imperial Westhaven wing tip shoes, the bow tie and the straw hat. Either he is mentally disabled or he is possibly the coolest fucking guy you will ever meet.”

This formulaic combination of random observations, big words, pop culture and cursing makes you seem undeniably witty. She laughs and it seems you may have won her over. She strokes your arm and -with a compliment- your ego as well. Suddenly, you feel her mouth pressing up against yours.

“Do you mind if we slow down? I think we click,” you say to her when she finally unattached her lips from yours.

“Worried about Jennifer?”

Jennifer is the girl that you dated right after Jessica. You know, the girl that you shared with Patrick – the Devil's three-way girl.

“Oh you know her? We're not together anymore,” you respond.

She stops any seductive progression and looks at you anxiously. “So you're single?”

“Is that some sort of a problem?”

You'd think that would be more of an incentive to move forward. After all, you just charmed the shit out of her with your words and you already began writing a new poem in your head entitled “the one: the girl in the beige baby doll dress.” This poem you had envisioned posting under your actual name on possibly your own website.

“I'm sorry I don't hook up with unattached men.”

You are unmistakeably let down. For one reason or another, in the midst of the dark swirling chaos, you saw white picket fences with this stranger (probably because you're in a super emo state and undeniably pathetic. Poems... really?).

And as if you couldn't make things any worse for yourself, before she walks away you manage to blurt out, “I really like you. Didn't you feel the chemistry? I thought we had something special?”

She looks at you bewildered, as if you're some sort of stalker/serial killer/middle-aged, untalented emo singer. I mean, realistically you can't really blame her. You just imagined the next forty years of your life with a girl you literally met ten minutes ago. But she genuinely seems nice (with the exception of being the possible founding member of Ashleymadison.com), so she takes pity on you and leaves you with the following resonating words:

“Next time you're shopping for a life-long partnership, I would recommend you refrain from narcissistic places, people, and professions. Just saying.”

Rabbit Hole (Story #14)

2011-05-10T00:05:00.002-04:00

5:30 a.m. February 3

And that concludes our emergency broadcasting test system we now return you back to the regularly scheduled program.

3:40 a.m. February 3

Fuck it. I line up the eight ball she just handed me in three straight, perfectly parallel lines. I suggestively motion to her, giving her first dibs (or in this case, first snorts). Even in this type of situation, momma taught me right - a boy's got to remain a gentleman; ladies first. She smiles gratefully as she arches her back and smoothly grazes her nose to the glass tabletop. In one sweeping motion the white powder invades her blood stream like an army of mercenaries out to seek and destroy. With her pupils dilated, she tilts her head to the heavens letting out one loud gasp. She turns back to face me, kisses me on the cheek and playfully says, “Your turn.” What a sweetheart.

I inch closer to the table and prepare myself. I do the same, but I take two lines to her one. I raise my head to the heavens like she did a moment ago, shutting my eyes in euphoric escape, enjoying this ever-fleeting moment. I open my eyes, awakening from the anesthetic matrix to re-enter the world with a distinctly sharper view of “reality.” Praise the lord. Who needs salvation when you've got coke.

I wipe my nose and clear my nostrils of any possible residue. I turn my focus back to my future conquest. She looks at me, clearly disappointed, and says, “Is that all you have?” Greedy bitch.

I blankly stare at her, completely immersed in my own private elysium. She tangles her legs with mine and continues talking – something about where I should go to score some more blow. I can barely make out what she's saying. At least I think that’s what she’s going on about. I hear her words, but my mind has drifted far from the sectional couches occupying the corner V.I.P. booth of this particular after party's after party.

I've been out with little miss 'Chyna White' a few times now. Each time we've gotten together has been the same as the last: loud music, spilled drinks and existential anesthetics. I don't know if I can label what we share on a semi nightly basis as dating. Rather, it's more a collective numbing of pre-existing emotional scars. What I like about the whole arrangement is the fact that she doesn't ask me about mine and I don't feel the burden of hers.

At this very moment, she's practically sitting on my lap, stroking my thigh. Mentally, I'm almost entirely absent from the present events. The only thoughts that anchor my mind to the tangible world are 1) Damn, her voice is incredibly annoying, and 2) I think she's wearing the exact same outfit she was wearing when we first met a few weeks back - a ridiculous brown faux-fur coat bottomed off with black pleather leggings. She is relentless with the talking. It's absolutely aggravating. Why won't she just shut up, even if it’s just for a minute? She's beginning to kill my buzz. From somewhere nearby, I hear a familiar voice.

“I think Vince has some. He owes me. Why don't you grab. He's just over there talking to that doucher from that talentless band.” Patrick to the rescue.

Miss 'Stardust' smiles, ever so satisfied and says, “I'll wait for you here baby”.

I get up, walk over to this Vince character, and do as Patrick suggested. I negotiate. Ten minutes later, we make our way to the men's room and conclude our business exchange. I return, means to corporeal liberation in hand, to find this fake-fur-wearing, yay-snorting trick straddling Patrick. I sit across from them and watch her tongue carnally meet his ear lobe. Patrick looks at me apologetically. She notices, stops and culpably smiles. She lifts her body from his lap and walks over to me.

“You're not mad are you baby?”

I can't really say that I am. I'm not surprised at Patrick or at her. I honestly don't even care. I met her just a few weeks ago – right after my break up. She's nobody to me. Recently, the days have become long and the nights even longer. I just need somebody to pass the time with – someone to fill a temporary vacancy. I am indifferent to the immediate situation. Moments ago, I was barely mentally present; it would appear that I have now reduced my status to audience.

She mimics her performance with Patrick, placing her tongue in my ear and seductively straddles me. Patrick laughs. She gets up, procures three shot glasses and a nearby unattended bottle of vodka. She takes a seat between us, fills each shot glass and says, “To life's empty lullabies. Cheers!”

We down one shot, then another, then another. When the bottle is empty, she rises from her seat and makes her way back to Patrick's lap. She whispers something in his ear. He nods, grins devilishly and leaves the party. Trouble. Minutes later, she makes her way over to me, sits, places her hand on me, enticingly suggesting that I follow Patrick.

“Let's make this night unforgettable,” she whispers.

She grabs my hand and leads me out of the club to where Patrick has just hailed a cab. The three of us get in. We arrive shortly after at his current place of occupation – a financial building on King and Bay. It's four in the morning so it's completely deserted. He slaps the face of his I.D. card against the security panel of the door. We take the elevator twenty-one floors up.

“We have a lounge on this floor reserved for executives. Lorenzo, did Vince hook it up?”

I hand him the little baggy. He lines it up on a nearby table.

“Ladies first.”

She inhales her allocated portion, gets up and starts dancing; she is as tempting as ever. Patrick and I watch as we heighten our feelings of competence by lowering our sensibilities. She begins to slowly undress and salaciously touch herself.

Patrick turns to me and whispers in my ear, “now isn't this better than Cranium with Jessica and her lame-ass friends?”

He walks to her and begins kissing her body. She looks at me and draws me over with her finger. For a moment, everything ceases to exist as my mind replays the last year. It's been almost two months since I've seen or even spoken to Jessica. I try to put her out of my mind. I try to fill the void she left behind with continual movement, but eventually life slows down and everything catches up. In those few moments, everything seems to come crashing down. I've been through many break ups, but none like this. Our failed union seems to mirror all my past crimes – reopening every emotional scar.

I've never handled anything close to heart very well. In fact, I've typically done better avoiding dealing with anything emotional altogether. When that subway train left that station two months ago and took everything I knew with it, I decided to strip my life of any thoughts of the last year. I metaphorically burnt all the mementos of 'us' and I've held up alright. But at this very moment everything seems to have caught up to me. Inevitably, my soul has adapted and has built up a tolerance to my regular fix: the combination of night timing and emotional anesthetics. I need something stronger than the regular dosage to numb my current fever, and tonight might be it. But there are certain lines in life that you don’t come back from once you’ve crossed. The first time is always the hardest, but after that desensitization takes over and what once seemed momentous – good or bad – eventually becomes routine. Sharing the girl you’re sort-of-currently-dating with one of your best friends is one of those moments.

I take a deep breath. I’m hesitant. Then the weight and agony of the last year and experimenting with this 'forever' business come crashing down, which is enough to shake me back to now. To this reality. My life. So I say to myself, fuck it. This is my reality. This is my life. Fuck forever. Fuck destiny. Fuck careers. Fuck 50 inch flat screen TVs. Fuck dishwashing machines, luxury cars, PVRs and MP3 players. Fuck zero trans fat snacks, low cholesterol and full dental coverage. Fuck Clue and Cranium nights. Fuck low-interest loans, three bedroom condos and dinner parties. Fuck vegetarian meat substitutes. Fuck substance and fuck finding myself. Fuck wasting my time righting this week’s imaginary wrong. Fuck Sunday morning mass. Fuck the future. Fuck hesitation. Fuck it all. Because when there's nothing left to burn, you might as well set yourself on fire.

I chemically numb the last of my moral virtue and dive soul first into the rabbit hole.

Bad News From The Stars - Story #13

2011-05-02T00:29:00.002-04:00

About 16 Years Ago

I stood still underneath the tree as the wind passed, blowing autumn leaves down to my feet. I watched him in silence load the last of his things in the trunk of the car. He shut the car door and started the engine. He came back out and made his way towards me. He leaned in close, shook my hand and said, “Lorenzo. A man should always love a woman more.”

I wiped a tear from my eye and said, “Goodbye dad”.

Friday 7 p.m., December 18, 16 years later

I run down the stairs and through the turnstiles, hurriedly showing my monthly subway pass to the TTC worker. I try not to push through people to keep some semblance of civility, but it's a feeble attempt. I almost knock over an old Jamaican lady carrying several bags of groceries. I apologize. She kisses her teeth at me and in Patois, resentfully curses my mother's name along with mine. I apologize again, but I hastily keep going down another flight of stairs. I hear the heavy sound of the oncoming train as I make my way down. I briskly rush for the subway doors. They instinctively close on me. I sigh loudly but no one is around to hear it. I'm going to be late. Again.

The next train arrives several minutes later. I calmly get on and take a seat. There is a copy of the daily “Metro” paper next to me. I pick it up and read it to pass the time during the long ride. After reading the sport's scores and a quick synopsis of the current celebrity gossip, I flip to the horoscopes. Mine reads, “Taurus, make a conscious effort to control your emotions. Don't react to unjustified provocations. The main danger now is that if you go too far you might not be able to turn back.” Bad news from the stars.

I arrive an hour and half late. As I approach the Manulife Center, I see her standing outside with her arms exasperatedly crossed. She's angry and rightfully so. I was suppose to meet her for the 7 p.m showing of the new James Cameron film and it's now 8:30 p.m. Over the last few months she's become increasingly irate with me, starting daily fights over the most trivial of things. I've started to grow tired of always having to defend myself so the last thing I want for this night is to be the cause of yet another fight. I just want to enjoy each other's company, argument free. It's been so long since we've had a carefree night. We use to have them all the time. We use to never fight. We use to smile and laugh. We use to talk for hours and fall asleep happy. We use to be a lot of things, but that all seems like an eternity ago – in another life.

I make my way towards her with my excuses and reasons. “I'm so sorry I'm late. I just got stuck at work and couldn't get out and then missed the damn train.”

She looks at me with minimal disappointment. “It's fine. All the shows are sold out and there really isn't another movie I want to see anyways. Do you want to grab a bite instead? I've been dying to try that new Japanese place on Queen.”

I agree to her suggestion. We casually walk back to the subway. We get on the next train and take a seat beside each other. She barely talks to me. The train makes a couple of its routine stops and still, not a word. I decide to break the uncomfortable silence, “I heard this new movie is suppose to redefine the cinematic experience. I'm really sorry we missed it.”

I turn to her and eagerly wait for her to say something back. She looks at me and angrily responds, “I don't care about the movie... I know you've been cheating on me.”

I wish I can say that her accusation completely caught me off guard but unfortunately they've become rather routine. One minute everything is perfection and the next she finds some little thing to momentarily justify her fears of me straying. She yells. I comfort her. She cries. I comfort her. She apologizes. I comfort her. Rinse and repeat. Defending myself has become my new found occupation over the last few months. The two of us keep doing the same thing over and over but to our failed expectations, the results are the same each time. I guess collectively, we've become Albert Einstein insane.

Before I can even comfort her for tonight's “Lorenzo is cheating on me” session, she continues to berate me further with the same accusation. I attempt to calm her down, but it's without success. A couple sitting across from us looks away and pretends not to overhear our conversation. With each passing subway stop, her accusation becomes more infuriated and her tone grows louder and louder. Each time I attempt to clarify the situation, she raises her voice, as if speaking over me would somehow prompt a confession. I grab her hand gently but she violently pulls away. She begins to yell at me, loud enough that people couldn't help but pay attention to the situation. A different, bag-less old lady judgmentally shakes her head at me. I continue to stand there in silence. The less I say, the angrier she becomes. Her accusing attitude eventually turns vindictive. She begins to verbally assault my character, arming herself with anything and everything I have ever done wrong.

Months ago, I didn't understand what brought about her sadness and anger, but as I stand here, tonight, it starts to become clear to me that she's no longer content with “us”. We used to be so passionate for one another. Then some time passed and “Us” became convenient and boring, but I enjoyed the stability. I've always rejected the idea of low interest mortgages, Sunday morning masses, water cooler discussions, PVRs and 2.5 kids. I hated the concept of monogamy and monotony. I've perpetually lived like everything in life had an expiration date. I've preferred to keep a comfortable distance, because nothing and no one had ever been worth the risk. But with her, Friday night movies and “Cranium” activity dinner parties grew on me. She made me want to tuck my Oxford white shirt into my pants, put on that suit and tie and seek out a corporate career. She made me want forever. She was my exception. But she couldn't see any of that. All she saw was the monotony that “Us” had become. “Us”... “I” was not making her happy anymore.

I pull her in close, hold her for a minute. I can feel her tears running down the side of my face. Just as the train temporarily stations into the next stop, I pull away and whisper to her, “Your instincts are right; I did cheat.” I let go of her and take a step out of the train. She looks at me – heartbroken, but relieved. She remains on the train as the doors once again instinctively close. We shared everything. She was the closest person to me in my life, but literally in a couple of moments, all of that was gone. As I stand still on the subway platform, the train slowly departs from the station and it takes everything I know with it. That's the last time we would see each other.

I didn't want to let her go, but I had to. I wanted to let her know exactly what she meant to me. How much I love her. How she's everything to me. How I started to read horoscopes because she believes in them. How although I wasn't the best boyfriend by any stretch, that cheating on her was never really an option. How she's all I ever needed and wanted. How she saved me from a directionless life of 6 a.m. last calls, pseudo friends and jaded hearts. How I had been occasionally stopping by jewelry stores on my way home from work to look at stupid rings. How although I'm not religious, she's my personal Jesus. How my pursuit of happiness ended with her, but just took some time adjusting to. I wanted to do all of these things, but instead I told her what I knew she wanted to hear. I lied to her. I increasingly saw it on her face over the last few months; she had grown tired of the life we built. She had started to miss the excitement of our old lives that had been replaced by stability of this new one. She needed a justifiable reason to leave. So I gave it to her.

We all seek out the love we think we are worth. She had been hurt before. She came from a past that didn't allow her to believe in happiness and forever. She had learned to grow comfortable in the idea of being emotionally numb. I wanted to save her. I wanted to be everything she was to me, but she just couldn't accept what we had. I had to give her a reason to seek out what she felt would make her comfortable. A man should always love a woman more, so I let her go.

High School Letters and Radiohead - Story #12

2011-04-20T01:28:00.012-04:00

November 17

A couple days later she sent me this response:

To: lorenzoraymundo@hotmail.com
From: JessicaT*****7@yahoo.com
Subject: 'Let Down'

Dear Lorenzo,

I know that you’ve never intended to let me down, but you consistently do. It's so easy to talk about happy endings, but if a person can't deliver, if that person keeps making the same mistakes… well, eventually I guess you just have to say fuck you. Or words to that effect. You say you don't want this life – all I ever hear about is how you're meant for something greater; how you want something more, something with substance. Yet it seems to me that you don’t. Not really. Talk is cheap - actions are choices. I'll admit that you're noble in belief, but you're so weak in action. I need something tangible, something I can believe in. You should have chased me out of the club that night. You should have fought for me.

But okay... let's give it one last try.

Jess

November 14 – Sometime after midnight ('No Surprises' playing in the background)

I feel guilty. I technically didn't cheat on her, but the feeling is just the same. It has me acting outside of myself. It's been a couple of days since we've seen (or talked to) each other. She refuses to return my phone calls, and the text message ratio is easily 5 to 1. As a rule of thumb, I generally like to keep said ratio heavily in my favour, but with Jessica, that rule has been completely abolished, and I've pretty much been reduced to stalking her as my only form of contact.

I'm at a dead end. In one final move of desperation, I decide to send a high school-esque “you’re-the-one-for-me-I’m-sorry-I’m-such-a-douche” letter.

To: JessicaT*****7@yahoo.com
From: lorenzoraymundo@hotmail.com
Subject: 'Karma Police'

Dear Jessica,

I don't even know where to start. I guess I'll start by saying something I never said nearly enough: I love you.

Growing up, my parents never said those three words to each other; I thought that I’d be different, but I guess I'm not. I try not to be like them, but somewhere along the line you slip into what you know. I'm sorry about that.

I'm also sorry that we haven't been happy for a while. I don't remember what went wrong between us, or the exact moment everything changed, I just know that it did. One minute we're laughing and planning the rest of our lives together, the next we're here – in this place – filled with anger and resentment. It seemed like it all happened in the blink of an eye; our smiles turned into fights, our laughs turned into scowls. I don't know if that’s my fault or if it’s yours, or if it's just how things go, but I guess it doesn't really matter because this is the reality of us... this is where we are.

