And then they keep on going, without even acknowledging the greeting like a normal human being would. And I hate them all over again.

It doesn’t take much to set me off, but then it wouldn’t take much to placate me, either.

When items are demanded of me (as they usually are, because no one here grew up with any manners), I smile politely and hand them off.  As soon as the offender’s back is turned, I aggressively flip them off under my desk.

For some reason, this is very satisfying.

I know we have candles somewhere, and I reach blindly toward the bookcase, my fingers relearning the shapes of familiar objects. This is a book, these are seashells…aha! Tealights. Why are they called that, anyway? I thought tea was taken in the afternoon; unless you like to consume your crumpets and petits fours in a dungeon, candlelight seems unnecessary.

None of this is helping me see any better, but that’s how my mind works –- whenever I’ve just set it to some mundane but necessary task, suddenly it skips merrily under the barrier and wanders afield until I’m forced to corral it again and complete my mission. Which just now happens to be finding a lighter. Or matches. Or a flint stone. The apartment and I seem to have shifted to some parallel dimension when the power went out; who knows what these dark shapes might turn out to be.

I grope further along the shelf until my fingers close on what feels like a small wooden owl. In the new dimension, at least this has remained the same. Now, if I just twist off his head like so…yes. The dusty scent of old marijuana wafts up to meet my nose, prompting a smile before I liberate my lighter from its avian cage. Flick the Bic once, twice…it’s almost disappointing to see that nothing is different.

I assemble my motley crew of candles –- mostly tealights from the IKEA million-pack I bought years ago, but a few Hanukkah candles I liberated from my old job as well — on the coffee table, and soon it’s glowing like someone’s hearth would in a proper house.

The room is now at least partially illuminated, and I grasp about for a new purpose. The light is too feeble to read by, and yet it seems to imply some sort of romantic and writerly activity should be taking place, à la Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë or, you know…one of them.

After staring blankly into the flames for at least thirty minutes, I remember that we have a battery operated radio somewhere in the kitchen. I fish it out from behind a dusty coffee maker and tune it to the AM traffic station. Power outages west of Arbutus and north of Broadway, bla bla…I fall asleep on the couch, bathed in the glow of the guttering candles.

There’s something to be said — too bad so many people have already said it — about how living in a city forces you to be more stylish than the ‘burbs.

Even so, at an event like Sunday’s, I tend to feel distinctly out of place.  I haven’t mastered the icy gaze, and I don’t think I’m likely to anytime soon, so even if my clothes don’t quite mark me as a hick from the sticks, my camera and my nervous giggle do.

As I mature, though, I care less and less about fitting in.  Maybe people who are constantly in search of a bigger and better party really are having a great time, but it all seems so desperate and sad to me.  Sit back!  Enjoy! Do you really need 1,000 photos of you hitting the beer bong to prove that you had fun last night?

1 cup of hot tea, with one sugar and as much milk as you’d like

1 bar of very good dark chocolate (at least 50% cocoa, preferably 65%) that can be broken into small squares

Break off a small piece of chocolate and hold it in your mouth as you take a sip of hot milky tea. The heat of the tea melts the chocolate into your tongue in a gloriously silky manner.

Repeat as necessary.

When I was a kid, I was pretty sure I could handle a cubicle job, no problem. Jobs are just for money, right? Who needs a stimulating career if you’ve got a reliable paycheque?

Oh, how wrong I was. I’m seriously considering taking a pay cut and getting out of here if it means I don’t have to be trapped behind a desk, peering through multiple windows just to get a glimpse of the outside.

Pretty pretty Barbie pink nails.

Keep all sharp objects away from me.

I mean, I’m a little jittery (and man, do I have to use the washroom) but otherwise, I’m great!  If you, invisible-Mother-Nature-type who lurks in the back of my head and tries to force me to make healthy decisions, really want me to be healthy, you’re going to have to let me have my caffeine.

Actually, you better pass me that bag of tortilla chips, too.

Seriously, how do the health nuts of Vancouver do it?  How do they drink a few beers and not crave a giant plate of nachos with extra cheese?  Maybe they’re not drinking beer.  But I refuse to give that up either.  I will not compromise my inebriated happiness for six-pack abs!  Haha…give up one six-pack for another…Oh god, easy on the tea there, buddy.

There are those who claim exercise can become addictive, and that if you get in the habit, your body will crave it.  These people need a drink more than I do.

Even though I hate waking up for work on Monday mornings (actually, every weekday morning — my hair is a study in filthy right now), somehow the workday itself always flies by. Getting back in the routine seems so foreign at the start of every week that the sheer novelty of working helps the time to pass.

Fridays, on the other hand? Worst ever. Even after a minor setback at home had me come in at 10:30 instead of 8 this morning, my last day chained to the desk is lasting an eternity. I’ve only been here 5 hours! Insanity.

I can’t wait to cycle home and be done. This week has been like an Everlasting Gobstopper, if they were gross and fun-sucking and lame. Which, actually, they might be, since I’ve never bothered to eat one and find out.

It makes sense, then, that I can get lost at dinehere.ca for hours. I know I shouldn’t, but sometimes I will base a night out around whether or not a restaurant has been well received by the other foodies of Vancouver. Before I went to Chambar with my girlfriends, I reveled in the good reviews.

On the flip side, I used to work at a fairly well known bakery, and I like to chuckle at the bad ratings we used to receive. Ah, such fun to be young and surly!

On a semi-related note, my parents and I went for a once in a lifetime meal at the French Laundry while I was home. Should I really have spoiled myself for all other meals at the unripe age of 22?

I don’t mean returning the flashlight to some sort of huge factory that deals in re manufacturing said torches.  I mean, how do you accidentally knock a reasonably heavy flashlight into a large container of recyclable paper and not notice?

I’m genuinely curious.