Sometimes I need to be left alone. Today is not one of them, but sometimes I would like to be able to bring my plate of prawn vindaloo from the common area microwave back to my desk without any comments from my coworkers; " Oh, that smells good", "What's that, did you make it yourself?" I was doing just this last Tuesday, walking quickly to avoid their glances, picking the loneliest route through the labyrynthine layout of the cubicles, thinking to myself that the first person who comments will be told to fuck off.

No one said a word.

Perhaps it was the scowl I wore to scare them away. I have perfected this scowl from my interactions with panhandlers, who are littered on Vancouver's corners; discarded humans on welfare, or long-term disability, former and current heroin addicts, "displaced" forestry and fishery workers, who all seem to have said "fuck it" and now spend their days pushing shopping carts full of pop cans (this is the real reason Vancouver is so clean). As I approach them I let my face turn mean and sour, and I stare right into their eyes. The point is to challenge them, and they will not even bother asking for the change.