Strangely enough, AXE Canada recently sent us a huge box of their products (thank you, we stunk before and now we’re metrosexual). Also in the box was a shiny new Flip Mino HD video camera for us to give away. We have one of our own, and the thing is pretty kickass. It’s smaller than my cell phone, and it takes up to 1 hour of HD film.
To win it, just tell us a good story in the comments below. Paint us a picture of a time when you could have used some AXE bodyspray. Our favorite yarn gets the camera, which is in the box and beautiful. To get things started, I’ve set the bar low with a story of my own…
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When I first arrived at the University of Cape Town I didn’t know much about South African history or the political dynamics of the country, and my knowledge of the Afrikaans language was not yet even remotely rudimentary. What I did know was that my fast friends in the fraternity were serious drinkers and that they loved rugby more than anything else in the world.
Every year, UCT plays a hugely important big deal of a rugby game against Stellenbosch University. This so-called “Ikeys vs Maties” match switches venues every year, with each school taking a turn playing at home. In 1994, it was Stellenbosch’s turn, so about 50% of the student body clambered aboard buses for a wild drive to the enemy camp, as per tradition and hungry for fun.
On the way up, the buses stopped at several notable wineries for a series of “tastings” outside the town of Paarl. Most of us had already been drinking on the bus (and before that), so these stops only served to frustrate our sobriety further.
It was an extremely hot day, and several of us thought it would be a good idea to go swimming in our underwear in the pond out front of a tasting room. I was among them, and returned to the bus drunk and my body caked in mud, algae and duck poo.
When we finally arrived at the Matie’s campus, most of us were already hoarse from singing obscene songs. The school spirit was intoxicating. I could hardly stand, my clothes half-soaked and stinky, but it was still all good. This is when things began to turn bad.
Here’s the thing about Stellenbosch that I didn’t know. It’s the intellectual nerve center of Afrikanerdom. Us English-speakers or sout piels (salt dicks) were not really welcome in these parts. It’s an ancient feud, the result of a couple hundred years of war, avarice, and overall ugliness. The animosity was palpable once we got off the bus, with Maties fans and local security forces jeering at our arrival. I knew nothing of the whys and what fors, and got into it like I was at a Canucks vs Flames game at home. I was caught up in the day’s excitement with the rest of my cohorts, all of us in our striped UCT jerseys waving flags and acting like complete knobs.
Despite it being an English game, the Afrikaners dominate South African rugby, and the Stellenbosch team destroyed our side so badly that we all knew it was a done deal before the first half was even over. Bottles of mampoer (moonshine), bad wine, and shitty Black Label beer were passed around. We couldn’t have given a damn. Some of our losing chants were real classy gems. My favourite was…
It’s alright!
It’s OK!
You’re all going to work for us some day!
The home crowd didn’t like being insulted by a bunch of hammered English larnies, and there was plenty of yelling going back and forth in the stands. The Maties supporters were loving that they were winning and hating us on high simmer at the same time. Incomprehensible insults were hurled. And then at half time a bottle was thrown. It was getting ugly, and I was having what I recall to be a jolly good time.
I blacked out before the second half began. I don’t know what happened, except that I’d woken up in a jail cell in quite a state.
A powder blue uniformed cop with a squished, amber-coloured face had just poured a bucket of cold water on my head. I was so scared, pissed, and confused that I could hardly speak. I spluttered and moaned like a brain-atrophied science experiment working for Marlon Brando. It was dark, and the cell smelled awfully of urine. My tongue was swollen with thirst and my head ached like it had been hit with a furious bear.
A thickly mustachioed and very burly Afrikaner captain came in and stared at me, tut-tutting as I lay on the ground, gasping and grasping for the room to stop spinning and the fear to subside. I sat up and then immediately threw up, hurling with a resounding splash the worst adolescent shit mix of alcohols allowed (or not) by South African law. Some of it got on the captain’s boots. Not cool. I apologised over and over again – “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” – and started to cry a little. I must have been a pathetic sight.
In a calm, even and heavily accented voice, he asked to see my ID. The only identification I had was my student card and my old Blockbuster video rental card from Canada. I handed my wallet over.
“American?” he asked, inspecting it and then using it to wipe my mess off his big boots.
“Ek is Canadees,” I slurred. “Ek praat nee Afrikaans nee umdaat ek es Canadees”. It was the only Afrikaans I knew at this point. I felt like a prisoner of war in a dark mist, and the interrogation had just begun. I was David Bowie and David Niven. I’d just blown up the River Kwai.