I also have a confession to make. I met someone the other night and came dangerously close to crossing that line. I don't know what combination of thoughts of you stopped me from going farther, but something did. I do these things - coasting along life, acting a fool and making the same mistakes. I don't know why. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just not built that way. Maybe I'll never change.

I have this recurring dream that I wake up in the twilight of my life in this habitual but unfamiliar place. In a conventional home with a two-car garage, surround sound and a yard with a garden filled with dead flowers. There is a faint whisper of children making breakfast that echoes through the hall. I can hear them from where I lay... barely awake, sleep still dormant in my eyes. I get on my feet and hastily make my way to the shower, aware that I'm behind in my daily routine. I put on an ironed pair of pants, then the suit jacket and shirt to match. I pick out a tie from my vast collection, inhale deeply and fall back onto the bed. I let the sheets and the dark thoughts birthed by the paradigm of mediocrity consume me for a brief, but seemingly eternally fading moment. These introspective thoughts do not escape me – they are buried for the time being, but are carried deep in my pocket until the day that I can muster the courage to act upon them.

I walk down the stairs. There are old photographs of the undying ghosts of what once was adorning the walls. They greet me with an unforgiving torment – haunting and mocking my very existence. I turn a blind eye to them and keep walking. I jump on a train, drink a hot cup of coffee and read the paper. I sit in a box, underachieving for half my day, and return home when the sun turns dark. I go back to sleep and wake up to the same day. Every day.

For so long I've had this dream, and for so long I’ve fought against anything remotely close to it. But then I met someone. She was totally unexpected and, truth be told at the time, undesired. I wasn't looking for her. I wasn't searching. It was totally random. It just happened. She smiled at me and I smiled back. We would lie in bed for hours like idiots, staring at each other. Just smiling. She wouldn't say a word and neither would I. The next thing I knew, I felt at home in that silence. It's a cold, unwelcoming world out there – full of artificial and expressionless people. I was so fearful of being lost in that passionless routine before she found me. The thought of coming home to her makes that routine bearable. Desirable, even.

I don't know if I believe in 'the one', but if I did, I have this feeling that she might be it. She's completely spontaneous and enigmatic, but in a way that is absolutely disarming. She is you, Jess.

I used to be impenetrable - nothing could touch me. Then you came along, and, in that instant, my heart was beating outside of my chest, exposed to the world in all its fragility. Loving you was unexpected and undesired, but it has been the most powerful, profound and agonizing experience of my life.

I wanted so badly to protect you... to rescue you from your past, but in the end you needed to protect yourself from me. I’m the one who ended up hurting you. I know it's been a while since we knew how to be happy together, and it’s become increasingly obvious that maybe we just can't be together. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I never really took the time to understand you. It's true, I don't know how to be with you right now, and that scares the hell out of me. But I have this feeling that if we give up now, we might get lost out there and never find our way back to that comforting silence.

I don't know what the future holds or what's going to happen between us. I don't have any logical reason to give this another shot, but God damn I can't stop thinking about you. I miss coming home to you… and we knock the boots pretty well, that's gotta count for something right?

Please call me...

Lorenzo.

P.S. I've been drinking and, in hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have had Radiohead's 'Ok Computer' album on repeat while I wrote that letter.

Last Call for Sin (Story #11)

2011-04-11T00:47:00.014-04:00

Saturday 4 am, November 11

There are certain moments in life wherein the choices you make alter its course forever.

Saturday 1:50 am, November 11

My personal Jesus is standing in the back of the line waiting to use of the bathroom. At any half-happening venue in the city, women always have to wait about three times longer than men for the exact same purpose of relieving themselves. I’m not really sure why this is, though I’ve often wondered what it is women do in there. I suspect that it’s because men urinate upright and all the hardships associated with peeing sitting down cause this major delay in bathroom time, but who knows, really.

I'm standing by the exit with her coat tucked under my arm. I contemplate the obvious outcome of the situation. For a brief second, I reconsider my decision. I turn my attention towards her, studiously looking her up and down. She flashes me a flirtatious smile from where she stands. There’s no turning back. It's over; I don't stand a chance. She's armed with witty banter, seductive smiles and questionable motives. Not to mention, I’m completely powerless against her short mini skirt and long legs.

I'm fidgeting with my BlackBerry, pretending to look busy while I wait for her to finish. Twenty minutes later she comes out, smile and mini skirt perfectly intact. She swiftly makes her way towards me. She grabs her coat from the security of my arm, lightly kisses me on the cheek and asks, “So what now, stranger?”

I take the last sip of my vodka soda. Maybe it's the combination of alcohol mixed with my tolerance for Jessica's dramatic and unwarranted blowouts that provoke something inside me to change... to regress. I swallow that insecure, unsure, idealistic love fool with that last sip of vodka soda. I ignore any semblance of my newfound moral rectitude birthed by my change in relationship status, and divert back to the pre-Jessica version of myself – confident and composed.

I suggest that she accompany me to an after-hours spot located under a hair salon that, twice a week, housed designer- collared-shirt-tie-wearing weekend warriors. I intend to be one of them and invite her to bear the same label.

I mean fuck it. Why not right? She's dope, her outfit could cure cancer and everyone knows in an after-hours, there are no games; true colours come out, especially with the help of a small group of Columbian guerrilla mercenaries. If Red Bull has wings, then Cocaine has a strap-on jet pack. All one really needs is to have a small segment of the rebel forces fight their way into any girl's bloodstream, and you’re guaranteed that she will be a lot “friendlier.” Buy a girl a drink, you get a conversation. Buy a girl a ring, you get a minivan and a mortgage. Buy a girl a couple lines, and at the very least you get a blow job.

I place my hand on the small of her back, guide her out of the club and into a cab idling by the curb. We get in. I'm decisive. She's nervous. I'm relaxed. She's antsy. My demeanour is calm, while hers is in frenzy.

Noticing the change in her attitude I ask, “Are you game?”

She tensely responds, “Can we go somewhere else? Maybe get to know each other a little better? I'm not really an after-hours kind of girl. ”

“Really? What kind of girl are you?”

“I just... go with the flow. I know I came off a bit strong earlier but I wasn't bullshitting you. I don't just typically approach random guys and talk about the alignment of the stars.”

“So was that whole cosmic approach reserved specifically for me? ‘Cause I'll have to admit it really did weaken my resolve.”

“I don't know - It just felt like the thing to say. I don't plan things, but I also don't chase the night. Why don't we go to my place and hang out?”

“Actually, that sounds like a better plan.”

“Good. But I don't want you to get the wrong idea. We're going there to hang out. We're not going to have sex.”

“Oh... okay?”

She laughs and attempts to win me over by adorably saying, “I have old records.”

Sold. We settle into her place half an hour later. She brings out a bottle of wine, lights a stick of incense, sparks up some green and spins 'Low End Theory'. We discuss politics, religion, music, life, love and Star Wars... everything and anything without pretentiousness or over-intellectualizing the conversation. She brings out old photo albums of her friends and family. She starts to confide in me about personal events from her past. She even shows me some teenage dance she did during her high school years that won her a local talent competition.

She's completely random, but in a way that catches me off guard and makes me smile. I only met this girl a few hours ago but she acts like we've known each other for years. It's 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning and without a shred of fear she invited me back to her place for reasons outside the typical after the club norm - sex. For all she knows, I could be a psychopath, a date rapist, a talentless hipster, a child molester, a murderer, a Nazi, or one of those bible quoting freaks – all equally menacing. But for one reason or another, she’s determined to get to know me and not just hook up. I guess her astrology-inspired discourse earlier in the night was genuine.

Naturally, I'm a little taken back. It's been awhile since I had dared to talk to anyone of the opposite sex. I've spent so much time in the last couple of months making my failing relationship with Jessica my vocation that I've forgotten the excitement of raw human interaction.

Before meeting Jessica, I spent the majority of my adult life frequenting all the 'wrong' places in hopes of accidentally running into the 'right' girl. That's what most of us do. Do we really expect to find the kind of person that doesn't frequent clubs in clubs? As blatantly idiotic as that sounds, that's what I did. But tonight it seems that I may have found her. Old records, serendipitous conversations, a genuine aversion to the nightlife, short mini skirt and long legs – summon one of those child molesting bible quoting freaks and we're ready for our nuptials.

We step out to her twentieth floor condominium balcony and both lean against the ledge. From where we stand, I can hear the faint whispers of Tribe's 'Bonita Applebum'. We stand together, on the edge of her balcony and watch the late night city traffic. She leans in closer, playfully nudges me with her elbow and smiles. I smile back. She stares at me, silent. The moment is transcendent. It's the height of decadence. She wants me to kiss her, but I don't.

She is absolutely magnetic and she seems like the girl I've been waiting to accidentally meet, but there's only one problem – she's not Jessica. Earlier in the night, I was sure she was the obvious wrong choice that I was willingly prepared to make, but now she is turning out to be the right decision. Ironically, the right decision is not the one I crave tonight. I require a short term fix; an impermanent form of retribution. I'm looking to cheat, not fall in love. I already have some screwed up version of love waiting for me at home.

I'm so tired of the weight and responsibilities that come with this being-in-love bullshit. I want the freedom of not having to justify every single interaction I have with the opposite sex. People are so quick to cast off sex without love as an empty experience, but as empty experiences go, it's definitely the most fulfilling. I should really go through with it and let the cards fall where they may in the morning, but for some reason I just can't. Damn you mom and damn you Catholic upbringing. I guess legitimizing Jessica's behaviour and accusations will have to wait another night.

“Honestly, you're really dope but I haven't been completely honest with you. I need to tell you something...”

But before I can even go into my in depth emotionally rooted monologue about how amazing she is and that I'm actually a scumbag in a committed relationship, she interrupts, smiles and contently says, “I think I'll hold on to this moment right here. Let's not ruin it by chasing the night.”

She walks me back into her apartment and guides me towards the front door. She opens it and I hesitantly cross the threshold. I look back at her one last time. She walks over, kisses me on the cheek, slips a card in my coat pocket and whispers, “Satisfaction is the death of desire.”

Cheating Hearts (Story #10)

2011-03-22T15:35:00.003-04:00

Saturday 1:50 a.m. November 11

Old habits die hard. I guess I'll always have a soft spot for fast women.

Friday 11:50 p.m. November 10

I'm here with a mixture of her friends and mine. We're all standing a few feet away from the dance floor having a lively time, drinks in hand, our backs to the bar. The DJ drops the next track, fire! It's that song you can't help but want to get your dance on to. I'm a little tipsy and a little lifted – the perfect combination. It's shaping up to be a good night, and it couldn't have come soon enough.

The last few months have been rough. I'm starting to question this whole relationship business and whether I’m cut out for it. I know that I have a tendency to romanticize situations, but I never imagined that being in love would be this emotionally taxing. I can't even remember the last time we went out and actually had a good time. The constant fighting is beginning to not only affect my personal life, but also my work life. The majority of what I have accomplished and who I am as a person can be directly attributed to my self-confidence – or what is contemporarily referred to as 'swagger'. I have never been the best at anything, but a word of advice: believing that you're the best is often better than actually being the best. I've landed numerous jobs over more qualified candidates because of the image I project. Lately, however, I've been losing a lot of clients and – along with them – my career momentum. I guess having a person you care about whole-heartedly question your worth regularly has that affect. Now I finally understand why girls with daddy issues used to desperately seek my approval through mildly emotional connections and reassuring words. It's hard to grow as a person when you're so focused on obtaining approval in all the wrong ways from all the wrong people.

I'm in a great mood. This mixture of alcohol, good music and great friends are clouding the issues that Jessica and I have been having. Dear Vodka, thank you. My friend Dave and I are having an intoxicated (yet surprisingly profound) conversation about the inexplicable modern social phenomenon of fashion recycling. For obvious reasons, I'm on the pro side of the hipster twenty-first century eighties fashion movement. He's arguing as a third party observer, that skinny jeans and undersized jackets are not as cool on guys as hipsters seem to think they are. Basically, he believes that I should buy clothes that actually fit and avoid looking like I shrunk everything in the wash. I think that he's just never heard of a tailor. The entire conversation is ridiculous but we have fun laughing at ourselves.

Amidst our laughter and our absurd debate, I get a firm jolt in the back. I turn around and tears are pouring from Jessica’s eyes.

Sobbing and angry, she screams, “Who the fuck was that girl?!!”

The music in the bar is painfully loud, but Jessica's voice still carries over it, catching most people's attention.

Half-embarrassed and half-confused, I attempt to calm her down, “Babe, what are you talking about?”

“Don't pretend. I saw! Everyone saw! That blonde girl who just walked by! She smiled at you and you smiled back!!”

It feels like the DJ has stopped the music and we've become the main attraction. I look over at my friends, who look just as confused as I am. I'd like to say that this is the first time this has happened, but this public reenactment of a 'Dawson's creek' episode that is my girlfriend has become fairly routine. I've become well-acquainted with the judgemental head shakes from strangers and pity-filled looks from friends.

Completely confused and completely embarrassed, I begin to defend myself from her outlandish and unfounded accusations, “What girl? I didn't smile at anyone. If anything I was smiling at what Dave said.”

“You're a fucking liar!!” she dramatically shouts at me (again).

She throws her drink on the ground, shattering the glass into pieces. I grab her arm, but she violently flings it away. She storms off in a fit of rage. I grab my coat from the nearby ledge with the intention of chasing after her like a pathetic pussy-whipped puppy.

As I put on my coat, Dave grabs my shoulder and says, “Dude, you know I'm not one to ever interfere with people's relationships, but she's killing you with this shit. Let her go.”

Dave, a friend I met at university, was not soft spoken by any means, but is definitely the last person to ever get involved in anyone's personal life. His motto has always been the less personal attachment the better. I think for a second. I love her and I don't want to lose her. I'm at a crossroads. Deep down, I know Dave is right and that something’s gotta give, but I'm so caught up in making this relationship work that I've lost sight of what the right thing to do is anymore.

Attempting to justify my behaviour, I say, “I know this sounds totally corny and lame, but that girl is my life.”

In the past I would have burst out laughing at the idea of those words coming out of my mouth in that sequence, but here I am acting a scene straight out of an eighties John Hughes movie. At least I’m dressed for the part.

Surprisingly, Dave didn't laugh. Instead he says, “Maybe that's the problem. I'm not a relationship expert, but I believe that if you love someone, you should make them a part of your life, not your entire life.”

And there it is; words of wisdom from my drunk, emotionless, tailor-free, old university friend. It’s enough to shake me out of my 'Inception'-like dream state.

Maybe realizing that I'm semi-awake from the bad dream that is Jessica, Dave says, “Why don't we go outside for a smoke.”

I don't even smoke, but I agree. We exit the club and make our way to the unmarked, designated smoking area. We don't say a word, we just occasionally nod our heads at each other. I guess this is the guy version of consoling. We stand there for what seems like an eternity. I'm sad, admittedly, but also relieved. Several head nods and a few cigarettes later, an unconventionally beautiful girl makes her way to us. She takes out a cigarette from her burgundy pseudo-vintage fringe purse and motions towards me for a light. I look around to see if Jessica is in sight. The last thing I need right now is to give her more fuel for her madness. She's nowhere to be found. I take out a lighter from my pocket and casually oblige the stranger's request.

“Do you feel that?” she says as I lean in closer to light her cigarette.

“Feel what?”

“The intimate moment we just shared. It feels a little like it’s been lived before. It's a little serendipitous, don't you think?” she responds.

“How so?” I ask, confused.

“Well, it doesn't look like you even smoke, yet you just happened to have a light just when I needed one,” she says as she waves her hands and arms pointing to the sky intending to prove some sort of cosmic connection between her statements and the act of lighting a cigarette.

“I don't think that's slightly serendipitous at all. Just good timing.”

“Are you sure? You shouldn't be so quick to cast off these transient life moments. You have to embrace them when they happen.”

“Oh really? And why is that?” I ask, suddenly curious.

She smiles, leans in close and confidently whispers in my ear, “Because no matter what, these moments right here,” she says as she points to the both of us, “May never happen again. They're literally once in a lifetime.”

She takes one last long drag of her smoke. She tosses it to the ground, crushes it with her brown worn-in ankle boots, then confidently and seductively says, “You're cute and this has been entertaining, but let's skip all the bullshit. We both know where this is going...”

Temptingly bewitching. She’s right, I do know where “this” is going. Although not any time recently, I have been here before. In fact, I’ve been here many times before. “This” and her are the life I swore off the moment I said those three problematic words to Jessica: I can commit. I have never cheated on anyone, nor have I ever entertained the thought. As 'friendly' as my past might have been, I have always maintained a certain code of ethics. I've always judgementally looked down on those who cheat. My first experience with love/commitment ended with someone betraying my trust in that way. Since then, I’ve sworn off relationships and have had an indubitable disdain for cheaters. Yet here I am, seriously considering an offer from this charming seductress.

I love Jessica. I really do, but she's probably halfway to Africa by now, and I just don't know how much more of this I can take. When we first got together, she made me realize that my 'live fast, die young' attitude didn’t really lead to any sustainable happiness. She made me want more out of life. I gave up the late night parties and easy women in lieu of board games and fixed-rate mortgages. I let go of my past to build a future with her. But right at this moment, standing outside this trendy dive bar, in front of this girl, it started to all make perfect sense to me – I'm not the problem. Sure maybe at first, but it takes two. She knows my baggage, and she's aware that as hard as it might have been, I've moved past it. I left it behind, but she hasn't moved past hers; her father abandoned her when she was young for a new family, and she's never gotten over it. As it turns out, she has the biggest daddy issues of them all and, unfortunately, the help she needs is far more complicated than reassuring words and strong emotional connections can provide. She needed a father, not a boyfriend. She carries her history around like a contagious disease, infecting everyone emotionally close to her. When she started to tell me about her past I was determined to save her from it, but at the end of the day, I'm the one that ended up needing saving from her. It might seem insensitive to think about myself given her disturbed history, but sometimes you just have to save yourself. This unconventionally beautiful girl with the fringe purse and charming words might not be Jesus, but tonight she's my personal saviour.

