Well, my evening went spectacularly badly. First, I found out I didn't get the web site gig, which didn't really bother me too much in itself. I mean it didn't crush my spirits or any thing. In fact I was kind of relieved. I already knew it wasn't my bag. So, I decided I was going to go out for coffee, by myself, and read. I was feeling happy, or content at least, and in the mood to be out of the house. I wasn't exactly dressed to the nines. I've been going through a "test people to see how shallow they are by dressing down" phase lately. I let my hair do its own thing (which I think is quite wild and lovely with all its crazy curls, to be perfectly honest), wear what ever feels most comfortable, opt for glasses instead of contacts. I figure, "it's Whyte Ave, what's the difference?" A lot of it is probably a reaction to all the stupid dressing up I've had to do for job interviews and work lately, which is so not me. It just pisses me off that the way you look can sometime determine whether or not you get hired instead of your qualifications, especially if you're female. But I digress. So I'm walking down the street, glasses, crazy black hair, black bell bottoms and a grey T-shirt with a black velvet blazer-casual but not gross I thought- and every thing is fine at first. Some hippy smiles as he passes. Things are alright. Then this truck full of ignorant red-knecks start yelling "Hey, fag!!" from their open window. I look around me, thinking they must be addressing someone else, since I am obviously (so I thought) a female. Then they start yelling "No, just kidding. You're hot baby! You're smokin!!" all mocking-like. I ignore them, and continue walking. I'm angry at myself for not giving them the finger. I'm angry because I thought I left this kind of bull-shit behind me when I left my home town. I'm angry because stuff like this still makes me feel like an awkward teen-ager without a true friend in the world. I'm angry because stuff like this still crushes my spirits. So I walk into the coffee shop. It's packed with beautiful people and not a single open table. The servers behind the bar ignore me. I start to feel vertigo. I make a feeble attempt at pretending I'm looking for someone, and then leave. My head is no longer in the clouds, looking on the bright side. It's buried in the sand, passed the sand, into the murky, muddy, black hole of total and complete anihiliation of self-worth. Luckily, no one says "boo" to me as I shuffle my feet back towards Whyte Ave. I no longer look anyone in the eye. I'm terrified of recognizing someone and having to 'make nice' and sell myself, which I am totally not in the mood for. Back on Whyte, a banger-looking girl smiles as she passes. I feel a little better and decide not to let a truck full of dead-end, beer swilling, brainless bimbo-fucking, white trash gas-pump jockeys get the best of me. I decide to go for a walk. I stop in to the Tim Horton's for an iced-capuccino, and when I ask to use the bathroom, the guy behind the till tells me I'll have to knock on the door and "tell the wench to hurry up". I mean, do I have "dick-whipping sponge" written on my forehead or what the FUCK?????? So, after I use the bathroom (which, it turned out, was not even occupied by a wench of any stripe) I finally give in and think, "Screw this, I'm going home." On the short journey back to my pad, I almost witness a car accident, followed by horn honks and ardent blasts of "Learn how to drive, fuck wad!" and get creeped-out oggles from various GQ boys who apparently don't think I'm trying hard enough to DARE walking down the street minding my own business. All I can think is, "you know, I remember when Whyte Ave wasn't about pricky chachies prowling for their next ho to score with." I get in my door and breath a sigh of relief. Write it off as a bad day, right? Then I turn on the T.V. There's this show on called "Extreme Make-Overs". These perfectly normal, sweet, good-hearted looking people with gorgeous character in their visages decide that what god gave them isn't good enough, so they go under the knife and mutilate their entire bodies in the hopes that becoming cookie-cutter beautiful, with no trace of their unique life-journeys writen on their bodies, will help them love themselves more. This is just too much, too terrible a climax to the day I've had. I break down crying in absolute, suicidal despair. The world is officially going to hell in a hand-basket. Soon, it will be mandatory that a normal, happy life will be considered a privilage only granted to those willing to sacrifice their uniqueness to the plastic-fantastic cause. Life sucks dick with herpes and then you die. Then I think, well, at least I can rant about it here, and find comfort in the knowledge that someday, my brain will pay off more than my tits, and I'll be too smug and drenched in glory to bother saying "I told you so" when the breast implants start giving people lupus and children run from them in horror because they all look like creepy clones of Michael Jackson. Take that Pamela Anderson.