People

I don't get people. You know how everyone always assumes life is this incredibly valuable thing, and we're here for a reason and all that crap? I don't get that. Cause logically speaking, chances are most of the 6 billion+ people that live in the world are not special. Most of us are gonna go through life without ever achieving anything truly important, without making a difference, without leaving any kind of recognizable mark. Yet everyone seems to believe they are, actually, special. And then they look at me weird when I say I don't really think there's much point to anything. At the end of the day, I'm not gonna have a kick ass career, or become famous, or earn millions. I'm just gonna find a normal job, get a house for myself and spend my days living the comfortable yet purposeless life of a middle class guy. Does believing that means there's something wrong with me, or deep down everyone knows it but no one acknowledges it?

Neighbor

Taylor had an interesting neighbor. She had never seen him, but since the walls of their apartments were thinner than rice paper, she could hear every move he made. Not only him, but also the crazy woman from upstairs, who stomped around her living room every morning and called her daughter every Friday to check if she had fed her fish. She could also hear the couple who lived downstairs, newlyweds who spent their afternoons telling each other how in love they were, and the nights showing it. But her neighbor was the only one she liked.
She couldn't quite remember how it started out. One day she was going about her life as usual, and the next she was sitting at the end of the couch to be closer to the wall, so she could hear him. He got up around 10 during the week and left around 11:30. On the weekends he'd never wake up before 3 in the afternoon. He liked to play music when he cleaned the house. He didn't cook much, she assumed, cause every night at dinner time she could hear his microwave beeping. He never watched TV, but watched at least 3 movies every night. Every now and then he would bring his friends over, and they would drink, laugh and play loud music til the sun rose. Sometimes he brought lovers to the apartment. She could hear their quiet whispers and kisses but always left before things got more intense.
She found herself taking work home, so she could spend more time with him. She didn't go out as much anymore, cause she didn't want to miss anything. After a while, even the cackling of the crazy woman from upstairs wasn't so bad, as long as she could hear the sound of him typing something on his computer. She knew how weird it was, but she didn't care much. There was something just too enthralling about her neighbor for her to worry about anything else.
One day Taylor woke up and decided to clean the apartment. It had been a while since she had bothered, so she changed her sheets, did three loads of washing, cleaned the dishes and gathered all the rubbish into two big black bags. She was always careful not to make much noise though. Her neighbor had a friend over, and they were talking about some French movie they had watched the night before. Taylor didn't know anything about French movies, but the conversation fascinated her anyway. Calculating that the 5 minutes it would take her to get the rubbish and take it downstairs was not enough time for them to change the subject, she got her keys, put some slippers on and went outside. And there he was.
Apparently him and his friend had decided to leave. For a few seconds she looked at him. She had imagined him to have brown hair and smart glasses, but he was blonde with bright blue eyes. He had a full beard, and wore a checkered shirt and old-looking jeans. Noticing her staring, he looked at her and smiled.
"You're the girl that lives next door right? Wow, I can't believe we never saw each other before! I'm Jeph."
"I'm Taylor" she muttered, painfully conscious of how red her cheeks were turning.
"Cool. Hey I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I know I make a shitload of noise, and you're so quiet! I feel kinda awful."
"It's alright. I don't mind."
"Ok then. Well, if it gets too bad, just knock on the wall and I'll turn it down a bit". Another smile.
"Ok."
"Alright then. See you later."
Taylor stood there for a while after he left. Finally, she took the rubbish downstairs, went out and bought an Ipod. She didn't want to listen to him anymore. Turned out her 'neighbor' was way more interesting than Jeph.

Oh, parents.

When I was about 6 or 7, whenever me and my brother or me and my sister would argue or fight, Dad had a rather peculiar punishment. He would make me and my brother (or my sister) hug in the middle of the living room for half an hour. Now, 30 minutes is aeons for a 6 year old, so there we are, me and my brother (or sister) hating each others guts and having to stand there hugging. The beauty of it is that it worked. After 10 minutes we'd both realize that if we had to spend the rest of eternity hugging we might as well be nice to each other. And so 15 minutes later Dad let us go, and we'd be laughing and talking normally.

