If Willy Wonka ever decided to expand his candy business to ice cream, he’d have a tough time competing with this place. Upon entering, I let out an immediate groan. There before me were an amazing 218 different flavours of ice cream, all lined up in a row. Some people might think this is a good thing, but personally I think so much choice is a bad thing. It means going through the horrible process of deciding what you want. Who the hell likes deciding stuff?

Often I’ll end up spending 20 minutes looking at a menu in a restaurant, staring at a number of choices, wishing I was a cow with multiple stomachs. “Should I have the steak…or the hamburger. Hmmm. I’ll have the hamburger. But…but…the steak looks sooo good. Ok, I’ll have the steak….but what if that hamburger is juicy and tasty? Ok. I’ll have the hamburger…” Usually, I can never actually decide and I instead have to flip a coin. This is never fool-proof though, and often I’ll still end up changing my mind again. And again. And again. As I said – who the hell likes deciding?

So there I am, trying to decide, strolling along the many flavours (and I mean strolled, 218 flavours in a line last for about half a mile!) noting down the most interesting varieties, trying to make my decision.

First there were the classics of the ice cream world, your Strawberries and Vanillas. Then there were the more modern flavours, your Rocky Roads and Cookie Doughs. After that there were what I’d like to refer to as the “awesome flavours”, the types that make you shout “OH MY GOD! YOU PUT NUTELLA INTO ICE CREAM! I LOVE YOU!” These would be your Nutellas (obviously) and, your Candy Canes.

Then there’s the disturbed ice creams. The types that were clearly thought up by some deranged psychopath, hell bent on making you vomit. The types of ice cream that could barely even be considered ice cream to a sane individual. I’m not lying to you when I say I saw the following flavours: Cheddar Cheese and Apple (really!), Pear and Gorgonzola (honest!), Jalapeno (no lying!), Bacon (seriously!), Dog Poo (ok, that’s a lie). Then, one of my personal favourites. Corn. Yup. Corn. Not Corn and Strawberry. Not Corn and Vanilla. Just Corn. Good old reliable Corn in ice cream… yum.

But let’s not forget the tastiest ice cream of all: Garlic.

With my heart set on the smelly stuff already, my decision was easy. But I also had to decide on a second flavour. Something that complemented Garlic. Hmmm. Strawberry and Garlic? Nope. Liquorice and Garlic? Bleurgh! Corn and Garlic?! Tempting…but…no thanks.

I ran along the flavours, trying desperately to find something to complement Garlic. Then I saw it. Right there in front of me, glistening in the sun. Pineapple. Good old reliable Pineapple. Pineapple goes with EVERYTHING. Pizzas, curries, desserts – pineapple is everywhere. I’d hit the jackpot here. The perfect flavour combination.

With a smile on my face I strutted over to the girl behind the counter. “I’ll have a scoop of Garlic and a scoop of Pineapple, please.” The girl gave me an evil smile. The type of grin that lets you know there’s a joke that you’re not in on. I should have known then that I was in trouble, but I’m never one to back down, so I paid up and she started to scoop my ice cream.

First she placed a scoop of Pineapple on the cone. Then she moved onto the Garlic. The tub was almost entirely full. “It’s probably so full because so many people buy it and you need to replace it all the time, because it’s delicious, right?” I exclaimed. The girl simply replied with her grin, before handing me the ice cream. “Enjoy” she said before cackling wildly into the air. I cowered from the shop, a little scared and as I left I’m pretty sure I saw her turn into a bat. (Which was weird, I thought, why would vampires be selling garlic ice cream?)

As I exited the shop, I realised the time to taste my glorious concoction was at hand. I brought my tongue up to the garlic ice cream, closing my eyes to increase my sense of taste. In slow motion, the creamy scoop touched my tongue and it was then, that I knew.

I had been duped

It tasted DISGUSTING. Imagine, if you will, that you are licking a giant wet garlic clove! Not the most tasty of things, I assure you. It tastes almost like a sweaty shoe (which funnily enough is the next flavour they’re going to make…)

Realisation quick set in, I was just another stupid tourist. Trying disgusting foods, just to say I’ve tried them! I felt pathetic. But that’s ok, I thought, the pineapple will still be enjoyable. But no, I’d been duped again! Now I knew, why the girl grinned so evilly. Now I knew the joke. To get to the pineapple, I had to make my way through the entire scoop of garlic. I cringed my way through it, belittling myself for being such a moron.

Thankfully the pineapple ice cream was almost good enough to make up for the punishment. But all day afterwards the smelly taste of garlic lingered in my mouth, reminding me that sometimes you shouldn’t do things for the sake of doing them. Especially if you know you wont like them. And especially if they take a whole packet of Tic Tacs to relieve.