Self-Worth (Story #9)

2011-02-22T16:27:00.003-05:00

“How you gonna win when you ain't right within...”
- Miss Lauryn Hill

Saturday 7 p.m. September 17

In writing, this is what we call blatant foreshadowing.

Saturday 3 p.m. September 17

We've been officially dating for a couple of months, quickly approaching three. I'd like to say it's been perfect, but unfortunately we didn't ride off towards the sunset - apparently it’s not always rainbows and lollipops after 'I love you's'. It hasn't been all bad, it’s just been 'bumpy'. I feel like it's my fault, being that I am a recently retired 'man of the town' and in turn am a recovering commitment-phobe. Relationships are a hard transition for most people, but for someone like me... well, let's just say 'hard transition' is the euphemistic term. Both she and I doubt my ability to be domesticated, but I guess when you love someone all you can do is keep trying. One way or another, we're still waiting on our promised happy ending.

With my eyes attentively focused on the single lane country road, I ask her, “Babe are you sure we're going the right way?”

“What does the GPS say?” she answers my question with a question.

“It says keep going... but I have no idea where we are.”

She laughs and says, “Just keep going. I told you - I grew up in the country.”

“It just seems like I've been driving forever,” I say as my nerves build up in anxious anticipation; today is the day I meet her mom for the first time.

“Relax, her house is just a few more kilometres,” she reassures me as she turns up the radio to the tune of “Metal Heart” by Cat Power.

A few more kilometres turn out to be over an hour. I've been living in the city for the last decade; aside from attending a few long lost high school friends’ birthdays and weddings, I haven't ventured out much. But even in my time away from picket-fenced yards, minivans and early marriages, my cub scout navigation skills have never been in question until this moment. I have absolutely no idea where we are. Thank God for GPS's.

We finally get off the single lane regional road (the country equivalent of a highway), and turn down a dirt road that winds around a cliffside and overlooks a small lake. I slow down and cautiously cruise around the narrow path, mildly fearful for our lives. I drive over a wooden bridge that slopes down like a black diamond snowboarding run, and miraculously arrive safely at her mother's house. She told me she grew up in the country, but I had no idea how literal she being. I wonder how her mother manages to get in and out on a daily basis. I park my car beside a hitching post. True story.

We step into her mother's little country home, and settle into her childhood bedroom. Her bedroom isn’t at all what I was expecting. It reeks of lemon Pine-Sol (or is that Pledge?), and is about as welcoming as a hospital room. On an old dresser stands the only photograph - her as child. There are no posters on the wall nor are there any teenage keepsakes. I look around in silence for a while, not sharing my observations. Eventually we unpack our bags and I inevitably get properly introduce to her mother, who greets me with the all too familiar 'I've-heard-about-you-and-your-tainted-past' look.

During the last several weeks I've been introduced to many of her friends, who for one reason or another, have greeted me with that exact same look (hence my acquaintanceship with it). I'm not saying their opinion is false or unwarranted, but I would love to know who exactly spread these [truthful] rumours about me. It's bad enough being dragged to dinner party after dinner party and constantly have to partake in social events that no poor soul under the age of forty should ever have to be subjected to. I don't care that Colonel Mustard killed Madame Rose in the library with the candle stick. Board games should have more clearly defined age parameters: 8-14, 40-death. But that, combined with the under-the-breath talks about how I'm the wrong guy for her and the constant disapproving looks... it really makes it hard for a boy to stick to life-altering changes.

We make our way to the living room and sit across from her mother on the plastic-covered couches. Her mother asks me the routine new boyfriend questions: future plans, intentions, interests, and so on. I don't typically have a hard time getting in the good graces of the fairer sex, but like board games there is an age limit to my appeal. Nevertheless, I do my best to switch gears and battle my tarnished reputation. In just under an hour, I finally (sort of) win her mother over with the little charm I have at my disposal. Well, maybe not win her over, but I’ve done well enough that she informs the two of us that she'll prepare dinner and knock on Jessica's door when it's ready.

As Jess and I are sitting on her bed talking and waiting for dinner, my phone beeps, boldly announcing a text message from an old 'friend'. Jessica peeks over as I view the message. It reads, “hey! long time no talk. let's get together tonight for the usual”. She looks at me in disbelief. Her eyes start to water, and without a second thought she says, “I knew it. I knew you couldn't change. Just go!”

Understandably confused, I say to her, “What do you mean just go?”

In a fit of unexplainable madness, she opens her old dresser and starts throwing my clothes on the floor. Clothes that I had just unpacked not even an hour ago.

I walk towards her and attempt to calm her down. I try to tell her that I hadn't seen my old 'friend' since she and I had started dating. But she won't listen, there's no reasoning with her. She just continues to frantically throw one piece of designer clothing after another, each one violently flying through the air like meteors in a doomsday movies. She even begins to mutter insults at me under her breath.

I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do. I'm trying my best, but nothing seems to be good enough. I'm beginning to question whether she and everyone else are right. Maybe I’m not the person everyone thinks she deserves. We're cut from different cloths, and since we've “officially” been together, I've been continuously reminded of that. Everyone questions what she sees in a guy like me. Jessica isn't like the typical girls I’ve grown accustomed to dating; she's not impressed by social status, money or looks. She craves substance and - all criticisms aside - it's evident from meeting her friends. Their unfriendly looks towards me are really nothing more than concerned faces. Truth be told, I can't really blame them. My dating track record (if you could even call it 'dating') has not been so impressive as to inspire adoration and approval from her loved ones. My previous success with the opposite sex was primarily a result of my social novelty and the company I chose to keep. Real connections were something I had been deprived of for some time. But, compared to the past male figures in Jessica's life, I would eventually come to learn that I am practically a saint.

Her biological father abandoned her at the age of ten to start a new family, and of her many past boyfriends, she would only say that some had been less abusive than others. Whenever I would probe deeper, she would respond by saying, “It's not something that I like to talk about.” There is a place in Jessica's heart that I haven't been allowed to see. In all honesty, it’s worked out well because thus far I’ve been too afraid to look. But there have been times at night when I caught a glimpse. She would awaken me with her nightmares, pleading with “Chris,” the ex, begging him and his friends to stop. I have yet to ever let on or discuss the episodes the morning after.

After being kicked out by her father, Jess sought shelter with her mother, who at the time she barely knew. Her mother was an alcoholic and had a string of failed marriages. She stayed for as long as she could, but found it too difficult to live amidst her mother’s drama. She escaped to the city not even a year later and found momentary solace with a heroine injecting DJ boyfriend. That is until a few months later, when he decided to make ends meet by sharing her with paying friends.

She and I met a couple of years after that; by that time, she’d learned that trust was a commodity she could no longer afford. Even now, after all the changes I've made, she remains skeptical of my intentions. I guess after all that she's been through, she finds it hard to believe that any man - even me - could be different from the rest she’s known.

We began talking about building a future together. I made the long country drive to meet her mother, attended the weekly dinner parties and even purchased a couple of board games with one day having the objective to host my own Clue-and-Cranium night. But for some reason, it just wasn't enough. I would eventually subdue her doubts, and she would subside from her fit of CdG and Buckler tossing rage. But within the months to come, she would have many more of these sporadic madness-filled fits. And, like an idiot buying into Hollywood ideals of love, I will keep trying. Her further skepticism will only fuel my vocation to make this relationship work. In the months to come, I will try harder and harder to prove the falseness of her mistrust of people, of men, of me. Yet the more I attempt to convince her that I'm different from all the men from her past, the more I will begin to lose confidence in myself and begin to think that I will never be enough for her. Eventually, in trying to prove myself worthy of her, what I will fail to realize until it's too late is that what she truly doubted was her own self-worth. In her mind, she will never be good enough to sustain any meaningful male relationship. Every man, myself included, will always just be another guy waiting to break her heart.

Her mother knocks on her old bedroom door. Dinner time.

Templates - Story #8

2010-12-07T15:47:00.006-05:00

"Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy." - Leo Buscaglia

Friday 11 p.m. June 17

*Exit Florence + The Machine*

Wednesday 1 pm June 15

It's my lunch break. I'm in a small Japanese restaurant on Bloor with Patrick. Both of us are standing in a short line waiting to be seated. We have yet to utter a word outside our mandatory greeting acknowledging each other's presence. We are, at the moment, preoccupied with our Blackberries. Not necessarily for business purposes, but I guess in some circles you could say “it was business as usual” – to put it delicately.

I don't claim that it's hard work, the upkeep of various women, incessantly responding to their text messages on a minute-to-minute basis. In fact, together we've established a system consisting of various templates which spit out text messages with the touch of a few keys, making the rate of response to females exceedingly efficient. It’s a simple system – the less complicated, the easier to manage. Already my memo pad has over thirty templates suited for different responses. I guess you can say it's a tad impersonal but it’s a small price to pay for meaningful efficiency.

My phone beeps as the hostess informs us that our table is ready. A message from Raquel reads, “Hey you, haven't heard from you in awhile. Are you avoiding me? lol Anyways, you free this weekend?”

I think for a moment. Raquel: met her a couple of times, she seemed pretty down to earth then – out of nowhere – she turned paparazzi-crazy… Text message ratio is easily 13:1 in her favour. Catch and release.

Raquel: Looks 6, Personality 5, Clinger Factor 10.

Copy + Paste: “Hey stranger. Been meaning to get at you. Sorry, I can't this weekend or for awhile. Work is insane. Ill be out of town for the next little while. Take care.”

Send

We follow the hostess as she motions us to two seats at the Sushi bar. Patrick pulls out the seat beside me and passes me one of the two menus handed to him by the Japanese waitress. He looks over the menu for a minute, turns to me and asks, “How are things with Jessica?”

Eyes still glued to the menu I answer indifferently, “Good I guess.”

Continuing his probing, “How long have the two of you been dating anyways?”

“A couple of months. Who really knows?” I passively answer.

He refocuses his attention on his menu and with a hint of condescension proceeds, “I wouldn't have thought she'd be the kind of girl you'd date. I still can't believe you went over there in the rain like that. Does she still wear flip flops everywhere?”

His remarks and questions aggravate me, but instead of defending my sort-of-girlfriend, I say, “Well its not like we're officially together. No commitment has really been made. Besides I'm still sort of talking to Megan.”

Patrick nods in approval to both of the latter statements. Megan is a hot bartender that Patrick and I met one night. We had been innocently texting each other back and forth over the last couple of weeks, but had never met up. She recently broke up with her boyfriend and has since been texting me more frequently – each text becoming exponentially more flirtatious. Although I told Patrick that Jessica and I weren't officially together, I know deep down that to do anything with any other female would be betraying Jessica's trust. You don't need official titles to break someone's heart.

Later that day I get a text from Jess. The message reads: “Hi you! I miss you! Guess what? I got two tickets to that band you really like, Florence and the Machine. The concert is Friday night. Please say you'll come? :)”

If I had one word to describe Jess it would be amiable. This isn't the first time she's surprised me with something thoughtful. She's the kind of person that selflessly does things for other people. She regularly manages to make me smile, effortlessly.

Jessica: Looks 7, Personality 10, Cling Factor 5.

Copy + Paste: “Hey stranger. Been meaning to get at you. Sounds good I'll get at you then.”

Send

A couple of hours after, right on cue, I get a tempting text from Megan. Her message reads: “My place. 9 p.m. Saturday. Bring wine and take out. Don't be late”. I think for a moment. I guess a little dinner and drinks couldn't hurt.

Megan: Looks 9.5, Personality 2, Cling Factor 0.

Copy + Paste: “Hey stranger. Been meaning to get at you. Sounds good I'll get at you then.”

Send

Like I said, impersonal but efficient. I'm a utilitarian at heart.

Friday 9 p.m. June 17

I step out of the cab and make my way to the entrance of Kool Haus. I see Jess waiting by the door. She's got her huge perma-smile on. I've got my disinterested snob face going, as usual. She greets me with an affectionate and sincere hug – no one gives those in the city anymore. I give her the ass out, one arm, body tilted to the side hug back – the typical apathetic Toronto greeting. I don't know why I'm in a bad mood. She's been amazing to me. I think it’s partly due to the fact that I feel that I had to give up my other life to be with her. By other life I mean 'entertaining' different women on a nightly basis. In the last few weeks I've sent this about 10 times:

Copy + Paste: “Hey stranger. How are you? Good, I hope. Listen, I've been meaning to get at you. My life is just really busy right now. I don't think I can give you the attention you deserve. I hope we can still be friends...”

Send

I have yet to actually inform anyone that I have a girlfriend and am, therefore, unavailable. Sometimes I think that I can't come to terms with it myself. I tell myself that I'm just taking baby steps and easing myself into the transition of being in a relationship; in all reality even I know it's complete commitment phobia. How cliché.

Jess and I step into the venue and grab a couple drinks. We talk and share the events of our respective weeks; not failing to disappoint, our conversation is effortless. She somehow manages to hold my interest with her routine stories of her daily subway experiences and her dog Juggles (she rescued Juggles from the pound – of course. I know, right). A couple minutes later the band gets on stage. They open by performing their less popular songs. While Jess's attention is held by the band, I'm nonchalantly and flirtatiously text messaging Megan. I'm an asshole (I know, right).

Waiting on Megan's next text, I hear Florence Welch chanting, “Happiness hit her like a train on a track. Coming towards her stuck still no turning back. She hid around corners and she hid under beds...”

I love this song. Admittedly, it's extremely moving. Excited, I look up from my text messaging transient state. Let down, I find no one in the crowd is really vibing with the band. The entire place is filled with hipster zombies, too cool to even sing along to the music that they all came here to supposedly pay tribute to. Instead, everyone seems to be too self-aware to let themselves feel any form of liberation, unemotionally sipping their alcoholic drinks, exemplifying a non-committal fear of true expression. Have I become one of these people? Not only at this show, but with life in general? Have I been copy and pasting myself into an passionless oblivion?

I look at Jess in hopes of finding answers; surprisingly I do. She's swaying back and forth without a care in the world, singing and dancing to the song. She turns to me and smiles. She looks cute and silly. I adoringly laugh at her. She playfully sticks her tongue out at me and continues to sing along. There is certainly something undeniably disarming about a girl who can just act silly and live free in public. I have never met anyone like her – at least not since grade school. Too many people, myself included, are so wrapped up with how we look to the outside world that we've lost the ability to truly have fun and enjoy life. This life moves pretty fast and if you can't let loose and just live, you'll never be able to truly enjoy every fleeting moment that it has to offer.

Unintentionally being myself – and thereby committing myself to some form of vulnerability – I ask her, “Do you believe in happy endings?”

Without missing a beat, she answers, “I think they get a bad rap but hey, anything's possible right?”

She giggles, kisses me on the cheek and continues to sing, “The dog days are over. The dog days are done...”

She killed me softly with her song. She's breaking down every wall I've ever put up. She's buying me tickets to my favourite band (of the moment) and making me happy in the simplest of ways. And what does she get from me in return? Text message templates to every slut in the city. I decide then and there that I would send my two very last text message templates. Ironically enough, both template messages were the only ones of many in my Blackberry memo pad that had yet an occasion to be used. They were my “use-in-the-event-of-pigs-flying-and/or-hell-freezing-over” templates.

To Megan: Copy + Paste: “Listen. I think you're really hot but I'm actually seeing someone and I think it would be unfair to her if we were to hang out. Sorry.”

Send

To Jess: Copy + Paste: “You make me happy. I think I'm in trouble. I think I'm in love...with you.”

Send

The Benefits of being a DoucheBag - Story #2

2010-12-02T00:58:00.003-05:00

Hate-filled Disclaimer/Rant:

*Call me a self-loathing hypocrite, but living in the city, I've really begun to detest suburbanites and city-dwelling suburban wannabes. Which is worse, I don’t know. Both spend most of their time hibernating, living vicariously through their television sets. I guess when you live in the suburbs, you have an excuse, but what’s with the suburban-wannabe downtowners? Why spend your nights watching reality TV when you could quite literally walk out your door into some real action? I’ll never get these people. If you’re single, born before 1986, and your Saturday-night “parties” involve place settings and charades, downtown really isn’t the place for you. Some sound advice: move back west of the Gardiner, buy some cats, and get yourself a Lava Life account; it’s a waste of time hitting a club to pretend like you’re the “fun, adventurous” type. It’s a waste of your time, and it’s a waste of mine – hell, there could be an actual fun/adventurous girl/guy out in that lineup, waiting to get in because you had nothing better to do than show up at 10pm to beat the line. You might as well have just gone to Blockbuster and rented Twilight, because that’s the closest you’re going to get to romance.

1:40 a.m. Saturday 20**

Fuck it. A boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do.

1:05 a.m. Saturday 20**

“Do you know this power-starved jerk-off?” Patrick asks me, clearly frustrated.

“No and this isn't really my scene. I sort of know the owner but not well enough to call him. I don't think we're gonna get in,” I say to Patrick as I scan the hour-long line up.

“Let me see what I can do,” he replies.

