i work at tim hortons. for all the non-canadians, tim hortons is like the canadian equivalent to starbucks (personally i find starbucks coffee horrible... but let's not discuss that)

anyways, i have to say it's one of the worst jobs ever. i've worked in customer service before (at mount tremblant renting out ski equipment, and a clothing store in the underground) but nothing like this. maybe it's because when you are hungry, you get irritated. there are 3 main types of customers where i work:

1. the english-speaking tourists who try and order in french, when they clearly cannot, just to "impress" us. bravo! you pretend to be bi-lingual! would you like an award? the only time that you should *attempt* to speak french is at a fancy restaurant. they'll treat you nicer for putitng in some effort.

2. quebecers who talk too fast. i have to say that my dad is one of these people. i understand that french is usually speaken at a faster pace, but it's still comprehendable. please slow your bouche down before i give you a ticket.

3. families who order meals via the drive through. i'm sure this happens at every fast food place, but tim hortons?! how many bagels, ice caps, double doubles, and timbits do you have to order!! remember that there are only 4 people working at any given time, and we each only have two hands. go to a mcdonalds and order your meals there please.

water rushed into her lungs, spilling in every cavity her body had. she gasped for any chance of any, only to make the muffled sounds of screaming. for a brief moment, she shut her eyes. all that bullshit about seeing your life flash before you? not an ounce of truth to it.

i can't say for sure what she saw, but i can tell you the sight she got once she opened her eyes. a rugged figure, a man no doubt, pressing her head further into the blue water of the deep pool. was this her garden? yes, she could make out the peach trees she planted two summers ago. her once peaceful pool with calm waters had turned violent. kicking rapidly, she took in her last gulp. bubbles of agony rose to the surface. the man let go of her fragile neck as rose to the surface. the garden resumed it's zen as she floated to the breeze of the august wind.

dear mom and dad,

there isn't one part of me that doesn't love you, and i know you feel the same way. as much as i'm never home, as much as it seems like i don't care about what happens to you - i do. you may view me as "irresponsible", solely based on the fact that i drink and smoke, but you don't know the half of it. i suppose it's my fault for never being around to talk to you... but i'm scared. i want you to notice how horrible i feel on the inside, but i'm scared to tell you. i'm scared that you'll think it's your fault that i don't enjoy my life, and i don't want you to live the rest of your lives in regret. if anything, you guys are my grounding point. i don't think i'll ever be half as good of a parent as you were to me. and mom... i know dad is having troubles, i can see it in his eyes. you have your hunches that he's depressed (i just wish that you would observe me and notice that i'm depressed)

dear _________,

as corny as it sounds, you are "the man of my dreams". my friends don't understand why we get along because we come from different worlds. you're emotionally stable, you believe in jesus, you attend church, you're straightedge, all the things i'm not. maybe opposites do attract, but sometimes i think the attraction is one way. i know you like me as a friend, but that doesn't mean anything. you like everyone... you're so nonjudgemental. i've never met anyone in my life who didn't make me feel like a failure, like the piece of shit that i am. you don't know everything about me, but sometimes i just want to run up to you in the halls and cry until i feel better. i don't think you'll ever be attracted to me emotionally (i'm a mess). hopefully one day i can tell you all about my life, and you can somehow make it all better.

when i can't sleep, i leave home. i sit by the skate park for hours - watching you, examining you. all i have to show for it is a cigarette in my left hand, and a bmx to the right of me. my hair is never combed, and my eyes always carry baggage. i rub my them until the sand falls out, and rub my feet until they stop stinging. i wear the same torn up shoes, the same ripped jeans, the same wavering expression. you walk by me every morning with a steaming coffee, the latest cell phone, and the coolest handbag. you glance at me like you're waiting for me to beg for money, or shout obscenities. when i walk down the street with oncoming happy couples holding hands, they hold tighter and squeeze closer to the edge of the sidewalk. i'm just another youth who's about to steal something from you.

i look for the lost souls, the people like me. it's hard to spot lost souls, unless you've misplaced the map yourself. i watch how you sit, how you walk, how you talk. you go to your malls, your "corporate america", and you buy your $70 abercrombie jeans. what do you have to show for it? \is it some sort of atonement for your fucked up life? are you compensating for the lack of people who compliment you without turning around and stabbing you in the back? when people see me watching them, they get uneasy. i don't look threatening, though. i'm just a small young girl.

they are scared because they know i can see right through them.