Ice cream and granola is my ascendance to divinity

Oh, don’t mind me. Just testing the limits of hedonism here.

I’m on vacation, and apparently that means I’m inhabiting my trashbag persona to the max. I’ve been downing Maple Bacon Moonshine Caesars and Jaegar/Mountain Dew all weekend. Coffee has come spiked with Butterscotch Schnapps. Yesterday I lay on my back outside with my eyes closed, listening to the natural soundscape play scenes around me, enjoying a gentle pull of CBD weed from my vape. This morning I had ice cream and granola for breakfast. This weekend is defined by “what do I want?” and “when do I want it?” Without time constraints, I’ve been able to drift as I desire, doing what I want and enjoying the inherent freedom. My vacation, apparently, is from any stress. Who knew that I had any?

By our second morning here, the place has found a sense of equilibrium. None of us are 20 years old, we generally clean up after ourselves. At intervals throughout the night, people go around and pick up empty cans. We’re running the dishwasher once or twice a day, making sure we have enough plates and cutlery. Or, more realistically, cups. There’s a loose notion of “tidy as you go”, or “last up cleans up”, that means we’re not stewing in our own filth. I’m a trashbag, but a responsible one. It’s kinda nice to be at this point of life, where we can all party without instantly creating a hovel.

It’s been awesome to have such a mix of personalities, and flowing between activities. There’s usually someone hanging outside by the stream, or having a smoke. The gaming room has a big ol’ comfy couch, where people hang out. The kitchen lounge has a table with people clacking away at their keyboards, taking care of errant work with a drink by their side. Someone is usually preparing a shareable snack of some variety. There’s often leftover food that people offer up to others. There’s abundance everywhere, and it’s amazing to be able to offer and share. Oh, and the hens lay fresh eggs we’re able to take and eat. All needs being met at all times.

Speaking of which, it’s about time I started with an afternoon drink. Hedonism demands that I finish up and sit back.

Sorry, them’s the rules.

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So you tied a ribbon? Take a bow why don’t ya?

Egads, my brain is swimming after I filled up on Bulgogi stew. Too much food has made me groggy. Let’s get some good ol’ stream of consciousness going here.

I went to a Vintage Prom last night. It was a fun event, with an overabundance of good lookin’ folks and even better lookin’ clothes. Some serious style. I arbitrarily decided that I’d be Prom King by the end of the night. Turns out The Secret is wrong and I wasted a wish. I can put Prom King back on my bucket list. I did have a few drinks, and during the Prom King/Queen prize-giving, I cheered avidly for a dude who made his own costume. It was a pinstripe mobster ensemble, and while it looked a little dorky, it was pretty cool that this old dude had put it all together himself. He didn’t win, but as he walked past through the crowd I congratulated him on the effort he’d put in. By his own admission, the ribbon on his hat was the only thing he’d made, and by “made” he really meant he wrapped it around the hat. Do you ever get those moments where you immediately want someone out of your sight so you can try to forget about them? I instantly internally turned on the guy, feeling as if I’d wasted all of my cheering on a charlatan. Alas, you can’t take something like that back, so I once again congratulated him and wished him a good night. Secretly, I kinda hope he didn’t.

I walked on the subway this afternoon and heard a woman barking orders. “Someone stand up, give up your seat.” She shouted. A dude complied, and the woman pointed to an older woman and indicated for her to sit down. Again, “someone else, there are still more people who need seats.” A younger woman left her seat. It happened again, and again. She was marshalling people old and young alike, arranging them like Tetris blocks. It was intriguing to witness. I was travelling a single stop, so I was already standing by the door. It’s rare here in Toronto that people will a) take initiative, but b) care if someone asks them for a favour. The riders who were already sitting didn’t much seem to mind vacating their spots, though the standing folks in need felt almost sheepish about accepting the help. It was an unusual, but likely beneficial request.

A friend of mine last night said that one of her pals had asked if I was available/interested. It gave me pause as I considered. Did I want to be potentially set up by a friend? I’m often pretty picky, and feel kinda weird about friend based matchmaking. She continued “my friend is a guy.” Once again, I thought about it. I haven’t been on a date with a guy. I have no idea how dating other guys works. It’s something I’m definitely not closed off to, but I’m pretty clueless when it comes to knowing if I have a type, what calls to me in a male partner, etc. It’s rare that I feel sexual chemistry with dudes, but at the same time it could just be a matter of a lack of experience leading to an inability of understanding what I’m attracted to.

