long, rambling, and having way too much melancholy in it

I'm currently reading two books that have to do with the Meaning Of Life. Well, I suppose most literature has to do with the human condition and our search for a higher purpose in one way or another, but these two have a more particular and direct way of going about it.

On a whim in an over-priced used-book store (I was looking for reading material to keep me company on my solo lunch, which I was eating at Not Just Noodles in order to escape from work for an hour or so during my split), I bought Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I always liked the title, but I'd never had it on any sort of reading list. I knew of it mainly as a movie, anyway. I'm somewhat enjoying it so far, despite my total inability to relate to Tereza's devotion to Tomas, but it hasn't GRABBED me. And it's not that it's depressing me; I've been grabbed by melancholy books before. But it sure is depressing me.

The other one is Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, by Chuck Klosterman. It is also depressing me somewhat, but in an amusing way. The first I heard of him was perhaps a year ago, from my friend Tim, who said that my writing reminded him of Klosterman. I'm only thirty-nine pages in, and I have to say I'm flattered. Klosterman's a whole load wittier than I am. I'm probably going to ditch Kundera until I'm through this one. The reason I bought Sex, Drugs... was not because of the title or because of Tim, but because Peter said that I should start with this one, so as not to be overwhelmed by the urge to punch Klosterman in the face. There, credit where credit is due.

One of the habits I've adopted since moving to the city is going to a coffee shop and parking myself to read. So today, I wandered over to the Annex (I usually choose the Annex for this purpose because the hipsters are fun to watch, and also to check up on the progress of the restaurant that may someday open, which I have technically been employed by since the beginning of April) and read some of The Unbearable Lightness of Being while drinking a black coffee and doing a little people-watching. I was at first amused, and then disturbed, by a fellow patron. He sat down a few seats away at the ledge facing the window, and then proceded to tap on the counter, dance in his seat, and bang on the glass when two girls in mini-skirts walked by. It was hard for me to appropriately lose myself in the troubles of occupied Prague, so I eventually left and wandered off to a bookstore. I had time to kill before I was meeting L.Ro to see Ratatouille, so on yet another whim, I bought Sex, Drugs... (hahah... I bought sex and drugs... what, I'm immature. Deal with it). Then I got on the subway, and started snickering away.

For the record, I am not in love with Lloyd Dobler (if you haven't either seen Say Anything or read the first essay in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, you don't know what I'm talking about). I sort of wish I could be, but the fact of the matter is that I'd view with alarmed suspicion any man who wanted to move to England with me after knowing me for a month. I am more in love with the John Cusack from Grosse Pointe Blank. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much a more cynical and world-weary Lloyd. So maybe I AM in love with Lloyd Dobler after all. But only in the imaginary sense; actual lovelorn devotion freaks me out. More on this momentarily; it ties into my mood after Ratatouille.

I liked it very much; at a few points it seemed to be running a little long, but I can't really see what could have been cut. What got to me most, however, was Paris. I am suddenly consumed with the desire to go back and possibly have a whirlwind love affair, or even just to move there so I could gaze at the Eiffel tower for hours daily. I love Toronto, but it is seriously lacking in the romance department. Paris, however, effortlessly exudes romance. Standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower, I had an incredible urge to just grab the closest reasonably good-looking male and kiss him passionately. I didn't, because a) my sister was standing right there, and b) I couldn't commit to publically making out with a guy from our tour group on the second day. Yes, my commitment issues extended themselves to me being unable to attach myself to a male exclusively for a maximum of two weeks.

Anyway, this desire to take off for Europe resulted in me resolving to either move there, or spend next summer back-packing, at the very least. However, once the euphoria of that momentous decision faded, I was faced with the crushing realization that my life for the past indeterminate amount of years has been a series of waiting periods. I've been continually promising myself that my Real Life will begin after such and such a time is over. Once high school is done, university will be the beginning! Once I graduate university, the world will be my oyster! After I make enough to move out of my parents' house, life awaits! Once I have enough money in the bank to ensure that I can pay rent, and thus not have to worry about bankruptcy forcing me back into my parents' house, here I come, world!

All this made me think about the last time I felt entirely alive and happy. It was in Amsterdam, and I was completely drunk. I was wandering around the streets with a guy in the middle of the night, and we were looking for a secluded place to have sex. By the way, Amsterdam is a well-lit city. We eventually found a dark park-like area beside a canal, but it was the wandering that I remember as being thrilling. I suffer no illusions that it was the particular guy that made the night special; I'd unceremoniously attempted to ditch him the night before. Not to say he was repulsive--I hope you have enough faith in my taste to realize that--it was just that he seemed to want much more from me than I had to give. He still does, in fact: he drunk-texts me every few weeks or so professing to think of me often, the most recent time being tonight, soon after L.Ro and I got out of the movie. We had an argument a month ago when he invited himself to Toronto for a weekend, and I told him firmly that he COULD NOT stay at my place. I shot him down when he pitched the idea of some kind of long distance arrangement soon after we parted ways in Europe, but I take it he's striking out back home, and returns to the ideal of a woman who will wander a European city and shag him outdoors.

What can I say? Crazy things happen in Europe. And this is clearly a big part of why I want to go back. There's much more flavour in a European adventure, and my life is definitely lacking in spice right now.