------

I'm a Mama's Boy. I'm not ashamed of it by any means, it's just a fact. Mum always spoiled me a little bit, and I always knew I could go to her whenever I needed anything.
I started going to school when I was 3. School in Brazil starts at 7 AM, so at 6 mum would come in my bedroom and tell me I had to get up soon. I'd just go back to sleep. After a few minutes she'd come back, take me out of the bed, put me in the shower and bathe me. I slept through it. Then she'd lie me on her bed, put my uniform on me, carry me to the car, drive to the school, carry me to my classroom and hand me to my teacher, with me sleeping all the while. My teacher would put me on my desk and I wouldn't wake up til about 10, in time for recess.
And that happened every morning, Monday to Friday. And she had to be at work at 7:30 after all that. See what i mean when I say she spoiled me a little bit?






And for today's random news: I dropped the milk jug twice in a row at work today! I have no money! My flatmate is getting a game out today! I went out with my brother on the weekend! I found a flat on the internet that is just $68 per week!

Blargh

Post-drinking Distress Disorder should be a recognized illness. I mean shit. I could just be a normal person and wallow in my miserable life while drunk, but no, I have to wait for the next morning just to add it to the pressing headache, the body pains and the shame.
Sorry about that. It's just that in MatLand hangover = identity crisis, and the empty bottle of bourbon on my living room didn't treat me very well last night.

And now I feel like going all '13 year old girl who just discovered what a LiveJournal is' on you guys, so brace yourselves.
My mind is stupid. I'm not particularly dumb per se, but the inner workings of my brain make as much sense as, I don't know, buying an AbCircle Pro and expecting it to work. I can be a lovely bundle of joy and hope for the future in one day, and the next day I'm alone in my flat, wondering when everything went wrong while tossing up if taking a shower is reason enough to get my ass out of the couch. A normal person would deal with that by talking to someone, looking up puppies on the internet or drinking heavily. Not me. I tend to prefer a solid two or three days of self-hatred and misery with just a bit of heavy depression on the side to spice things up. And it sucks. Big time. But do I do anything to change it? Nope.

See, Post-drinking Distress Disorder should totally be recognized.






Edit: Forgot the unrelated news. Here they are: We had a big flat clean up on Monday! I've been drawing a lot! I can make espresso coffee now! The stupid Rugby World Cup is coming soon, and I'm dreading the thought of working through it! I had chilli beans, canned tomatoes and cheese for dinner!

It's like burning your bra, except it doesn't make sense.

You know when you're feeling a bit down and all you want to do is make a whiny bullshit post on your blog about how awful your life is? And then when you're 3/4 into it you go to google the right spelling of a word and Safari just decides to go apeshit and stay in rainbow-spinny-thing-of-hell mode for 20 minutes til you finally give up and close everything? Yeah.
So, I'm taking this as a message from the Universe and there shall be no depressed rants in this blog. Instead, I'm going to treat you to the story of how I burned my underwear today:

I've been bored all day and for no particular reason I decided I wanted to burn something. Looking around the room I realised the only things in it that belonged to me were my clothes, so it was only a matter of deciding which piece of clothing I didn't care enough about in order to satisfy my pyromaniac tendencies. The unlucky chosen one was the pair of brown and grey striped boxer briefs I was currently wearing.
After attempting (and failing) to take my underwear off without removing my pants, me, my flatmate and her boyfriend proceeded to the balcony, where the aforementioned underwear was soaked in a highly flammable cleaning product. I lit a cigarette, got a box of matches, and threw a lit one at the briefs. As I looked at the flames, and smelled the mixture of burning fabric and cigarette smoke I felt weirdly liberated. Actually thats bullshit. I didn't feel anything, but the fire was pretty cool.

And that, boys and girls, is how I spend my evenings.






And since this has become my favourite part of this blog, here are some unrelated news: I drank myself into oblivion last night and woke up with a huge bruise in my neck that I have no idea how I got! My mum brought two different kinds of cake for me today! I bought a sketch pad! The shitty pasta I made two days ago tastes much better re-heated! My eye is itchy!


Aaaaaand that's all.

"You bitches."

You guise, you should totally go check Elyse Sewell's blog (www.elysesewell.livejournal.com). She doesn't post anymore, but it's so so cool. Awesome tidbits of information on living in Asia and what being a model is really like (Turns out all those VH1 shows were lying. It's not glamorous, you just get a shitload of makeup thrown in your face, a shitload of hairspray throw in your hair and then you have to pose for 6 hours. I don't know what to believe anymore.)