He walks over to the bouncer and begins talking to him a way reminiscent of one of his nightly conquests – duplicitously attempting to get his way. I know that, one way or another, he will manage to get us in. Patrick always gets his way. I'm not quite sure how. Physically, he resembles a human being just like the rest of us (only shorter). In fact he frequently plays one (again, only shorter). But he's a secretive, diabolical sociopath who always wears lifts in his shoes. You wouldn’t characterize him as egocentric… At first. But beneath his innocent-disguised charm he has an unseen, silicone-embellished ego which makes him seemingly harmless and in turn that much craftier.

I'm not quite sure if Patrick and I are friends. I guess if I had one word to describe my relationship with him, it would be 'accomplice'. That label might not be justified, but it's the first that comes to mind. Half of me envies him, but I'm pretty sure the other half genuinely despises him.

I met Patrick a couple of years ago during my first stint with corporate America. He represented what I imagined at the time was a better version of myself. He worked on the 30^th floor, I worked on the 29^th. He dealt with clients, I wrote up documents. He went out on weeknights, I played World of Warcraft. He banged models, I lusted after them.

I was new to the city then, not yet privy to back door entrances and 6 a.m. last calls. My days were filled with spreadsheets and my nights were fueled by TV dinners. Some might say my life was boring, but I prefer the term 'uncomplicated', at least in comparison to how it is now. This life, really, is all a result of my deciding to hit a work party in lieu of my usual Wednesday night Lost-and-takeout tradition (it was a rerun); Patrick and I spent the night bonding over strangely similar stories of past conquests and our love of the opposite sex. That night was like the fork in the road that caused my life to take a complete one hundred eighty degree Hunter S. Thompson-like turn. Although my nights are far more exciting than I had ever imagined, I have yet to conclude if my current adventures will yield anything sustainable and/or anything positive. But I do have to admit that being associated with Patrick does have its benefits. Well, benefits might not be the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

“Okay this guy says he'll let us in for a twenty each,” Patrick says to me as he reaches his hand out expecting my share.

“Why don't we just go elsewhere? I hate these posh clubs anyways” I ask him, being that I am fully biased against places that stipulate what I can and cannot wear (give me regulations and my style completely falters; dress codes are nothing but fashion tyranny).

“Because it's past 1 a.m. Plus, we're already here,” he answers decisively, hand still outstretched.

“Dude, this place is like a screenshot from an episode of Miami Vice-meets- Jersey Shore. It’s filled with a mix of over-dressed 905ers and city-dwelling suburban wannabes.” I'm not impressed. Everyone in line seems to have acquired their wardrobe (and lifestyle) advice exclusively from MTV reality shows.

“Are you serious? Get over yourself. Didn't you grow up in Mississauga? I think you're just worried about what you're wearing. I swear you're worse than a girl,” he says to me, half mocking, half aggravated.

He's right. Not only did I grow up in the suburbs, I do spend way too much time putting together my outfits; over an hour more than the socially-acceptable norm for a straight guy… Hence his “worse than a girl” comment. But can you really blame me? Goddamn King West clubs and their lame dress codes. There might as well be a sign in the front of the club that reads, “no admittance without uniformed pointy, shiny shoes – the pointier the better”. I look like a leprechaun business man.

I hand Patrick a twenty and in mere minutes, we're in – fully bypassing the hour-long line up and I'm quickly being reminded of why I loathe the blazer-jeans combo outfit. *Reference: Hate-filled rant above

As soon as we get in, Patrick immediately makes his way to the bar and I follow. He doesn’t waste time, and I don't blame him – last call is fast approaching, and this is the only reason I'm wearing my shiny Leprechaun-like shoes. Realistically, no guy comes here “to dance”; if you did, you're on the wrong street – the street you're searching for is a lot holier in name. I'm here, just like every single (straight) guy in this place, in search for my pot of gold, only it's not gold. It's pink. Patrick orders four gin and tonics – one for him, one for me, and presumably one for each of the two girls standing together, just to our left.

We make our advance. Patrick turns to both of them and cunningly says, “I like your style.”

Ironic. He’s obviously lying. Even for this place's standards, they are tackily dressed - I didn't even think that was possible, but these two are single-handedly keeping Ed Hardy in business.

The slimmer one, who almost looked classy (if only she hadn't decided to accessorize à-la Lil John) says to Patrick, “Thanks. I like your blazer.”

Of course she does! I don't know how or why she would assume that compliment was directed towards her but she did. Honestly, someone should have told her not to spend her entire Claire's gift certificate all at once.

“My name is Patrick and this is Lorenzo”, Patrick says as he hands them each a drink.

Patrick's lie and free beverages appear to have worked. She smiles and flirtatiously says, “My name is Jen and this is...”

But before she could finish, the heftier one, wearing a red leopard-print dress that showed way too much skin for a girl her size interrupts, “My name is Shaniqua”.

Of course it is! She's a white girl that has that very name spelled out on her gold-plated necklace. How nineties-rap-video of her. While the two of them are distracted by their free drinks, Patrick – the little shit, my accomplice/friend in question – leans over to me and whispers, “Dude which one do you want?”

In fear of my life and with a shred of self-respect, I respond, “Honestly, neither. I see two girls by the bar who look much more interesting.”

In typical Patrick fashion, he persuasively says to me, “Interesting? Are you kidding me? It's almost last call. We don't have time for interesting!”

I don't know why I listen to him, nor do I know why I continuously put myself through these nightly escapades. Right about now I'm pretty sure I genuinely despise him. Patrick, who I used to believe represented everything I wanted out of life, is currently in the midst of coercing me – like he does everyone – into getting his way. Knowing Patrick, I'm about to dive into a sweaty jungle with this cheetah-costume-wearing-rhino, who I'm pretty sure skipped a couple of meals to – and I use this term extremely loosely – “fit” into that dress.

“Shaniqua” flashes me a look of hunger. Patrick takes note of her hungry hungry hippo behavior and continuous to whisper in my ear, “Okay. I'm pretty sure Rosie O over here is feeling you. She's all yours. Man up.”

Begrudgingly, I do. Fat girls need loving too; at least that's what I tell myself. Romance is definitely not in the cards for me tonight, but they might be at the bottom of a couple more drinks. I'd like to say that this is the first time I've done anything like this. I'd like to say that the only problem with this girl is her style and her dress size, but it’s so much more than that. I'd like to say that my nightly adventures with Patrick have gotten me closer to finding my future Mrs. I'd like to say all of these things, but I'd be lying. This life seemed a lot better from a distance. When I first met Patrick, I was certain he was a better me. Now, after all these years, I'm really not sure. Tonight, I'd rather be watching teenage vampire angst, eating out of a greasy take out container. I definitely should have just made it a Blockbuster night. I don't know if “taking one for the team” is the optimal terminology but it's the first that comes to mind.

Say Anything - Story #7

2010-11-22T13:49:00.006-05:00

Wake up. Go for a run. Shower. Have brunch with a girl I met two nights ago. Change clothes. Wait for the TTC. Attend magazine launch party. Network for business-slash-pleasure. Get new “prospect’s” number. Drunk text girl from earlier. Meet up with her. Wake up. Leave said girl’s place. Go home. Lift weights. Grab a double shot of espresso and a biscotti. Meet with a potential designer. Represent potential designer. Pick up dry cleaning. Change clothes. Attend nightclub opening with a friend. Get hassled by the door man. See a person I know. Have that person vouch for me. Get apology from door man. Grab doubles at the open bar. Bored. Drunk text potential booty call. Get response. Jump in a cab. Meet said booty call. Wake up. LG fashion week. Up-and-coming artist gallery showing. CD release party. TTC. Cabs. Exercise. Work. Eat. Drink. Booty call. Prospect. Repeat, over and over and over. Stop.

My phone rings and I answer; it’s Patrick. He’s covering a music festival that showcases independent bands. He encourages me to meet him at the venue, enticing me by suggesting that this place attracts the kind of women I’m always hoping for a chance to meet. I agree. By the time I get there, a bit of rain has started to drizzle down. It’s been less than half an hour since he coerced me to come and he has already found two lovely young women to keep us company through the show. You have to give Patrick credit – no matter what the venue, he gets a lot accomplished in a short period of time.

He waves me to the front of the stage where the three of them are standing. I head on over and make my introductions. The one he had obviously staked his claim to was named Sonya. She has the facial symmetry that would break any man’s heart. She knows she’s out of my league and she makes this known by her indifference to my arrival, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge my presence. Her friend – a.k.a. “the less attractive one” – smiles at me. She compensates for her physical inferiority with a style best described as “full of character.” She’s dressed in a black fedora, an oversized wool cardigan and plain, black leggings, bottomed off with broken-in brown boots. She’s also wearing a pair of black-framed, clear-lens glasses that covered almost half of her face. This obviously means that she’s intelligent, creative and complicated. Riiight. Her style screams for attention: “Hey look at me – I might not be as pretty as my friend but I’m the next Joni Mitchell - meets -Erykah Badu- meets - Virginia Woolf - meets - *insert some other progressive, soulful female here*”. Target acquired.

We exchange small talk and she informs me that she’s doing her Masters on Global Politics. Great, bring on the pseudo-intellectual, witty banter. She proceeds to inquire how I pay the rent. I tell her about my day job, but that my real passion is writing. She admits that she’s read some of my work and that she thought it was misogynistic and painted a negative image of the obviously-fairer sex. I’d normally be insulted, but any woman attired like a hobo, hiding behind pretentious garments usually lacks any creativity; hence, a constant need to look the part. In turn, these women will cling like parasites to any person with an artistic bone in their body. As if their presence around you will somehow induce genius of their own. Trust me, they’ll usually do anything for your time.

Before the next band even has a chance to set up, the rain starts really coming down. Patrick quickly leads the four of us over to an area where they have tents and couches set up for people with media passes. I motion to the wannabe Nina Simone to take a seat. She goes in body first exposing her ass to my face in an undisguised attempt to hold my interest and generate a pursuit. She might be the queen of clichés, but I’ll admit… The girl has booty.

We sit beside each other on the Corinthian leather couches, mildly intoxicated. Contemporary Janis Joplin begins preaching some self-indulgent diatribe about how the social determinants of music greatly affect today’s youth. I obviously partake in the pretentious discussion in hopes of getting into what I’m certain are “eco-friendly” panties. I humour her with a witty semi-comedic dialogue centering around the death of hip hop. She shares her thoughts and adds that true hip hop is underground, conscious hip hop. Underground, conscious hip hop conveys a positive message to today’s youth, evidently. She starts to intrigue me with her thoughts on music, but I’m still skeptical; she is, after all, dressed in the typical Queen West poser uniform. So I test her knowledge on underground hip hop. Without missing a beat and much as I expected, she lets me down by listing bands like the Wu-Tang Clan and Jay-Z. While I love “Hova” and “Ghostface” as much as the next guy, that music is by no stretch underground, nor is it conscious. Any group who has aliases based on Marvel superheroes is not conscious hip hop. “Brothers try to pass me, but none could match me. No girl can freak me, I’m just too nasty.” Positive messages for the youth of today… Seriously? What’s she going to do next; beat box, drop a verse and tell me 8 Mile should’ve won an Oscar? Kill me now.

That one statement pretty much halted any hope of further pursuit. I couldn’t possibly imagine having a lifelong connection with someone who believes that the social significance of a man who claimed to have killed KKK members is a positive one. Patrick overhears her remark and gave me a familiar “please-dont-screw-up-a-sure-thing-by-over-intellectualizing-this-conversation-with-your-thoughts-on-music” look. Too late. I begin comparing the social relevance of Mos Def to Method man, Tribe to Jay. I begin to unmask all her deep-rooted insecurities, challenging her genuine lack of musical knowledge. I even insult her boots, calling them wannabe-vintage, and not-so-subtly telling the group that I saw them at H&M on sale for $29.99. You can insult a girl’s intelligence, but never insult her boots.

After my courtroom-worthy assault on her character, it was obvious that the two of us weren’t going to be burning incense, or listening to old vinyl whilst practicing our protest chants anytime in the foreseeable future. She looks at me bewildered, as if I’d just kicked a puppy, punched a kitten or – worse – as if I was actually one of those people who bothered to listen to the lyrical content of rap songs. My patience for this girl is wearing dangerously thin. To make matters worse, she is now sitting down, so her ass is no longer exposed, effectively nullifying what little appeal she had left. This interaction has as much positive social significance not only to today’s youth but to me- as ODB’s “Shimmy Shimmy Ya.” (Why yes, I do like it raw. Positive indeed.)

As I’m getting ready to shoot myself between the eyes, Patrick’s perfect-ten model turns to all of us and comically asks, “What is that girl doing?” I face to see who she’s referring to and I spot an all-too-familiar person. While most of us have gathered together for shelter under tents littered with sponsorship logos, she had walked to the middle of the field, flip flops in hand, without a care in the world. As the rain continues to pour down, she lifts her hands in the air and looks up to the skies with her tongue out, savouring every droplet of water that catches her taste buds. She takes off her yellow rain coat, places it on the wet grass and lies on top of it. Everyone – myself included – looks at her with envy-filled confusion. She pretends not to notice. She bobs her head to the beat of the band that had taken the stage a few minutes ago. I stand there, on the outskirts of the field with everyone else, cowering from the rain, watching her every move. The band has faded into the background and she becomes the main attraction.

In those few, seemingly-everlasting moments, I conclude that she will be my future wife. I turn to Patrick for some advice, or at the very least a look of approval. I’m not sure why. He looks at me, shakes his head and says, “Don’t even think about it. That girl sitting on the grass by herself, she expects too much. She’s looking for a saviour. Whether she knows it or not, she’s just waiting to break someone’s heart.”

Sitting there between an unknowledgeable, wannabe social radical and Patrick – who is about to throw himself into yet another pointless interaction – I decide that maybe today is the day that I choose substance over ass. Maybe today will be the day I finally break this routine. I quickly walk toward the centre of the rain-drenched field, drink in hand, away from the comfort of the corporate-sponsored dry haven. Each step I take kicks up mud and leaves footprints created by my white Keds. I pop the collar of my beige Burberry knock-off, three-quarter cut trench coat, shielding the rest of my clothes from the rain that seems to be pouring down harder with each step I take. I reach the middle of the field where she sits, by her lonesome. She looks up at me with the same look of confusion that she had garnered from the rest of us only minutes ago. I look down and, in my best attempt at being smooth like Casanova voice, I ask, “Is this seat taken?”

She giggles and answers, “It is now,” and moves her flip flops to make room.

I take a seat on the sopping wet grass, and before I get a word out, she turns to me and says, “So, do you always ignore friends you’ve recently slept with when you’re at random parties, or is that treatment exclusively reserved for us ‘unfashionable’ types?”

I was completely caught off guard. There I sat, searching for words. I sit there silently, in the middle of a field surrounded by onlookers, for what seems like an eternity. Speechless.

Eventually, she breaks the awkward silence, “Well say something. Say anything.”

In an eighties John Hughes movie like moment of self reflection meets self affirmation I put my drink down, softly grab her face, run my fingers through her hair and kiss her in what seems like one fleeting-yet-eternal moment. I pull away for a second, she pulls me back in for a whole-hearted hug and she whispers, “You know everyone is watching right?”

I tell her, relieved, that I don’t care anymore.

She smiles and says, “I’ve been waiting for someone to come brave the rain with me my entire life.”

Cheesily Disarming. I always felt moments like that would prompt immediate self induced vomit. That this was the kind of nauseating shit that only happened to Freddy Prinze Jr. or Hugh Grant. But there we were, the two of us, in the middle of a rain soaked field with everyone watching exchanging dialogue and minor bodily fluids straight out of a Julia Roberts’ movie. *Cue that Sixpence None The Richer Song*

I wake up the next morning and there she slept – cuddled up beside me without a post-it note in sight. I watch her sleep for a while. She eventually wakes up, cuddles in tighter and sleepily asks, “So what do you want to do today?”

The possibilities – for the first time in a long time – seem endless and un-habitual. A break from the routine, at last. Maybe we’ll stay in bed for the rest of the day. Possibly grab some breakfast together. Take a walk around the park. Walk around the city. See a movie. Play Scrabble. People-watch. Make funny comments. Browse through books at BMV. See an undiscovered live band. Walk her dog through Trinity Bell. Spend the day at the island. Go to the Ex. Win her an overpriced stuffed animal. Ride our bikes to the beach. Get some soft-serve ice cream. Sit by the water. Talk for hours. Share our experiences. Maybe she would cry. Maybe feel relief. Maybe comfort. Maybe laugh. Maybe joy. Maybe hope. Maybe life. Maybe love.

Model Apparitions

2010-11-10T12:27:00.002-05:00

I've been waiting for her for what seems like an eternity. I even got there thirty minutes earlier than the agreed upon time. Mainly because I received several pressuring text messages from her reminding me the importance of tonight's gala. I assured her that I would not be late; her response, delivered in a tone which I can describe only as reproachful: “You better not be.”

On my arrival, I was greeted at the door by her roommate, who mercifully informed me, “Sorry dude, Helena isn't ready yet.” What her roommate really wanted to say was, “You poor sap, don't you know her by now? Why are you here so early?”

Her roommate announces my arrival to Helena, which garners absolutely no response. She shrugs her shoulders and motions me to take a seat on the couch. Her roommate exits the shared living room space and flees back to the safety of her own room. I wait in silence for about thirty minutes and still, no Helena. From where I'm sitting her room is about ten feet away. Twenty more minutes pass and I finally decide to say something. Ass still firmly planted on the couch, I loudly (but cautiously) proclaim, “Hey I'm here.” *Crickets*

The two of us met about a month ago at one of these special events. The name of the event was “the event that you've been to a millions times already that’s suppose to be highly exclusive, yet a gazillion people got the Facebook invite.” A friend of a friend of a friend introduced us. I remember being blown away by Helena's physical attributes. She had cheek bones that could cut through glass and bone structure that you knew would lead to nothing but heartache and headaches. By the end of the night, I was able to charm her into giving me her contact information. By charm her, I mean convince her, and by contact information, I mean “add me on Facebook.” Surprisingly, she did. Exceeding any expectations, she eventually gave me her phone number and suggested we hang out. If Mary could conceive without sexual intercourse or in vitro fertilization, I guess anything's possible.

