This morning (noon) I decided that today was the day that I go out and buy myself a belt. On the long bus ride to the closest fat lady store I tried to make outlines for the TV pilot I am currently writing, but kept getting distracted by the man sitting directly across from me. Now, he wasn't all that hot (okay, so I did wake up next to a man that looked near identical to him once, but that doesn't mean he was gorgeous). It was more the fact that he wore a happy smile on his face and he wasn't smiling at anything in particular. His eyes gave no expression of seeing something adorable or thinking about something wonderful that had happened to him. He just looked like a happy baby.
Then it hit me: adults don't just smile for the hell of it. How sad. This is the reason we are addicted to looking at babies. Their silly dumbassed smiling at nothing makes us smile. In this sense this guy so intrigued me that I almost put up a craigslist missed connection. But didn't know how to word, saying: "Looking for smiley guy to sit near but not talk to," doesn't sound right. Plus, I didn't really miss a connection with him, we connected (translation: I stared at him and he kept smiling and didn't notice me that's all the connection I need).
When I finally made it to the fat lady store I walked in and was immediately approached by a bulky woman who could kick my ass and asked if I needed help with anything. I asked her for a belt and tried to be really super fucking nice about it. She was a scary bitch. I bet they hired her to make sure people buy things. Nah, this is Canada there are no clever playing on fear tactics here. Anyway, turns out there were no belts in the entire store except for one: the kind comes attached to the ugliest khaki pants you've ever seen. When I asked the scary woman where a fat girl could buy a belt she suggested the shoestore a few doors down.
But, like I said before, there was no going into the store without buying something (this girl looked like a bulldog on steroids) so I bought a pair of pants or maybe jeans. Since the store had no belts I decided to buy a pair of pants that actually fits me, therefore I would not need a belt. The pair that fit me were made out of denim material and looked like jeans but had no front pockets nor a zipper, or even a button. They were odd. I imagined someone in the heat of passion going to unzip and unbutton them and getting confused and myself being very amused by this and somehow that possible scenario justified spending 50 bucks on them. Now all I have to decide is whether or not to call them my jants or peans. Note: I went to the shoestore and they did have belts. Belts that fit 13 year old anorexics.
Derby Update:
So I have been skating nearly everyday in the comfort of my own room. Tonight was different though 2 things happened:
1. I left my room and skated out in the hallway for a bit feeling like a bad ass.
2. I fell near my bathroom. I landed on my ass and the meaty part of my right hand. (which, btw, I am still typing with) Afterward, I felt pretty damn clever using a bottle of wine for an ice pack.
This evening I finally watched some of the Olympic games. Little did I know that watching the Olympic games is a game in itself. Seriously, the moment between when a figure skater is tossed into air and lands increased my pulse to cardio workout proportions. At the same time though, I went back and forth between wanting them to land safely or botch it up. On the one hand it is nice to see someones hard work to pay off into something beautiful but the cynical side in me wants to see something terrible happen because it is unexpected and awful and therefore (somehow) hilarious.Not only did I have to deal with the skaters I had to deal with the guy sitting next to me who builds robots. How cool is that? I had to stop myself from geeking out asking idiotic questions like: "So this robot you are working on is it like the robot in Revenge of the Nerds II?" Luckily, he quickly explained the entire thing to me, preventing my questioning. The only geeking out I ended up doing was saying: "God, how old are you? You look young." "25," he said. "When's your birthday?" "August," he said and then added, "I am a Virgo." I just nodded in response but inside I was saying, "How did he know that I was thinking, God, you're a Leo, fuck off." Then I remembered how last night's Virgo date went and got all bitchy again and hated myself for immediately thinking when I meet someone new, "Are you a possibility?" I should look into getting spayed. (Note: I actually had to dictionary.com the spelling of spayed) But if I got spayed I couldn't pull of my jeans/pants trick. Shit. Okay, that's enough of how the inside of my head works for one day.
Tip of the Day: Opening a restaurant in Andorra is a viable career option. Why not?
-Canadian Castaway
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