In today's unrelated news: I had Korean food for dinner! Someone forgot a can of coke in the freezer and it exploded! I'm going for coffee with Amanda tomorrow! Talking about fashion with my mum is awesome! I learned how to wrap my scarf in a cool way!


That's all.




P.S.: Bonus points for whoever figures out the title reference.

I don't remember what breathing feels like.

So, I'm sick. Stupid winter came and brought along a nasty case of the coldz. Since I can't sleep for 5 minutes without waking up gasping for air, I haven't slept all night. It's 4:51AM, and I'm supposed to be at work at 11, ready to cough into as many Big Macs as I possibly can. (Yeah, I do that. I figure that there's no fun in being miserable and dying if everyone around me is cheery and healthy.)
Well, fuck work. I'll call in sick. It's 80 bucks I'm not making, but at least I get to stay at home, eat cookies and watch day-time tv.



In other news: I've moved out! Food is heinously expensive and I had never noticed! I have more than $1000 on my savings account for the first time in my life! I've been having sex dreams everyday for the past 2 weeks! The new issue of Vogue Australia is amazing!

That's all for today folks.

New job.

So, I got a new job. Still McDonald's, but a different store. Soon I'll be moving out, paying bills, getting fucked every night and living the life of an adult. Pretty damn scary, but exciting at the same time.

It's weird how I never realized how much I like my job before I knew I was leaving. I mean, don't get me wrong. The job itself sucks balls. I have, at best, a general dislike for customers and coming home smelling like a stale Big Mac every day is not all that pleasant. But the people, man. The people are awesome.
There's Denim, who's the only person I've ever met that actually silly-dances with me.
There's Ange, who, despite being our Restaurant Manager, is totally cool with coming out for a smoke on our breaks and just bitching about everything in the store.
There's Kana, who used to terrify me, 'til I realized that her bitchiness is actually kind of maternal.
There's Kat, who I never talked to and then one day we were suddenly great friends.
There's Gemma, who turned out to be one of the best people to go shopping with I've ever met.
There's Sia, who I don't get to see that often (she only works weekends), but who might be one of the kindest people I'll probably ever meet.
There's Pete, who always comes and talks to me about comic books.
There's Tina W., who is the best manager I have ever worked with, and who always (literally, always) has a smile in her face.
There's Tina R., who's more mature than I ever thought a 24 year old could be.
There's Jaymie, who makes my breaks so so much better.
There's Annie B., who made me look forward to every Health and Safety meeting we had.
There's Gina, who is all manager-like on floor, but turns into just one of us outside work.
There's Victor, who one day surprised the hell out of me when we had a pretty good chat about fashion (he's a pretty big, muscly guy).
There's Grace, who I never got to hang out with that much, but every time we did, was absurdly fun to talk to.
There's Ona and Gloria, who started about a month ago, and as soon as they met me, decided we'd be best friends.
There's Callan, who is one of the cutest, sweetest guys I've ever seen.
There's Annie P., who had my back since my very first day of work.

I'm sure I'm forgetting some people, but what I mean is: I'll miss those fuckers like hell. We've only been working together for about one year at most, but each one of them, at different times, made going to work be more than just getting my pay every week. And I'm grateful for that.

Femme Fatale.

So yeah, I bought Britney's new album. It's amazing in its auto-tuned perfection. Loving it.

Fuck that shit.

