Reasons not to date me

• I think scrambled eggs are legitimate dinner fare.

• I am certifiably bilingual, and yet still hesitant to speak French within earshot of a francophone.*
  

• I am unable to resist manhandling the produce at the each of countless markets on my walk home from the train station.

• Inexplicably and without trying to, I will remember the make and model of the car you drive before I know you well enough to warrant such a thing.
  

• I do not own a bike helmet.

• I do not own a bike.

• I wouldn't wear a helmet anyway.

• I fantasize about shooting relocating the birds that sing cheerily outside my window at 4 am every morning.

• Despite being intimate with unemployment, I never seem to qualify for employment insurance.

• Despite having been a child when their best work came out, my most recent music downloads include songs by Naughty by Nature, Young MC, and Skee-Lo.

• I'm down with OPP.

• I wish I was a little bit taller.

• I wish I was a baller.

• I wish I could sing that song without thinking about how someone should have introduced Skee-Lo to the subjunctive tense.
  

~g. mango souhaite qu'elle ait pu se souvenir comment parler francais (et aussi ou se trouver les accents sur le clavier)*
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* You can see why i am so terrified to speak French; I don't even know if that sentence makes sense. Yeesh.

Long weekend blues

Is there a long weekend in your near future? Great. I hope you enjoy it. Well, the beginning part, at least. Because it will end badly. I guarantee you.

You will travel for five hours across land and sea, stopping (of course) to buy a typewriter on the way home. You will foolishly pick up a hundred-year-old typewriter and carry it up four flights of stairs the same week you get into a car accident. Your back will hate you for life. You will find that you have not one, but two keys to the outside of your building on your keychain. And not one, but NONE to your actual suite.

You will also find that your roommate is not coming home until tomorrow night; your neighbour gave you back your spare key last year, remember?; your best friend who would have offered you a place on his futon, and helped you see the humour in all this has moved to Slovakia; and your other friends are all out of town because, hey, IT'S A LONG WEEKEND.

You will also find that you have to lug all your belongings back down the stairs with your hateful back hating you all the way. You will get your hand stuck in, and subsequently cut yourself on your newly-acquired, rust-covered typographical device. You will remember (surprisingly and suddenly) that your tetanus shot expired last year, and you will know that tomorrow morning, after a night of sleeping in your compact car in your crime-ridden neighbourhood, you will have a gangrenous stump where you once had a finger.

Then you will call Lisa, and she will extend the radical welcome of Christ to you, and offer you clean linens and the most comfortable couch known to mangokind.

Just want you to be prepared.


~g.mango is an alarmist and a prophetess all in one

Textual healing

I bought three typewriters the week before last. I think that may be two typewriters too many for a one-person household.

Might even be three typewriters too many. But I'd rather not dwell on that.

If you're free, come over and we can write letters together! On real paper. And send them to people through this thing they call "the post." I'm not really familiar with it, but apparently it was all the rage before 1996.

ALSO

I made this button.

I think it is the radest thing I've made all week.

~g.mango laughs in the face of technological advances