First, the good news.

After a long short, hard easy struggle, I have found myself a job. It pays well, I get to work in a skyscraper and officially my title is Underwriting Assistant. Unofficially I’m an admin again, and will be doing exciting things like typing a lot and sipping tea a lot.

Next, the bad news.

I have found myself a job. I start on Monday. Oh shit…MONDAY IS TOMORROW! BOOOOO!

Today, I feel very much like a child on the last day of the Summer holidays, looking back at the previous 6 weeks and thinking “Dammit, I wish I’d spent less time sitting on my arse, and more time doing exciting things! I’ve wasted 6 weeks!” Knowing you have to go back to the grind after weeks of laziness is a horrible feeling. My response to the word “work” is “UGH!” But it’s got to be done. Something has to pay for my horribly expensive addictions to food and warmth.

Knowing my days of rest are almost at a close, I’ve been spending my time exploring as much as possible, trying to make the most of my freedom while I still have it. One late afternoon, I decided to go and see the sunset. My plan was simple: I’d just keep walking towards the sun and this would eventually mean I’d end up at the coast where I could watch the sun going down.

This seemed like a perfect plan, but was completely imperfect for two reasons:

1. The coast was around 2 inches away on the map. This made me think “Hey, two inches? That’s nothing! It’s probably only a ten minute walk! 2 hours later, with aching legs, I was starting to think I was possibly, maybe wrong.

2. Pacific Spirit Park.

Ah, Pacific Spirit Park. According to some random stranger online, it’s “The closest thing you can get to the wilderness in Vancouver.” Brilliant, I thought, I can go for a lovely hike through the woods on my way to the sunset. All I have to do is remember: follow the sun, follow the sun, follow the sun.

After 20 minutes of walking along random trails, I very quickly realised, I was lost. Following the sun is the most moronic idea ever! Once you go into a dense forest it’s impossible to see the bloody thing! Now I know why the compass was invented.

After 20 more minutes, I realised, I was not lost, I was really lost. I started to panic slightly. The sun was going down rather quickly. The forest was getting dark. I’d heard there were coyotes in Vancouver. What if a coyote ate me?! I tried to think back to all of the survival shows I’d watched on TV. “I’ve got it!” I screamed, “I’ll just check the moss”. Apparently moss only grows on the North side of a tree. So I checked a tree. It was covered in the damn stuff, ON BOTH SIDES. Actually, the whole fucking forest was covered in moss! This was clearly some kind of crazy moss forest of doom!

Another 20 minutes, I felt the need to pee. I wondered if I should drink it to keep my hydration up. I started to hear voices in the forest around me. Possibly somebody walking their dog. POSSIBLY A SATANIC CULT THAT’S GOING TO KILL ME!

An additional 20 minutes and after a lot of deep thought, I decided NOT to drink my pee. Instead I released it all over the moss to punish it. TAKE THAT MOSS! MWAHAHA!

With the sun almost down and the forest ever darkening, I decided it was probably time to write a farewell note to my family, but just as I was reaching in my bag to get some paper, I heard footsteps on the trail behind me. Coming towards me were three dark figures with shining heads. I screeched in terror. Only aliens have shining heads, I’m about to be abducted!

Then a soft voice said, “You ok, man?” It’s then that I noticed they weren’t aliens at all. But three Chinese ecology students with lamps on their heads. I broke down in tears, dropping to my knees “I thought, I was going to die in this horrible mossy death forest!” One of the students rolled their eyes “Pffff, this forest has some of the rarest moss in the world! Don’t diss the moss, man!” “I’m sorry, I’m just so thankful, I was lost…and…and…” “Dude, the road is just there…” The Chinese student pointed to my right, and there the road was, directly beside the trail, metres away.

Standing up and brushing the dirt off my jeans, I thanked the students and walked to the road, finding a viewpoint to watch the sunset from. As I was walking away, I heard one of the students sniffling “fucking tourists, always blaming the moss.”

To visit a country is only to skim the surface.

You can never truly grasp a place in a few days. Sometimes understanding can take months, even years. When visiting a new country, the differences are something you appreciate, the differences are why you’re there, they’re part of the experience, you may even say they are the experience. Staring at the queer fruits and vegetables in a market you say, “Wow, we don’t get these back home!” It excites you. Everything excites you. The voices, the people, the food, the streets, the sky, the mountains. Everything.

Later, you leave, go back to the comfort of your own fruits and vegetables. Back to your own voices, your own people. Back home, to what you know and love. Back to comfort.

