The Writer XXXII

Passing through customs in Toronto is always a ridiculous game of where to go and hoping you don't have to talk to the guy that thinks he is super cop.  He asked me seven times where I live and seven times I told him the exact same place and I think this jerk is trying to hold me up to miss my flight. I am less than polite at this point because I still have to get through phase two of security and that in itself is awful.  I stood at the desk giving him the evil eye while he stared at the computer screen that hadn't changed since he initially scanned my passport.  "Is there an issue officer?"  I tried my best to not sound inpatient and rude but I think I may have failed miserably when he looked at me, squinted his eyes and stated, "no, I'm doing my job".  Fair enough, I'm pissy because I was held over and want to go home and he is just being an anal jerk because...well...he can.  He finally stamped my passport and as he slid it across the counter I hear, "good luck making your connection".  I just threw him a fake smile and mumbled some not so nice descriptions about him while I grabbed my purse and headed down the hall...where I would have to wait for luggage...the travel gods must not be happy with me...