Saturday, September 10, 2005

Two-Year Anniversary

I'm thinking of becoming a vegetarian. Cooking meat gives me anxiety attacks. What, with the slicing and cleaning and whatnot, I'm way too lazy to touch that stuff. Overcook and it's inedible; undercook and you've got a case of E.coli. It's not like I eat it anyway. Other than the occasional filet of this or that, I don't find myself ever hankering for a fleshy, fatty steak. Now that I mention it, I haven't prepared meat in over 6 months. I'm also sort of tired of the same flavour combinations in my current repertoire. After visiting Aux Vivres (that hippie vegan haven), I discovered textures and taste bud tinglers I never thought would mesh well together ... in an overstuffed chapati the size of a quilted slipper. My mom isn't going to be pleased though. When I first mentioned it to her, she shook her head and told me the son of a friend of a friend of her's decided to cut meat out of his diet "and died."


Sophomore year is beginning to look very interesting. History of Journalism contains two major assignments that combines my two academic loves: researching and writing. The hook-up potential in Film Aesthetics is about 40/60. (Finding hipster indie kids in Montreal is like catching a rare sighting of a white person on TV.) I spoke to one who kept looking back at me and grinning during the professor's accented introduction. He resembles Alex Greenwald, all mop top and plastic black frames. Kind of dopey, a history major, asked a lot of meaningless questions -- a typical nice guy. I'm also stuck in a class completely comprised of Gallic frustrations -- the teacher speaks so freakin' fast that I call it a day if I catch even 70% of what she says. ("Um, j'ai un petit probleme avec la vocabulaire parce que, er, j'ai commence juste le francais, uh, last year.") So as I was oogling and ogling the slideshow projector, I received a call on my cell from a pay phone. Didn't bother picking it up (it was class afterall). I had created a mini-drama for myself a few hours prior, screaming into my pillow and singing along to early Michael Jackson because I saw M. Biologique, long-haired and sketchy, walking past with 6' Amazon without even acknowledging me (can you blame me for feeling like I'm being pitted against an irresistably hot, dowdy, farmer?). After class, I skipped through the campus cafe and bumped into -- surprise, surprise -- that organic-eating bastard. He accused me of hanging up on him and wasting his laundry money. I told him to go fuck himself, I was attending class. He said I had walked past him three times that day without noticing him. I called him a monkey. We bickered right to the grocery store where a small ruckus ensued. (He shouted in line that he will not double bag because he is "a proud hippie, a conserving hippie." I told him to just bag my shit. He complied.)

"So, you have a boyfriend yet?" asked M. Biologique, back at my place, momentarily looking away to reach for something unseen.

I scoffed. "Of course not! Besides, why would I tell you? I shouldn't be telling you any of this stuff anyway."

We were discussing the weird cohesion of characters I met during the summer. He wanted to know why I never give anyone a chance. "I'm not one for leading people on," I said curtly. He tried reasoning with me, tried explaining that he's interested in my (non-existent, non-active, non-progressing) love life because he cares for my "well-being" and doesn't want me getting involved with unsavoury boys. (Let's clarify who cheated on whose girlfriend with me?)

"Bullshit you do! I can see you setting me up with a Muppet already: 'Ooh, you'll love him,' you'd say. 'He's green, furry, and lives among trash.'"

I'm beginning to get rather impatient with his self-absorption and coy flirtation. He goads me to date, then tells me none of my prospects are worthy, and when I sleep with someone, he decries that I'm too easy. It's not that I should've realized this earlier, it's that my heart is only starting to catch up to my gut; my original comfort zone doesn't feel entirely familiar anymore. As he made excuses to stay ("It's raining/I don't really want to go home and do laundry/I want to take a nap"), I patiently sat on the couch, discouraging his efforts, and literally pushed him out my apartment when his smug attractiveness began to wain (his sneeze barely made it past the door). So what if he can sometimes be thoughtful? I am owed.

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