Culture shock happens when you try to change that home, even temporarily. When you try to make a transition between the new life you’ve started and the old life you’ve left behind. You can visit a country for a week and believe it’s the greatest place on earth. You can stay another week and the cracks might start to form. You can stay for a month and you’ll go crazy.

Those fruits and vegetables that were once so exciting fill you with resentment. Your mind struggles with the way things work in this new place. You don’t know the new systems. The magic has worn off. Nothing excites you. Everything around you is just a reminder of your old home, everything you are used to. You miss the way things were back. You miss your familiar life. You miss your fruits and vegetables. You’re homesick.

In the past I worked with the notion that culture shock didn’t exist when going to a country much like your own. I’ve been to America a few times. People spoke the same language, ate the same vegetables and acted in much the same way. Their culture is the same, I thought. But, I was naive.

A culture is more than what’s on the surface, a culture runs deep. Even when the language is the same, the systems are different.

Chances are you’ve never noticed there are systems at all. Everything around you has always been there, you’ve lived in a place so long that you subconsciously know how things work. You instinctively know what to do in any situation. You understand your world.

Culture shock is understanding nothing. It’s being blind in a world where everybody around you can see. Life becomes a challenge. Riding the bus becomes a scary experience. How do you pay the driver? How do you queue? How do you get off the bus? How do you stop the bus (do you put your hand out, or does it just stop?) Everyday situations, in a new country, become obstacles, something you must overcome.

When you are faced with hundreds of new challenges each day, when buying a pint of milk becomes a task which you must consciously think about, that’s when you get frustrated, and culture shock sets in. But you can learn.

Here’s a skill you probably take for granted. If you have coins in your pocket, you can look at them in your hand and within a moment you will know roughly how much money you have. It’s something you’ve learnt at one point or another, but you never think about it. It’s almost always been there. But you must learn it again. You have to learn it all again.

The easiest way to get from A to B, where to go if you need toothpaste, who to ring if your car breaks down, what brand of tea is best to drink, where to go if you break your tooth, how to haggle at the local market.

Guides can tell you where to go, maps can show you how to get there. But there is no map to use for living. The smallest details are the most important and those are the details people never mention, because they never seem noticeable. But you will learn.

Some things come quickly – learning how to cross the street, mastering the bus, finding out how much those coins are worth. Other things come slowly – learning to talk like the natives, mastering your routine, finding out how to cook with those crazy fruits and vegetables.

Eventually though, there’s nothing more to learn. Life is no longer a challenge. Every little skill you’ve mastered is pushed back into your subconscious. You can look at the money in your hand and know what you have. You can feel comfortable knowing where you are.

Home.

——————

Photo is “Train arriving at Cairo’s Sadat station” by modenadude. Published under the Creative Commons license.

Has it been a week already? Man, does time fly when you’re sitting on your arse doing nothing – which is what I’ve been doing mostly this week. I’ve already got into the old, productive routine of waking up, then checking my emails for 12 hours straight. I tell myself I’m looking for jobs, but who am I kidding, I’m mostly just looking at cat videos.

Thankfully, I have managed to fill in a few job applications and have signed up for a couple of recruitment agencies. Applications aren’t usually a problem for me, but recently I’ve been struggling with one section a lot, the good old emergency contact.

Back home, my emergency contact is usually my mam (awww), but over here I’ve come to the horrible realisation that I don’t know anyone. You can’t exactly meet somebody for 5 minutes then say, “Hey, by the way, I’m putting you down as my emergency contact!” It’d be a bit awkward, wouldn’t it? It’s almost like proposing marriage, you need to find the right person first, somebody you can trust, somebody you’re close to, somebody that doesn’t mind if you fart aloud in bed.

If you’re in an accident at work, and you’re in hospital about to die, who would be the person you’d want to see before flying into that tunnel of light? Your emergency contact, of course!

But, I have no emergency contact. I’ve met a few people, sure – but I’m still at the stage with most of them where I tend to forget their name and what they look like. Hardly emergency contact material. I can hardly write, “That tall dude with the brown hair who might be named Bob or Rob” on application forms. Plus heaven forbid that I’m actually in an accident and they turn up to the hospital, look at me and say, “Sorry, have we met?” I’d look completely pathetic! Especially when explaining, “Yes, of course we’ve met! Don’t you remember? You’re my best friend. I held the door open for you at the supermarket that one time…and you said ‘thanks’…”

So for now my emergency contact is myself. I’m hoping nobody notices and just thinks I’ve got a friend with the exact same name and phone number. God help me if I’m in an actual accident, I’m the last person I want to see before death.