I get the feeling like my standards are inexplicably much higher for guys than gals. Like, past experiences have indicated that I’m more desirable to guys seeking guys than gals seeking guys. Maybe that has something to do with it, I feel like I have more cred with fellas. Does that actually translate into substantive social capital? I’ve got no fucking idea. It’s a whole new world. What kind of guys would I even want to date? I always thought it’d be neat to date a guy with similar tastes, so we could just hang out, play games, watch things and have sex. Lather, rinse, repeat. I get the sense that overall queerness is pretty rife in geeky circles. Maybe I just need to open my eyes and look around.

Even if my food coma is pushing them shut right now…

Hot off depress

Today I went to my GP for a consult on potentially starting anti-depressants. Despite shifting societal views towards mental health, I still feel like there’s a general lack of awareness going on. My social circles are awash with individuals who struggle in some capacity or another. It’s an everyday part of life for many, many people. I firmly believe that normalising the notion of seeking help and destigmatising mental illness is pretty fucking important. Which is all to say, what’s to follow is a rundown of how my experience went, to give some idea of what a diagnosis looks like.

The first thing my doctor asked me as she walked in the door was, “how are you?” I thought this was a conspicuous question to someone sitting in a doctor’s office. It’s hardly that they’d be feeling in prime health. I said as much. I then immediately realised that this could also be a shrewd way of instantly getting the information she needed for her consult. I said as much. She saw my smirk, and raised me a flat stare. It’s fine, she’s been seeing me for years. She knows which comments of mine to take seriously by now.

Before she’d entered the room, I’d filled out a couple of forms. I’d been supplied a generalised anxiety checklist and a generalised depression checklist. There was also a sheet asking me to rank how my moods had been affecting different aspects of my life: Work, home life and social relationships. She took a look through the forms and did some quick tallying. She then began to ask me questions on how my moods had shifted over time. It’s not the first time we’ve brought up this topic. She helped me get registered for OHIP sponsored therapy, which didn’t turn out to provide sufficient help. Before we parted, the therapist recommended that I considered talking to my GP about whether or not she thought medication could help with my symptoms.

I said that I’d first acknowledged signs of depression during my teenage years, with frequency and severity increasing as I entered adulthood. She asked how depressive episodes would manifest for me, and how long periods would last. I told her that they ranged from shorter periods of hours, to days and sometimes weeks off and on. That during depressive states I’d withdraw emotionally, that I’d lose touch with a desire for anything. Functionally I could complete tasks, go to work, exercise, eat healthily and sleep enough, but with no desire for more than keeping the engine running. During these periods, I’d generally prefer to no longer exist. In no way would this manifest as a desire for self-harm or dangerous behaviour. It would be more likened to hunkering down and waiting for the storm to pass.

We talked about the action that I’d taken to combat this over time. I said that I’d been going to therapy for years, but that financially I couldn’t afford to see my therapist as often as I’d need to in order to do the necessary work. I said that I exercised regularly, tried to get sufficient sleep, was conscious of nutrition, and general intake. She asked about alcohol and drug use. I said that I’d admittedly been smoking weed regularly since it was legalised. This had also severely lowered both the frequency and quantity of my alcohol consumption. While I hadn’t been smoking vast quantities of weed, my frequency was giving me trace concerns. I didn’t want to rule out the idea that regular use could be having negative mental effects, and creating a certain dependency. She agreed that it would be wise to ease up, and use it more recreationally than habitually.

She asked about any family history of mental illness. She asked about periods of increased or erratic energy. I replied that while these periods existed, they felt less symptomatic of a response to depressive episodes, and more like my normal personality. In short, if my excessive pun-making was wrong, I didn’t want to be right. She said her line of questioning was to establish whether or not elements of hypomania were present. We agreed that while this very well may be the case, they’ve never been harmful behaviours, or had negative consequences. She also mentioned that she wanted to account for this with potential medicinal side-effects.

At this point she declared that she had enough information to comfortably diagnose Major Depressive Disorder (which is just a fancy doctorly way of saying “depression”), and she wanted to talk options. She outlined the potential routes we could take. She gave me a quick run down on each type of medication, taking care to mention the benefits and/or possible side-effects. She said my options were as such:

  1. I could choose from the medications she listed, she’d give me a prescription and I could start right away.
  2. She’d list the options, I could go off and do my own research, then come back to her once I’d made my decision. After that, it was basically back to option 1.
  3. She could register me with a psychiatrist, who could give a more in-depth diagnosis. It could, however, take months for me to get the appointment.
  4. I could trust her judgement, then circle back to the second part of option 1.
  5. I could trust her judgement, but also get bloodwork taken to rule out any underlying conditions. She could give me a prescription, which she advised me to fulfill after getting the bloodwork back. Realistically, about three days later.

