Meanwhile in another part of town a man enters through the main doors of his apartment building. He waits for the elevator to arrive and after entering pushes the button marked with the number eight. He waits until the elevator stops and then exits following the hallway going right. He arrives at a door marked eight-hundred and four.

He turns the knob clockwise and then smiling to himself reaches into his coat-pocket for his keys. He selects the appropriate key and proceeds to push it into the lock found immediately above the knob. He unlocks the door without much fuss but with some jingling and jangling of course. He then turns the knob and opens the door through which he enters his apartment. There while shutting the door behind him, he, using his feet, takes off both of his shoes. Once the door is closed he turns his gaze towards his living room of which he has a complete view. In a corner of the mentioned living room he sees an aquarium. In the aquarium he sees a single goldfish and a smile appears on his face.

“Hi, Fred!” the man exclaims as he walks over to the fish. He bends over so that his head is leveled with the aquarium, only not too close because he doesn’t want to frighten the fish. “Tomorrow is Saturday buddy. Now I know how much you hate it when I move you around but we need to keep your place clean and this is the only way. I’ll try to make it as smooth as possible but you do know that I will have to fish you out of there for some time. So get ready. I have to go change now; see you soon.” said the man. He then walks out of the living room and goes on about his life.

It is those warm showers we share, figuratively of course. Although, I do believe that if we were to actually share those showers both of us might have an easier time keeping that dust off of our bones. You, however, will have none of that. Your attraction is governed by a criterion I can never meet. I lack this most significant detail and so in your eyes could never be a shower-buddy.

It falls on me, therefore, to deal with this most unfortunate desire. I don’t wish to attempt going down the Chasing Amy road as it seems to me that your feet are firmly planted on that side of the fence, and let us face it, I’m no Ben Affleck (his manly yet slightly feminine looks might get you to budge but mine certainly won’t.) This leaves me with one wretched choice: endure.

Despite it all, I’m glad to know that we share those showers, those showers we’ll never really share.

The engine clinks and clanks warning of the inevitable. The next stop is meant to be in 42 miles but who is the driver kidding. He pulls into an old, rundown gas station then clinks and clanks through an apology. With some time to kill we gawk at the tiny, rusted, rained-on building. Some of us go in to get a closer look, to get some water and maybe a treat, too. Some of us take pictures, a stop on the way, a story to tell to a listener we’ve trapped somewhere in the future. A weathered, gray facade with limping windows and a wounded door. We’ve built this. This is human arrogance? Yet invested, just the same, are hope and life, and even love. Pictures taken as though we were gawking at whatever was 42 miles down the road.

The heat is relentless. The smell of rubber and coffee yields to nothing. Time has stopped. The passengers no longer looking at anything in particular as they have now seen it all. The gray facade with limping windows unchanged. We form groups and talk about anything, anything to get time moving again.

I was sitting on a park bench holding on to my pockets. I didn’t realize it was going to be this cold when I set out to meet the shabby looking, clumsy character I called my friend. He, of course, was late as usual. He usually comes up with an excuse, something about traffic, or a last-minute chore that needed tending. So, while I waited, slowly freezing to death, I tried to guess what his excuse might be this time.

I imagined he would come running towards me, out of breath, saying rather loudly, “I did it man. I did it. I figured out how to fix that traffic problem you’re always on about.”

I should probably explain: Being stuck in traffic is a rather modern experience. It is one of the many modern things I find unpleasant – cell phones and smiles being some others. I often ask my friends, or strangers on a bus, what one could do to solve this particular problem. How can one make it so that one would never have to be stuck in traffic again?

So, here he comes running with the answer, an answer which, of course, was not a genuine attempt on his part to solve the problem, rather just a way for him to explain away his lateness. He would say something like, “We could add a second story to all the highways. Shouldn’t be that hard, just add columns, some concrete and a couple more lights, and there it is, problem solved.” And of course he would punctuate it all with a smile.

But I wouldn’t let him get away with it that easily; I’d say, “You’re not serious are you? You couldn’t possibly be late because you were trying to think of a way to solve the bloody traffic problem.”

But, naturally he’d retort, “No, I was stuck in traffic.”

Or, that might not be it. He might meander over in a sort of haze, covered in a gloomy shroud and sit next to me on the bench, all solemn and in thought. He might wait till I asked him, “What’s going on, why are you so late?”

At which point he would reply with, “Late? Was I late? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. It’s just that…” he would wonder off into silence.

I would, of course, ask, “Just that what?”

He would then come up with something ridiculous like, “I ran into a friend of mine from school, Jerry, you don’t know him. Anyways, he told me his pet iguana died yesterday. Yeah, it swallowed the engagement ring he was going to use to propose to his girlfriend, Sally, you don’t know her. You know it really makes you think, don’t it?”

Well, of course, I know he’s lying but you can’t let on during these kinds of moments, so I say, “It really is sad, isn’t it? No one ever knows when their time is up.”

