You don't have basil you don't have pasta

wish I was her.

and her

inspired to write

so true

Inspired to write more, I have decided to start posting some of my little stories and essays on here. Disclaimer: I am by no means a great writer not do I pretend to be. It is just something fun for me. Something to channel my creative tendencies. So here is my first one.


Short story based on true events.


You Don’t Have Basil You Don’t Have Pasta

I find myself sitting on this bus, traveling the endless streets of Vancouver with my three best friends. The only other occupants of the barren bus are a rather sloppy-looking homeless man and an intimidating businessman. The vagabond, with his large trash bag full of clothes and collected memories, babbles on to himself in his drunken state of oblivion, hoping to find solace in his distant memories of a better time. The businessman, in his black suit and shiny shoes, tries his hardest to ignore the whispers of the old man.

Suddenly a large group of passengers boards the bus and quickly take to their seats. Last to board the now-bulging bus is a rather intoxicated man in his twenties. Although the man sways with drunken stupor, he is not the typical drunk you see on the streets of Vancouver late at night. This man is dressed nicely, looking as if he has places to go; as if someone is expecting him. Smiling and swaying, he makes his way to the back of the bus, standing because there’s no room. I watch him with curiosity as he begins to laugh to himself. I can’t help but to smile at the state of this guy. As I look around the rest of the bus I find a very unaccepting audience. The middle-aged woman sitting next to me peers out from behind her business section of the daily newspaper to flash a frown at the intoxicated man. The tourists stare uncomfortably out of the windows, attempting to magically blend into their seats. I turn back to the intoxicated man and stare him straight in the eyes. He smiles back, responding “You don’t have basil, you don’t have pasta,” in his thick and unmistakable Canadian accent. What this means, I have no clue, but that is of no importance. Amused, I bring myself back to reality for a second to find a sea of somber faces staring back at us. It saddens me to think that all of these people, these pre-programmed robots, are all searching for happiness when it is right in front of them. How do they not realize that happiness is not an it, or a thing that you can obtain?

The bus comes to a halt, and I return to my senses, I find the young Canadian swaying in circles around one of the metal handrails like a child. He turns, smiles and winks, and then makes his way to the exit. He pushes his way through the robots, yelling to the bus driver, “Let me off! Let me off! I don’t belong here!” and then stumbles to the street. I feel the corners up my lips start to turn up as I look to my friends. I make a note to myself to never become one of these pre-programmed robots.


I look back upon that day as a marker in the start of my new life, and I want to thank that nameless, drunken Canadian man for impacting me so greatly.



all images via: weheartit.com