Jacob Banco's blog
The First Night on My Own
Late
afternoon—on the bus
It’s just about time to head to my first
new friend’s apartment. I’m actually writing this stuff down on paper! I will
have to enter it into Phoebe’s computer once she lets me into our apartment. I
should have never given her my keys,
but she kept up my part of our deal so I had no choice.
I bought some shrimp and walnuts at the
supermarket yesterday. I unwrapped the shrimp and threw the Styrofoam into a
recycling container, and wrapped the shrimp up in the cellophane.
Unfortunately, I forgot them in my coat pocket. The shrimp became mush, and I’m
finishing off the walnuts as I write this. I feel very optimistic about what is
to come, but I think my coat stinks of shrimp.
Night
I can’t believe Phoebe got me into this
mess—literally!
There are dirty clothes strewn everywhere.
I can only presume they’re not clean because I refuse to touch them, and who
hangs clean clothes on the floor?
I have to snake my way around piles of
objects, and I’ve used the same dishes over again. I think my host believes I’m
being polite and expects me to clean other dishes but . . . my mind is on other
things. Things are strained. Grrr. I rarely get mad but I raged so much on the
phone this afternoon that I felt ripples come from me, as if I were a stone at
the instant it breaks the water’s surface. It isn’t his fault; I am demanding,
honest and difficult, so I’ve been told . . .
Phoebe! This mess!
~JB
Late afternoon—on the bus
It’s just about time to head to my first new friend’s apartment. I’m actually writing this stuff down on paper! I will have to enter it into Phoebe’s computer once she lets me into our apartment. I should have never given her my keys, but she kept up my part of our deal so I had no choice.
I bought some shrimp and walnuts at the supermarket yesterday. I unwrapped the shrimp and threw the Styrofoam into a recycling container, and wrapped the shrimp up in the cellophane. Unfortunately, I forgot them in my coat pocket. The shrimp became mush, and I’m finishing off the walnuts as I write this. I feel very optimistic about what is to come, but I think my coat stinks of shrimp.
Night
I can’t believe Phoebe got me into this mess—literally!
There are dirty clothes strewn everywhere. I can only presume they’re not clean because I refuse to touch them, and who hangs clean clothes on the floor?
I have to snake my way around piles of objects, and I’ve used the same dishes over again. I think my host believes I’m being polite and expects me to clean other dishes but . . . my mind is on other things. Things are strained. Grrr. I rarely get mad but I raged so much on the phone this afternoon that I felt ripples come from me, as if I were a stone at the instant it breaks the water’s surface. It isn’t his fault; I am demanding, honest and difficult, so I’ve been told . . .
Phoebe! This mess!
~JB
Olympic Lodging Needed
SWM—Olympic Lodging Needed—February 12–26,
2010 (Vancouver)
Phoebe has sublet our apartment. Phoebe is
staying with her friend and I’m left to fend for myself. Yes, no phone and no
home, and when I stumble down familiar streets I’ll end up . . . who knows where.
Will you let me stay at your place? I
promise I won’t do the following:
- puke (inside, or out a window)
- piss in the shower
- steal
- break things and not replace them
- give empty guarantees to help
- “borrow” clothes
- snoop
- make messes I know I won’t clean up
- walk around in my gonch
- catch anyone masturbating (although it may be funny afterwards)
- treat the hosts like the help
- have sex and not clean it up
- give hosts sick (not the first bullet, but colds, flu, etc.)
- become self-conscious about writing a thank-you note to the
point of not writing the thank-you note!
But I will
write you a thank-you note, I will!
SWM—Olympic Lodging Needed—February 12–26, 2010 (Vancouver)
Phoebe has sublet our apartment. Phoebe is staying with her friend and I’m left to fend for myself. Yes, no phone and no home, and when I stumble down familiar streets I’ll end up . . . who knows where.
Will you let me stay at your place? I promise I won’t do the following:
- puke (inside, or out a window)
- piss in the shower
- steal
- break things and not replace them
- give empty guarantees to help
- “borrow” clothes
- snoop
- make messes I know I won’t clean up
- walk around in my gonch
- catch anyone masturbating (although it may be funny afterwards)
- treat the hosts like the help
- have sex and not clean it up
- give hosts sick (not the first bullet, but colds, flu, etc.)
