Thursday, August 23, 2007

Another day in the 'burbs

Some punk-ass kids have been egging my parents' house for the past few weeks. My sister and I chased after one supposed culprit a few hours ago in an attempt to stop the madness, catching him jumping a stranger's fence. 14-years-old and looking like an anti-McDonald's poster child, Nick originally denied all responsibility. In return, I interrogated him with my best Judge Judy impression.

"Look at me when you're speaking," I would say when he squirmed uncomfortably. "Boohoo, you're guilty by association," when his pity stories fell short. Empathy was not in the cards tonight.

The cops pulled up as my immigrant father repeatedly called the young fellow "stupid" (as my old man is not yet fluent in the art of native cussing). The boy wouldn't "name names" because he was afraid of getting jumped when he attends high school in the fall. He ended up naming names. The popo eventually let the kid go, releasing him to his hysterically angry mother. It seems that the people he was with are well-known in the area as troublemakers. And the reason we had been targeted? Our neighbour John told a young girl to refrain from delivering unwanted fliers to him a few weeks back. She told her brother or cousin or the paper route godfather about the "dick", and a bunch of them decided to avenge her: By egging every house that refused her business. They got the address wrong, now we're stuck with the crap on our windows.

So I take a break from living in downtown Montreal for two weeks and I return to the petty grievances of the suburbs. Don't you just love the smell of juvenile delinquents in the summertime?

***

I know I haven't been updating this blog since my birthday. I don't deny the spectacularly unspectacular nature of my life however pleasantly voyeuristic it feels to any remaining readers, but I still believe it's important to continue to chronicle the inanities of my adolescence. (Like that dude who solicited me as I was walking to my boyfriend's house one evening by asking me for the time, only to reveal that he was actively nursing a hard-on and asked me if I would participate in observing him. His goods weren't exactly polished, so I told him no-thanks and fled the scene, all the while whispering "not again, not again, not again" under my breath.) Unlike many teenagers in my town who graduated high school around the same time, I did not become a single mother/shoplifter/stripper (a.k.a. whore). In fact, the furthest I've really deviated from the straight and narrow is in my current relationship, where selecting the correct paint swatch can become a disturbing example of bourgeois domesticity. ("The horror!" I would imagine my Maoist father saying.) In any case, I will try my best to update more often, however trivial my thoughts, in order to prevent the eradication of the memories of my idiosyncrasies.