But then he would add in, “It’s not all bad news though.”

And I would ask, “Oh yeah, well what do you mean?”

To which he’d say, “After he had dug the ring out of the corpse, Sally said yes. They’ll be getting married sometime in the spring.” Once again putting on a smile as he finished uttering the word spring.

To which I’d say, “There’s that silver lining again.” and as he’s getting up he’d expel, “Can’t dwell on the bad stuff, let’s go grab a drink and celebrate.” his solemn demeanor having disappeared.

While I sat there daydreaming, imagining the lies my uncouth friend might tell to excuse his lateness a tiny little thought crept into the conscious part of my brain. It entered rather shyly, not wishing to disrupt all the other elaborate thoughts that were flying around in there. It managed to get my attention, as certainly all tiny, subtle things do, and finally manifested the following, “Today is a Thursday.”

And yes, it was a Thursday, but why did that matter? What possible significance could it hold that today, of all the days it could have been, it was a Thursday? And then, a second, larger, more demanding thought made itself known, and it carried the following message, “You’re meant to meet your friend on Friday.”

- Jakob Lint

The reason I said that a statement like “do you realize how much this will cost in taxes” is irrelevant is because a couple of burnt cop cars and some broken windows will never add up to a billion dollars, which is the figure floating around for the cost of security and accommodations for the G8 and the G20. Compared to that figure the damage done to the city is minuscule, not even worth mentioning really. But that brings me back to my original question: Why the violence? Well, the violence might just, if sensationalized enough, explain away that hefty bill.

If I was a conspiracy theorist I might go as far as claiming that the government was behind the violent protesters. I might claim that they got a couple of hundred people together and had them come to Toronto and break a few windows and burn some cop cars in order to justify that bill. But I am not a conspiracy theorist, and I don’t believe that a government, especially not the Canadian government, could organize something like that without it leaking somewhere, without someone letting it slip out. Most governments, certainly the Canadian  and the United States government, are minimally competent, especially when it comes to the distribution and use of taxes. They are disorganized entities who are allowed to function at this disappointing level because they are not held accountable. An excellent example of this disorganization would be the G20 and the G8, especially the G20. The G20 could have been held at a fraction of the cost had they given ample consideration to something as simple as its location. So, no, the government was not behind the violent protest, that was a gift given to them by the ignorant and the stupid.

As I’ve mentioned earlier, I can not think of a single way a burnt car or broken window will help a cause, I’ve yet to meet a serious activist who would take such action. In fact the majority of the people that were in Toronto, whether they be part time or full time activists, were peaceful. They did not break things nor did they throw rocks at the cops. It was a minority that chose to give their government a gift, which the police gladly accepted. It was a minority that burnt the cop cars which the cops let burn. It was a minority that broken windows while the cops watched. It was a minority that represented a side of those not apathetic which is deeply misguided and dangerously disoriented. A minority who know as little about the term anarchist as the reporters who deem it an appropirate label for them.

In my eyes the G20 was a mirror held up to the Canadian community. It showed a government which is frivolous with the taxpayers money. It showed a majority of people apathetic – more concerned with road congestion than responsible governing. It showed a peaceful minority of people willing to let their voices be heard – although it should be said they themselves could have used a little more organization. It also showed a minority of that minority who with their actions managed to help no one, no one but the ones they were seeking to harm.

A grim reflection.

It was during those perilous years that the hippos put up with all the hugging. They put up with it for the sake of not being killed, stuffed and mounted. Some of you might point out that no one has to put up with hugs, that hugs are to be cherished and enjoyed, and some of you might be right, but you have to realize that although hugging is great, getting hugged everyday by an innumerable swarm of people is torture. And so it was that one day, not too long ago, the hippos, no longer able to contain their agitation, decided to fight back. At first they pinched those who hugged them, thinking that a little discomfort would put them off of hugs, but they didn’t know how determined some people can be. Eventually they started punching people in the face – right in the face – and yet most people simply laughed it off. They thought it was funny, told stories about it at the local pub, roaring with laughter as they mimed being punched. Finally, the hippos began drowning people. They would embrace the person and drag him or her down into the water until that person ceased to live. It didn’t take long after that for the hugs to stop. Although I should mention that certain asinine individuals, self labeled thrill seekers, still rush in and give hippos a hug, most of them never to be seen again.

I guess what I wanted to say was: There are some things that are great at first, like being cuddly, which eventually lead to inconsiderate motherfuckers having to die. Actually no that wasn’t it. What I really wanted to do is contribute an addendum to a quote I had recently read. The quote is, ” You should try everything once except incest and lime dancing.” Once the addendum is put in place the quote would look like this: “You should try everything once except incest, lime dancing, and hugging a hippo.”

Jakob Lint

“Tell us, how do you know this man?” he asked one of his students.