“Very good, meneer”, he said, squatting down in front of me. “Tell me, do you know what jou ma se poes means?” he asked, lifting my sunken chin up with a huge forefinger. I opened my eyes from their pained squint. It sounded familiar, but I didn’t know for sure.
“No” I mumbled. “Can I please have some water?”
“It means your mother’s a cunt” spat the other cop, a real stand in character player named Koibus.
“That’s not very nice at all.” I managed to say, trying to keep myself upright and wiping spittle from the lapel of my rugby jersey. I was slurring and horrified and so surprised.
“Then why would you yell it at me?” asked the captain icily, turning away.
“I never…there must be some mistake.” I didn’t know what was happening. It felt like Midnight Express.
“No. You did this many, many times. At the rugby match. People saw. We saw.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Do you know what ek gaan jou moer means?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.”
“It means ‘I’m going to kill you'” Koibus supplied.
“I never said that, did I?”
The captain nodded. “You didn’t just say it. You were screaming it at all our supporters when Koibus and I tried to intervene. They were going to shut you up, bru. They were going to tear you apart. And then when I put my handcuffs on you, that’s when you started calling my mother a cunt.”
“I did?”
“Again and again and again.”
“But I don’t speak Afrikaans. I’m from Canada.”
“I’d beg to differ, my son. You spoke it like one of us”, the captain laughed.
Koibus handed me a glass of water and I drank. Visions of an impromptu firing squad flashed in front of my eyes. Worse case scenario, I thought, they’d beat me with a sjambok (a short whip made of rhino hide) and dump me by the side of some deserted highway. I sat dazed and shaking.
“You ruined the game for a lot of people, meneer”.
“I did?”
“You made us angry“, Koibus said, rolling his R’s like a Dutchman. “We like watching our boys lay a good pounding on you rooinekke fucks, but we had to drag your stupid arse back here to save your red neck”.
“I’m sorry”. I truly was. For everything. “How much trouble am I in?”
The two of them looked at each other and frowned. “Well, that depends”, the captain started. “We could have you summarily thrown out of the country for inciting a riot and uttering threats. We have dozens of witnesses, all of whom would gladly testify against you if you decided to fight the charges.”
“Jesus”. I whispered.
“He’s not on your side today, ” Koibus shot back.
“It’s either that or we take you out back into the parking lot and you let Koibus have a go with you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, fearing I was either going to be thrashed or grievously molested, possibly both. I looked from the captain’s face to Koibus’, whose fury was so intense that his eyes had disappeared into his cheeks and his brow had fused with the bridge of his broken nose.
“Koibus likes to box. Do you like to box, Canadees?”
“I really don’t.”
“Well, those are your choices”, the captain said, lifting one of Koibus’ fists, which he balled for effect. “It’s either back to Canada on the next flight without ceremony – and I mean straight away without your things – or a bare knuckle dance with my little friend here.”
I’m not a fighter, a fact compounded by my immobility, but I couldn’t go back to Canada for something dumb that I couldn’t even remember. I suspect the policemen understood that fully before they gave me the option.
They wanted to beat me up, fair and square, and it was a fate I absolutely deserved. But how bad could it be? I wondered. I’ll probably go down after the first punch, I thought. I certainly wasn’t going to take any swings of my own. That’s it, I said to myself. One punch and it’s over. You’re free.
“I guess I don’t have much of a choice.” I said sullenly.
“Up you get then”, said the captain, helping me to my feet. I started to wretch and they both backed off.
False alarm.
“Ek gaan jou fokken moer,” Koibus whispered in my ear as he led me out of the cell and down a filthy hallway.
“What?”
“Jou ma se fokken poes, doos” he added, his voice gravely and threatening. I was terrified.
It was raining outside in the parking lot, but I could see a few of my friends waiting for me with relieved looks on their faces. What the hell?
“Stay out of trouble, Canadees,” said the captain. I looked at him, not understanding, but then Koibus pushed me forward. “…and if I ever find you on the Stellenbosch campus again, we’ll beat you for real, verstaan?”
What was happening started to sink in. They were letting me go, sans beating.
“Yes, sir”.
And so we piled into the last bus, which my friends had commandeered (having paid off the driver), and drove back to Cape Town.
