you're so fucked up it's not funny

Was at North York Central Library today to submit my manuscript for the writer-in-residence. Then I passed by the Starbucks located in the corner of the Civic Centre where they have tables set up outside. I saw this girl sitting there, writing in her notebook. The night was still warm enough she could sit and write outside. Light jazz was playing in the back. She was wearing a scarf, though I might have imagined it. I thought she looked like Maya.

My problem is I seem to settle for nostalgia. For example, I was at another Starbucks earlier today, the one close to my home. I was sitting at a spot on the counter marking my students’ papers and this girl came up and was talking to the guy who was making a latte. While they were talking she was all nervous. She was holding one hand with the other hand and was standing on the tip of her soles to peek over that coffee machine. At the end of their talk the girl said, “I’ll see you after work.” And I thought: How nice_________. I didn’t stop to finish the sentence. It’s just a petty sentiment. I worry that it weakens my writing and blurs the way I see things, so that things become purple, and I resort to hiding behind metaphors and writing about skaters and snowfields. I became so concerned about this while I was marking the papers (since I couldn’t stop to follow up on the thought), I resigned by saying to myself, you’re so fucked up it’s not funny. You’re so fucked up it’s not funny.