Today at work I had a pretty bad customer. We'll call her Ms. Cunty McBitchPants.
Lunch time had just started, and we had gotten fairly busy. Not too much (it's a Tuesday after all), but enough to create about two lines. As I'm doing my thing, Ms. Cunty McBitchPants comes over to my register. I serve her, all the while asking myself if she has some kind of weird muscular disease that makes it impossible for her to smile. Ms. Cunty McBitchPants ordered a Seared Sweet Chili Wrap combo with a Sprite for the drink. In those exact words: a Seared Sweet Chili Wrap combo. Combo. So I got her Sprite, got her kid's Happy Meal, her wrap and her fries. As I put the fries on the tray she looks at me like I suddenly turned into some kind of horrifying looking, foul smelling monster and says:
- I didn't order that. - pointing at the fries.
- Well, you ordered a Sweet Chili wrap combo, it comes with fries and a drink.
- I ordered a Sweet Chili wrap Weight Watchers meal. - (here is when her nostrils started flaring).
- Ok, let me just get you my manager for a refund, I thought you had said combo. - which I KNOW she did.
- NO - she screams - I said I wanted a Weight Watchers meal!
Ok, now listen. If your life is so miserable that being right about ordering something on McDonald's (even though she wasn't) is so important that you have to scream at the teenager serving you, my condolences. If it is in fact so crucial to your well-being that you're ok doing it in front of your child, that's none of my business. Just know that if I weren't working, and if my Restaurant Manager wasn't right there, I would've shouted so many insults at you that your head would've exploded simply because you're brain cannot process so much offense at any one time. Cunt.
So I ask my manager to do her a refund, take her fries away and hide behind the fry dispenser until she's gone, before going back to my register to keep serving people.
Five minutes later, however, there she is. Walking towards me with the tray in her hands, the wrap opened and it's contents all over the place. As she walks in a straight line, headed to me, with fire in her eyes, I feel my stomach jump. Oh Lord, I do not want to deal with this.
- Can I help ma'am?
- This is a Caesar wrap! I wanted the Sweet Chili wrap! - and then she throws the tray on the counter in front of me.
LEARN HOW TO READ YOU FUCKED UP STUPID CUNT. And to smile for that matter. It says pretty clearly on the wrap 'Sweet Chili' or 'Caesar'. They're even different colours. Maybe whoever put the wrap in your tray was too busy to notice, but you took it to your table, had time to look at it, figure out that it wasn't what you wanted and bring it back in a decent state. But because you're such an unpolite asshole, you just HAD to open that shit and throw it at my face.
Honestly, I don't deserve this kind of shit. I didn't fuck her order up on purpose. I didn't even make any mistakes. I wasn't anything but nice and polite to her, but for some reason she thinks she has the right to be a rude little piece of shit to me. Fuck you, Ms. Cunty McBitchPants. Fuck you with something hard and sand-papery.

Not all customers are bad though. One of my regulars gave me a chocolate egg today. And chocolate makes everything better, right?

Oh customer, you're a riot.

School holidays are over. Thank God.
You see, the McDonald's I work at is tiny. Very tiny. It's in a mall's foodcourt, so all we get is this itsy bitsy store, with the kitchen taking 3/4 of it, and next to no space between the counter and the drinks tower, food bin, ice cream machine, etc. Which is usually fine, seeing that in a normal day we won't have more than 5 people working at the counter at any given time. On the school holidays, however, demand is insane, which makes the managers think that it is somehow possible to fit 11 people on a 1x4m space. So if some fucker decides they want a Frozen Coke and Large Fries, I have to dodge a sea of stressed co-workers to go from the slushy machine to the fry station at the other end of the store, all the while bumping into everyone and practically feeling the heat of hatred they emanate. So, needless to say, after 7 hours of that bullshit I'm usually not feeling so peachy. And that's when he comes.
With half an hour left of my shift, the only thing I can think about is the sweet, sweet comfort of my bed. I'm tired, my feet hurt, I'm stressed and if I have to bear through one more kid taking 40 minutes to decide if they want nuggets or a cheeseburger in their Happy Meal I might kill someone. So when Mr. SuperFunnyAsianMan comes in I just ignore my sore cheeks, put in a robotic smile and greet him the same way I greet everyone else. He proceeds to order a medium combo with a Sprite. And then it comes. The stupid, unfunny, pointless and completely idiotic joke:
- Sprite for the drink. But just one cube of ice. (And here he smiles like he just realized he's the funniest man alive, like he's gonna go home, sell everything he has and move to LA to become a stand-up comedian.)
Now, the thing is, I am a nice person. I'm polite, I don't really argue with people and I usually deal with these situations by giving my stupid customer a little laugh and running away before they decide to start talking again. Not this time. All I managed was to get rid of my smile, shoot a look of complete and utter disgust for his existence and ask in the most impatient tone possible "Anything else?".
You're not funny, Mr. SuperFunnyAsianMan. You're joke is stupid, and to think that you somehow got the idea that it would amuse me only makes me think that you have some kind of brain damage. Did you not figure out while waiting for 10 minutes in line and watching me run around bumping into people, juggling drinks in my hands and looking at kids with death in my eyes that maybe I'm not up for a laugh right now? Did you not notice the other 10 people behind you who just wanted you to get your fucking McChicken combo and go away so they could get some food themselves? And if you did, why the fuck would you think it appropriate to joke around with your server? This is fast-food, asshole, and every minute of my time you waste with your inane remarks only makes the people behind you wait longer, making them angrier, making me having to deal with angry, hungry customers. I don't like angry, hungry customers, Mr. SuperFunnyAsianMan. And I don't like you for putting me in a position where I have to deal with them. So keep your fucking jokes to yourself, order your food, take it and get the fuck away from me before I go into a temporary fit of insanity and stab your eyeballs with a straw.
Ok, maybe I'm overreacting. But after the millionth time some jerk decides that Maccas is his stage and I'm the captive audience for his comedy routine I just can't deal with it anymore.
I did end up putting only one cube of ice in his Sprite. I may be homicidal, but I still make sure I'm doing my job.