It was all their fault. Apparently, they’d told me to yell the things I’d yelled, and I was in such an agreeable mood and so swept up in the moment that I didn’t hesitate, even though I didn’t know what they meant. To hear them tell it, I’d yelled out the epithets so loudly and so often that when the captain and Koibus had shown up, I was about to be captured and ripped to pieces. My friends, no doubt feeling tremendously guilty for getting me in such shit, had followed us to the campus station. There, they pleaded my case to the captain while I lay passed out in my cell.
“He’s Canadian, sir. We thought it would be funny if we taught him a few nasty things to yell. Good sport, you know?”
The captain had laughed and agreed that it was indeed good sport. A little dangerous, he’d said, but good. The Maties had beaten us so badly on the field that day that charging a foreigner for being stupid was just bad form. But that didn’t stop him from playing his own inning.
“At least I puked on his shoes…” I thought, happy to have escaped and eager to enjoy a long shower and fresh change of clothes.
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Three years ago I was doing a volunteer project in Ghana. For five weeks I was working in a small village of about 2000 people helping to build an extra wing to an elementary school. It was hard work, especially in the blazing sun, so on weekends I would try and take little trips for some R & R.
One weekend I decide to take an 8 hour drive to Mole National Park, a wild life reserve in the northern part of the country. There I would get to relax by a pool sipping on a Mai Tai while surrounded by wild monkeys, elephants and antelope.
I had planned on taking one of the “nicer” buses for this 8 hour journey but on arrival to the bus stop I was told that the bus was full and I would have to take an alternate mode of transportation. The man suggested the Tro Tro station down the street.
Let me first explain what a Tro Tro is. Imagine a VW van that’s been gutted on the inside in order to make room for as many people as humanly possible. Then add food from the markets, livestock from who knows where and everything else that could possibly make the kind of smell legends are made of. Oh, and then cook it all in 35 degree weather.
I arrived at the Tro Tro station at 3:30am to find the front seat wide open. Jumping in and shutting the door I figured that my luck had turned and the trip was going to be a breeze. As I started to nod off to sleep I was woken by a hard tap on the passenger window. There standing outside was a 300 pound Ghanaian saying that I was in his seat. So much for good luck.
Before jumping in the back seat however, the giant of a man was kind enough to suggest that we share the front seat. Great.
In order to shut the door with both of us in the front, I had to physically stand up, shift over, let him shut the door and then balance myself on the remaining two inches of seat that were left. Keep in mind this is an 8 hour trip. That’s more than enough time to absorb every last drop of sweat that gushed off the man sitting next to me what had become a mobile oven.
To make things worse, once the driver starting shifting into the higher gears, he had to ram the gear stick into my thigh in order to get it into gear. Oh, and I almost forgot, he loved Celine Dion and decided to play the same tape for 8 hours. Some might call this hell on earth but I figured paradise awaited in the shape of a pool, multiple beverages and finally a bed to pass out on.
After eight hours of driving I can’t imagine what I must have smelled like but after that long your brain gives up on the sense of smell and says “You’re on your own.”
My first priority when we finally got to the “resort” was to head to the bar.
Some may ask, why not a shower first? Well, that would involve running water and since there wasn’t any I had to wait until morning to have some delivered.
After multiple drinks I decided to mingle with a few of the other guests that had arrived via the bus system I had originally wanted to take. Maybe it was the beers, maybe it was my incoherence at that point, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why no one seemed to want to mingle and chat.
After several attempts of trying to engage in conversation only to be shut down a English guy came over to me and asked if he could have a moment. We walked to the side of the bar and he said point blank “Listen mate, I’m not gonna lie, you smell worse than anything I’ve ever smelt in my whole life. If you could be so kind as to leave, the rest of us would greatly appreciate it.”
Imagine the worst smell you can possibly think of, then add a mixture of livestock, outhouse, and fish and you’ll be relatively close. When I woke up the next morning, I was slapped in the face by this odor that had taken on a life of its own. For those of you that have seen the Seinfeld episode with the valet driver you might understand.
To make matters worse, the hangover kicked in the minute the smell hit my nose and forced me to vomit instantly. Needless to say, those clothes never left Mole National park but I’m sure they’re being treating as toxic waste.
In those days of my youth… back when I was slinging pints and long-pouring high balls in pubs there were a few moments when it would have been advantageous to have some AXE Body Spray handy.
