Years ago, I thrilled the internet with tales of the hot guy who watered the plants at the temp job I had when I was 24. It was...a whirlwind. This was a time of confusion, high-waisted jeans and a plethora of innuendo using the word 'spout'.

Now, years later, my penchant for men in the service industry has not waned. No, no. If anything it has grown even larger. Is it due to nearly another decade of unsuccessful online dating apps? Or perhaps the fact I have more conversations with my paid personal trainer than any friend still on my Facebook list? Who's to say...

Loneliness. Loneliness is to say. Anxiety and Isolation also have some keen words.

Most recently, I went in hard on a young gentleman working at the service desk of a local auto mechanic shop. Now, I know what you're thinking:

"But of course! A car mechanic! It was in front of him all along!"

To be clear, that's stupid. The guy wasn't actually a mechanic, but rather a young, sensitive soul, probably just out of university, who was killing time until his songwriting career takes off. How do I know that he has music industry ambitions? WELL, when the company Christmas card came complete with all their employees' signatures on it, I found his full name, Googled the shit out of it, and came upon a Canadian Idol audition tape from 2010.

So that's pretty much where I'm at these days.

Not even a close friends pity-filled eyes when I showed her his Instagram account and his bio line said "taken" could deter me from my lust. Not actually, that was a pretty big boner killer. Also, her suggestion that I could make an electronic advance anyway was swiftly rebuffed, because here's the things with these fantasies: they stop being fun the second any sort of reality creeps in.

Writing pervy blog posts about strangers? Aww yiss. Actually talking to them in real life? Full-body hives.

And fuck that guy anyway, with his 2,000 Instagram followers, dreamy eyes, and Aryan Nation lookin' boyfriend. I have moved on to an emotionally distant burrito assembler at my local taqueria. His has the beginnings of a unibrow, a slight limp, makes possibly the most shittily-assembled burrito I have certainly ever experienced... and he's perfect.

Airbud meets Metropolis

Life is hard right now. Not like Syrian refugee hard. Not being held in detention for 30 hours at JFK hard. Just, like, I don't think I'm living the life I was meant to hard. And also I'm 3-fucking-2 and there are complications that come with that number that didn't exist when I first started this ten years ago.

Guys, I have a fucking dog. Do you know how restricted I am as a person because of a dog? Like, ruff rough stuff. I also have a mortgage. And a car. And a job that allows me to have these things. And I'm fucking lucky to have all that, as well as my white male privilege. I mean, I've got the queer gimp Jew thing, but still. These are complications as much as they are joys. Or what should be joys.

I am fucking miserable. Not just tonight but generally. Was I miserable ten years ago? Probably. Was I trying to do hot yoga via radiator heat in my first apartment and then blogging about it? Yes. But being miserable is okay when you still have the whimsy and naivety of youth that allows for such misadventure. Now I'm wise and miserable. And it licks taint.

Maybe I'm just a miserable person. And were I just a miserable person writing about their life and throwing it into the void of internet communications circa 2006 then that would be unremarkable, as we were all doing this shit in 2006. But maybe it isn't just that. Maybe this is an attempt to reclaim the fervour I had then, part of a journey to analyse what interested me enough in observing people on the bus or fabricating love affairs between me and the guy who watered the plans at work. And illustrate it all in Microsoft Paint. At least if you're miserable and passionate then shit can get accomplished. Or maybe I'll just write this one post and that will be it.

So I don't know. Don't hold me to anything. But I know it can't stay like this.