Living in a Vagina

Living in Vancouver is like living in a vagina: warm, damp, a little smelly--and sometimes, you run into a dick.

WARM, DAMP, SMELLY

The rain stopped for a while, this afternoon. I went outside--not to do anything in particular, mind: just to sniff some fresh air. Only, the rain had stirred up a dog-dirt smell, and the wind had a bad case of leaf-breath. There was a vegetable smell from the Dumpsters, and a meaty one from the deli. A man waiting to cross Burrard Street had on too much cologne. A persistent whiff of strawberry followed me eastward. Took me three blocks to realise it was my shampoo.

A DICK

At the corner of Davie and Granville, a beggar tried to soak me for a fiver. He had an iPod with him. I told him I'd trade my five for his iPod, and he went away. When did bums start having better stuff than I do?

CAN'T FIND THE HOLE

On the way home, lost in thought, I went past my building twice (once past the back entrance, which is easy to miss, and once past the front, for which there is no excuse.)