In other news, you may remember last week that I swore off meat due to its expense. Rather predictably, my vegetarianism only lasted around a week. My friend mentioned to me that I’m here to have fun, not to live like a hermit and I managed to see some sense. I’ve decided to say FUCK IT. Even if meat is too expensive, I’m going to eat it regardless. With that in mind I headed straight for Japadog – a fast food restaurant that sells Japanese hot dogs.

Now you may be wondering, what exactly a Japanese hot dog is. I can tell you that the hot dogs themselves are NOT Japanese, just normal hot dogs. It’s what they put on top that is Japanese. Take a look:

Yup, a hot-dog smothered in sea-weed. Very Japanese. It was surprisingly tasty and the perfect way to break my meat fast (although I guess it was only technically meat, since it was probably made of cow anuses.)

After finishing my hot dog, I thought a little dessert might be in order, which is when I looked up and saw this:

I decided the sea-weed hot dog was enough adventure for one day, and went on my merry way, happy to be back to my meat-eating ways. But I’m unfortunately still not allowing myself to buy one thing due to its expense. Beer. At around $8 (£5!) a pint it’s $8 more than I’m willing to spend. Finally a good excuse to stop drinking the damn stuff!

Anywho, that’s enough for now! Have a good week everybody.

Dan

So I’ve decided to send a group email out from time to time, as I think it’ll be a lot easier for me to do that than to talk with you all individually about the same things. If you’re not interested in receiving said emails, tell me so, or I’ll just keep sending them.

Anyway, on to business.

I had the best time over Christmas in Portland and was incredibly sad to leave it behind as after 3 weeks or so it was starting to feel like home. I had so much spending money that I could basically live like a king, and I spent a lot of my time walking around, finding nice places to eat, then walking around some more until I found another nice place to eat. I’ve searched my mind for a way to make money out of walking and eating, as it’d probably be my dream job, but the best I can come up with is a food critic and I don’t think that’s going to cut the mustard really.

Fortunately due to all of the walking I haven’t gained any weight. Unfortunately now that I’m in Vancouver my budget is much tighter and I’ll probably end up losing weight due to malnutrition. Have you realised how expensive meat is? (Hint: really fucking expensive!) Do you know how much bread costs? (Hint: A lot.)

I’ve already taken to shopping at the Canadian equivalent of Netto (Netto being a cheap British supermarket) and buying the cheapest unbranded goods. I no longer drink Dr Pepper, I drink Mr Popper. I no longer eat Cheerios, I eat Cheery-WOAHS. I no longer eat prime sirloin steak, I lay traps to catch squirrels in the nearby park.

Actually this is mostly a lie, I don’t buy pop (soda) because it’s too expensive.  I drink water. I haven’t eaten meat since I arrived because that too seems expensive. Possibly I’m just being really cheap, but I’m now almost a vegetarian. I look back fondly on the days when my parents bought all that yummy food for the house. Times are tough – and I’ve only been here a week.

Apart from the malnutrition, things are good. I’m currently living in the basement of a house in Kitsilano, a nice suburb of Vancouver. In the afternoon I can look out of our back window and see mountains across the water. At night (due to living near the top of a hill) you can see the city lights in the distance. The neighbourhood is lovely and my impression so far of Vancouver is that the further you get from downtown, the nicer it becomes. Downtown is all hustle and bustle, tooting horns and people – not my type of thing.

Today I accidentally found myself walking into (what I have now learnt) is the notorious Downtown Eastside. Imagine a place where dozens of prostitutes, crack addicts and the crazy loiter all day on the street – that’s the Downtown Eastside. I walked out of there pretty sharpish and met a Couchsurfer in the nearby park . I attach a photo I took in the park to give you an idea of the type of place the area clearly is.

In other news, I’m currently looking for jobs in the city. At the moment I’m just searching for office jobs, but in a month or so (or perhaps sooner once I really start to crave meat) I’ll start looking for other jobs. I’ve already contemplated a dish-washing job, that’s how much I want to buy steak and Dr Pepper.

That’s enough from me for now, hope you’re all doing alright.

Dan

My flights are booked. My visa approved. It was the easiest-tough decision of my life. In 9 weeks, 1 day and 14 hours, I will begin a journey, turning over a new page in my life.

At 25 years of age, I will move to Canada. For 8 months, maybe longer, I will move to Canada. Alone.

I have no real plan. Nowhere to stay. No job. No friends. Just a vague itinerary and the ability to put off thinking about most problems until they face me.

Yet, still, I am shitting myself.

It’s strange how our first reaction to freedom is to be scared. People are planners. We love to be comfortable with our tomorrows – we love to see around the next corner – we love to know.

