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By JD Date: 2004 Aug 11 Comment on this Work [[2004.08.11.21.37.22208]] |
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Dear JJ, Have you ever just stopped and watched people on the subway? I mean, really looked at them and wonder where they were going, what they were thinking. Today, I was riding on the Bloor Line and I watched people- not like some sick stalker that you believe me to be. I just watched and wondered. I saw a woman, a robust woman, with her head buried in her hands. Her brown hair was in all sorts of disarray and at first glance, you would think that she was some bum that managed to score the $2.25 to take you from the cookie-cutter houses of Mississauga to the government housing of Scarborough. But I watched her and immediately noticed the Fendi bag next to her, the expensive Ugg boots cradling her delicate feet, and the palm pilot. She looked up at me, obviously feeling my gaze on her and gave me one of those smiles that seemed to say 'It's just one the them days." I was having one of those days. My boss had told me that my latest article reeked. Well, Eleanor isn't really my boss. She's the editor of the school newspaper and thought that she was the boss of me. Maybe it's because I let her order me around. Why not? I liked writing for our tawdry little university paper. Heck, I'm not a real journalist anyway. I'm no Diane Sawyer. Plus, my mother just told me that I had gained a few pounds. Can you believe that? My very own flesh speaking such atrocities. Must be those late night ice cream runs with my girl friends. I blame you. Those ice cream runs are spawned by you, you know. I end up rambling on and on about you, all while buying the largest supply of rocky road ice cream from Dairy Queen. It's your fault that I'm no longer my 115 pounds of perfection. I must be content with my 120 pound body. Anyway, I wonder what people think when they watch me? Do they know that I spend my days writing to my ex-boyfriend, telling him stories about the most inane things in the world- like people on a subway? Or am I the only freak in Toronto that does this sort of thing? Maybe I should move back to the homeland with you. Then we'd be two freaks that conjure up elaborate stories about people on subways. Because you do that sort of thing. But I can't leave, you know that. I know that. As it stands, I'm alone, staring at strangers, riding on a subway to nowhere. Love, Me |