After taking her to a couple of extravagant restaurants, she decisively stated, “You're ok. You can date me.” To which I ecstatically responded, “Really? That's awesome!” I wanted to thank her for her gracious conclusion by writing her a heartfelt poetic letter, but I didn't. On second thought, she would have thought that was totally lame; instead, I bought her an expensive pair of shoes. She was happy with that. I'm glad.

I couldn't wait to show her to my friends. I imagined them being completely envious, but they didn't receive her with the welcoming greeting I had envisioned – they seemed almost apprehensive. In fact, she seemed to offend them in various ways. She told Jimmy that being overweight leads to a shortened life expectancy. She commented that Rachael's sweater was last season. She informed Kyle that his music sounded commercial. How is all of that offensive? Jimmy did need to lose a few pounds, she was just looking out for his health. Last season means it’s now on sale and who doesn’t love a deal? And commercial equates to record sales, right?

Sitting on this couch, not moving, is beginning to numb the cheeks of my ass. I finally get up and walk towards the door of her bedroom. I knock twice and say, “Babe, are you okay in there? Do you need my help?”

She throws open the door and loudly announces, “God, I have nothing to wear!”

She walks over to her mirror, stares at her self for a moment, and matter-of-factly says, “I look hideous.”

When Helena looks in the mirror she sees an unattractive, overweight person. This in spite of her profession, which employs her for her obvious photographic and sexual physical advantages over the majority of the general population. Actually, maybe because of that fact. The gift and the curse of being a model: lethal self-consciousness.

She turns to me for reassurance. I put my prescription glasses on to get a better look. I faithfully oblige, saying, “Babe, you look amazing.”

She grabs my glasses from my face and launches them at the mirror, shattering both lenses.

We've been dating for a couple months now and my friends are worried – how can I put this delicately? – that I've become “subjugated to being governed.” Or as Kyle crassly said to me the other night, “Dude you're whipped.” I totally disagree. I think he's secretly jealous of me. What does he know, his music is “commercial.” It's alright. Really. I needed a new pair of glasses anyways.

Bad News From The Stars

2010-10-04T15:09:00.022-04:00

About 16 Years Ago

I stood still underneath the tree as the wind passed, blowing autumn leaves down to my feet. I watched him in silence load the last of his things in the trunk of the car. He shut the car door and started the engine. He came back out and made his way towards me. He leaned in close, shook my hand and said, “Lorenzo. A man should always love a woman more.”

I wiped a tear from my eye and said, “Goodbye dad”.

About 10 months ago

I ran down the stairs and through the turnstiles, hurriedly showing my monthly subway pass to the TTC worker. I tried not to push through people to keep some semblance of civility, but it was a feeble attempt. I almost knocked over an old Jamaican lady carrying several bags of groceries. I apologized. She kissed her teeth at me and in Patois, resentfully cursed my mother's name along with mine. I apologized again, but I hastily kept going down another flight of stairs. I heard the heavy sound of the oncoming train as I made my way down. I briskly rushed for the subway doors. They instinctively closed on me. I sigh loudly but no one is around to hear it. I was going to be late. Again.

The next train arrived several minutes later. I calmly got on and took a seat. There was a copy of the daily “Metro” paper next to me. I picked it up and read it to pass the time during the long ride. After reading the sport's scores and a quick synopsis of the current celebrity gossip, I flipped to the horoscopes. Mine read, “Taurus, make a conscious effort to control your emotions. Don't react to unjustified provocations. The main danger now is that if you go too far you might not be able to turn back.” Bad news from the stars.

I arrived an hour and half late. As I approached the Manulife Center, I saw her standing outside with her arms exasperatedly crossed. She was angry and rightfully so. I was supposed to meet her for the 7 p.m showing of the new James Cameron film and it was now 8:30 p.m. Over the last few weeks she had become increasingly irate with me, starting daily fights over the most trivial of things. I had been tired of defending myself so the last thing I wanted for this night was to be the cause of another fight. I just wanted to enjoy each other's company, argument free. It's been so long since we had a carefree night. We used to have them all the time. We used to never fight. We used to smile and laugh. We used to talk for hours and fall asleep happy. We used to be a lot of things, but that all seems like an eternity ago – in another life.

I made my way towards her with my excuses and reasons. “I'm so sorry I'm late. I just got stuck at work and couldn't get out and then missed the damn train.”

She looked at me with minimal disappointment. “It's fine. All the shows are sold out and there really isn't another movie I want to see anyways. Do you want to grab a bite instead? I've been dying to try that new Japanese place on Queen.”

I agreed to her suggestion. We casually walked back to the subway. We got on the next train and we took a seat beside each other. She barely talked to me. The train made a couple of its routine stops and still, not a word. I decided to break the uncomfortable silence, “I heard this new movie is suppose to redefine the cinematic experience. I'm genuinely sorry we missed it.”

I turned to her and eagerly waited for her to say something back. She looked at me and angrily responded, “I don't care about the movie... I know you've been cheating on me.”

It completely caught me off guard but before I could say anything she continued to berate me further with the same accusation. I attempted to calm her down, but it was without success. A couple sitting across from us looked away and pretended not to overhear our conversation. With each passing subway stop, her accusations became more infuriated and her tone grew louder and louder. Each time I aimed to clarify the situation, she would raise her voice, as if speaking over me would somehow prompt a confession. I grabbed her hand gently but she violently pulled away. She began to yell at me, loud enough that people couldn't help but pay attention to the situation. A different, bag-less old lady judgmentally shook her head at me. I continued to stand there in confused silence. The less I said, the angrier she became. Her accusing attitude eventually turned vindictive. She began to verbally assault my character, arming herself with anything and everything I had ever done wrong.

At first, I didn't understand what brought about her sadness and anger, but as I stood there it became clear to me that she was no longer content with “us”. We used to be so passionate for one another. Then some time passed and “Us” became convenient and boring, but I enjoyed the stability. I've always rejected the idea of low interest mortgages, Sunday morning masses, water cooler discussions, PVRs and 2.5 kids. I hated the concept of monogamy and monotony. I've perpetually lived like everything in life had an expiration date. I've preferred to keep a comfortable distance, because nothing and no one had ever been worth the risk. But with her, Friday night movies and “Cranium” activity dinner parties grew on me. She made me want to tuck my Oxford white shirt into my pants, put on that suit and tie and seek out a corporate career. She made me want forever. She was my exception. But she couldn't see any of that. All she saw was the monotony that “Us” had become. “Us”... “I” was not making her happy anymore.

I pulled her in close, held her for a minute. I could feel her tears running down the side of my face. Just as the train temporarily stationed into the next stop, I pulled away and whispered to her, “Your instincts are right; I did cheat.” I let go of her and took a step out of the train. She looked at me – heartbroken, but relieved. She remained on the train as the doors once again instinctively closed. We shared everything. She was the closest person to me in my life, but literally in a couple of moments, all of that was gone. As I stood still on the subway platform, the train slowly departed from the station and it took everything I knew with it. That was the last time we would see each other.

I didn't want to let her go, but I had to. I wanted to let her know exactly what she meant to me. How much I loved her. How she was everything to me. How I started to read horoscopes because she believed in them. How although I was not the best boyfriend by any stretch, I had never once considered the idea of cheating on her. How she was all I ever needed and wanted. How she saved me from a directionless life of 6 a.m. last calls, pseudo friends and jaded hearts. How I had been occasionally stopping by jewelry stores on my way home from work to look at stupid rings. How although I'm not religious, she was my personal Jesus. How my pursuit of happiness ended with her, but just took some time adjusting to. I wanted to do all of these things, but instead I told her what I knew she wanted to hear. I lied to her. I increasingly saw it on her face over the last few weeks; she had grown tired of the life we built. She had started to miss the excitement of our old lives that had been replaced by stability of this new one. She needed a justifiable reason to leave. So I gave it to her.

We all seek out the love we think we are worth. She had been hurt before. She came from a past that didn't allow her to believe in happiness and forever. She had learned to grow comfortable in the idea of being emotionally numb. I wanted to save her. I wanted to be everything she was to me, but she just couldn't accept what we had. I had to give her a reason to seek out what she felt would make her comfortable. A man should always love a woman more, so I let her go.

Present Day

I stare at the admittance letter of truth I wrote her. I reread every single word. I do this almost every single night. It's my self-inflicted version of a bedtime story gone wrong. Maybe today will be the day I send it. My phone rings. It's my ride. She's outside and I have to go. I guess the letter can wait another day.

99 Problems

2010-09-10T05:06:00.014-04:00

Now:
This long-haired stranger grabs my hand and walks me to a dark, unlit corner. We place our drinks on a ledge by the window. I position my hand gently on the small of her back and lean closer. The smell of cocoa butter and peaches emanates from her skin. Just as I'm about to kiss her, she pulls away and curiously asks, “Do you know that girl?”

“Which girl?” I respond hesitantly, fully aware that this question always leads to nothing but trouble.

“The one with the side of her head shaved, staring me down, holding that other girl's hand. She looks pissed.”

9 Weeks Earlier:

We were having a really good time. We met about an hour ago to the sound of one of those club rap songs with no specific agenda or message other than to make you enjoy life, feel good and dance. Our conversation, like the song, wasn't particularly filled with substance or intention. We didn't have any sort of serendipitous connection nor did we discuss ideas or beliefs. We merely laughed and talked. She was just another pretty girl out for drinks, enjoying her Thursday night. She was precisely what I needed. The last few weeks had been a roller-coaster of tough times with work, family and life in general. She – combined with drinks, laughs and good friends – was the only medication that overcame my Tylenol tolerance. I had laid out some significant ground work and a good night was slowly manifesting into a great one. Just as I was about to ask her if she wanted to leave and maybe continue the night elsewhere, she turned to me and said: “I really like you. You make me feel good, but I think there's something you should know about me. See the girl I came with? She's not exactly just my friend. I'm not into dudes in that way. Or in any way, really. But we can still hang out as friends?”

Now:

I'm momentarily confused. It takes me a second, but I have an idea who this tropical fruit-scented stranger could be referring to. I turn around and, nearly unsurprised, I see exactly who I expect to see. The choices really get narrowed down with a statement of that nature. There aren't going to be too many lesbians in this city with reasons to fixedly lay death stares at me through their clear lens black Ray Ban Wayfarers at 1 in the a.m. She has no justifiable reason to do so either, but there she is, standing by the bar in her black leggings and blue Ralph Lauren men's Polo shirt with the right side of her head shaved, holding her girlfriend's hand, burning a hole right through my back and into the cocoa butter girl's brown eyes. She does not look impressed. We eventually catch each others’ eyes and she pseudo smiles at me while dropping her girlfriend's hand to wave. I have to make a choice, continue my night with miss cocoa butter, or stop it in its tracks, grab my drink from the ledge and walk over to her. Leave it to me to make the obvious wrong choice.

6 Weeks Earlier:

I almost had a “Chasing Amy” moment with her. It had been a build up of emotion and confusion over the last couple of weeks of hanging out and hooking up. The two of us were in her apartment, sitting on her black leather couch, drinking a bottle of Pinot. She had just finished making us a completely vegan dinner and began to recount her adventures from her latest trip to her hometown: New York City. She amiably informed me that while she was there she had picked me up a small keepsake. She grabbed my hand, opened my palm and placed a model-sized Statue of Liberty refrigerator magnet in it, disarmingly saying, “Now you have one too”.

During my past late night visits and after sex trips to her fridge, I would frequently comment on her sentimental fridge magnet that held up a picture of her father. This charming gesture virtually cued me to go all Tom Cruise Mission Impossible on her and tell her I wanted more than just the sex she constantly – candidly, even – reminded me that this was.

I accepted her New York City keepsake and was about to say, “Hey I think I need to tell you something,” but before I could even begin to mutter a word, she leaned in and kissed me. We moved the activities to her bedroom. As soon as she was done, she turned to me and said, “You know that I'm completely gay right? I'm totally not bi. We're having a good time, that's all this is.”

That statement quickly put an end to any thoughts of romantic pursuit. It also killed my manhood.

Now:

With a slight hesitation but no real second thought, I leave the comfort of clarity and walk head-on into the heart of lesbian-chic complexity.

I innocently ask her, “Hey stranger, what are you doing here?”

To which she nonchalantly responds, “Just out for some drinks with my girl. Can I talk to you for a second?”

She whispers something in her girlfriend's ear and motions me outside.

3 Weeks Earlier:

I've had it. It's my fault. It's like I never want to learn my lesson. We'd been hooking up on a nearly nightly basis over the last few weeks and after every time we do I would get the same prepared speech. She’s a lesbian, not bi. She has no feelings for me. It’s just sex. This made absolutely no sense to me... How can a lesbian want to have sex with a guy? This ironic, seemingly paradoxical situation I now found myself in eventually tempted me to ask that very question to which she angrily responded, “I'm gay. Don't you get it? I don't like guys!”

In an attempt to illustrate the obvious flaws of our situation, I asked, “Um, then why are we having sex? Call me crazy, but it seems to me that you actually do like guys. I know I don't completely understand the intricacies of being gay, nor do I pretend that I do, but isn't the fundamental definition of ‘being a lesbian’ that you don’t want dick?”

That statement fuelled her anger. She rolled her eyes at me as if there was a universal homosexual language that I – as a straight guy – could never understand. She began to speak to me condescendingly – like you would to an infant. I’m guessing she thought this sudden change of tone would prompt a critical realization that I had missed in the past several weeks. It didn't.

“Look Lorenzo. I like you, I really do. We connect and I definitely like having sex with you. I even think about you when I'm with girls, but I'm a lesbian. I don't like guys that way. You just don't get it and you just can't seem to accept that. I think that you can’t handle what we have, so we should just be friends.”

Huh? After the most confusing clarification in human history, I decided that there was no point. I was done with sadistically coming back for more.

Now:

We're standing outside and the snow is coming down hard. I could barely see anything around us. I left my jacket inside so I'm freezing. She takes a step closer to me. I can see her breath through the flakes of snow. She wraps her arms around me, kisses my neck and quietly says, “I've missed you. Let's go back to my place.”

For a moment I lose myself, but I quickly regain my focus and gently take a step back, away from her. Half confused I ask, “What are you doing? You made it perfectly clear to me that you're a lesbian, not bi. And because of your sexual preference, there is no way you and I should ever catch feelings for one another. ”

She looks down, lost in a moment of thought. She eventually looks up and calmly says to me, “Tonight maybe we can pretend I'm not. And in the morning we can talk about all this. Lorenzo, you know me better than anyone.”

She was finally ready to talk, but I had completely lost interest. A few weeks ago, I would have given anything to hear her say any semblance of this combination of sentences and words. Now, looking at her, the situation was no longer appealing. The snow might have made it harder to see anything around us, but it certainly cleared the visibility on the path ahead. Things were finally clear. I didn't know her. She barely knew herself. I had never met someone who was so unhappy with who they were that they tried this hard to pretend to be someone else. Shaved heads and manly shirts do not make a lesbian. I once knew a girl very much like her. I fell for her and she broke my heart. I won't make that mistake twice. Not now. Not here. Not ever. Just like this pseudo-lesbian, she was always addicted to the crash. For people like them, the heartbreak is never enough.

I wipe her bangs from her face. She anxiously looks at me. I ask her, “Remember the song that was playing when we first met?”

She thinks for a moment, “Ya, 99 problems by Jay. I told you that's one of my all-time favourite tracks. How could I forget?”

I misleadingly pull her closer and recite a seemingly prepared speech of my own.

“Well Jess, I don't have a lot of these alcohol-induced moments of clarity. I'm not a person that makes a lot of right choices. I'm sure I have more than several idiotic moments and choices left in me, but tonight I'm determined to make the right one. In life, I’ve always believed that I had to go through a lot of the wrong ones to meet the right one. Don't take this the wrong way – although there is no other way to take it – but you my ‘friend’ are most definitely one of the many wrong ones I’ve made. Unlike your favourite song, I have ninety nine girl problems, but a lesbian ain't about to be one. I'll see you next lifetime. Don't call me.”

She's going to make someone very unhappy one day, and tonight I made sure it was never going to be me. I turn my back to her, walk out of the snow and head back to the simplicity of Caribbean scents and heterosexuality.

The Morning After - Story #5

2010-08-16T06:45:00.008-04:00

Sunday 9:10 am March 7

I never thought that I would be the kind of person I am today. My mother would not be proud. The first train of the day still hasn't arrived and I've been waiting for over an hour. I'm standing on the subway platform wearing precisely the same clothes from the previous night. Strangers keep looking at me. My hair is flat on one side, my shirt is untucked, wrinkled; my tie is loose and half on. I smell of sex and alcohol. It's blatantly obvious to everyone around me that I'm on the morning-after ride of shame.

I step on the train and take a seat beside an old lady. She's wearing a white floral Sunday dress. She's probably on her way to church to pray for my sins. I graciously smile at her. She judgmentally shakes her head and gets up to find another seat. Self-righteous old hag. A happy couple sitting across from me giggle at her antagonistic gesture. I respond by shrugging my shoulders. They continue to laugh for a bit, but eventually lose interest and go back to “being in love”. Condescending pricks. Near the subway doors, there is a small group of white teenagers. They are all wearing pants that are at least 4 sizes too big and flat brim baseball caps tilted to the side. The most obnoxious one of the bunch is wearing one of those “Jesus is my homeboy” t-shirts. They all approvingly nod at me. Obvious virgins.

