February 15, 1999.

Yesterday I'd hazily sketched out a few entry ideas about Valentine's Day. About the social circles I move in, and the fact that at least half of the folks who comprise them are single - sometimes bitterly so. About how public displays of affection are severely circumscribed, just to show these people some mercy. About last year, when I was single and had the best Val Day of my life, just playing with my shiny new handcuffs and answering email. About how it doesn't really matter to me whether I'm single or not on V-day. And stating my relief that there exists one day of the year when the Boy and I can smooch in public and not feel ashamed to be happy with each other. A day when I can say "hey! I'm goofy in love and I feel great!"

But since not one but two of my friends have called me in tears this weekend, their lives greatly affected by individually wrapped shipwrecked love-affairs, I think I'll keep my smug little comments to myself.

To leave the philosophical stuff aside, though, I had a very nice time yesterday...but not significantly better than any other day with the Boy. We'd decided to keep it pretty low-key - although I can't imagine what an intense evening would be like. Not really my style (she says, having woken from 12 hours of sleep just a half hour ago, then breakfasted on Laura Secord chocolates. Slack is my forté). His presents were homemade - a mixed tape of his own work and other artists, and a homemade card with a picture of a train. Yes, I've been "choo choo chosen." If you don't get that, you really should catch up on your Simpsons...honestly.

Today I'm cleaning house in preparation for Reading Week. At this point in my evolution, going home for vacations is a bit ridiculous...after all, residence doesn't kick me out, and most of my friends are in the city. But one should never give up a chance to sleep in an uncomfortable bed and fight with one's parents about taking the car out after dark.

I'm trying to figure out if B-ton is safer than Toronto...conventional wisdom dictates so, but I'm forced to wonder. In my home neighborhood, there's a lot of families and a conveniently located YMCA, which translates to lots of people and their kids up and about most times that I'm on the street. Sure, there's large groups of taciturn Portuguese men who congregate in the many Portuguese bars and sometimes comment on me (in Portuguese) when I'm waiting for the bus on a Friday night...and that much testosterone is always going to be an x-factor. Plus, it's the big city, with all that entails. But in suburban B-ton, people lock their doors and sit deep in the bowels of their houses, cocooned by teevee or computers or books. There's nobody out on the streets after dark, no one to help, no one to hear you scream.

On the whole, I much prefer the city to the 'burbs. At least in the city you know you're vulnerable. In the suburbs, your faith is in locks, not in yourself.