Best example is one night, like any other night. People are sitting at the bar drinking and cavorting. There’s a group of buddies slamming shots of Jameson Irish Whiskey in the corner between shots at the dart board. Standard night. Good vibe, good music.
A keg blows mid pour and I’ve gotta go down and change it in the basement storage room. So I truck down there, trying to be quick so’s to not keep the drinkers waiting for their swill. The storage room is a fucking mess as usual. Kegs on top of kegs, spent kegs on top of full ones and I’m down there lugging this crap around and finally get the proper keg hooked up and bolt out of the storage room to the stairs.
But now I’m sweating and it’s doubly worse because the cold air in the beer storage room is throwing my body temperature equillibrium all out of whack.
Whatever. I’m booking it up the stairs to get back to the bar and I can hear some commotion happening and I figure that the drinkers are just having some good natured fun but when I get there I can see people are crowding around the dart boards and seem a little excited.
Someone had passed out. This super hot girl that was pounding back the Jamesons shots was lying on the carpet and nobody knew what to do.
In a moment of incalculable heroism – every bartender wears an imaginary but powerful cape – I burst thru the throng of indecisive gawkers and kneeled over her. Called for some water or something.
I was kneeling right over her trying to figure out what to do as one of her friends started fanning her with a sweater. Just trying to get the air circulating, I guess.
And it worked because she opened her eyes and looked at me then twitched in revulsion as the fanning sweater carried the forest rhubarb scent of my recent exertion to her nostrils and she visibly recoiled.
There were a few laughs about that. And a few people got cut off a little earlier than normal that night.
Ok, this has got to be the best story of all time. We could have used some AXE BodySpray multiple times during our Europe trip. The smells were so potent that sometimes I think..think I still get a whiff of it once in a while. From where? I have no idea. Maybe it got entrenched deep inside our nostrils. Make it go away! AXE would have been perfect! HAHA
Well here is the story. Enjoy!
I was 19 years old and was traveling through Europe with my two best buddies and a girlfriend. We had huge backpacks that were quite heavy and it was so tiring to carry them almost everyday inbetween our destinations.
So we arrived in Amsterdam after almost 3 hours of travelling in a bus from Brussel. It was about 4 am-5am. My friend Jerry, the youngest of us at 17 years old, was exhausted and just wanted to find a place to crash for the night. Cynthia, 18 years old, wanted to hit a bar for a drink as did I and my other pal Luca (18 years old). Oh was that such a bad idea! We should have just listened to Jerry.
We decided find a hostel so we can get a room altogether and drop off our things. We weren’t picky with the place so we just chose the first one we saw on the strip. We dropped off our things and jetted, leaving Jerry to sleep.
Anyway, so we headed out the door, Cynthia, Luca and I. We found a really cool pub type place that sold food and drinks a couple blocks around the hostel. The place was really busy, even at 5 am. We had some fries and….LOTS of booze…It was so cheap! My friends were buzzing all night. We drank way to much. We were all mingeling with other partyers and my buddy Luca apparently went to the rest room. We didn’t see him for a little while……
So Cynthia and I were at a table with lots of other boys and girls drinking more beer and having drunken chats. Cynthia poked me in the back and noticed that Luca was no where to be seen. I had no clue where he went so I got up and went outside. Didn’t see him out there after 5 minutes of looking around the front and alley, so I walked back in and saw my friend Cynthia holding her nose and eyes wide open in shock while peering at a corner where others were turning their attention to. There was Luca! Getting some help from a Good Samaritan and walking out of a doorway that was probably the toilet. The stink that was on this guy was Out Of This World. Something creatures that live in the depths of hell would even get nausiated over.
He was found in the bathroom stall passed out on the floor next to the bowl in probably an inch of urine, vomit and I don’t know what else. I am getting sick just thinking of it. The poor guys clothing was soaked! He reeked!
The best part of the night was the walk back to the hostel. No cab wanted us in them obviously so Cynthia and I had to hold him and walk. The smell was unbelievable. We tossed away his shirt but he still reeked and was still “wet”. Right there and then would the AXE BodySpray do so much justice and so would a hot hot shower for all of us after that point. I remember looking at Cynthia and she was white as a ghost. She felt so sick from the smell.
When we got back to the hostel we walked quickly through the mini lobby to our room. We had no choice but to throw him into the shower and wash him. It was hilarious. We then went to bed after a disaster of a night.
