This morning, I find myself hobbling toward my big green chariot.
A pulled leg muscle has me limping around.
I decide that “Pimp Limp” makes me feel accomplished, so I make a note to purchase a cane and top hat at one of the various value stores near my work.
Visions of a new rap video filmed on Lakeshore Boulevard has me all excited.
After all, if you must do something, you should do it properly, until it hurts, like buffets, binge watching Netflix and gambling at the casino.
Ah, there he is, the glorious bastard of the 6:18 train, waiting to bring us Hamilton hillbillies to parts unknown.
Why did I use a masculine descriptor?
Well, this train is loud, slightly primitive, unreliable and smells like Aqua Velva.
I think those are valid reasons.
If you find this kind of gender bias offensive, I implore you to stop reading.
It saves us both time and fictitious apologies.
The places we will go are at least parts unknown to people who live and work in Hamilton.
Pfft. Amateurs. That 10 minute commute stuff is no fun.
You haven’t lived until you wake up at 5am just so that you can make it on time for your 8am shift.
That’s the lie I tell myself on a daily basis.
Sometimes I pretend I’m waking up early to catch my flight for vacation.
That seems to work most of the time.
I make it to my perch on the upper level.
Yes I have a leg injury, but my ego is still wanting to find my twin.
She has yet to surface. Probably a good thing–I couldn’t handle it if she had better hair.
As I sit down, in the Quiet Zone, I see the following sign:
This sign proves many things.
It’s proof that tacos and fried chicken follow me around.
Ok, so these are nachos, but that doesn’t suit my purpose.
And really, the difference between a taco, burrito and enchilada is that they’re folded differently.
Yeah, you’re welcome.
This sign was created by Real Sports bar.
I often question the validity of the business when they need an adjective in the title.
Kind of like “Classy Nails” up the road from my house. I can assure you the name does not live up to the title.
Real Sports bar is not a real sports bar.
The whole point of getting liquored at a watering hole is to be drunk and not be judged at a decent value.
This place is pretentious and over priced.
You’ve likely guessed that I’m not a quiet person.
Silence does not oooze from my pores.
I’m only quiet when I sleep or during meetings. I figure it’s best not to prolong the suffering.
I once read “Quiet” by Susan Cain. I thought this book would provide me with coping strategies for quiet people.
Turns out it empowered these folks to be even more quiet, in an attempt to make us loud folk feel bad.
Does a quiet person eating nachos feel empowered or mortified?
I mull over this real life stuff.