Maccas shenanigans

So yeah, I still work at McDonald's. As Rebecca Black would put it, 'fun, fun, fun'. Now, people don't really give Maccas workers all the credit that is due. It's not a particularly challenging job, but it does take a lot from you. Depending on how many hours you are working, it can be fairly exhausting, and the inane repetition gets old very quickly. So, in order to amuse myself, I have come up with a few little things to do at work.

1. Pointlessly flirt with unassuming co-workers.
New Zealand is a great country, but it suffers from one crucial issue: jailbait. Where I come from, people mostly look their age. A 16 year old looks like a kid, a 19 year old looks twinky, a 25 year old looks ready for business and a 40 year looks just sad. You know, how things are supposed to be. New Zealand people, however, do not apply. I work with a fair amount of 17~19 year olds, and as creepy as it sounds, they're pretty damn hot. So whenever I'm bored (which is fairly often) and one of them is around, I practice my flirting techniques. Nothing too out there (specially cause pretty much all of them are straight), just small things, like giving them a coy smile from across the restaurant, giggling at their stupid jokes or bending to get something from the cupboard and giving them a view of the good china.
Yeah, I'm a perv. Sue me.

2. Guessing what people are gonna order.
That's one I got down to a fine art. People are surprisingly transparent when it comes to their fast-food preferences. For example: kids up to 9~11 years old will always get a Happy Meal; Old people always get either a white coffee or a white tea, and if I don't give them a tray, they will always ask for one; teenagers add mayo to everything; when a family comes to order the father will always ignore my existence and tell his wife what he wants. She then proceeds to tell me he wants a large combo with an extra burger on the side (usually a Filet), her kids will either get Happy Meals or normal combos (with mayo added to the burgers) and she'll get either a wrap or a medium McChicken combo with Diet Coke.
Apart from what I learned from working there for so long, quite usually I'll be serving them and just guess what drink they want before they ask for it. I'm kind of a fast-food psychic.

3. Dance.
A recent one. Whenever I'm working out back making the burgers, if there's nothing to do and no one to talk to, I'll just start getting down and dirty next to the grills. Me and my friend Denim will every now and then have some good 5 minutes of move busting before one of the managers comes to tell us off.

Y'know, as much as I bitch about it, I actually like my job.

Don't mix money and friends.

I could do a post about it, but the title pretty much says it all. Just don't.

Britney Spears doesn't exist.

So, I was listening to Til The World Ends by the aforementioned Ms. Spears just before. Good song, pretty awesome imagery on the video, same old same old. As I was listening (and awkwardly dancing along), I went on wikipedia and started reading about her new album, Femme Fatale. While reading the critical response to the album, something stood out. Pretty much every critic that didn't like the album pointed out that Britney's voice is what makes the least difference in the album, being utterly unremarkable and heavily auto-tuned. Now, I'm not gonna go all crazy Britney fan on you guys, but I say, so what? The songs are still good, what difference does it make if she's singing them or not?
The way I see it, Britney, for all the shit she does and her unmatched talent to embarrass herself, sells. Her songs ARE good. They're good, honest, unashamed pop. But as opposed to Gaga, Madonna or others like them, Britney's songs don't have anything to do with the art of music. Britney is not an artist. I daresay she's not a singer. She's image. Not even a image, but just image. Her producers literally made the Britney that's on magazines, on the cover of albums, "singing" her songs. The real Britney is that chick going to the store at 4 am to get some Cheetos.
And there's nothing wrong with that. Truth be told, one of the reasons why I love Gaga is because she is truly artistic. She is very much a singer, very much a composer, very much a performer. She's talented, trained and capable, and I love that. But Britney (the image of Britney at least) has her merits too. She has released 7 albuns, and not a single one of them hasn't got at least one song that we all know. Most of us probably know the songs by heart. There's no denying, bitch is good at making pop songs. Even if it isn't her making them.

