Congratulations Weeping Man on the Bus!

When the bus driver calls out the Rosedale Mall stop, you'll think of her right away: square, flat ass pounding against itself as she trotted in place on the Dance Dance Revolution machine.  You'll think of her oversized t-shirts, her yoga pants, her nails, always impeccably done, and her hair, always unwashed, the stink of it clear from three, four meters back from the machine.  You'll think of her and her graceless, artless movements and the love you once shared and you will do the only thing you can manage to do: you'll weep.

Your tears will spill down your face even as you try to chew the mouthful of apple, still stuck between your teeth.  Your tears will tumble over your cheeks even as the driver, moving at a speed far slower than your memories, finishes his sentence, informing you that this will be the last stop for the day and that all passengers must leave the bus.  Your tears will spill down your face as you stand up and try to shuffle off the bus past the distracted mass of passengers, nearly all of whom will slow down as they try to assess just what is wrong with you, with your eyes, with the tears coming out of them.

When you finally leave the bus, when you're finally off, the sunlight will be almost uncomfortably warm.  Your tears, those that remain on your cheeks, will be drying, dying on your face before they ever get a chance to reach the ground, like the love you shared with her, like your career as DDR Dance Partners, like the idea of a professional DDR couple, all these things will have died long, long before they ever had their time in the space between your face and the pavement that lines the path to the Payless Shoe Store, where you hope to find a pair of skate shoes for under twenty dollars with decent arch support.

Congratulations Weeping Man on the Bus!

Congratulations on Applying Archaic Units of Measurement Unhelpfully!

When she asks you how far it is to town, you'll answer her in leagues.

"Like, groups of baseball teams?"

She was never the brightest, but in this case, her criticism will be reasonable - you won't have used the archaic measurement (which we'll charitably presume to be about overland distance) correctly.  You'll have told her it's "a thousand leagues," which is like, three thousand miles.  The town will be about a twenty minute drive away.

"Do we have enough gas to make it?" she'll ask.

"We've got a half dram," you'll say before running your hand through your hair.  "We should be good."

She'll cock her head at you, puzzled.  She'll know the term dram from her time as a professional whiskey taster, but she'll also know that it means "a small amount," literally a sixteenth of an ounce.  She'll say that to you, and you'll laugh at her.

"God, you've a brain much as a half-stone."

At first she'll think you're telling her that she's got rocks in her head, which will be offensive on its own, but after a moment she'll realize you mean the old measurement.  That one, she'll know, and it'll be pretty close to accurate (half a stone is about seven pounds, close to the weight of the average human brain) but the obtuseness, the dickishness, and the almost happenstantial rightness of what you're saying will all come together and push her towards a singular conclusion.

"I'm leaving you," she'll say before pulling on the e-brake, forcing the car to  stop before stepping out and walking along the road alone in the direction of town.  You'll just sit there watching her as she moves away for minute after minute, down the road away from you.  As you watch her image slowly fade, your fingers will regain feeling, you'll regain the capacity to move inside the car, to manipulate its various levers with your hands, but you won't employ it.  Instead you'll just sit there and try to determine how far she's gone down the road.  The distance will be difficult for you to quantify; you'll lack the words to define it.

Congratulations on Applying Archaic Units of Measurement Unhelpfully!

Congratulations Mountaineer in Love!

Mountains’r nice. Everyone knows it, and some people deny it to themselves, but those who are true to both the world around them and their hearts spend their lives acknowledging how great mountains are and climbing them whenever possible. But, of course, this true-ness isn’t for everyone. Even though you embraced it you fell in love with a woman who couldn’t admit to herself what love was (she currently believes love is a well sharpened set of knives, a mid-priced vacuum and a husband who works in the financial sector) and that just did it for you: you put all your love into mountains.

You climbed ‘em and climbed ‘em and climbed ‘em some more, all the while hoping that climbing one of these mountains would somehow conquer her heart. But it turns out that living in relative isolation and enduring physical hardship is NOT how modern women like to be courted, and she spent most of her time on online singles profiles, where she fell into an unhealthy relationship where she had everything she thought she wanted and, from there, decided to get married. Which left you mountaining your heart out, mountaining twice as hard as you ever had before just to keep your head above water.

You’ve mountained everywhere you can think of by now: most of the continental United States, Europe, eastern Europe, that one place in Africa, the less-stabby parts of Asia. There’s really only one set of mountains left for you to conquer: the Himalayas.

So today you’re going to begin the first in an epic series of virtually gearless climbs, wearing only a winter jacket and carrying the backpack you had when you still held her heart (and the whole world) in your hands. You’re going to step on Everest and for the first time in a long time, the majesty of nature will strike you and, for a heartbeat, push the feelings of dejection and self-hatred that normally make up your day to day out of your mind.

Later you’ll feel vaguely disappointed by the raw amount of human waste dotting the mountainside. You’ll get to the top and wonder, mind dazed for lack of oxygen, if that’s all there is. Then you’ll realize just how high you really are and how remarkable it is that enough people have come this far to actually make the amount of human shit on the mountain a problem. It’ll be bittersweet, but it’ll be better than mooning after that dumb bitch who, let’s face it, probably isn’t as cool as you’ve made her out to be.

Congratulations Mountaineer in Love!

Congratulations on Making Love to That Horse!

War Horse was a hit. It’s pretty clear to everyone involved and the critical apparatus that there’s never been a better time to be a horse in the industry since that movie came out. Seabiscuit is now a name dimly remembered. Everyone’s scrambling to get the horse that played War Horse (lovingly referred to as “Horsie” by agents everywhere) attached to their picture.

They’re plying him with carrots, oats, horse blankets and, of course, expensive prostitutes.

You’re one of these prostitutes. You’ve always had a thing for horses thanks to the absence of a strong father figure in your life when you were growing up. Unlike all the other hookers that get thrown at Horsie you’re actually going to be accepted into his stable and, instead of being stamped to death, you’ll make sweet, sweet horse love with him.

What follows will be an explosion of media, scandal and a story of true love.

“Can horses marry?!” slower reporters will ask, while other, smarter reporters cover other stories in newspapers.

When the dust settles the media coverage, months from now, will ruin any chance the two of you had at a real relationship, which is a shame because you’ll get along famously. But Horsie’s career will be propelled by his tale of love lost, crisis and redemption and you’ll be well taken care of for the years to come thanks to your role in the entire thing. Some other woman will write a book with your name on it and you’ll occasionally go on talk shows to talk about love and just how much punishment vaginas can really take.

But the real victory here will be the love you two will share, however briefly, following your sexcapade. Facilitated by Horsie’s success, sustained by your big heart and durable vagina and your mutual distaste for language and eye contact during sex, it’ll be brief but wonderful, the best that either of you will ever have throughout your entire lives.

Enjoy it while it lasts and try not to cry in the shower in the years to come.

Congratulations on Making Love to That Horse!