My years at Upper Canada College were of angst. I was an outsider without friends, alien to an institution filled with sports stars and over-achievers. They considered me worthless, excelling neither in academics nor athletics, contrasted against these future leaders and powerful men.

I passed through the hallowed halls of UCC, decorated with boards filled with names — community service leaders, scholarship recipients, military achievments — without making so much as a whisper. When I left, it felt as if I had lost a great opportunity.

It was partially my own fault. A lack of confidence and poor social skills made me an outcast. But it was as much the fault of an institution with shortcomings of its own.

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Try to put me down and make me feel bad. Do your best to make yourself look good.

Throw some advice my way (I’ll leave it). Assume you know me better than I know myself (what arrogance!). Give me some food for thought, and believe you were anything more than a passing fancy (but try to get over yourself).

My god, how wrong I was about you.

Fresh vegetables and peanut butter on burgers. A low-key deal before leaving. I’m lucky enough to be one of the few.

It’s madness outside. Madness at the stops. Madness on the bus. People rowdy, drunk and drinking. People wearing Canadian, drinking Canadian, speaking Canadian, bearing the standard on cheeks and arms and hats and bodies. Kids, kids throwing beer bottles out the window, pouring Smirnoff ice in their empty water containers.

It’s passed midnight, darkness out the window, and reflections press themselves on me. She looks through me at him and I can see the love triangle in her smile.

Ambulances pass us by. People face-down on the ground. Police questioning witnesses.

Looking for some calm in this chaos, I turn up the volume to drown them out.

you’ve got the lot to burn
a shelve of pig smotherd cries
is there a spirit that spits
upon the exit of signs?

is anybody there? (spines in a row)
these steps keep on growing long (spite as an arrow)
bayonet trials rust propellers await

no

nobody is heard

But my calm is no less chaotic.

I just found a staple — a used, bent staple — in my loose leaf Mao Feng tea from Nihao Tea House. I don’t know if I can trust Nihao anymore, which is unfortunate, as it’s the only tea house in the vicinity.

The girl who works there is somewhat of an anomaly; a Canadian-born Chinese, I’d say only a few years younger than me, wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt. My generation of CBCs usually adapt to the Canadian way of life, eschewing the cutesy culture of Hello Kitty, designer stationary, and stuffed car ornaments. An impostor, by banana¹ standards, like a rogue staple among some tea leaves.

1. yellow on the outside, hollow on the inside [↑]