A Thousand Times Every Day

Something – The Beatles

There’s a lot of reasons I hate leaving the house. Bad weather. Lethargy. The fact that it usually means I’m going out with some combination of Max/Will/Gary/Brian and/or Jess. I also hate falling in love, which is all too easy to do.

I can look out a window and have my breath taken away by someone crossing the street.

I can ride the subway from Finch to St. George, or from Scarborough Centre to Bloor and the parade of beautiful women make the subway cars seem like moving runways. Amazingly, I literally saw this phenomenon in Peru, but I don’t want to talk about that.

Walking through the mall is deadly. It’s the girls who work at those stands that sell perfume and T-shirts and other miscellaneous items. Were they always that attractive? Did I not notice before?

Just thinking about high school is depressing. It always is. All it takes is a name to incite all kinds of emotions. Eileen. Christie. Nitasha. Jess. Shirley. Sarah. Monique. Far too many to list really. There are girls I’ve met in classes, clubs, field trips, dances, etc. who I would have dedicated myself to in a heartbeat, even though I cannot even remember their names or their faces or whether our meeting was just a figment of my imagination. I could write you an entire essay about how any of these girls are the most beautiful I have ever met and you could not convince me I was wrong.

Work surprised me. If anything, I go there to focus and do my job. There are too many girls there. I don’t know why or how, but I find myself attracted to each and every one of them for one reason or another. Their laughter. The shared pain of working at a supermarket. Those rare moments of odd affection. Today, Adriana looked up at me with those doe eyes of hers, the doe-est of doe eyes, and I wanted to simultaneously have my heart torn out and my genitalia ripped off (a la Sin City, natch).

At the beginning of the school year, I was legitimately convinced that the University of Toronto was hiring supermodels to walk around campus in an effort to boost recruiting. People told me that it was just because it was summer and the all the girls were scantily clad. They might be right. Regardless, it’s summer again and the prospect of walking around campus is both exciting and absolutely terrifying. Gary and I went down to visit his friend after her convocation. It was raining a touch, but Gary said the weather was perfect. He was right. Many of the female graduates were stunning. Were the scummy chicks that I am forced to attend lectures with supposed to blossom like this?

As if staying at home helps. Forget the fact that I might accidentally catch a rerun of Buffy The Vampire Slayer and immediately be struck by the urge to commit suicide when I realize that I am NEVER going to hold Sarah Michelle Gellar’s hand; no, that’s too obvious. I hate watching a game show and seeing an attractive contestant. I hate when they go to the crowd shots at a sporting event and focus on the gorgeous fans. I hate having to watch an angel broadcast the news. There are women like this in the world? I want to find them.

I suppose the moral of this post, if you’re looking for one, is that all women are beautiful. No lie. All women are beautiful except for Ashlee Simpson.

TQ:
Sometimes I want to be someone else so much it hurts.