your hand in mine

i unexpectedly met kevin and his 'crew' for breakfast this morning at the elgin street diner.

they're all in ottawa for steve morely's bachelor party. i find it immensely strange that steve morley- the guy who, when sixteen, built a giant "schlong" [his term, not mine] around the enitre outside of my house and then up to the attic window- is getting married. i think i'm stuck with him as schlong-builder in my head forever.

anyways- the diner was packed. i mean packed. and i would hazard to say that ninety percent of the patrons were nursing extreme hangovers. not like mine yesterday- but bad enough to warrant wool caps and old sweaters and pajama pants and too much coffee and stares of hunger- mixed with slight undertones of disgust- at the plates of food circling round the place.

i'm regailed with tales of strippers, hookers, and turnip shawarma while i slowly sip my coffee, trying not to spit it out in the midst of gales of laughter.

when we all step outside, the street is at a standstill as everyone looks up at the unexpected snowflakes that are drifting down from the bleak grey sky. kevin decides he needs new pants, the rest of the men opt for hangover drinks at the manx, and i'm forced to go in the opposite direction, to my house, my room, and hegel.

stupid hegel.