An argument.

I've been watching a lot of The Big Bang Theory lately, and it tends to bring out my geeky side. So yeah.

-----

- Ok, Jean Grey versus Galactus. Who would win?
- Well, technically that wouldn't be possible. Jean Grey became the White Phoenix of the Crown and now resides on the White Hot Room, so even if Galactus were to attack Earth she wouldn't intervene.
- Just go with it.
- Ok, are we talking Ultimate universe Jean Grey, or Earth 616 Jean Grey?
- 616.
- And are we talking Jean Grey the Phoenix, or just Jean Grey the mutant?
- It doesn't make any difference. Death itself stated that Jean is the rightful host of the Phoenix, so they are essentially the same being.
- Fair enough. Well, I'd say Galactus. He's immenselly powerful and has destroyed countless planets.
- What? That's bullshit. The Phoenix has the power to obliterate anything that's alive and bring back anything that has died. She would kill the shit out of Galactus.
- Well, Galactus is not exactly alive, he's one of the Forces of the universe.
- Nah, that doesn't work. What make Galactus so scary is that he just goes around eating planets. If he eats planets he needs sustenance. If he needs sustenance, the lack of it would kill him, therefore making him alive. And if he's alive, the Phoenix can kill the shit outta him, like I said.
- But Jean is an X-Men, and X-Men don't kill.
- I'm pretty sure that if she had to choose between killing Galactus or watching the whole planet be destroyed, she would go with the first one. Besides, this whole "X-Men don't kill" thing doesn't even work anymore. Ever since Cyclops took over he hasn't shied away from getting rid of opponents he thinks are just too dangerous. Just look at X-Force.
- Well, flawed as Cyclops may be, the X-Men motto still applies. If it didn't, Beast wouldn't have left after Nightcrawler died and he learned about the clandestine missions that the X-Force were doing.
- I miss Nightcrawler.
- Me too. What's with Marvel getting rid of all the cool mutants? First they make Jean stay dead for years, then they kill Kitty Pryde, and now Nightcrawler.
- Hmm, Kitty didn't die. Magneto brought back the bullet she was riding on, and now she's being kept at the laboratory underneath the X-Men base in San Francisco.
- Yeah, I know that. But now that she's permanently stuck in her phase mode and can't talk, move or anything like that it's like she's still dead.
- I suppose... God, you're such a nerd.
- You're one to talk.

-----

I didn't make anything up btw. I just know more about X-Men than I care to admit most times.

I have a confession to make. I'm one of those annoying people that reads classic books in order to look smart. We've all seen them right? That one wanky douchebag sitting in a café reading Sartre, Nietzsche or Oscar Wilde trying to look like an intellectual. So, yeah, that's me.
The beauty of it, however, is that while trying to look smarter than I am, I end up learning stuff. Which means I'm slowly becoming less and less stupid. Maybe in a few years time I'll finally go through a philosophy book without having to go back three or four times on each sentence to grasp the concept.

I'm currently reading Adieux by Simone de Beauvoir btw. But that one I'm reading just cause she was such a badass.

A daisy.