The next morning or afternoon I should say, as we walked out our room. We could still get a hint of that vile smell in the hallway. We left Luca in the room where he was still passed out.
We told Jerry about what happened and we couldn’t help but laugh over and over. It was the highlight of our trip and something to tease and will haunt Luca FOREVER! 🙂
Luca kept telling us that he thinks someone put something into his drink but we all know that he is just a little girl that can’t handle any drinks. Even Cynthia out drank him. Poor guy…..
But it was still best trip ever! We laugh about it now and then. Too bad we didn’t have a video recorder to tape it all!
🙂
Thanks for reading my disgusting but awesome story.
This is a rotten story, but I think it’s what you’re after.
—
Dave is an asshole. He’s also one of my best friends. He’s the guy who delivered me home wearing a garbage bag suit with a duct-tape belt to protect his car from the vomit that I was covered in. He simply rang the door bell and left me in a crumpled heap for my mom and all her dinner guests to find. It was my parents’ 10-year anniversary.
“Best anniversary ever,” my mom would later tell me, once we were on speaking terms again.
Things like this are, for me anyway, the hallmark of a good friendship. Dave feels the same way and so we take turns doing awful things to each other in the hope that once the anger subsides we’ll get to have a good laugh about it over beers and repeat the process all over again.
After one spirited night on the town we arrived back at Dave’s place where I was to crash on the couch. Dave has a big dog – an airedale – and on this particular night, Barkly, as he was known, had diarrhea. Lots of diarrhea. All over the house. But, wasted as we were, neither of us had the will to clean it up. So, we drank a few more beers instead and fell asleep in our seats.
Some hours later I awoke with a pressing urge to pee and hydrate. In the bathroom, as I relieved myself, I noticed a box of Q-Tips sitting on top of the toilet tank. An odd place for Q-Tips, I thought at first, but then a brilliant idea entered my mind: I would dab the inside of Dave’s nose with a Q-Tip dipped in dog-diarrhea.
Which I did.
The next morning we awoke, Dave having moved to his bed in the night, and me stretched out on the couch. Hungover as we were, we had even less desire to clean up the crap than we did the night before. So, it was off to brunch instead. Greasy eggs and hashbrowns at a greasy diner. Waiting for our coffee, Dave pulled out his chair and checked his shoe.
“It smells like shit,” he said. “Did you step in any of it?”
I checked my shoes for dramatic effect, stifling laughter. “Nope. But you’re right, it does.”
At regular intervals throughout the meal Dave would suddenly pause, sniff at the air and repeat: “It really smells like shit. You must have stepped in it.” A minute or two later I would pipe up with the same thing, fueling the comedy of my private joke. Finally, it got to the point where I couldn’t hold in the laughter anymore. For some reason though, neither could Dave. And it began to worry that my joke had become something of a reality, as I had been smelling shit too. Panic gripped me as I thought that maybe I had got some on my hands during the Q-Tip transfer. I excused myself and wandered into the washroom.
My hands were spotlessly clean, but I washed them thoroughly anyway. I dried them off then leaned in to the mirror and wiped my face, only to find something awful caked in my eyebrows.
The End.
Last December I was driving back to Vancouver from Nelson, BC. Up until the Fraser Valley, the drive had been perfect : little traffic, dry roads, good music. Then the snow came, or had already came and was continuing to fall. Heavily. This was the first absurd snow fall in a winter that had more snow that I can ever remember in Vancouver. But, I grew up in Nelson. I can handle the conditions. No problem. So, from Hope it was slow moving. Lots of cars in ditches. Gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly. But, I was fine. A little tense, but fine.
Just before the onramp to the Port Man Bridge, and it’s deadlocked. Moving very, very slowly, if at all. I’m in the far left hand lane, and I start to feel my bladder squeal. I figure that I can hold it for a while. A while passes. The car isn’t more than a couple hundred meters further down the road and there is a zero percent chance that I will be able to, somehow, slide through three lanes of traffic (that aren’t moving) and get to the next exit and find a bathroom before I explode. I have to do with what I have.
