Im at the lowest point of my day today. You know the moment: where you indulge in taking stock in the crappy things in your life, like making Kraft Dinner when you’re alone. Oh dont sit there and say you dont do it. So Im listing things: Crappy fungal toenail. Im alone in this city. Not even a fuck-buddy. Inversley, dating makes me ill. I have no solid career after Oct 19th. I cant get past one part of the gameboy game Im on… etc etc. And Im on my bike (ten minutes before I had sat down wrong on my seat. Note to self: underwear when bike riding), and Im at a light. As I said, its the lowest part of my day and I look down. On the ground is an old newspaper page all crumpled and nearly all one grey colour, but one word looked back up at me: Passion. It was weird. It was almost neatly folded so that was the only word you could see on the page. I stared at it for a moment and thought “Was that meant for me? Is Kismet kicking my ass?” Or was it the French word for “fish”? I ride on.

A couple random thoughts while riding: Why do people think “farmer’s blows” are ok? Short of unabashedly pooping on the street, I can think of nothing less I would like to see someone do. Especially when coming out of a dirty bar. Why do rich people talk on their cell phones while driving their expensive cars? If they had the money, why dont they enjoy the ride?