A fear of the unknown is something most people share. We hate mystery, it pulls at our stomach and wont let go. If something is unknown to us, our imaginations can take over, and nothing can be more damaging than our brain on the loose. We can think up such terrible situations that could never possibly happen in real-life, yet we convince ourselves they could.

The best horror movies play on that fear – involving monsters that we never fully see, only glimpsing the features, making up the horror with our minds. When we do eventually see the monster, usually the movie stops being scary. Once you know what that great horror really is, once it can be understood, it’s no longer a threat. When we can compare the reality to what we imagine, we realise that our imagination was far scarier.

This fear of an unknown future is what stops most people from making drastic changes in their life, even when the changes will eventually be better for them.  When the future becomes a blank void, everything becomes scary. We look forward and all we can see is series of ‘what-ifs’ with no pre-determined path. Anything could go wrong. Anything could go right. We can see no reality, only the imagined. We never know what will happen. Scary.

Most people don’t take the leap. They just stay in a comfortable bubble, they know what will happen tomorrow, some know what will happen in 10 years, some have their whole lives planned til their death. There’s no problem with that, but to me there’s something boring in that inevitability.

A book is no longer fun to me when I can tell what’s going to happen. It feels like I’m just going through the motions, reading for the sake of reading. Life with a huge plan is like living for the sake of living. You already know what will happen, so why bother at all?

I’d rather live for the unknown plot-twist. But to do that I will have to conquer that fear. I will have to jump head first into the unknown, with nothing to protect me but the briefest of hopes that everything will turn out good. Knowing that the future is a blank canvas, that I can do anything with it.

Knowing that I am truly, completely free.

——

Photo is titled Skydiving by Kaipullai(கைப்புள்ள)

For the past 6 months I have been leading a secret double life. I am a superhero.

I wake in the early hours of the morning, while the world sleeps, while evil stirs. I stand before my mirror, slip on my costume – a sleek fitted red shirt, blue tights, a cape. I stretch my muscles, ready to roam the streets.

My super-powers?

The power to make dogs go wild on sight. The power to make small children jump up and down with delight. The power to quietly sneak onto private property with stealth. The power of above average-health.

My friends know me as Daniel Baird. But when I suit up, when I put on that red shirt. When I don that cape. I am no longer Daniel Baird. I am no longer weak – I gain the strength of at least TWO 9 year old boys. I am no longer an idiot – I gain intelligence at least comparable to that of a dolphin. I become my alter-ego. I become…

Postman

Do you need a letter delivered apathetically by somebody that doesn’t give a damn? Postman is there!! Do you need a large package delivered sometime between 7am and 5pm, but probably at the exact moment you step into the shower? Postman is there!! Do you need somebody to wake you up at 8am on a Saturday morning because a packet wont fit through your letter box? Do you need junk mail? Shopping catalogues? Pizza menus? Do you need a torn birthday card? Postman is there!!

Whether rain, snow, heat or gale. Postman is there!!

Or rather. I would have been there, because eventually reality set in. I realised I wasn’t a superhero. I wasn’t Postman (upper-case “P”), I was a postman (lower-case “P”). I didn’t have any super powers. I didn’t have a costume. I had an uninspiring job delivering mail.

The word uninspiring is apt. Inspiration has to come from somewhere, and posting mail through doors for 4 hours each day isn’t that somwhere. Monotony destroys creativity. The more monotonous your life, the less your need to think. The less you think, the more challenging it becomes to do those things that require thinking. Thinking becomes tough.

From the moment I started the job I stopped thinking. My enthusiasm for pretty much everything started to wane. I was Lazyman. My superpower was laziness. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to go out with friends, I stopped doing all of the enjoyable things I liked to do. I didn’t read a book in months. My attention span was at an all time low. My energy was gone.

I only had enough energy for miniscule tasks, like posting mail. Anything else was too much, making a full meal was too much, I ate nothing but sandwiches for months. I didn’t think all day at work, so my mind wasn’t ready to think afterwards. Worst of all I stopped writing – you possibly noticed – because writing was too taxing, too much work. I became a zombie. I clicked into my routine, my life was barely conscious. I would drift to work, drift through my day, drift home, drift to sleep. Everything I did was subconscious. My life was a one without thought.

Then one day I ran out of elastic [rubber] bands.

To a postman, the elastic band is more than a simple piece of stationery. Each day the Royal Mail goes through 2 million red elastic bands, all used to bundle up mail. But despite this they are still a rare commodity. Postal workers hoard the bands in secret stashes to ensure there’s always a steady supply so that they never run out. I started my own stash. Elastic bands became valuable to me. I always had one eye on my bands. I started to cup them in my hands and purr the words “my preciousssss.” Until the day I snapped too many and I ran out.

