Epic

Dutch artists design toys for pigs to improve their quality of life before they slaughter them, grind them up and fry them into kroket.

If I were to get philosophical, I'd say that's an interesting metaphor for human childhood. Meh.

I didn't get much sleep last night.

I tried to study but there was a stupid fun-looking party outside my house with loud happy people that obviously do not have thesises (thesees, theese?) to write.

At one point, I actually thought I was going to loose it, throw open the door, march out in giant sweatshirt, shower shoes and frazzled hair, glasses askew, funny Canadian accent, and tell them to shut the fuck up. Laura versus "the party".

Thankfully I didn't have to because my crazy housemate did the job for me.

She is crazy. She sticks signs everywhere like, "Do the dishes. A clean house is a happy house," and even, "Shut the door quietly when you leave. Banging disturbs people." There are probably about 20 such signs throughout my house. Still, yesterday she was my hero.

A new guy moved in two days ago. This house is so transient, I don't even remember who lived in his room before. Anyway, he got lecherously trashed last night. I had moved my books from my room to the kitchen so as to avoid party noise and he made a very bad first impression by practically sitting on top of me, close-talking (arg - I hate close-talkers!) and just generally not getting the I'm-trying-to-study-and-you-are-invading-my-personal-space vibes.

See? I am mean. I don't like people.

That reminds me of my most hilarious story from Bangladesh.

There was a guy who worked at our guesthouse that I didn't like (because I am mean). His name was Prince, but spelled, Prance. He was very innocent and awkward and young and would follow me around like a puppy which irritated the crap out of me. And since I mostly saw him in the mornings, pre-caffeine uptake, I had very little patience with him and grumpily tried to avoid the broken fragments of conversation he was so eager to start.

Anyway, one night I bailed on a party and was sitting in front of the guesthouse computer, writing e-mails. He came in. I sighed (internally, not audibly - I'm not that bitchy.)

Prance: You computer use?

Me: Yes, I am using the computer.

Prance: Me no computer use. Ha ha. Knows how not.

(P.S. he spoke backwards-style like Yoda.)

Me: Really? You don't know how to use a computer? (for some reason, this shocked me which is silly considering that, in many areas of Bangladesh, the only available technology is the lightbulb.) Sit down and I'll show you how.

(So he sits down. Very happily. Embarrasingly, exuberantly happy.)

(I show him how to turn the computer on and open Internet Explorer, then went to Google.)

Me: Now what do you what to do? What do you want to search for?

Prance: (after much misunderstanding and things I didn't understand or remember now) Your country song.

Me: The Canadian national anthem?

(So I type in "Oh Canada" and bring up a page that has music and lyrics that you can synch-up just like karaoke.

I swtich on the music.

Prance starts to sing-speak the words, just like William Shatner circa 1968, but with a serious Bangladeshi accent. I was cracking up so bad but didn't want to laugh since he was completely deadpan. As though we were honoring my motherland in a truly solemn prayer.

So I start singing along with him.

Here I am, sweating in the dark in front of a glowing computer screen, singing the Canadian national anthem with my least favourite person in Bangladesh, who can barely speak, let alone read English, when I suddenly realize: this is the most fun I've had in YEARS. This shit is gold!)


I wish I could say we became best friends after that. But we didn't. Because I am mean, impatient and grumpy.

Ahhh, but we'll always have that one night. Dear Prance, miles and miles away, are you still singing Oh Canada in the dark?