Okay, so I missed a prime opportunity to don a Dalmatian fur coat and call myself Dare de Vil.

A lot of things have happened over the past 24 hours and I’ve had trouble working everything out explicitly. With each new situation, new questions have arisen. Therefore, questions and context:

Why did everyone at the lumber yard have a New Jersey accent?

I live in Toronto, locals generally have Canadian accents (with the exception of people like myself). You might find a variant voice here and there. What doesn’t usually happen is stumbling across a cluster of people working in an establishment with foreign accents. Strange then, that everyone working at my local lumber yard had New Jersey accents. When the service desk gal, talking on her phone while serving me, pointed me in the direction of the dowel bars, I didn’t expect that weird mishmash of working class and outer New York to speak back at me. Then the guy sweeping had one too. The fella who took me out to the wood chopping area also had that certain dialect, then the guy that chopped my beam into 1.5 foot sticks (or 45cm as he translated for my benefit) carried the same tones. I guess the question I should be asking is how one business has so many helpful employees that were willing to lend me a hand? The guy cutting my dowel asked if I was making fighting sticks with the kind of nostalgic familiarity that made me suspect he knows his way around a fighting stick. Jersey, don’t ever change.

Who wore it better?

Like an unimpressed teenage girl at the cool clique’s party, I found another dude wearing the same black costume Daredevil outfit as me. He had accessories (the aforementioned fighting sticks I picked up because of my hidden shame) and better gloves, but my belt, boots, shirt and mask were better. I’m quite convinced my dance moves were better too, so now I’m regretting not challenging him to a dance off. I’ve got The Six Step and The Worm up my shoes, I’m sure I could’ve given him a breakdance beatdown and emerged victorious. Then again, wearing my mask I was virtually blind (which fit the character), so who knows how well I’d have reacted to the environment around me? Where was my radioactive sludge when I needed it? I left the event having danced so intently that my body was literally steaming. Did I go super saiyan?

Where are we?

Shopping for veges in Chinatown, we spied cheap New Zealand apples. Delight was quickly traded for disgust when we took a closer look. Garbage apples for garbage people, not fit for an apple connoisseur (bigot) such as I. Then things got weird. We noticed the cheap bananas and the previously silent dude unpacking them erupted into his best sales performance “GREAT BANANAS FROM THE PHILLIPPINES. 39 CENTS A POUND. DON’T MISS OUT ON THIS GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY.” We crossed the road to check out what may have been apples but were probably tomatoes. Tomatoes they were, but apples were around. People were everywhere and randoms (I’m not sure they even realised I was a kiwi) started asking my advice on the New Zealand apples. The guys working there started possibly the most jovial yelling match I’ve ever seen with the shop across the road. Every minute or so people would yell in a language I couldn’t understand, but without menace. Then some fellow in a motorised wheelchair sped past with a gold coin in his mouth. Is this an odd occurrence? Forget it Leon, it’s Chinatown.

Is it possible to give too much candy?

My flatmate takes this shit seriously. Her girlfriend carved an awesome Cthulhu pumpkin, we decked the… deck out in cobwebs and danger tape. There’s a cauldron by our door filled with candy and a box of chips sitting next to it. I think we’re That House this year. The inventory for any child coming to our door is as follows:

  • Something gummy.
  • Something chocolate.
  • Rockets.
  • The shittiest lollipops.

All that AND a bag of chips. We’ve become everything I dreamed of as a child.

Thing is, a few of the tiny kids have stomachs that couldn’t fit that much and proportionately sized candy bags. There was a toddler dressed as a pumpkin who had no room for the packet of chips. We had to put it in his hands to take back to his mum. Are we part of the problem? Or just the best house ever?

Halloween, it’s a magic time where you can be anything you want. I think thanks to my flatmate I am everything I ever wanted to be. Also Daredevil, so watch out if you’re loitering in any hallways.

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