Now the only way to get more elastic bands if you’re a postman, is to steal them off somebody else. While a co-worker is away from his desk, you need to sneak over, grab as many bands from his stash as possible, then run back to your own desk.

It was still early in my elastic band stealing career. I didn’t know the tricks. So I watched as a co-worker beside me walked away from his own fitting. I snuck over. I quickly started to search for his bands, and when I couldn’t see any in immediate sight I started to deepen my investigation. Each desk had one drawer, I opened his and started to rifling through it, finally finding the treasure: hidden under a piece of paper, the largest collection of elastic bands in the world. I wanted to jump into the bands and swim in them. But no time! I filled my hands as quickly as possible, then I heard a loud voice behind me.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?”

I turned around. My co-worker was standing in front of me, a thin middle-aged man with thick glasses and a buzz cut. The type of guy that looks like he was once in the army but got kicked out for being too crazy (which is pretty crazy). He pushed himself right up into my face. I was scared and I fumbled an excuse “I – um, I just, I needed some elastic bands…” He sneered at me “WELL YOU’RE NOT TAKING ANY ELASTIC BANDS OFF MY FUCKING DESK! THOSE ARE MY FUCKING ELASTIC BANDS! FIND YOUR OWN ELASTIC BANDS SOMEWHERE ELSE! YOU’RE NOT HAVING MINE!!!”

I squeaked an apology, putting the bands back on his desk and slumping away. For a few moments I filled completely with rage. I swore at my co-worker in my mind. Why should he have all the fucking elastic bands? What the fuck was I supposed to do? Why did he have to be so fucking mean? Fuck him. I called him everything I could think of. Fucking this, fucking that.

Then I caught myself in the anger, a short moment of self-realisation. I was shocked at what I could see. My life had degenerated to the point that I was feeling genuine, deep anger over elastic bands. I started to laugh to myself. The whole thing was absurd. They were just elastic bands.

I realised I was no longer in control of myself, I had subconsciously just become like everybody around me. Not focusing or thinking. I was becoming petty, mean and angry about insignificant things. Soon I wouldn’t want to share my own bands. My preciouses.

As the days went by I started to really look around me at my co-workers. I realised that the longer they had been working there, the more they had lost sight of reality. They no longer knew what was and wasn’t of importance. They had stopped thinking of elastic bands as something to tie up mail. They thought of these little pieces of rubber as a sign of power and authority. If you had the most bands, if you could protect your bands against everybody else, then you had some small piece of power. Nobody else.

None of this was conscious, no thinking was involved, it just happened. Like the children in Lord of the Flies, we didn’t become crazed elastic band hoarders overnight. It was gradual. Slowly creeping onto you until it seemed like normal behaviour.

I have seen grown men swear, out-loud, in a rage, because somebody else has told them they have to deliver one more package. I have seen postmen throwing packages against the wall because their elastic bands kept snapping. I have seen men – actual adults, with children – almost get into fist fights over having to deliver a few more letters. And I have seen how the majority of people I was working with thought this was all normal behaviour, I even thought it was normal behaviour myself for a while.

But it’s only normal when you don’t think about it, when you lose your life to a sub-conscious routine. When you no see the world rationally, and you give importance to unimportant things, like elastic bands.

Millions of people do this their whole life. Drift through life subconsciously. Never thinking. Never knowing they aren’t thinking. Losing sight of so many important things. Becoming attached to so many insignificant things without knowing why.

Then one day they hang up their cape. They look around them. They look at themselves. They wonder why those rubber bands were so important. And they quit.

_______________________

Photo 1 is titled Now All I need is a Cape by Zach Disner on Flickr.
Photo 2 is titled Rubber Bands by mattscoggin on Flickr.

Yesterday a stranger spat in my face. Literally, not metaphorically.

I was sitting with a friend at the time – waiting for the bus – when a group of hoodlums walked by. One of these ruffians turned to me, shouted the word “BISCUITS” and spat in my face. I don’t know why he shouted “BISCUITS”, possibly because he knew that I would go back to this word in an attempt to find some meaning within it. Perhaps he knew that word would keep me up at night, constantly questioning me, forever making me wonder “Why?! Why did he say biscuits?! What does it all mean?!”

Immediately after the spittle hit my face, I felt nothing. I did not feel angry or sad, just apathetic. I was apathetic, precisely because the entire scene didn’t mean anything. He didn’t do it for any reason I could fathom and without a reason, how could I have a reaction?

