Sometimes, it’s indeed “the littlest things that take you there”, to say it in Lily Allen’s word.
So today, I was at various state-owned banks with my progenitor to find out that I have several bank accounts under my name that I supposedly consented (hehe! good one!) to and to shed some college-shekels from them, and it didn’t really work out. I hate our banks (not “my” banks). Municipal services are so inefficient, and the only people that seem to work there are perverts, if you ask me – bunches of paper-hungry lusters that are smiling sarcastically at me, and rejoicing at the fact that I fill out humongous amounts of paperstuff in front of them, to then “process” them and give me even more to fill out, and then telling me that all of this has to be sent to someone higher up the hierarchy so that they can rejoice at my filled-out papers too. And then, probably, and only probably – I might possibly get my money. Even the name “municipal services” itself is deceiving – it sounds as if it were referring to something quite nice you’re getting your tax dinars thrown at, like government-subsidized public bordellos in the Athens of the antiquity. Well, that would be some service!
Then, when our paths divided, I went further uptown to hang out with N., one of my BFFs, whom I found out to be possibly leaving for Paris for a month or so, which means that I won’t see him until next summer, seeing that my college year will start when he returns. It wasn’t as dramatic as the previous time where I met up with him and Toma (whose face I forgot even though I only didn’t see her since two weeks – probably because of her headscarf) where she cried my shirt wet saying that she will miss me, while he was apparently cold, which is due to culturally-reinforced emotional oppression boys have to suffer under in this society, but, that’s only my opinion.
After that, I had a significantly less depressing time with R., BFF numero dos, seeing that the homoerotic subtext of this relationship we have almost exploded (from his side, at least). We were as tight as David and Jonathan, Abraham and Joshua, or Rick and Steve. Closet cases can still be lots of fun, if you know how to master them, actually. We enjoyed orbiting around the northern limits of the city on the lamentable sidewalks of Highway 20 and 21, respectively, which was way more fun as trips starting from Highway 80 to the wilderness with dad, because I’m misanthropic like that, and I sometimes prefer the industrial wastelands of the northern beltway to the fresh mountain air of the southern roads.
But that again made me reconsider what I feel my friendship to the third musketeer A. was. He was the tram and I was – or still am – the subway train, but I know that playing with fire isn’t as fun after getting hurt, and he knows that cows aren’t violet. We ain’t little boys no more, even though at least he seems to have remained pretty much the same in my eyes while I find myself to be constantly evolving. But I really don’t him good enough, for I’m barely acquainted with myself, which is definitively something I need to work on before I can work my way to greener pastures.
I didn’t really learn anything about anyone today, actually, but I feel slightly better, and sometimes, that’s really all that matters, now isn’t it?
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