If I had taken a cab, I could have avoided all this. Truth be told, I'm too cheap for that. I'd rather save the twenty dollar cab fare and essentially “face the music” – or in this case, the judgmental and condescending/approving looks from the Sunday morning subway commuters. I loathe each and every single one of them. But still deep down, a part of me craves this ride; like a sort of self-inflicted penance. I know it would have been wiser to cut my losses at last call and head home, but instead I kept going. The rush of the night was just too tempting; somewhere in the last twelve hours I ended up here. Again.

Sunday 7:40 a.m March 7

I wake up in a cold sweat. I'm fully naked. I'm laying on an uncomfortable white futon mattress. There aren't even sheets on this futon. The pillow that I'm resting my head on is stained and has no cover. I look up at the ceiling and notice stars painted on them. This is all very unfamiliar to me. I need to get a better sense of what exactly is going on, so I look around. The room is decorated with over-exposed photographs, self painted art and empty wine bottles. This isn't my bed and this certainly isn't my room. I feel someone next to me and I turn to them for answers. I find a mascara-drenched stranger snoring beside me. Her saliva is running down the side of her mouth and her face is completely covered by all her hair. I don't recognize this individual. She, too, is completely naked and also smells of alcohol and sex (in all likelihood, both my doing). I wonder exactly who this stranger is. As I fully start to awaken, the night that preceded this morning slowly starts to come back to me. I begin to recall being introduced to this stranger by a friend of a friend of friend. I recollect complimenting her on her style and disarming her with my witty words (the benefits of being a writer). She was fully impressed and engaged by my pseudo comedic intellectual banter. I also remember leaving the club with her. After that, the rest of the night is lost to me.

As I lay staring at the ceiling, I wonder to myself how I got here. I contemplate waking her for another round, but her smell and unfamiliarity turn me off. It's probably better to just leave. There's no point in waking her and making an already awkward situation even worse. Although, judging by the smell of cheap wine that emanates from her side of the bed, even the Santa Claus parade marching band couldn't wake her. Some Bolivian marching powder probably would.

As she lies there fast asleep, I mentally plan my escape route. I need to make as little noise as possible while making my exit to ensure I don't wake her. She's curled up away from me and her back is towards the door. I shake her a little and softly whisper, “Hey, are you awake? I'm going to get going”. She mutters something incoherent under her breath, but she doesn't move from her fetal position. She's still completely passed out. Excellent. I let out a sigh of relief. Goodbye hugs and kisses are definitely not in order. In fact the exact opposite is to be expected after this type of escapade.

With as little movement as possible, I lift my naked body from her cheap Ikea futon. My feet hit her cold apartment floor. I stumble a little. The little light through her bedroom window allows me to locate my clothes. Her bedroom looks like an entire section of Value Village exploded in it. Either that or she was recently homeless and hasn't had the time to purchase a new wardrobe. Or pillow covers. Or bed sheets. Or self-respect. I'm half proud and half disgusted at my behaviour. I gather the rest of my things and begin to get dressed. I quickly and quietly slip on my clothes from the previous night. I turn my underwear inside out. It's important to maintain good hygiene at all times. Although, this certainly is a weak attempt at best. My shirt and pants are completely wrinkled and smell, of course, of alcohol and sex. I don't have time to properly put on my tie. I just want to fast forward this morning and get the fuck out of here.

As I slowly tip-toe around the maze of clothes on her apartment floor, I can’t help but wonder how many of these nights she has had. Judging by the Costco-sized box of condoms she openly had resting on her bookshelf, one too many this side of an S.T.I. I really should be more responsible and make an appointment at the clinic. I've been putting it off for some time. I've been going in there four to six times a year for the last three years. The fact that front desk attendant knows my name is actually quite disconcerting. Part of me is scared to find out the results, but I do it anyways to give my life some semblance of structure and responsibility. I've either become my best self or my worst self. Earlier in the night I was certain I was my best self, but at this point in time, I am definitely the latter. I am the person my mother never wanted me to become. I lie to myself on a nightly basis, convincing myself that the pursuit of pleasure is akin to the pursuit of happiness, or even remotely close. My dreams and goals have been substituted by emotional numbness and one night stands. Dear Jesus, I'm sorry.

Just under a decade ago, I had a different idea of love and relationships. I used to be the kind of person that went to dinners and movies and glow-in-the-dark mini-putt. I use to even cuddle after sex. I believed in great conversations and lifelong connections. I was the kind of person that never slept with anyone on a first date. There was even a time when I believed that love came before sex. Eventually... Inevitably, someone broke my heart and I lessened my expectations. Now, several heartbreaks later, that whole concept of love before sex seems utterly ridiculous. If I slept with someone for the first time and they told me they loved me right after, I would consider them a stage five clinger. I would think they malfunctioned emotionally and be inclined to block them from my BBM. And none of my friends would blame me. We would all laugh and scoff at this stranger and their misplaced ideals of love and sex. When did I become so desensitized to this city life that it's become easier to sleep with a stranger than to ask them to go see a movie?

As I walk out this stranger's door, I have a small moment of self-reflection. I don't have many of these anymore; I don't want my old self to meet my new self. Somewhere between that first broken heart and now, I convinced myself that my old ideals were naïve, and that these new ones were more realistic. I began to live for the nights I can't remember to try get over a past I can't seem to forget. I felt that a collection of these nights would somehow fill the void that someone had left behind. I think to myself, maybe I should crawl back into bed with this stranger. Maybe this stranger will bring promises of old times, of teenaged romance, of pillow conversations and movie dates. I will have a one night stand with her and wake up the next morning in love. I will inform her that I never have this type of evening, and she will say the same. But this stranger is emblematic of the problem. The problem is, for one reason or another, I believe that these nightly escapades will end in meeting the kind of girl who is not the kind of girl that partakes in these nightly escapades. Maybe I should have just stuck to my Catholic school upbringing and kept going to church on Sundays. If I did, maybe this old lady would not have switched seats and instead she would have shook my hand. Maybe I'd be in a loving relationship instead of turning away the right girl for the wrong one in lieu of chasing the cool. Maybe I wouldn't be emotionally numb and actually have someone to hit golf balls with in the dark. Maybe then, Jesus would actually be my homeboy just like that t-shirt read. Because deep down, I know I won’t meet my personal saviour at any after-hours venue, but – inexplicably – I still keep going.

Chasing the Cool - Story #4

2010-08-09T13:40:00.013-04:00

Sunday 12:30 a.m. 20**

We stood around, occasionally lifting our glasses to cheer our adventurous and amazing lives. We knew nearly all of the people in the place – and the ones we didn't, in all likelihood, didn't matter. It's different on this side of the velvet rope. “Him” from that band shook my hand and struck up a conversation. I approached “her” from that magazine and gave my congratulations. From across the room, “them” from that play raised their glasses at us and nodded their heads. We all made our rounds, exclusively acknowledging each other's existence as if we all belonged to some secret society that outsiders were oblivious to.

A decade ago, this isn't where I imagined myself. I grew up in the suburbs. I went to a Catholic school. I wore a uniform. My house didn't have picket fences, but it was close enough. I was raised just like most people. Go to school. Get good grades. Get into a good university. Get a good job. Find a good girl. Get married. Have kids. Buy a house. Live a good life. But somewhere between here and there, the concept of good was lost to me. Living in the city changes a person. It changed me. The city wakes you up from the slumber of the suburbs.

“Hey Lorenzo, see that girl that just came in with the hot wannabe model? Isn't that the girl from the other week? The one who just broke up with Keith? Don't you sorta know her?” said my friend, suggestively elbowing me in the back.

I knew exactly what he was thinking. It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none. Target acquired. We made our introductions. With these types of women, you don't have to be interesting or even witty. They could care less about getting to know you. They don't want to discuss politics or hear your thoughts on life or religion. No one here is genuinely out to connect on any level deeper than hellos and goodbyes. They more so want to be impressed by you. You must be armed with subtle and occasional name drops. This battle is won by convincing them that spending time with you will increase their importance in this modern day night timing empire. Let them know why you are who you are. Own your status in life. Everyone, in one way or another, is just chasing the cool.

As we got further into our vain conversation, she motioned to her friend and made some snide remark about someone standing by the bar.

“Poor girl. She'll never get a drink looking like that.”

I turned my head to join them in their ridicule at the expense of this clueless outsider in hopes of sealing our awkward morning agreement. But when I did, I was caught off guard. To my surprise I recognized their verbal assault victim. She was wearing a blue t-shirt that didn't match her faded torn blue jeans. She had flip flops on, as always. I looked at her and caught her eye. She smiled at me and waved.

“You know that girl?” the fake-breasted quasi model asked me. My friend gave me a look I recognized. It was the “just-say-no-and-please-don't-fuck-this-up” look. But all the feelings from that night came rushing back. Her friendly blue eyes were still locked on mine from the bar where she stood, unserved. She began to walk towards me. I weighed the decision in my head and in my heart. Continue my conversation with this conventionally beautiful but obviously shallow person and win the admiration of my friends, or leave it all behind and talk to the girl with the flip flops. She, a couple of weeks back, had stolen my heart for the night. Although I woke up disappointed to a post-it note goodbye, I knew eventually our paths would cross again. I couldn't really blame her for her abrupt and seemingly careless departure. I'm sure it was a confusing and somewhat difficult situation for her, given my metal heart reputation. I'm sure in her head, she thought that's what I was accustomed to and what I wanted. Typically, she would have been right, but there was nothing typical about the fate-less night we shared. Connecting like that with another human being is rare in this city. Talking about anything other than what you do and who you know is rare in this city. Real conversations are rare in this city. Truth be told, anything real is rare in this city.

As she came closer to me, the night we shared began to come back to me vividly. I remembered how I fell asleep beside her and didn’t feel alone. How we talked about everything and anything. How she actually cared about my thoughts and aspirations, but failed to expect anything more. I remembered how warm her body felt next to mine. But all of that was weeks ago, and this moment was now. She didn't belong here with these people. She didn't know “her.” “Him” didn't shake her hand. “Them” didn't nod at her. And realistically, we made no sense together. Not in this city. Not in this life.

“Hi. How are you?” said the girl in the flip flops, innocently.

“I'm good,” I responded, rudely and to the point.

“Listen, I had an amazing time the other week. I'm sorry I just left like that. I just didn't know if you felt the same and I didn't want it to be weird if you didn't. Do you have a second to talk?”

I hesitated for a moment as my future conquest looked at me semi-disgusted for even knowing someone that didn't “belong.” I did feel the same way. Ordinarily, one night stands have a way of making someone feel lonelier than ever, but it was different with her. I felt something. I knew deep down, I had come across something tangible. Something with texture. Something real. But for one reason or another, these words came out of my mouth: “The other week? I don't know what you mean. I'm sorry, I'm really busy. I really don't have time to talk.”

I turned my back to her and went back to business as usual. In my periphery, I saw her walk away with her head down; not with embarrassment so much as a half-expected disappointment. Life isn't filled with first chances, yet alone second ones. I'm a glutton for this self-inflicted, superficial, substance lacking existence. I chose a life of wannabe models, lonely evenings and rap video dreams.

I got the look of approval from all parties. I've always hated people that lived with no significant meaning. I always thought that a life like that would be the death of me. But there I was, in this hip Toronto bar, with these hip Toronto people; yearning to impress and dying one premium vodka sip at a time. The city might have woken me up from my suburban sleep, but I'm still only half awake – shaking hands, nodding heads, completely devoid of substance in this fake empire. I gave up something real to impress people that could care less about me. I've been so busy toasting this life away with “him,” “her” and “them” that I failed to realize that chasing the cool never kept anybody warm.

90 Days to a Toronto Winter

2010-07-26T04:20:00.018-04:00

(A bullet form short story...sort of)

“The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature.”
-Henry Miller

Day 80

Actions speak louder than words.

Day 72

People always say that summer is the best times in Toronto. I half agree. Summer is definitely the best season. The plethora of things to do in the city during the summer are incomparable but as soon as Labour Day passes, Toronto people treat each day like its their last chance for romance. It's as if the lack of things to do in the cold forces the need in people to search that much harder for someone to keep warm with during the long winter months.

Day 73 9/10

I laid in bed beside her. I looked at her for awhile. She was beautiful in her sleep. I quietly said my goodbye and made my way out. This time, I didn't leave a "post-it" note.

Day 90

I wanted to see her off. Drive her to the airport. Park my car. Carry her luggage to check-in. Hug her. Kiss her. Tell her I'll miss her while she's gone. Give her the mix CD I'd spent the last two weeks putting together. Watch her walk away. Text her something cute and ridiculous the second I got back into my car. Wait for her to text me as soon as her flight safely landed. I wanted to do all these things but I couldn't. She chose to leave with someone else.

Day 54

I'm continually fearful of people that fall in love fast. They're usually the same people that fall out of love with the same expedient effortless grace.

Day 2

I spoke to a good friend about her. I told him how we met. How we were introduced. How I came with another girl and how she came with another guy. How we ended up talking to each other most of the night. How we connected. How she filled out her jeans. How excited I was at the possibility of getting to know her. How cute and interesting she was. How at the end of the night I mustered up enough courage to ask for her number. How she said she couldn't take it because she was actually seeing someone. How disappointed I felt. How I still gave her mine. How I said it be cool to be just friends with her anyways.

He told me she wouldn't call.

Day 34

Things to do #1 Rivoli

We sat together on the same side of the table which I never do. Super cheese. She took pictures of the two of us. She kissed me on the cheek in most of them. I went to work the next morning while she was still sleeping. I left a "post-it" note on her fridge with a happy face and the words “I miss you already” written on it.

Day 52

She looked at me and said, “Im happy with you”.

Day 5

She didn't call but she texted me. She asked me for my Facebook. She said it be nice to keep in touch since we know the same people.

Day 6-10

During the day we texted each other back and forth aimlessly. Almost every message ended with some cheesy icon. Mostly smiley faces.

At nights we talked through computer screens. Almost every conversation ended with some cheesy icon. Mostly smiley faces.

It's always that much more easier to open up to a person when you're typing instead of actually talking. Inhibitions for one reason or another are lost through internet connections. Modern Romance.

Day 11

We went out with a mutual friend. Safety net. The three of us went out for drinks at a patio on Queen West. At the end of the night she drove us back to our respective places. She decided to drop me off last. We ended up parked just outside my place talking till the sun came up.

Day 12

I was surprised she called. She was suppose to work but she took the day off. She asked me what I was doing for the day. I had a lot of work but I responded by saying “absolutely nothing, do you want to do something?”

Day 13

I woke up in her bed beside her. She drank a little too much the night before. I assured her nothing really happened but she still had a deep look of regret on her face.

Day 14

I texted her hi and she texted back, “Stop flirting with me I'm with someone and we're just friends.”

I said “ok”. She called and said “hi” like nothing had happened.

Day 15-19

We saw each other everyday. We were together till the days turned into nights. And we talked on the phone till the nights turned into days.

Day 70

Everything about her was disarming. The walls came down.

Day 20

She was coming to my place to show me the cloths she had bought specifically to wear to a party I was hosting the following night. I think she likes me and I was really starting to like her. She got to my place an hour later. I was about to lay my cards on the table and tell her I liked her when her phone rang. Her tone changed and she took the call in the other room. It was probably her boyfriend. It wasn't. It was her date to my party that she had planned to leave her current boyfriend for.

Day 21

She pulled me aside in the middle of the party, took me to a corner and said, “I know I said we're just friends but I like you.”

Day 22

I woke up beside her. For the second time. This time she didn't have a look of regret. I leaned into kiss her. She stopped me and said “I still have a boyfriend lets wait till I sort it out. I don't want to start off the wrong way.”

Day 23-26

I stayed over her place the next couple of nights and unfortunately routinely had to leave for work before she could get up. I regularly left "post-it" notes to compensate for my mandatory early departure. Every note had something different written on them, usually some corny but heart felt words. She would randomly find each note during the course of her day. By the end of the third night she officially no longer had a boyfriend.

Day 27

She made a list of things for us to do before the Winter came.

Day 28

We sat on the curb of the busy city street eating our desserts. It was a nice semi breezy night. People passed us by pretending not to stare while we laughed and stupidly fed each other Oreo flavoured chocolate cake. There were pieces of the cake smudged on the side of her mouth. I cleaned it off and simultaneously kissed her. Afterwards we both smiled and amiably looked at each other. I didn't have the need to say anything but she did.

“Lorenzo, I like you but I don't wanna rush into anything.”

Day 30

I woke up in her bed beside her. We rushed into things. She had a look of deep regret on her face. For the second time.

Day 31

I can't shake her look from my mind. A million things ran through my head. Did she regret breaking up with her boyfriend? Did she change her mind about me? Was it a mistake? Did we not connect physically? All my insecurities were spotlighted.

See also: Bad kissing breath

See also: Not big enough

See also: Lacking abdominal muscles

Day 32

I asked her about the other night, if she had regrets. I wanted her to say no. Instead she hesitated. My heart stopped. I interjected before she could answer. I played off her pause for my own and suggested we should just be friends. I wanted her to disagree instead she responded that she had to think and that she'd call me back tomorrow.

Day 33

She agreed.

Day 35

She asked me to keep my eyes shut. She grabbed my hand and said “do you trust me?”. I did. She led me to her secret spot that over looked the city. We got there and talked for hours. There was a moment of silence. I leaned into kiss her. She pulled away with a look of confusion and said, “What are you doing? We decided. We're better off as friends.

Day 36-40

I played it cool with just being friends but secretly I was disappointed.