Later, I searched for meaning, part of me wishing that there was a little drama to the event. That I had somehow wronged this man in some way. That we were part of some tragic Shakespearen tale. I’m not completely against spitting if the scene calls for it. If the spitter minces their way over dramatically, shouting the words “I spit on thee and thy house for the wrongs thou hath done me *hawk-spit*” At least that spitting means something. Spitting in disgust. But I’m not disgusting. Give me some meaning if you’re going to spit on me dammit!

But NO, this spit meant nothing. Not spitting for feminism, or spitting for socialism. Just spitting for the sake of it.  What a waste of spit. Spit that was on my face. Spit that I barely cared enough about to wipe away.

Yet, I must regress, I am perhaps being a little misleading. When I say he spat on me, I know what you’re thinking:

You’re thinking it was in slow-motion. (Such things always happen in slow-motion.) A weasel-looking youth, with a small moustache, looking down on me with a crafty flash in his eyes.

You’re thinking of the sound he made as he built up the spit. A low rumble of phlegm in the throat.

You’re thinking of the quick instant when he shot the saliva out of his mouth. You’re thinking that I watched it slowly gliding through the air towards me as I screamed one long “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

You’re thinking the spit hit me on the eyebrow, my head kicking backwards like I’d been hit by a gun. You’re thinking the ruffian smiled slyly in my direction, so happy with all he’d accomplished.

But let me tell you, you’re thinking wrong.

It all happened so quick that I barely had time to realise it was happening. It wasn’t slow-motion, it was fast-motion. Suddenly this man was in front of me, he was shouting “BISCUITS!”, he was spitting.

And the spit was weak. There was no conviction behind it. It was apathetic spit. It was spit that said “meh, I don’t really feel like doing this, but I’ve got to.” It was like the piece of homework you leave until the night before deadline. Lousy, half-hearted and lazy. Just plain rubbish. I was the teacher that received that lousy homework, shaking my head and thinking “come on now, we both know you can do better than this! You’re underachieving. You’ll never make anything of yourself if you go through life like this.”

There was no build up of phlegm, there was no force behind the release. In fact, the lousy little shit didn’t even have the common decency to open his mouth! He instead spat through his lips. It was half spit, half accidental raspberry. His spit dispersed into a number of minute, micro-spittles. It was like when somebody tells you a funny joke, just at the moment you’ve taken a swig of cola. We’ve all been there right? The instinctive laugh that we try to hold in at the last second, which shoots a mist of cola onto our friend. (Or in my case, laptop, because I have no friends.)

That’s how his spit was. A short, shallow mist. If spitting were a sport, then my grandma could have beaten this guy. When the spit hit me I was barely aware that it actually had. When my friend asked seconds later “did that guy just spit on you?” I suddenly started to wonder whether he actually had or not. Had he just spat on me? I felt like running down the street after him. “Erm, excuse me, sorry to bother you, I was just wondering… did you spit on me back there? Just, I’m not sure if you did, which means I don’t really know how to feel about the whole thing. Oh. Oh, right. Oh, you did just spit on me. My mistake. Didn’t mean to trouble you. Oh, wait. Wait, wait, wait! Just one more question before you leave. Uh, soooo… what was that you were saying about biscuits?”

Perhaps I’ve got it all wrong though. Perhaps his friend had just told him a hilarious, long-winded joke. The type of joke that goes on and on, and is all building up to one, perfect punch-line. A punch-line like “BISCUITS!” Perhaps upon hearing this punch-line the ruffian was forced to also exclaim “BISCUITS!” Because after that long build-up the punch-line was so obvious, but also so hilarious. “BISCUITS! HAHAHAHA! MAN THAT’S GOOD!” But maybe all he could do was exclaim “BISCUITS” before trying to hold in his laugh. And maybe that laugh turned into an inadvertent raspberry of spittle in my direction. Maybe he didn’t spit at me. Maybe he just accidentally spat in my direction. Maybe he felt really bad about it, but he didn’t apologise because, well, that’d have been really awkward, wouldn’t it? Apologising to the stranger you just accidentally spat on. Maybe he was just being polite by not bringing me into an already awkard situation. How kind of him.

Maybe he had a medical condition that prevented him from controlling his lips? Maybe he thought I was on fire and was trying to put me out? Maybe he didn’t like my jacket? Maybe, he spat on me for no reason at all. No no. That can’t be right. Ridiculous! It must have meant something! Surely!

Maybe. Just maybe, I reminded him of one thing. The one thing he hated more than anything else in this rotten world. A thing that had haunted him since the day he’d been born. A thing that chased him down long corridors in his nightmares. A thing that had killed his mother, his father, and his pet goldfish. A thing he feared, but a thing he also one day vowed to destroy:

BISCUITS.

