There are those odd, random moments when I miss Vancouver. Which is funny. I can't say exactly why. Mostly because I really hate poeticizing things (and, really, what else can I do with my "balikbayan" pseudo-angst but poeticize it to death?). It makes me feel like a dweeb most of the time. And it somehow feels like a needless campaign to glorify my half-hearted experiences. I was gone for 4 months (more or less). Not even enough time to develop a call-center twang. There are, of course, those times when the thought of going back to Vancouver scares me. Sometimes it makes me want to recoil and ball up into a fetal position, like a half-alive fetus subsisting in the cold. I don't know. I can't listen to Postal Service anymore without being thrown into a plush prison cell of wintry breezes and Chinese food and rolling highways (and, whoah, I am a dork like that). O, Canada. You confuse me so. You first-world wench, you.

How do we make it stop? Sometimes I just want to get off this train. And I don't mean that in a suicidal way. I'm not the wrist-slasher type (but I might be the jumping-off-a-high-rise type... mostly because it's convenient, seeing that I have 31-32 floors' worth of pretending I'm flying before I go splat). But ok. Sometimes I just want to quietly stop existing. No ruptured veins, no splattered organs. Just a quiet blackness. Come and go. Eat and run slink away. I am sorry, universe. I am belittling you. It's always nice to think that fate is waiting, sedated until one gets the balls to fling it on a heart-shaped bed and do all sorts of raunchy, perverted things to it. I feel like I'm living a half-life, a life of resignation, a life of desperately subsisting on laughter and music and quiet/hysterical moments with joyous friends. (Inebriate me, please!) Dammit. Where can I find myself a nice, sturdy pair of balls? Robust, crunked up, shiny balls.

No. Life is awesome. Right, Bob? Of course, Lia.