I heard a story today. A cruel funny story about a human being as warm and beautiful as can be. I haven't laughed this hard in weeks (that feel like lifetimes) and I feel duty bound to write about it to induce that guilty jot in more people.
Let me warn you that I've met the heroine of this story once and have met nobody else, including the streets featured in this story before. I'm very likely to be making up the details and descriptions because I'm describing them as my mind's eye saw it.
A is an artist. The kind who creates magic not just from the art she produces and teaches but from simply breathing. Truly.
I have met her once, at a meaty barbecue party where I was vegan and knew very few people whom I hadn't met in years; but around A, everything was fun and perfectly hilarious- like I was in a Indie movie reflecting on life through the giggly haze of an evening in a hotbox.
Now A is the sort of artist who lives in a funny part of the world, around very funny people (no I certainly don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny) because the rents are cheap and she won't have to take on a third job to pay rent- I understand this pain and applaud her perseverance. You would too if you have ever been paid badly to follow your dreams; you should irrespective.
Now A, as anybody else who lives alone and has a job, doesn't get to shop very often; and as with every person who doesn't live off their mummy and daddy and gets paid peanuts and then some and lives in a busy city, uses public transport or two feet to get around. As a result of all this, one not so sunny evening A walked back with her arms full of her shopping for probably the month. One step after another, achey head, achey hand and shoulders that would probably break soon from both boredom and exhaustion if the plastic bags didn't snap first.
She was almost at the gate of her building when she saw a hyperactive ten year old boy fly off the landing and run towards her with a big smile across his face.
Now who doesn't want a smile after a long day right?
Except A, as wonderful as she is, and as optimistic as her outlook on life is- knew that when that particular boy, had that particular smile on his face she is better off dropping her bags and running as fast as her feet would carry her. But A is A- sunshine, hope and endless optimism so A slapped herself mentally and smiled back as the little boy stopped right in front of her, took a deep breath and spat out a big fat glob of mucus on her face.
And A stood with all her bags weighing her down laughing and crying and not moving a muscle as the mucus made it's slow slimey trail down from the top of her eyebrow to the creases in her neck.
I'm horrible. I'm still laughing as I write this.
Let me warn you that I've met the heroine of this story once and have met nobody else, including the streets featured in this story before. I'm very likely to be making up the details and descriptions because I'm describing them as my mind's eye saw it.
A is an artist. The kind who creates magic not just from the art she produces and teaches but from simply breathing. Truly.
I have met her once, at a meaty barbecue party where I was vegan and knew very few people whom I hadn't met in years; but around A, everything was fun and perfectly hilarious- like I was in a Indie movie reflecting on life through the giggly haze of an evening in a hotbox.
Now A is the sort of artist who lives in a funny part of the world, around very funny people (no I certainly don't mean the ha-ha kind of funny) because the rents are cheap and she won't have to take on a third job to pay rent- I understand this pain and applaud her perseverance. You would too if you have ever been paid badly to follow your dreams; you should irrespective.
Now A, as anybody else who lives alone and has a job, doesn't get to shop very often; and as with every person who doesn't live off their mummy and daddy and gets paid peanuts and then some and lives in a busy city, uses public transport or two feet to get around. As a result of all this, one not so sunny evening A walked back with her arms full of her shopping for probably the month. One step after another, achey head, achey hand and shoulders that would probably break soon from both boredom and exhaustion if the plastic bags didn't snap first.
She was almost at the gate of her building when she saw a hyperactive ten year old boy fly off the landing and run towards her with a big smile across his face.
Now who doesn't want a smile after a long day right?
Except A, as wonderful as she is, and as optimistic as her outlook on life is- knew that when that particular boy, had that particular smile on his face she is better off dropping her bags and running as fast as her feet would carry her. But A is A- sunshine, hope and endless optimism so A slapped herself mentally and smiled back as the little boy stopped right in front of her, took a deep breath and spat out a big fat glob of mucus on her face.
And A stood with all her bags weighing her down laughing and crying and not moving a muscle as the mucus made it's slow slimey trail down from the top of her eyebrow to the creases in her neck.
I'm horrible. I'm still laughing as I write this.
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