Unlike most students, who are forever in fear of having to answer questions, those in his class were eager to speak. They loved the attention; they desired nothing more than to blurt out anything, anything at all, not caring whether or not their fellow students laughed or booed or what have you. Further, they didn’t concern themselves with having the right answer, but to be fair the questions he asked would seldom have a wrong answer. They would be along the same lines as the one above, a question inquiring about a personal experience, or an opinion on a subject or event. Of course, it should be mentioned that his students did not concern themselves with the truth either. They would often tell lies, lies which served no real purpose, for they would be too poorly thought-out to fool anyone, and they were never used to weave an elaborate tale which may have amused the other students.

“I think I saw him on TV. Was he on TV or something? Oh! Is he an actor?” was the student’s response.

It should be understood that he did not care whether his students leaned a thing. He was not preoccupied with their learning, rather with his own miserable life, one which had ended long ago. He chose to continue down this path because it gave him comfort, made him believe that despite everything things will work out.

That being said. I’d like to now defend the use of the word fuck in the title. I won’t go deep into the meaning of each word, rather let me say this. The use of the word “me” neutralizes the entire title. It tells you, the reader, that the title is directed at me, the writer. It tells you that even if the title was meant to harm, it was meant to harm me. Now some of you, some of you who are more sensitive, may come to my defense claiming that you have a right to be offended if the title is meant to harm anyone, including me. I’ll grant you that. However, seeing how it is directed at me let me say that those three words, in the order they are in, do not offend me.

Those three words in that order fit well. They fit so well, in my mind, that they put a smile on my face. A kind of smile that says, “Everything is going to be alright. Don’t you worry about a thing.” The kind of smile that could only be conjured up by a phrase that takes words that wouldn’t usually hang out and throws them a party. Puts them together in a room and makes them dance to bad 80s pop, and afterwords has them give each other hickeys. I believe that such is the collection of the three words in the title.

Once again, if you’ve been offended I am sorry.

Jakob Lint

She knows where the fault lies. The flashes that light up the room are lightning in a mild, timid, docile storm. One that stands no chance in overpowering her. In this, and most other situations he could think up, she stands without shame. Whether it be with a limited intellect or a disfiguring tumor, she stands unashamed because she knows where the fault lies. She knows she’s beautiful.

She hops down the stairs of her building. She lives on the 7th floor. She exits her building through a heavy brown door. Its metal bar is cold, it lingers on her hands. She heads across the street to the local supermarket. She wants to buy some pistachios, a little something to nibble on while she’s watching paint dry. She hops across the street and into the store. Her limp noticeable from blocks away. She hops.

It isn’t necessary.

It didn’t have to be that her leg is broken, or that she’s moving into a new apartment. It really didn’t matter that she likes pistachios. The trouble was that all those things weren’t thought through. They just sort of fell over each other. They did give her a shape, a kind of tangible quality, making her seem like all the people you know who live on the 7th floor, or all those who eat pistachios. You may associate her with them now, thinking that she might possess other qualities that those others you know possess. Maybe you think she’s a slut, or that she’s cross-eyed, or maybe a Mormon. The truth is that she may be all those things. And if she was it wouldn’t matter.

It wouldn’t matter because they wouldn’t define her. They wouldn’t overpower her, wouldn’t strangle out of her that which makes her beautiful.

If, however, these words that are placed one after the other are understood by you then I shall say this, “Is it that you refuse to be remembered as the odd one out, or that everyone is the odd one out? For if it is the latter, which it surely must be, then lambs running along the river’s edge smile only on the fury of the meek – the patter of those without hoofs sings the bleak future a lullaby that is meant not to inspire but to belittle.”

That being said, and hopefully understood, we move into familiar territory. The sandy beaches of grammar, where some may drown in the present perfect passive because they refuse to take action. “Moving arms isn’t not for me.” they say, and thus are saved by a typo – an unlikely hero. While the lucky ones stumble to safety, tripping on double negatives and run-on sentences, others die of thirst because they refuse to drink in the horrible taste of, “Fuck, what was that again? Is this right? What’s that meant to do?” – and who can really blame them? Rather, precision – was that it?

It appears that we’ve reached the end of this little run-on life. An afterthought meant to be real, like popcorn killing pigeons, or that second moon people never took to. “It can not grow anymore.” they say, “Having lost all interest in the sun, it no longer wishes to face it.” So, let’s face it, there ain’t no plural nor singular parents that are to guide those that read to beautiful green fields, where butterflies make music as they fornicate. And, surely, we can agree that the notion of a pit of snakes waiting for Indiana Jones ain’t worth a nickle in a wishing well. But of course…

…looking for a vole in the entrails of an insane elephant does not justify a world void of certainty. There must be those who equate exploration to 2+2, like scaling walls of snakes that represent, or are meant to represent, or will represent, or represented, but only because a wall like that couldn’t stand alone, without meaning it would fall to its respected pieces and slither away into a hole. A hole not inhabited by that same vole who seconds earlier was eaten by an insane elephant, not for nourishment but for entertainment.

-Jakob Lint