The Curse of My Face

Just like everything tastes like chicken, everyone looks like me. Really, I get confused at least once a week by someone who thinks I’m somebody else. Total strangers have slapped me on the back, given me hugs, noogies, wedgies, all sorts of intimate gestures intended for someone I’m not.

The worst part is disappointing them when they find out I’m not who they want me to be. It’s not good for the ego to have so many people get disappointed when they realize who you really are. Makes me wish I was my doppelganger, which is also not good for my sense of self. It’s like walking into someone else’s surprise party, and the crowd goes from, “Surprise!” to, “Aww!”

I never wanted to be someone more than I wanted to be Kev. I don’t know who Kev is, I’ve never met him, know nothing about him, still, one night last summer I felt I needed to be him. I was walking down Bay Street in Toronto, when a guy, pretty drunk and pretty dirty comes slobbering up to me, stops, his eyes widen to white, mouth gobsmacked.

“Kev! Kev! What the… Shirl said you were dead! Holy Christ!” And he bear hugs me. All I can smell is stale beer and garbage and that’s just his breath. His breath has the toxicity of nuclear waste, but, I’m more concerned with how he’s going to react when he finds out I’m not Kev. He pulls back, stumbles a couple steps. “I’m gonna kill that Shirl!” I smile meekly, robbed of words. His eyes narrow. “Wait. You’re not Kev.”

“Sorry,” is all I can offer him. I truly was. For the sake of miracles I wanted to be his friend, Kev.

“Oh. Well. I guess he’s still dead then.” And he stumbles away.


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