82 lines
5.1 KiB
Plaintext
82 lines
5.1 KiB
Plaintext
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s$
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$$ .d""b. .d""b. HOE E'ZINE #1032
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[-- $$""b. $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ss$$ "Hej d<>!"
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ by, AnonGirl
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$$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ 3/08/00
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[-- $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
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$$ $$ "TssT" "TssT"
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So there I am, standing at the bus stop on an unusually warm yet
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wet February evening. Listening to music in my discman, standing on the
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sidewalk grooving, I decide that today was a good day. I didn't go into
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work, I partied the night before, and now it's warm outside. If winter
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were like this all the time, it wouldn't be so bad. Sure, it's a little
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slushy, but everyone can deal with slush much better than cold weather.
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Standing at the bus stop groovin', I think about having to go into
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work tomorrow. That's going to suck. The HR chick wants to see my first
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thing in the morning. I discovered, the other day, that things pass by
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faster when you're only looking two feet in front of yourself. Like the
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walk on the way home, if I look two feet in front of me instead of three
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hundred, I seem to get home much faster than if I stare at my destination
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constantly. Maybe I'll get laid off tomorrow. That'd be pretty damn
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sweet. Instead, HR chick will probably scold me for taking two days off
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this week, and that I'll have to watch myself. Yes, my job might be in
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danger. I couldn't dream of losing such a terrific wonderful exhausting
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plain great office job. After all, this is my future.
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Where is the bus? Sure it's warm outside but I want to get home
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so I can chill and do nothing for the rest of the night. This cigarette
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tastes damn sweet. The best thing about warm weather is being able to
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smoke outside. If you smoke outside in the winter, the smoke sticks to
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you and you reek for the rest of the day. I'm sure you smell bad anyway,
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but in the winter it's like double the stench. So this is nice.
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I start thinking back to the guy I met yesterday night for drinks.
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I always tell my friends that the one thing I detest most in life is
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being "set up" with other people. "Why?" they ask, and I tell them
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"Because there is no use." But I went along with it this time for the
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fuck of it. Maybe this time he'd be a sensitive, thoughtful guy who
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didn't care for sports or careers or whatnot. Maybe he'd be sweet and
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insightful. But of course, one can only dream. Talked about sports and
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journalism and politics for the whole hour I stayed. Didn't ask for my
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opinion on anything, just shoved his own down my throat. He wants to see
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me again this weekend. I'll be out of town, or at a relative's funeral
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or birthday party. I should've known better.
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The city always looks so drab when it's wet and slushy, especially
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at night. It looks like a car commercial, minus the slush. Add a sleek
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black sports car and some jazzy trumpet, and we're in a Mazda ad. Or
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maybe a low budget film from Sweden. The way that I look right now would
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help play the part of a confused Swede, waiting for the bus. Black
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ripped-up coat, my hair is a mess, and my eyes are all bloodshot from
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before. I wish I could speak Swedish right now. Then I could ask the
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other people waiting, "Hur m<>r du?", and they'd look at me as though I
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were nuts.
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Still waiting for the damn bus! The bus driver is probably
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sitting at the terminal drinking black coffee and eating pastries,
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reading Journal de Montreal. When I was a kid, I used to think that a
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"pastry" was a factory where they made paste. Like a "Pastery". People
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laughed at me and called me cute when I said that, but I still think it'd
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be kinda cool, maybe.
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I'd rather be doing like a million other things right now. But
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instead I'm stuck standing with a group of poor immigrants in acid-washed
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jeans waiting to board the mobile immigrant containment system filled
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with various people and smells. I so don't need this right now.
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Standing on a corner which signifies the border between my happy little
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suburb and the Greek ghetto. One side of the street looks like every
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suburb, with big trees and lots of grass. The other side has a used car
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dealership, a small oriental carpet store and a gay dance club. What an
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odd place to open a gay club.
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Like ten busses have passed at every other stop in this area
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except mine. Fat bastard is probably just washing down his pastries with
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his disgusting cold coffee, shifting his blue-uniformed ass and getting
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ready to start driving. This is just fucking hell, man--
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Fucking goddamnit shit motherfucker bitch-ass fucking christ man,
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_knullar_. I'm looking down at myself and all I can see from my neck to
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my toes is brownish-grey slush. My cigarette is no longer lit, and
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resembles a brown, wet piece of something, man. I can feel wetness
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dribbling down my neck. This was not what I was fucking expecting.
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Everyone else is standing inside the booth staring at me. Fucking shit,
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there's the bus.
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[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
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[ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu HOE #1032, BY ANONGIRL - 3/8/00 ]
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