- become self-conscious about writing a thank-you note to the point of not writing the thank-you note!
But I will write you a thank-you note, I will!
A Lost Sock
I lost a sock. Together they were my favourite pair.
Phoebe took our dirty clothes to the laundry-mat and thought the missing sock was at home, but it isn’t here anymore. She went back to the mat and rifled through their lost sock box. No luck. I took the route Phoebe walked, but nothing. Nothing! I told her she owed me a sock. She reminded me of her two bras that were in the dryer that caught on fire. I told her I was lucky to be alive and that I’d start doing my own laundry again.
I moved the sock from our love seat to the bedroom and then Phoebe started a donation pile with it, singled out and alone. I took it and hid it in the back of my sock drawer. Phoebe suggested I wear it with other socks, but I’ve worn socks that don’t match and it always seems like an experiment that won’t last beyond the day.
Lost Sock
Socks are remarkably similar to love. Socks that fit don’t slouch or bunch-up, they aren’t too thick or thin, wrongly coloured, too short or long, or cut into your flesh, and when you see them they always bring a smile to your face. Well fitting socks reduce your stress, keep you warm, comfortable and compliment you. A sock alone is an oddball, but put its match beside it and you have synergistic bliss.
It scares me Phoebe doesn’t see the connection.
I’m blessed to have her friend Jordan Woodrow in my life. Jordan and I shared a bottle of wine last night and toasted love, perfect matches and well fitting socks. I believe she might offer to let me do my laundry at her apartment. The sock posters we hung in different laundry-mats around the city have brought us closer together and I know the posters will bring me closer to finding my perfect match, but Phoebe isn’t helping. When I got home late last night I discovered that she had pulled out my remaining sock and cleaned the bathroom with it. I explained to her that a lost sock needs to be hunted for everywhere and not just in one laundry-mat, and it’s wrong to clean any mess with the oddball!
I’m going mad believing the pair isn’t in my apartment anymore, and pray the sock that is now singled out will be perfect again.
~JB
I lost a sock. Together they were my favourite pair.
Phoebe took our dirty clothes to the laundry-mat and thought the missing sock was at home, but it isn’t here anymore. She went back to the mat and rifled through their lost sock box. No luck. I took the route Phoebe walked, but nothing. Nothing! I told her she owed me a sock. She reminded me of her two bras that were in the dryer that caught on fire. I told her I was lucky to be alive and that I’d start doing my own laundry again.
I moved the sock from our love seat to the bedroom and then Phoebe started a donation pile with it, singled out and alone. I took it and hid it in the back of my sock drawer. Phoebe suggested I wear it with other socks, but I’ve worn socks that don’t match and it always seems like an experiment that won’t last beyond the day.
Lost Sock
Socks are remarkably similar to love. Socks that fit don’t slouch or bunch-up, they aren’t too thick or thin, wrongly coloured, too short or long, or cut into your flesh, and when you see them they always bring a smile to your face. Well fitting socks reduce your stress, keep you warm, comfortable and compliment you. A sock alone is an oddball, but put its match beside it and you have synergistic bliss.
It scares me Phoebe doesn’t see the connection.
I’m blessed to have her friend Jordan Woodrow in my life. Jordan and I shared a bottle of wine last night and toasted love, perfect matches and well fitting socks. I believe she might offer to let me do my laundry at her apartment. The sock posters we hung in different laundry-mats around the city have brought us closer together and I know the posters will bring me closer to finding my perfect match, but Phoebe isn’t helping. When I got home late last night I discovered that she had pulled out my remaining sock and cleaned the bathroom with it. I explained to her that a lost sock needs to be hunted for everywhere and not just in one laundry-mat, and it’s wrong to clean any mess with the oddball!
I’m going mad believing the pair isn’t in my apartment anymore, and pray the sock that is now singled out will be perfect again.
~JB
