Love and Poetry

To celebrate Erik's recent facebook engagement to a singer named Sara, we co-wrote a love poem for him to post on her facebook wall. Here it is in all its glory:

My little love, my darling Sara
Your voice it soothes like aloe vera
You'll make your mark upon our era
Much like Schumann, comma, Clara

My life was bleak and I was dour
Until I met my lovely flower
We will be wed — I await the hour
(I promise first to take a shower)

With this post I make a toast:
It is you I love the most

Same Old, Same Old

I hate it. I hate that I am obsessed. I hate that I check the same facebook profile over and over again, even though I know it won't have changed. I hate that I compulsively google a name so common that I'm sure to find nothing interesting at all. I hate that I sit here late at night every night, trying to come up with some goddamn excuse to send an email but finding none--because what would anyone so far away have to talk about with me? How could I possibly send a casual and inconspicuous email to someone I no longer ever see?

I hate that I am pathetic and dependent. I hate that I am a cliche. I hate that everyone else feels like this all the time. I hate that I am whining on my goddamn blog about something so petty.

I hate that I am a coward. I hate that I am stuck here. I hate that there's nothing I can do. I hate that I spend my life indulging in a whole lot of wishful thinking.

I hate that this entry is not witty, clever, or interesting, but lame and really boring. I hate that, in the wee hours of the morning, I am lame and really boring.

A Subway Love Story

Brought to you by the Toronto Transit Commission and long, boring commutes thereon.

Once upon a time, a lonely Yonge-Sheppard by the name of Lawrence was walking home when he caught a glimpse of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was riding along in a carriage, haughtily looking out on the world like a Queen, when suddenly she glanced down at him. They were from two Dufferin worlds, but nonetheless it was love at first sight. In that one glance, they penetrated each others' souls, and they knew they had to be together.

They began to see each other. Her name was Jane, he discovered, and she lived in a grand old manor out past the Old Mill. He was in love. He sent her one long red Rosedale-y.

Lawrence wanted to marry her, but her Warden disapproved of such a Union. He thought Lawrence was not nearly Osgoode a match as she could make--he'd never even been to College! The Warden forbade her ever to see him again.

So Lawrence sent Jane a letter via her conniving maid, Christie, who tucked the piece of Pape-r into Jane's basket of clean laundry and thus smuggled it into her room. The letter said, "I cannot live without you. Meet me at midnight in the Greenwood."

There Lawrence waited at midnight, barely able to contain his excitement. And finally she arrived. "Oh Lawrence," she gasped, "I love you so!"

When he heard those words and saw her Chester heave with emotion, he felt his Coxwell, and all he wanted to do was pull down his Duponts, pull up her skirt, and plunge into her Spadina. But he was a gentleman. Instead he bent down to kiss her lightly.

Just then, the Warden jumped out from behind a tree. "Dirty rogue," he shouted, "I will Keele you!" He was armed with a lance.

"Put your Lansdowne, sir, and talk with me man-to-man," said Lawrence fiercely. "For Jane and I are in love, and we wish to be married. We will not take no for an answer."

The Warden took the Broadview of things and suddenly saw that he was being foolish. He relented, and the two were wed the very next day. They celebrated with great fanfare and several flagons of Runnymede. They lived happily ever after.

The moral of this story is: Don't ever forget to bring a book when you have an hour-long subway ride.

Leave-taking

I spent most of the last several days saying goodbye. I'm going to be gone from Cambridge for a long time--a year, maybe. By the time I get back, everything will have changed. People will have left, will have forgotten me, will have moved on with their lives. The fragile friendships I have nurtured so carefully, the delicate green tendrils just peeking through my lonely dead-wood social life, will have been stomped out by time's cruel stiletto heels. Crush porn will cheer and vie for the movie rights.

All last week in my head I played out the tearfully perfect farewells, but they never turned out right. Each time I was nervous and thus obnoxious, nonchalant. I didn't tell people how much they mean to me. I probably never will. I'm not very good at that.