Some ad agencies down in Latin America keep spamming the tagboard, and I think I’m just going to ban all access from that region of the world. It’s a fairly simple two step process. First step is figuring out if that’s even possible. Second step is doing it. It’s that easy.

Yesterday I called my parents to tell them to have dinner without me, because work would be keeping me late. Which happens, and it’s nothing unusual. But I think yesterday was the first time I lied about it. I had a busy day, but nothing I needed to put in extra hours for. I just didn’t want to go home yet.

I commute through the Sheppard subway line sometimes when I’m feeling lazy, and on the way home , I bought a Cinnabon at Sheppard Station. It actually surprised me a bit in realizing that it was for the first time, because it’s something that I’ve always wanted to do for approximately the last five years, but just never did…until yesterday. I was behind this man who bought a pack of four, broke a twenty, and requested that his change consist of a lot of quarters. For whatever reason I will never know. And when he was done, he turned around and thanked me. Confused, I asked “…for what?” And he just shrugged and said “For waiting.” And the whole experience affected me profoundly, but in what way I don’t really know.

It always kinda bums me out when I come out of the subway station on the way home from school or work and there’s no sunshine. I walked up five flights of stairs to my car on the roof of the parking garage, and I just sat in my car and ate my Cinnabon. And I don’t know if you know this, but eating a Cinnabon without a fork and knife is very messy.

I must have gotten some sugar on my nose or face, because when I eventually got home, my parents jokingly asked if I was doing drugs. Which would have made sense if it was powdered sugar…but it was like sticky icing sugar…so it actually could have been a completely unrelated question. I’ll never know, because I didn’t really want to go down that line of conversation with them.

Sometimes I’m happy and eager to run out of the office…but then when I realize that I don’t really have anything exciting to look forward to waiting for me at home, I find that my pace just inexplicably slows a step. Should a normal, happy life feature evenings where I sit alone in my car, eating a Cinnabon with my bare fingers? On one hand, it seems kinda quaint, some cute quirky thing that’s a byproduct of my amazingly spontaneous and unique personality. On the other hand…it just seems straight up depressing.

And I can’t really figure it out. I mean…after all, I do constantly day dream about the subway hopping a track and killing me instantly whenever I commute home, which would certainly seem to be indicative of some sort of depression-related mindset.

…but then…you know…Cinnabons are really goddamn tasty.

So there’s that.