There's a man that goes to the same café that I do. Some days I get there at six, order something quickly and rush off to work. When I do, he's there. Sometimes I get there at seven thirty, order a nice breakfast and eat it reading a newspaper. When I do, he's there. Sometimes on the weekends I come with my flatmate at nine. We order hot chocolates, and drink it while throwing the marshmallows at each other, laughing. When I do, he's there, but never for long. He usually leaves at nine thirty.
The man looks old. He's very short, with a rather pronounced hunchback, as if the weight of his whole life still rests on his shoulders. He walks with the aid of a cane, a beautiful one, made of gorgeous dark wood. He wears woolen trousers, shirts that never seem to be ironed, suspenders and those hats that used to be exclusive to old men, but now are popular among teenagers. And everyday he comes to the café, he brings a daisy.
I think that's what sparked my interest in him. Everyday, he'll get to the café, order a coffee, put his daisy on a little vase and just sit there for 3, 3 and a half hours. He always looks... nostalgic. Not sad, but behind his glassy eyes you can almost see the past he seems to be remembering.
And it makes me wonder, what is that past? My imagination runs wild. I ask the girl with shaved hair that works at the café if she knows anything about him, and she tells me he never speaks much. He just comes in, orders his coffee, and sits there.
After some time I make wondering about his life my hobby. Maybe he's an imigrant. Maybe he came to this country forty years ago, holding on to a promise of money and easy work. Maybe on the way here he met a woman; a beautiful woman. Maybe they fell in love during the trip, but were sent to different places upon arrival. Maybe they kept in touch. Maybe they sent letters to each other every day, telling one another about how difficult not speaking the language was, how exciting their new life was, how they met tons of new people at the factories they were sent to work at. Maybe one day he finally gathered enough money to go meet her at the place she was living. He would've put on his best suit, combed his hair and wore perfume. On his way to her house, he would've picked a flower to give to her. A daisy.
Maybe after arriving at her house he would've discovered she was already married. Devastated, he would've gone to a bar nearby, decided to drink himself to death, not seeing a reason to live if he couldn't be with her. But as soon as he raised his first glass of scotch, she would've entered the bar running, her cheeks red, her hair blown off, the daisy he had given her resting behind her ear; the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
And then they would've eloped. After that, life wouldn't have been easy, but they managed. They had a few children, raised then to be honest adults and watched them leave. One year, after the kids were long gone, she gave him a cane for his birthday. The doctor had said he needed one, and she secretly saved money for months in order to give him the prettiest cane she could find. It was the best gift he had ever received.
And one day she was gone. It was only him. So everyday, instead of staying at home and remembering the sound of her singing while making breakfast, the smell of her hair as she walked around the kitchen, the sound of her laugh when he told her how beautiful she looked that day, he prefered to come to the café. And he brought a daisy. Cause he never forgot her.
I finish my coffee, put the newspaper I wasn't reading away, and get my bag. As I get up, for one second I consider if I should go over to the old man. Pull a chair, sit in front of him and ask him what is his story. But I decide against it. To hear the truth would be to kill this perfect couple I have created in my mind. And I love them too much to do that.

Love.

- I love you.

"Crap."

- Why?

- What?

- Why do you love me?

- I... Don't know. I just do. You make me happy.

- Do I, really? I mean, we've been going out for what, 2 months? How can you know you're happy because of me? Maybe you're just having a good couple of months. For all we know you could lose your job tomorrow, break your leg next week and then break up with me cause I drink all the milk and then put the bottle back in the fridge or something.

- Was that you?

- It doesn't matter. All I'm saying is: you don't love me. You may like me. A lot. But love is just too much.

- But I do! I love being with you, I love looking at you, every moment away from you is like hell to me.

- Well, that's not love. That's some weird kind of psychological addiction.

- So what if it is? I still love you.

- No you don't.

- Why are you saying all this? Why can't you just accept that I love you? Why do you keep trying to prove me wrong?

- Cause you are wrong. Love is huge. It's never-ending, intense in its mildness. It makes the small things seem huge and the big ones seem irrelevant. It gives life a reason. It's beautiful and awful all at the same time. Love is not like they show it in tv. It's not about liking someone, fucking him a couple of times, having a big talk with him where you tell each other about your endless love and go get married. It's not that simple.

- Sometimes it is.

- It's not.

- How do you know?

- I just do.

- So you're saying you don't like me?

- No. I'm saying you shouldn't go around saying you love people like you were asking them to pass the salt shaker.

- But I really do love you!

- Really? So when you see me everything leaves your mind and you just enjoy the moment, right? When you know we're gonna see each other you look forward to it like a child looks forward to Christmas, and when we're together you feel like the luckiest guy in the world, right?

- Yes, exactly.

- Well babe, sorry to inform you, that's infatuation. That goes away in six months at most.

- ... Look, I don't know what's wrong with you today, but I'm gonna leave, ok? You're obviously not in a good mood, and I don't wanna turn this into a fight.

- We're not fighting.

- Whatever. I'm going now. I just don't know why you think you know what I'm feeling. How do you know so much about love, anyway?

He leaves.

"... Cause I love you."