There might not be a lot going on in Fort Erie, ON. That is, until you pop a bag of some of this shit open:
But instead of livin' la vida loca
in my room with a bag of pickled Doritos, I walked to a restaurant just a couple blocks away, past a quiet, neglected cemetery. The worst waitress in the world works there (at the restaurant, not the cemetery), but the fact that she was a creature straight out of a Tim Burton movie (really), more than made up for it.
This guy was a local.
He was reading, eating dinner alone and drinking wine. I felt sorry for him; then thought, "I hope that's not me in 30 years."
Then I realized, "That's not me in 30 years. That's me right now."
I walked 'home' (not even noticing the cemetery), only to be examined by someone else who dies very much alone, surrounded by walls painted the same shade of yellow that appears in cheerful works of fiction such as Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment
and Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper
And then the circle of coincidences came back 'round full circle. The chair. The fucking chair.