Thank God it’s dark out. An empty water bottle is on the floor beside me. I pull down my pants. With the risk of this sounding like a thinly veiled brag, the hole is just too small. I will piss everywhere if I try to aim into that. Luckily, I hadn’t thrown out the garbage from the McDonalds breakfast I got in Castlegar, along with an orange juice. So, with my pants at my ankles and a cup at my crotch, I finally let go. The glorious feeling lasts not more than a second when I realize that the cup is filling up WAY to fast. I freeze. Who knew this much piss comes out of one bladder? Within a couple of seconds I’m sitting in a puddle of piss with my pants at my ankles, holding an overflowing cup of piss, stuck in gridlocked traffic between Surrey and Port Coquitlam. In retrospect, there were probably better options than just letting myself urinate all over my legs and seat. But, in those precious seconds, I couldn’t think of any. I open my window and throw the piss out, cup and all. I reach behind me, grab a sweatshirt, and put it under my ass, hoping to mop up at least some of the urine. It does a mediocre job, at best. So, with my pants at my ankles and the sour smell of pee filling the cold air, I make my way back to Vancouver. As I said, thank God it was dark out.
This story is not over. As I mentioned earlier, the snow had been piling on non-stop. I finally make it back to Vancouver. To park in front of my house, From the direction I was coming, I have to take a left onto a residential street, then around the block, then back again in front of my house. All of this is on non-busy side streets. Of course, the snow plows hadn’t begun plowing yet and even if they had, they wouldn’t have hit the non-major roads. So, I get stuck, in the middle of an intersection. I’m an idiot. I pull up my piss wet pants, get out, and try and push myself out. No luck. A couple minutes later, another car comes up. A small, Asian lady gets out. In her limited English, she says that she will drive my car and I should push. This makes perfect sense: I’m probably more than twice her size. What she doesn’t know, and what I don’t really know how to explain to her, is that i’ve recently wet myself all over the front seat and she really doesn’t want to sit there. So, somehow, I argue with her that I should drive and she should push. Flabbergasted, she finally agrees. Eventually, it works.
My story doesn’t involve puke or piss or much debauchery. Just a late night walk home last summer, after a few too many beers and more beers, with a charming golden retriever. Mere blocks from home, something caught the dog’s eye in the alley and he shot off like a bolt. Before I could yell, “NooooOOooo!” I watched the poor bastard get sprayed right in the face by a skunk. The shit-show that ensued involved the very panicked retriever who immediately stopped, dropped and rolled all over some strangers lawn and garden and a frantic phone call to the emergency vet clinic who assured me that a.) the dog was probably not going to go blind, and b.) I should bathe him immediately in a combination of hydrogen peroxide, dish soap and baking soda BUT take care not to get this mixture in his eyes or ears (To which, my reply was something along the line of “Don’t get it in his eyes or ears?! He just got sprayed in the f*&cking face!”)
I eventually got the stinking (and now mud-caked) dog back to my apartment, somehow maneuvered him up the flight of newly carpeted stairs, and into the bathroom where I discovered he was really not interested in taking a bath at all. The rest is a blur, but hours later my bathroom looked like it had hosted a very rowdy match of muppet mud wrestling and I found myself drifting off to sleep with a still wet and definitely still reeking dog sleeping on my bedroom floor (at this point the whole place was a disaster and I smelled just as bad as he did so I saw no point in making the traumatized dog sleep outside).
Anyway, you can imagine the stench I woke up to the next morning.
The end.
i should be applying for jobs right now but really i needed to tell somebody what just happened to me at library number 1 about an hour and a half ago. there i was, minding my own business, applying for yet another job (i’m starting to get discouraged, constantly forget i’ve only been at this for a week). yeah, so this fellow sits down at one of the computers (context: middle aged, drunk, tells everybody he’s from nicarauga, we hadn’t asked). after 2 minutes he tells (yells at) the computer to shut up. this goes on at 5 minute intervals for 15 minutes. the librarian eventually comes over and tells him he’s using a “library catalogue” computer instead of an “internet” computer. luckily (unluckily) there’s an available computer right beside me. librarian leaves. drunk man starts talking to me. i have head phones in so i take them out and say what. he slurrs nonsense at me and grabs my hand. i pull it away swiftly. he starts licking his lips and making kisses at me. i tell him “no, i am not interested, i’m going to go back to using my computer now.” why is it everybody sounds like a douche when they’re trying to reason with random crazies. thankfully he gets distracted trying to find his shoes (which are on his feet). as he’s getting up to leave he LITERALLY caresses my face. thankfully i pull away so there wasn’t that much touching but jesus fuck jesus fuck i haven’t been that creeped out in a while. fuck, i’m still scattered about it.
so to sum up, vancouver is nice! i’m having a blast!