really. That is, nothing is — and that’s the point. I haven’t written a lot of blogs, probably won’t write a lot more, mainly because I was traumatized by COVID — too many blogs — I wrote one every day and my life depended on them. My God, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in the heart of Leslieville and I don’t know if I can stand it here, the neighborhood is so bloody privileged and white and oh dear. Three girls trashed me in this Starbucks last week for walking too slow (i.e. arthritis). I told them to fuck off. They were three pretty, conceited, well-off girls and I just wanted to kill them. I said I was disabled and they had the gall to argue back— JESUS. The atmosphere in this Starbucks is incredibly toxic, everyone is super nice but at the same time totally poised to get into a fight about identity politics. And there are so many white people with babies. And so many nauseatingly perfect homosexuals. I just want to scream; but I’ll write this instead. Anyway, I have a bad taste in my mouth about blogs, after Covid-19. Strange, as I was fine after having my life somewhat destroyed by The Vivek Shraya Blog — or thought I was fine— but it was writing movie blogs everyday during COVID that really did me in. I felt like a word whore, a literary prostitute; I was writing just to get through the day. But also what’s the point of expressing your opinions anymore? People are so generally hateful and eager to dismiss you as evil. Civil discourse is over as far as I’m concerned, so I try and keep my discourses uncivil. Like this. I wish it were a poem so I’ll try and make it more like one. I haven’t kissed a really pretty boy barely half my age — in at least a month — and it’s driving me crazy. I know I’m old and mouldy and to top it all off I’ve been suffering an arthritis attack (hence the slowness) which means I’m even scarier to the young than I usually am. Oh yes, I quite forgot (not to suddenly go all British on you!) but my therapist recently suggested that I need to not expect too much of myself anymore as I am aging. I know it sounds horrible but she’s right. In other words life just isn’t the way it was before; I’m not the centre of all things, and shouldn’t expect to be, and I should enjoy my anonymity and my work, as there is no need to get anywhere, I should just feel damn lucky that I’m still alive and have enough money to live on. Oh, by the way, can you believe all this hysteria about the two little black girls who were ignored by a mascot at a Sesame Street Theme Park? I mean yes, I would totally sympathize if it was a real human being that had purposefully ignored two black girls. But a mascot? My sister actually makes mascots (I hope she does’t mind me mentioning her) so I feel I have some sort of affinity with them. Sometimes I feel like a mascot, bobbing my way through life trying to make a good impression — but not really connecting — you know? Also a very dear friend of mine was once Polkaroo. He’s very tall and the costume fit. (Also I was the genie in Dudley the Dragon once, and I had to act with a mascot-like creature, i.e. Dudley, which was weird.) I mean I know mascots are not real people. There are really people in them, but those real people are also trying to navigate a contraption, with fans on, and without really being able to see. And the person hiding in the ‘racist’ mascot claims that the mascot was not being racist, but just couldn’t see the girls because they were so short. That certainly makes sense to me, and I’m actually more worried about the mama of the girls turning them into professional victims by telling them that ‘Rosita’ ignored them because they were black. Let me tell you something, it’s probably better in the long run for children to come to terms with the fact that mascots may never notice you. Feeling depressed because a mascot won’t hug you is a bit like saying “I saw Robert De Niro’ in The Godfather when I was very depressed. Yet he just refused to sympathize — and went on about The Mafia!” On the other hand what I do approve of, is that these little children obviously believe that 'Rosita,' a fictional character, really exists. I too believe that fictional characters exist. I have been reading novels by Stella Gibbons (of Cold Comfort Farm fame) and I’m telling you every one of Gibbons’ plucky little heroines is me. I live their anxiety with them, and I am obsessed with whether or not the beautiful boys they love will love them back. If you think it’s odd that a 70 year old Doctor of Philosophy (i.e. me) imagines himself a teenage girl now and then — well get used to it. I never had a proper adolescence. This morning I was reading Margaret Mead who was talking about the Polynesian Islanders sending their teenagers into little huts to experiment sexually when they reach adolescence --yet there were no unwanted pregnancies, and the kids turned into happier adults than you or I. I never had my gay adolescence when I was supposed to — so I still want boys to notice me, and I’m still mortally wounded when they don’t. (Sigh!) Maybe that's why I shouldn’t write blogs. They become embarrassingly personal, as it’s useless to try and convince you of an actual idea anymore — as you’re all so set in your ways and resistant to thought. So all I can hope for is to send you a postcard from my reality, which, like any postcard, will be wacky, sad, and a little confusing. “Having a great time. (I think!) Wish you were here! Oh by the way, who are you?"