Day 41

She kept glancing back at me from across the bar while I talked to another girl. I pretended I didn't notice. Other girls kept texting me through out the night. She noticed and gave me a pseudo smile. She looked good. Friendship was not a legitimate option. Her friend came over to talk me while she was standing next to me. Her friend flirted a little. She didn't look impressed. I took matters into my own hands. I texted her, “I miss you. Do friends cuddle?”. Her phone beeped. She looked down, read my text and smiled. She mischievously texted back, “Special friends do.”

Day 42-51

We cuddled. Among other things. As special friends.

Day 53

Things to do #2 Wine and Cheese show

It was 4 in the a.m. She was a little tipsy. I'd been drinking as well but I felt completely sober. We stopped off at the drug store for a box of tampons. When we got to the register to pay, she struggled to find her wallet in her purse. She had a million things in there. The woman behind the register looked at us annoyed. To alleviate the tension between us and the cashier, I paid for her box of tampons. She looked up at me and smiled at my random gesture. We walked back to my car. She's still looking at me with that goofy half drunk smile. I smiled back. We drove off in comfortable silence occasionally glancing at each other to smile. We got to her place. I sat on the couch. She sat beside me, still smiling. I smiled back and playfully said, “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

She answered, “Lorenzo, I love you”.

Day 55-67

It always took me at least three attempts at a goodbye to leave her place in the mornings.

Day 68

Things to do #3 Picnic at the Beach

We got to the beach at 12 in the morning with a bottle of wine and stayed until the sun rose.

Day 69

I loved how there wasn't a day she didn't get the hiccups. How she always made stupid faces. How they effortlessly made me laugh. How her eyes regularly changed colour. How caring she was.

See also: Her accent

See also: Her smile

See also: Her scent

Day 71

She was leaving for Africa in a week. She planned the trip before we even met. I intended to drive her and pick her up from the airport. I made her a mix cd. I was going to miss her.

Day 73

She told me daily she loved me.

Day 73 1/2

I hate commitment. It freaks me out but she was beginning to render me defenceless with her uncompromising “love is all you need” attitude towards life. When most people in the city treat anything remotely resemblant of emotions like the black plague she was completely open. Willing to drop “L-bombs” minute to minute with no anticipated or expected verbal compensation. I subtly tested the waters and indirectly asked her to be my girl. To my surprised confusion, she directly and unmistakeably said no. She told me she didn't want a relationship and that she still wanted to do “things” with other people. Reality unmasked.

I guess love isn't all you need. Maybe she meant love in the hippie Woodstock love as many people as you can sense of the word. My mistake. I should have clarified.

Day 74-76

We didn't talk. Not even a day later, she did “things” with other people.

Day 77

Things to do #4 Niagara Falls

She called me. I didn't answer. We didn't go.

Day 78

Things to do #5 Drive-in Movie

She texted me. I didn't answer. We didn't go.

Day 79

She called me over and over and left a message saying if I didn't pick up she was going to just show up at my door. I answered. She told me she thought about me while she did “things” with other people. I told her I didn't give a fuck. She told me she wanted to marry me one day and that she loved me. I laughed despicably and said, “Stop telling me you love me. You don't love me. You barely know me. You can't whole heartedly love someone and sleep with some one else”

Day 81

I hated how she had no concept of time. How she always had me waiting for her. How any time I did anything that disagreed with her she would say, “turn off”. How everyone else's opinion mattered more to her than mine.

See also: Her constant complaining

See also: Her “only child” syndrome

See also: Her big toe

Day 82

She texted me justifying what she did and professing her love. I texted her back saying, “no worries. I fucked someone else too”. I lied.

Day 83

She didn't write back. Hypocrite. I deleted her number from my phone.

Day 84

She left for Africa

Day 85

I bought a tub of ice cream and a bag of sour cream flavoured Ruffles. Over eating makes me feel better.

Day 86-89

I laid in my bed staring at the pictures on my wall while Carla Bruni's “Quelqu'un m'a dit” played in the background. It's not all about feelings, it also has to do with timing. Looks like it's going to be one long cold Winter.

I had the song on repeat.

Day 1

Some meetings are kismet. Some meetings are “meant to be”. Some make you feel like you've been waiting for this moment your entire life. And some just pass by with no second thought. It's all a matter of perspective. For me this moment was memorable. For her it was a “passer by-er”.

Monday Mornings - Story #6

2010-07-19T05:22:00.013-04:00

Monday 9:00 a.m. April 17

My morning had just started but my night had just ended. I shouldn't have stayed out all night. I'm on less than four hours sleep and I found myself trapped in a small room decorated by projection screens and whiteboards. The room reeked of the smell of six figure salaries and cheating husbands. I was surrounded by grown men wearing suits that inexcusably needed the hand of a good tailor. These are my would be mentors. After discussing “handicaps” and the other night's survivor episode we all made our way to our designated places.

I presented my work first. I had mastered the art of Spread Sheets. I can make anything look professional if you gave me an hour on Microsoft Excel. It's probably why I still work here. Half an hour into my presentation and I drastically required another shot of expresso or at least a cup of coffee to keep me going. I'm half awake and as the meeting progresses its becoming more and more apparent to everyone in the room that outside of my spreadsheets I am in fact, unprepared. I need an excuse. During the break, I commented to a co-worker that I was feeling under the weather and it was the reason why I looked the way I did. I had bags underneath my eyes, my face was colorless, my hair uncombed and my white Ralph Lauren shirt was completely wrinkled. I think she bought it and word started to spread. My active nightlife has been masked by my poor excuses and fine spreadsheet work. Disaster avoided.

A couple of hours later and the meeting was on its final leg. My boss, who constantly dumped all his work on me and significantly made more money was now on the podium. He stood in front of the projection screen wearing his typical Monday black and white stripped tie. He had a tie for every day of the work week. He also had an ulcer and a fat wife. I was now on my third cup of coffee and he began reciting my first year economics' text book. The higher you climb up the corporate ladder, the more what you studied in university starts to directly apply to your job. Your job starts to become a career and your career starts to become your life. Sooner or later your priorities shift and you find yourself in Starbucks on a first name basis with a cashier who you secretly yearn for, ordering coffee imported from a country you've never even visited. You start to spend your nights raising children you can't relate to and not having sex with a woman you vowed to love through sickness and health. You spend weekends playing a game you can't stand (golf) just to get away from a life you regret. You spend the majority of your time in front of a computer emailing co-workers about the "latest quarterly figures" while snacking on a snack that contains "0 trans fat" just to feel a false sense of control. Welcome to the next 40 years of my life.

This week's meeting was specifically dedicated to the advancement of the company. We had grown twenty-five percent each year for the last three years. The numbers were phenomenal and it was the obvious reason why the firm had been voted best in Canada for the last three years. Several Power Point presentations with pictures and elaborate graphs were made. Colorful, extravagant, bounded and laminated reports were handed out. Future financial compensations were promised. Everyone looked happy. People even clapped. But honestly that profit will be spent on another brand new Beemer or an expensive piece of jewelry for the firm's Chief Executive's wife as a form of severance for his “slip up” with his administrative assistant during last year's company Christmas party. None of us are getting that raise. Whether the company makes or loses a million it doesn't affect me. It doesn't really affect any of us. So who really cares. Definitely not me. I was more concerned about the prospect of calling the hot wannabe model's number I had saved on my phone and sacrificed my sleep for just half a day ago.

Any half decent looking girl dressed bohemian chic in this city is all of a sudden a model. Volunteering at a local school's fashion event, entering the Chin picnic, having you're club “photographer” friend take photos of you in pseudo care free poses and a coke habit does not make you a model. You are not Kate Moss. Getting your big break as the daily sunshine girl does not make your career. Giving a blow job to that club promoter wearing that Ed Hardy t-shirt one size too small promising he will get you in touch with the right people was a waste of your time. Keep going down this path and you will serve drinks and possibly wings to inebriated men acting like teenage high school jocks for the rest of your life. That tall, awkward looking, unconventionally beautiful girl with the A cup breast size, she's the model. You are just the aging bartender that wasted your tips on a bad breast job. Go back to school and leave the modeling to actual models. But truth be told, the city needs these girls. Men need these type of women. I need these women. They have the biggest attitude and pretend to have absolute confidence but they really don't. Most of them have nothing else going for them but their unoriginal, conventional t.n.a. type of beauty. They are a dime a dozen and deep down they know this. That is why they have no booking agent, constantly have to hustle their “portfolios” and fish for approval with every chance they get. High school ended a long time ago and so did their power over me. Secretly, they desperately desire my attention. They need it and why shouldn't I give it to them? Why not sacrifice my sleep, enjoy the company and excitement of these fake breasted insecure women. They might not give me a relationship with substance but I'm not looking to marry someone to cheat on any time soon. I still own more than five pairs of ties. I have nothing better to do with my nights. And hell, it's definitely better than sitting around watching Survivor.

Love and Shoes

2010-07-12T06:22:00.000-04:00

(Something old while I work/keep everything new for the website...stay tuned)

Why is letting go of people so hard and buying a new pair of shoes so easy? I know what you're asking yourself: what does one have to do with the other? Well….everything. I love shoes but not like I love people and why is that? Because shoes are shoes and people are people? WRONG!!!!

When you go through a break up one of the things you frequently get told is "everything happens for a reason" but straight up, that’s a lie. Its one of those beautiful lies that you want to believe to help make sense of the pain. In truth, not a God damn thing happens for any particular reason. Everything is random. To believe otherwise is optimistically naive. I do it as well. I tell myself the same thing but that’s the kind of post break up Hollywood babble that would make Tyler Durden pop a nerve in his forehead. If Tyler has taught me anything it's that none of us are beautiful unique snowflakes. We are all part of the same decaying organic matter. We are God's unwanted children; the middle children of history with no specific purpose. Yes, that’s extremely fukkin depressing. Thank you Tyler for making sense of a world that apparently makes no sense at all.

It’s hard to argue with Tyler's logic (especially if you've read the book). He makes complete sense. Believing that everything happens for a reason is believing in "the force". It's believing in something bigger than the tangible world. It's believing in Superman, Spiderman, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. It's believing that Osama is still alive in hiding somewhere in the Middle East and not in the C.I.A secret base getting golf balls tee'd off at his head by George W. Believing that everything happens for a reason is accepting Christ as your savior.

While all these things in their purest forms represent everything that is right with the world, we all know that it lacks one fundamental thing; logic. So again I ask, why is letting go of people so hard and buying new shoes so easy? Everyone loves shoes; even my most thugged out homeboys can discuss sneaker culture for hours. Anyone who says they don't have a shoe preference is a fukkin liar. If I gave someone a shit load of cash and said buy some new shoes, no one would hesitate to take the money. But if I said here is a wonderful new person, perfect in every way, now let go of the pain and love you have for your exes, a lot of people would not be able to do it. They might say they can but in reality it’s not so easy; at least not as easy as buying a new pair of sneakers. But why not? Nothing happens for a specific reason, right? None of us are beautiful unique snowflakes; we have no purpose, so why can't we just move on with no heart feelings? Why can't we just perform one random act the same as another? Why can't we find a new person to love as easy as we can buy a new pair of shoes?

I buy shoes quite frequently and so do most people I know. Every time I get my hands on a new pair of sneakers, I more often than not, wear it every chance I get. It becomes my new favorite pair of kicks. As lame as it sounds, I try to pick outfits that best suit those kicks. Hell, I even sport them with things that don't match the sneaks at all. I just love a new pairs of shoes that much. But never does the thought pass in my head that this will be the absolute last pair of sneakers I'll ever buy. As much as I love the shoes for the moment, I always concede in my mind that I will inevitably buy another pair of sneakers and love them just as much, if not more.

But the same can't be said for ex-lovers. Every mildly serious relationship that I've ever been in, I've truly believed in my heart that there was no other girl out there for me than who I was with currently. I believed she was my soul mate and we met for a reason. I believed that everything in my life has lead up to her and I getting together. I believed that all the bad breakups and all the heartaches of the past were for a reason; well at least till we break up and find someone new again. Silly huh? Don't front, all of us at one point or another have believed this ridiculousness. Some of us still believe it and have convinced ourselves that the person were with now is the "one". Yes, we were silly before but this time it’s for real. Ya right, Straight nonsense!!

I realize how cynical I sound right now and granted this will one day be used against me. I'll fall in love again and one of my friends will bring this blog up and say, "Lorenzo, you know you'll inevitably out grow this love like you said in that blog". And I'll respond by saying, "I was young then. I didn't know what I was talking about and so and so is really the "one" for me. They made me a believer." In a sense, I've created a self-professing paradox by writing this blog. But let me say this: right now I am being completely logical and for future reference, when I "fall in love again", bring this blog up because I won't be thinking straight then like I am at this very moment.

Shoes inevitably get worn out. Shoes become out of style. Shoes will end up in the back of your closet. You will find a new pair of shoes that will replace your old ones. You will have another pair of favorite sneakers that you will absolutely have to wear with every outfit in your closet. Even when the outfit doesn't match the shoes, you will make it work. You will fall in love. You will inevitably fall out of that love. You will cry like you've never cried before. Your heart will break time and time again. You will write silly poems and blogs professing your undying love for that person. You will write drunken late night emails while listening to Cold play telling them this. You will eat Cheetoes for three months straight while watching Sleepless in Seattle over and over again(ok maybe that one is just me). This is not a theory. These are the facts of life. This is the reality of love and shoes.

Paris Nights, Toronto Mornings - Story # 3

2010-06-28T05:26:00.006-04:00

Sunday 11:00 a.m. 20**

The words of Sia’s “Breathe me” faded my thoughts into the background.

Saturday 8:30 p.m. 20**

I knew her. We’d been friends for years. Not close friends or better friends but at the very least, club friends. We’d never really spent any time together outside loud speakers and spilled drinks. It was the night after her birthday party and I had officially asked to take her out for dinner and drinks. I’m not too sure what my intentions were or if I even really liked her. If anything, I was just looking for someone to grab a bite with. She’s not typically the kind of person that I consciously seek out.

We met randomly a couple of years back and occasionally met up at clubs as a form of keeping in touch. I vaguely recollect that night: my homeboy and I were walking back to his car filled with several combinations of vodka and soda water when we spotted two girls dressed clueslessly doing cartwheels on the lawn of Osgoode Hall. So of course it was inevitable that we approached them.

I don’t remember the night we met like it was yesterday. There was nothing in the air nor was it fate. It was just another typical after the club walk on a regular summer late Friday evening/ early Saturday morning. In fact, I distinctly remember thinking her friend was cuter and had a more attractive style. Not good style by any means, just a more appealing version of a pseudo surf chick.

She was wearing flip flops, a blue cut off jean skirt and a gray zip up hoodie over a pink halter top which I’m guessing all came from American Eagle. She had no make-up on, her hair was messy, light brown and not styled in any distinct way. I don’t particularly gravitate towards people who look like they’ve been spending most of their time sitting around camp fires telling ghost stories. She was no exception. Honestly, I never understood girls or people for that matter that lived in a city like Toronto where it’s practically cold ten out of the twelve months of the year who dressed as if the beach was walking distance from their home. I love this city but we do not have white sands. We have dirty city streets that are paved with vomit, urine and disease. If you are at Ashbridges Bay on a sunny summer day then fine, I get it, but the rest of the time, please, put some shoes on.

Tonight was pretty much like the first night we met, nothing special. I didn’t have anything planned. We didn’t meet up at a fancy restaurant. I’m not even really sure why I volunteered to take her out but there we were waiting together to get a patio seat in a quaint little Indian restaurant on Baldwin Street. I like Indian food but it never sits quite right in my stomach. To my surprise, the dinner conversation went well. I guess you really learn more about a person through sober conversations outside bad DJs and smoke machines, go figure. Several pieces of Naan bread and a few cocktails into the evening and she began to tell me about herself. This seemingly ordinary, simple dressed, make-up free, five foot eight, poor man’s version of the “girl-next-door” really began to peak my interest. I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk along Harbour front and continue our conversation. She said she knew the perfect place. We drove towards the shoreline and came upon a dark unlit secluded spot. We sat on the bumpy rocks over looking the city lights across the calm and quiet lake water. We continued uninhibitedly pouring our hearts out to each other and connected as if we had been friends for years.

She told me some things that I could have deducted through personal observation. She grew up in a small town in the country which was obvious by her lack of fashion sense. But as the night went on the small talk turned into sad stories and club friends became consoling hearts. Her mother was a recovering drug addict and her father abandoned her at the age of 15. I learned that she moved to the city not on a whim but for a reason just as unplanned. She, years ago, had purchased a house with a physically abusive ex and one night packed her stuff and left with no plan and no direction. She just had to leave.

I don’t know if it was my digestive system’s disagreement with the Indian food but I emotionally vomited on her as well. On a fate-less, typical, routine summer night sitting on the rocks I saw her for the first time. Some people are just better seen in the dark of night.

After we exchanged life experiences, I felt a feeling of relief. There was a momentarily pause of silence. This girl that felt the constant need to wear flip flops to any and every occasion started to make my heart race and slow down at the same time. I’m not one for Hollywood romances and cheesy punch lines. I’ve never seen myself as anybody’s “Mr. Right”. I’ve always preferred to be “Mr. Right Now”. I didn’t feel anything in the air in the beginning of the night but there was definitely something in the lake water by the rocks. We kissed and I lost myself in it.

I don’t know what romance consist of: Maybe rose petals? Huge public professions of love? European destinations? None of that took place that evening but I didn’t need Paris to know this was something different, something real. We went back to my place and our physical connection matched the emotional one. It was surreal. I woke up the next morning excited but to my failed expectations she was gone. All she left behind was a post-it stuck on my refrigerator with the words that read:

“Thanks for the good time. I’ll see you when I see you.”

