You could say that I had a work day today that could be cited as an example in my “Why we shouldn’t keep K on board” report for the company I work for. I pulled some pretty unforgivable shit today (but completely accidental, mind you), shit that had the big cheeses running around like they’re paying up big after a Taco Bell binge. Apologies were made, forgiveness followed. But nothing that could soothe my anxiety, and fuck me, it was the extra thick stuff that’s seriously hard to breathe through, like L.A. smog.

The only thing that kept me hanging on (to my sanity) was this:

And I can’t tell you what sort of absurd fuckery I had gone through that had prevented me from getting tickets until the very last minute. No wait, I can tell you because I’m not afraid to out my “want some lamesauce with that?” friends…

There’s something about my generation that’s insanely frustrating to deal with, it’s like trying to go cow-tipping, but all the cows are made out of iron. I have to say that being single and flying fancy-free is the cat’s pyjamas, but it can get painfully lonely when all your friends want to perch like pigeons because: their choke-chain-wielding girlfriends or boyfriends made them, or because they blew all self-allowance money on Call of Duty 4, or because it’s fun to stare at drywall– what-have-you. Nevermind 90’s grunge era, the lethargy displayed today is staggering. While this doesn’t apply to all of my friends (god bless the ones who still have high school vigour), a lot of them do seem to have made an ass-groove of complacency so deep for themselves that they can’t be yanked out to come out and engage in some fun activities– namely, going to see a Doom/Mos Def show.

After going through a laundry list of people who fit all the criteria (like the artists in question ✔, have the funds ✔, good-looking ✔)– I get insincere sorry’s from all of them. One girl– and one of my best homegirls actually, who is Lisa Loeb wholesome-looking, so I would have never pinned her as a hip-hop-phile– decides to step up and accompany me. I’m ever thankful for her volunteering and that was my cue to rush out and get tickets. I send her a text with a capital X and a capital P indicating my mouth and some tongue because that’s how indebted to her I am.

Came the day of the Doom/Mos Def show (today), sickness plagued my poor girl. I’m upset, as this has set me back to where I was originally: no one to go to the show with, the story of my fucking show-going life. And goddammit, though I’m trying my damnedest to get to that level of “Coolest Asian Chick” status where I can stand in a speedo and still be looked at like a fucking hero, I can’t man up and go stand by myself during a concert. Besides, what if a bunch of shady dudes decide to run a train on me– defenseless and skinny-bitch me? –And what if I actually don’t like it!?

Anyway. So T-Bird (my girlfriend) drops the ball, only because her arms are like grandma’s riddled with osteo and she’s just too damn weak. I insist she stays the fuck in bed and that I’ll pick her up a fan shirt. I scramble and find a sub, my work buddy, even though he’s strapped for cash after living la vida loca in el Meheeco just a few days ago. We work out some sort of payment plan and *boom*, he’s going with me. We call a place and a time to meet and I’m stoked that he’s saved my night.

Not even ten minutes go by and another buddy of mine forwards me a link: Mos Def Drops Out of DOOM Show in Toronto. Between T-Bird getting sick, my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day at work where I’m feeling the threat of getting shit-canned any moment– I’m ready to have a stroke.

I run to work-homes and tell him that Mos has dropped out. He takes a small shit and dies too. We decide we’re gonna stick it out for Doom.

Mere moments after that, work-homes is bothered by some “Doomers” (Doom+rumours) that the masked motherfucker has been hiring stand-ins to perform on stage acting as him and this may or may not be the reason why Mos dropped out.

So– cue my paralyzing stroke.

We decide to play it safe and go refund the tickets– tickets of a show without its major headliner and maybe a Fat Albert chump wearing a mask. This sounds a lot like that Pulp Fiction scene (there is some masked character involved, and I do feel like I’m getting my ring torn here).

With so much keeping me from going to the show at the beginning, perhaps I was “doomed” from the start.

…Or maybe I’m the one who comes with lamesauce.

Your friendly neighbourhood,

special k.


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