__________________________

Photo titled Hoodlum by carbonnyc.

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 3:31:34 PM
Are we still on for dinner plans tonight?

The Guy I like (Mobile)
Received: April 22, 2011 5:11:28 PM
Oh, that’s right. That was for tonight.
I forgot I have to stay late at work.

The Voice inside Jamie’s head: What the hell?! First off, it took him… (uses fingers to count out the math)…an hour and forty minutes to even respond back to my text! Secondly, he forgot!? So, you know what? I won’t even respond back. Or if I do, it will be three hours from now.

–

If Life were an exam, the above scenario* would be question number 34. The above example should feel quite familiar to most (at least I can speak on behalf of women). And if not, I guess I’m alone here and hopefully, you the reader, will continue following along anyway.

[*This scenario did not actually happen to the writer.]

After reading the said scenario on the exam, this question would follow:

What do you do next?

1. Tell him that you’re disappointed in him forgetting, but arrange for another night. He suggests breakfast instead, you oblige, and live happily ever after.
2. Call him, immediately, demanding to know why it took him so long to respond. Also make it known that you’re starving, and it’s all his fault.
3. You refuse to text him back until three hours later, feigning disinterest about the fact he completely forgot about dinner plans.
4. Other (Please write comments in the appropriate space below.)

However, this isn’t a question on the Life exam. We don’t have the time to clearly think about what we should choose. We don’t have the opportunity to study for it. It just….happens. We more than likely choose to do the first thing that comes to mind, regardless of how silly, crazy, and ridiculous it sounds at the time. (More than likely it sounds brilliant to you, anyway.)

Thus, irrational, crazy side ensues.
Thus, playing games occur.

And no, I am not talking about those games. I am not talking about a game of Scrabble, an episode of Jeopardy! or a game of Hide-and-Go-Seek. As those are quite fun. I am, however, talking about the games we play while in relationships.

The said scenario in which I keep referring to is an example of playing mind games in a relationship. The Voice Inside Jamie’s Head was contemplating what should she say to him, what should she do, or should she even do and/or say anything at all?! But why? Is it because playing games are inevitable? If so, when are they initiated?

After much thorough thinking, I have come to believe there are different games played while at different stages in relationships. I have provided some examples below. (Age, sex, and IQ can also be factors when it comes to choosing what game to play.)

• A five-year-old boy teases a five-year-old girl. He pushes her on the ground to proclaim that he thinks she is cute. She is crying and never wants to speak to the boy again. [Note: The games are physical.]

• There are two people, right now, unaware of how the other person feels about them. These two people are probably playing hard-to-get because one must never come off as needy, desperate, and readily available. EVER! [Note: The games are now mental.]

• The aforementioned two people are now in a relationship. It has been three years already! However, they fight, a lot. They also threaten to break up with each other, and if they do, they come crawling right back to one another. They continue trying to make the other person jealous by going out, taking pictures with “good-looking” strangers and posting it on their facebook. They both are miserable.

• There could also be another two people, right now, where one person is aware of the other being completely smitten with them. This person finds it flattering, and takes advantage of the smitten one. I don’t know the name of the game, but the person playing it is an asshole. They take comfort in knowing someone, right now, finds them fascinating even though they have no intention of getting with this person. (Namely because they already have a significant other.) But it’s a a nice stroke to their ego, and so it continues.

For the past few months, I have begun to like someone. Fortunately for me, the feelings are mutual, which basically means I don’t have to play hard-to-get. Yes! However, there could still be other games that will be played along the way. (You know, like naked Scrabble.)

But the thing is, I don’t feel like I need to. (Yes, there have been times when I felt I needed to. Don’t you remember the miserable couple from above? They believed getting one another jealous would prove to themselves that their significant other cared about them.) I feel quite all right with calling him or messaging him anytime I please without asking myself, “Am I being too…much?” (It also helps that he responds within a reasonable time frame.) But it could simply be because it hasn’t been long enough. We are still at the point where everything the other person says is fucking fascinating.

I’ve already discussed when the best time in a relationship is: the beginning. Right now, we are both on the equal-playing field. The trust is still intact. It has not been lost, forgotten, abused, or abandoned. Namely because I have put it in a safe spot, under my bed, wrapped in plastic, bound by a chain.

–

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:23:14 PM
I can’t believe you forgot! When can
can we reschedule then?

The Guy I Like (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:25:09 PM
How about breakfast instead?

Jamie (Mobile)
Sent: April 22, 2011 5:26:27 PM
Doughnuts?