Reality always looks a lot clearer in the light of day. She was my overnight heartache. I stared at the piece of paper for awhile not really knowing what to make of it or just exactly how to react. It reminded me of why I am the way I am. Why it’s so easy for everyone in this city to connect physically but so risky to share anything emotional. Like so many people I know, I guess I’m doomed to live love one, one night stand at a time. It was a Paris evening but definitely a Toronto morning.

Measure of Success

2010-06-22T01:44:00.003-04:00

(*Since I was way too busy this week to write something new, here's something old)

My left wing idealist university educated friend argued that there is a false sense of success in North America. We live in a consumerist state that finds solace in material things, and apparently that’s wrong. According to my anti-capitalist, pro-Marxist, one political affiliation away from being a communist and “I get all my clothes at thrift shops” comrade, there is a serious lack of substance in North American’s lives. To suggest that my matching eclectic furniture and six figure earning potential somehow wasn’t enough to fill a spiritual void that subsequently I didn’t even know existed, is so absurd that it makes George W’s war against Iraq seem justified by God himself (herself? Itself?). Didn’t she notice that the couches in my living room were made out of Corinthian leather?

The conversation began when I was out for dinner and drinks with the a fore mentioned friend and she said:

“Lorenzo take a look at your life, does it have substance? Would you consider yourself successful? Are you really content?”

Of course I am. I’m spiritual. I’ve got substance. I’m successful. Not to mention I’ve got a killer wardrobe. I’ve realistically achieved a standard of North American success that few ever reach. I’m 24 years old. I own a downtown condo. I’m a year away from attending arguably one of the best law schools in the country and working at a high end wealth management firm on Bay St. Bay St., just to clarify, for my across the border people and my ignorant Canadian friends, is the Canadian equivalent of Wall St. Anyways, enough shameless self promotion and on to my point. I’m young, rich and if I do say so myself, easy on the eyes. But for some reason she had the audacity to ask me these questions. Didn’t she see my Mont Blanc wallet that I nonchalantly placed on the table in plain sight for her to be impressed with? By now my success should have hit her like a mid morning coffee break but instead this neo hippie, Maya Angelou reading, Kensington shopping, righteous cause picketing social worker sat across from me questioning the measurement of success in the western world. I guess it’s a matter of perspective. I guess under a different light, one, such as herself, could argue that all I really am is an under achieving, I.Q. wasting, parents relying, excess wardrobe spending, trend spotting, club posing, commitment fearing, sleep lacking, cubical monkey. But nah, I don’t see it.

So I spend my weekdays injecting myself with ludicrous amounts of caffeine that I practically piss Columbian coffee beans. So I get up early everyday from less than 4 hours of sleep a night and highlight my mornings with staring endlessly at myself in the mirror while I dress myself in the latest in designer attire that I saw in last months issue of GQ while I was sitting on the toilet defecating. So I rush for the subway daily and find joy in stealing seats from the elderly and handicapped due to my obvious advantage in motor skills. You snooze, you lose grandma. So I suck dick all day, saying yes to any task my boss assigns me faster than Kunta Kinte on his first day on the job. My boss, who makes Carrot Top seem like Dave Chappelle, tells jokes on an hourly basis and there I am pseudo laughing my ass off constantly saying, “Good one sir”. So a big part of my job is being fake. So I workout five days a week to try to satisfy Calvin Klein’s definition of a human male specimen, believing underwear billboard ads to be an accurate mirror portrayal of an average North American male, flawless. So every chance I get I pump my lats, I push my pecs, or at least that’s what my personal trainer on a power trip screams at me while I workout with a perma-constipated look on my face while I validate my self with a false sense of self improvement. More muscles equals a better life right? That’s what sold me on an 16 week “Burn Fat-Build confidence” package put together by Arnold-esque trainer who’s neck is as visible as Rosie O'Donnell’s sex appeal. Who ever said self improvement was masturbation obviously didn’t know the joys of working out daily to a point past exhaustion and consuming nothing but lean chicken breast and protein shakes. Do I find substance in my life? Psshhhhh, obviously, duuh.

If that brief moment of self reflection wasn’t enough to convince her, here are some statistics:
• White collar workers are 10 times more likely to commit suicide than blue collar workers.
• A1960s study noted that dentists, attorneys and/or physicians had 2½ to 5½ times the overall suicide rate of other white-collar workers.
• A recent JADA report speculated that white collar personality traits emphasize control of emotional expression, compulsive attention to details, conscientiousness and deferral of gratification. All factors thought to have played an integral role with suicides.
• Dr. Herbert Hendin, a New York psychiatrist and medical director of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, noted that "educated people have a higher suicide rate than the general population."
• In addition, he said, "the rate of men to women is 4 to 1. White men have a higher rate than non-whites and men over 65 have the highest rate."

Business men didn’t even make the top 10! WTF? Because there isn’t a month that goes by without some sad, salary dependant suit fresh out of a meeting about his “quarterly financial report” doesn’t throw himself in front of the on coming train. Ok I’ll admit, even with my oh so great and obviously successful lifestyle, there are days I’ve wanted to hang myself with the very designer tie I’m wearing but I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t want to. Why waste a perfectly good black $100 DKNY tie, blood stains. If I was to die I would want to be prepared, put my affairs in order. I mean, could you imagine dying at just any random day? What if it was a bad hair day, or worse yet a “dry cleaner day”? A day where all your prime gear is being dry cleaned. I could just imagine the headline, “Bay St. consultant found dead in cheap, out dated, unfitted, no name gray suit a fixated by pink Hilfiger tie. So embarrassing. Hilfiger? Who wears that these days? Pink? So last year…

My life meaningless? North America a shallow narcissistic consumerist state? In the words of Paris Hilton or which ever overly tanned blonde pop-culture “it” girl of the moment whose lives we praise and follow more attentively than our very own, “like whatever”….

Buyer Beware

2010-06-17T01:44:00.003-04:00

(A break from the day to day to Rave and Rant)

Every girl I have ever had an experience with has been directly responsible for the man I am today. I'm not just saying that; Every psyche of my being is a caused by my experiences with the opposite sex. From the first time I was neglected by my mother to the last time I got my heart broken. Females are to blame.

I started dating at a late age. I don't count those dates to junior proms that ended after the dance. Those were not real dates. I'm talking about real experiences with the opposite sex; Not my first kiss but my first real emotional kiss. Some people might have started earlier but due to God forsaking me during the ages of 8-16, dating was not an attainable option for me. Puberty finally decided to visit me the summer after my 17th birthday and it was good to me. Girls I had classes with all through out high school started asking me what school I had transferred from. They were semi embarrassed by my response but I didn't care at that point. I was just happy they were talking to me in the first place but since then my life has never been the same. Not in a good way. Sure, attention from females can really make a boy blush and constant compliments almost made me believe I had a chance to be a model at one point (which was short lived btw) but there's a downside to all that.

Every girl I have dated since the age of 17 has fucked me over harder than a Church and Gerard prostitute. I have dated many girls in my life time and one thing I've learned is that all of them should come with a “buyer beware” sign. I enter relationships with the utmost optimism but always exit with my tail between my legs. This not my fault. This is completely theirs. My first real girlfriend was the one I took to my senior prom. She seemed perfect in everyway: Cute as a button; Honor role; hard working; down to earth and caring. At least this is how she advertised herself to me the first time we met. She was not perfect. Not in the least. The second girl I ever fell for I never ended up seriously dating. She was nothing like the first girl. I met her during my pseudo acting/modeling phase. At the time I was madly in love with someone; myself. For some reason she decided she didn't care and proclaimed her love for me. Not to be conceded but many other girls at that time also believed in their hearts that I was the man for them but she stuck out. She was persistent. She didn't take my rejection and my constant affirmation of self love as warning signs, in fact I think that made her like me more, in a weird and self-loathing way. She loved me like no other girl has ever loved me and I inevitably cheated on myself with her. I renounced my self-absorbed ways and decided that maybe she was the girl for me. Big mistake. The last and final girl I love and will ever love was my Ex. She was a little cute Snowboarder chick. She was rich but didn't care about money, easy to talk to, social, out going, caring and cooked a mean pot roast. Again, she managed to convince me that there was no other girl for me but her. I didn't at first but through her sneaky little ways I succumbed. For almost two years I forgot I was anti-love and became pro-"ill do anything to make this relationship work" guy. I didn't mind because I thought she was perfect for me but lo and behold, the lies started to surface. Not only was she a mediocre snowboarder at best, her pot roast was store bought. The relationship ended badly. (Yes because of the pot roast. Any girl that will fake a roast deserves to burn in hell or at least some good cooking lessons)

This is not a strange phenomenon that only applies to me. This is universal for women and men a like. We all get tricked into believing someone is perfect for us. This is not my fault. This is not the "fake pot roast" girl's fault. There are three specific people to blame. Zack Morris, Meg Ryan and the Trix Bunny should be executed. They are 100% responsible for every heartache you and I have ever experienced. I blame them.
In the 90s these people shaped, in its totality, my concept of love and relationship. Everything I know with regards to the birds and the bees they have embedded in my soul. I watched Save by the Bell religiously; all three episodes a day. I idolized Zack. I followed him through his endless adventures of chasing Kelly Kapowski. Kelly was the girl of Zack's dreams and most episodes revolved around him trying to out duel every other guy in Bay Side High for her love. Zack would do anything within his means to convince and in a way, manipulate Kelly into believing they were meant to be. Inevitably Zack and Kelly end up dating and things sort of work out, in that perfect high school ending sort of way. Nothing bad ever really happened during the Save by the Bell years. Zack always gets his girl and at the end of the day, things work out. I was lead to believe this was true. In turn I spent most of my life chasing women and shaping myself into what I believed would gain their love. I liked a snowboarder, hipster chick, I became a snowboarder, hipster dude. This is what Zack did. Convince the girl your the perfect guy for her and when you inevitably end up together, she will see you and love you for the wonderful person you are deep down. Ummm....no she will not! She will realize you are not the guy she thought you were and resent you for that. Fuck you Zack Morris and your false teachings! But Zack is not completely at fault, Meg Ryan shares part of the blame.

In the span of a decade, Meg Ryan has made several memorable movies. The first Meg Ryan movie that made a lasting impression on me was when "Harry met Sally". It's a story about two great friends who turn a platonic relationship into a romantic one. In the end they fall in love with each other and live happily ever after. This movie taught me that the girl of my dreams is right under my nose and is most likely my best friend. She also made "Sleepless in Seattle" and "Addicted to love". These movies are staples of her career and the North American concept of love and relationships. In "Sleepless in Seattle" we learn that when someone, who barely knows us, travels half away across the continent to stalk us, over hears our voice through a late night radio show and convinces our family members through persistent letters that we belong together, is ideally romantic. This is what Meg does through out the movie. This is the whole movie. They lock eyes in the end and its literally love at first sight; how romantic. Her craziness doesn't end there, it only gets accentuated in the movie "Addicted to Love". In "Addicted to Love" her and failed big screen actor Ferris Buller, join forces to sabotage their ex's current relationship in the hopes of winning them back. What a moral. Meg plays an offbeat, left of center, indie, weirdo but in a really cute way, unconventionally beautiful girl. Her and Ferris come up with crazy and original ways to try to split their exes apart but in the end they discover that they are in fact in love with each other. In hindsight, I realize Meg's characters in these movies are the women I believe to be ideal. These are the people we all believe to be perfect for us; Unconventionally beautiful people who are unique and different from most and preferably our best friend. In truth, these people are no where close to being perfect, nor are they good for us. They will break our hearts. They are left of center for a reason. They fall in love easily and fall out of love with the same effortless grace. Their counter culture "off beat-ness" is not cute, it's fucked up. They risk everything for a love they barely know because they malfunction emotionally and in turn cling to people. They are not hopeless romantics. You are a hopeless romantic for falling for these people. They are serial heartbreakers and Meg Ryan is their leader.

Meg's movies always get re-runned on Television stations. I don't know why this is. I'm guessing it must be because there is some form of truth contained in them. These movies are memorable not because of any real artistic merit, not because of great acting or a great story, nor are any of them good for any specific cinematic moments. Now that I think about it, I'm not all that sure why these movies are memorable in the first place. I'm pretty certain these movies suck but for one reason or another I own several Meg Ryan movies and continually watch them. Someone has convinced me that a Meg type of woman is what I need in my life to be happy. These are the same people who convinced crack heads to take a hit of crack. They are the people that brainwashed the Trix Bunny that cereal is the answer to his happiness.

How long has that Bunny been chasing that cereal? God damn why can't someone just get him a bowl? Why are kids so cruel? I whole heartedly want to cry for that bunny but a part of me always laughs at how silly he is. Why not just give up? Why is his whole existence dedicated to a bowl of cereal? What happens after he gets the cereal? Will he be happy then? Will he finally give up his relentless search or will he search for another bowl? These are not simple questions. These are deep philosophical questions. The answers to these questions will give purpose to your life. These are the questions that plague humanity. Human nature dictates that we are never satisfied; Maybe momentarily but never permanently. We can all relate to the bunny. We spend the majority of our lives on a vigorous search for love and when we find it we are never satisfied. But is love what we really need? Someone has made us believe that there is nothing greater than love. Love will solve all of our problems. It is universal. Zack, Meg and the Bunny go through great lengths in its pursuit and so do we. It is our bowl of cereal but unlike the Bunny, we do get a taste. The problem is the taste is just never enough. Love is never enough. Don't believe Zack's bullshyt and Meg Ryan's propaganda. True love doesn't exist in real life, only in movies. It is Jack and the metaphorical bean stalk. It is a fairy tale told to little kids to sooth their minds before they go to bed. Like my idol Zack, I have been doing everything and anything to chase my proverbial Meg Ryan but I should have learned by now, that silly me, love is for kids.

Last Call

2010-06-07T16:35:00.012-04:00

1:55 a.m. Saturday, 20**

I took the last sip of my Gin and tonic. Said girl was standing in the back of the line awaiting the use of the bathroom. At any half happening venue in the city, women always have to wait exactly twenty nine minutes more than men for the exact same purpose of relieving themselves. I’m not really too sure why this is and have often wondered just what exactly women do in there. I can only guess it’s because we as men urinate upright and all the hardships that go along with peeing sitting down causes this major delay in bathroom time.

I waited for her to come out. Exactly thirty three minutes later, I informed her of an “after hours” spot located under a hair salon that twice a week housed designer collared shirt and tie wearing, pseudo junkies looking to pro-long their pathetic weekend warrior like debaucheries. I intended to be one of the said pathetic people and invited her to bear the same label. Without a doubt she came along.

We got there by cab shortly after. In an “after hours” there are no more games; true colors come out with the help of a small group of Columbian guerrilla mercenaries. If Red Bull has wings then Cocaine has a strap-on jet pack. After a segment of the rebel forces fought and died their way into our blood stream she got a lot “friendlier”. Good job men, mission accomplished. Buy a girl a drink and you get a conversation. Buy her a ring and you get a mini van and a mortgage. Buy her Cocaine and at the very least, you get a blow job.

1:45 a.m. Saturday, 20**

“I know, I can't afford to stop

For a moment... that it's too soon… to forget

I know, I can't afford to stop

For a moment… that it's too soon… to forget”

The Lights flickered on and off three times to the chorus of "Ms. Fat Booty”. Last call.

1:01 a.m. Saturday, 20**

There she was, by the bar holding a glass of red wine, blatantly being approached by one guy after the next. She turned down their advances loud enough for everyone in the place to know that she had class but friendly enough to keep the potential suitors and free drinks coming. May the best man win. She loved the attention, it was obvious, at least to me. You have to respect a girl friendly enough to give just about any would be approacher false hope with her “McDonalds-smiles-are-free-with-any-order” attitude but still reject a dude just after that drink is bought for her. Trick.

She was wearing a fitted silver striped midnight blue dress bottomed off with black nylons. The nylons had obvious self-made runs, her eyeliner was over applied and her hoop earrings were way too big. I knew she was going to be trouble, it was obvious by the size of her earrings. The bigger the hoops, the bigger the Ho, it’s a known universal law. But still, I knew, for me, she was tonight’s overnight heartache. I caught her glancing at me a few times. I waited till the third.

The magic number with love and sex is always three. You go on a date with someone for the third time and you better have a condom on you because the two of you, in all likely hood, are exchanging a high amount of bodily fluids. You’ve been dating someone for three months and someone is probably going to drop an “L-bomb”. And of course, by the third time you have sex with a girl, whether she admits it or not, she has began to envision herself in that white dress and you holding her hand in front of her love ones wearing that penguin suit. By the third time, whether you can make her leg quiver or not, she’s hooked on you. I made my approach.

“I came over here to see what the big deal was all about.” She looked confused.

“Left and right, I see one dude after the next coming to talk to you and buying you drinks. What’s your name? Are you famous? Is there a reason for guys to keep buying you free drinks?”

She laughed, introduced herself and told me she had no idea what all the fuss was about and assured me she was just a “regular” girl but not once did she justify accepting the numerous amount of drinks. We conversated for awhile, laughed, exchanged numbers and said our goodbyes but in no way did I or she intend that to be the end of the night. Again, this was obvious by the size of her hoop earrings. I knew any further pursuit would end in nothing but a “Lindsay Lohan-esque” type of night. But for some reason I just couldn’t help myself, the perfect combination of that Bombay Gin and that Tonic water just makes me want to continue chasing “waterfalls”. Truth be told, I often wake up the next morning tip toeing out of some stranger’s unfamiliar apartment asking myself why I continue to do the things I do. Regret has been such a consistent part of the diet of my life that there isn’t enough Starbucks bran muffins to defecate it out of my system. But still, I’ll have to admit, with all the regrets and all the overnight heartaches an awkward morning will always beat a lonely evening.