We talked it over, and decided on option 5. She’d narrowed it down to two medications, and she thought one of them would narrowly edge out the other for suitability. She gave me the forms to get my blood work taken next door. She said that once I had my prescription filled, to start off at a very low dose for five days, then increase my dose. She told me to book a follow up appointment for a month after I’d started the medication, so that she could gauge how my body was responding and decide whether it would be necessary to up the dose or not.

I could not have imagined the consultation going better. At every stage, I sincerely felt that my GP had my best interests at heart. She gauged all of my symptoms and history in her diagnosis. I felt both informed and involved in the decision. She carefully outlined the risks and benefits. At no point did I feel like she was trying to give me a quick answer and move on. Medication is a big step, and was giving it the gravity it deserved. I’ve been seeing her for over five years, and I’ve always felt like this has been the case.

I don’t know if my experience has differed from that of others. I get the feeling that unfortunately not all doctors would treat it with sufficient respect, as I was incredibly fortunate to receive. I hope I’m wrong. I also hope that if there’s anyone who’s felt like medication could be a positive step, that they feel validated asking for help. It’s not easy to do. Fingers crossed that it’s worthwhile.

More like Suds Patrick’s Day

I remember when I used to celebrate St Patrick’s Day.

Back in university it was a Big Fucking Deal. The city came alive in a way I’d rarely seen. Queen Street, the Auckland CBD’s iconic centrepiece, was thrumming with bustle. Less on the hustle side, and more blatant revelry. Businesses seemed to knock off early, and pen pushers flooded the footpaths. It was a mass of humanity walking from bar to bar. Cheesy green beer flowed freely, and everyone was Irish for the day. A bunch of us had early classes, so by midday we were free to run wild. Weirdly, for a day filled with so much liquor, it’s all still pretty vivid. I had a characteristically oversized bag, and it became a conversational lodestone. Of course we were all looking to meet women, and we’d take anything we could get. One of our friends happened to be pretty fucking “studly”, and a ton of women talked to us almost exclusively because of it. We hardly complained. Frankly, it was just nice to meet people who were in a good mood.

I remember this bar that’d paid a little person to dress as a leprechaun and descend from the roof. It was a spectacle, to be sure, but we all felt a little uneasy about it. We talked to the dude to see what he thought. He was over the moon. Got paid around $300 to do it once or twice over the course of the day. Otherwise he was free to mill about and hang with others. He was a pretty sociable bloke, so we bought him a couple of beers and spent time learning more about him. He was a student just like us, was going to veterinary school. Sarcastic guy, a real charmer. He also gave me shit about my gratuitously sized bag. We left the bar buzzing, and joined the throngs of wandering souls looking for adventure down Queen St. We eventually made our way down to the Viaduct looking for hookups, but ended up chatting with a bunch of businessmen who bought us pints of Kilkenny and told us stories of their glory days. It was better than it sounded. St Patrick’s Day became one of my favourite holidays. Why not? To us it was just an excuse to drink. A lot.

This was over ten years ago. Still teenagers. The day has become less and less noticeable/desirable each year. There’s something about it that just seems hollow. I don’t have Irish culture. I don’t really even know Irish people. Why would I mindlessly jump into a day headfirst that has no real resonance for me? I know it’s not a big deal, but I do feel like a killjoy. I feel that with subsequent years, I lose something of myself. Whether naivety or a willingness to go with the flow. It used to be so easy to let loose, my hackles weren’t up about everything. I was still learning about the world, and it seemed rife with opportunity.

I don’t know that it’s all changed as substantively as it seems. Much as we’re on a 24 hour doom and gloom news cycle, the world probably has as much suffering as it ever did. As much joy and meaning as it did too. I don’t know when I stopped believing that the future was something to look forward to, that utopia was within the grasp of our lifetime. I did though. I thought that as the world grew, we’d grow together. United by purpose, to elevate humanity because we all saw a brighter tomorrow. I was raised as an idealist. To look for the good, the potential in everything. I still want to believe, to look past what we are, and think of what we could be. Because we could, and deep down I know it. We have more than we ever did, and we’re doing a lot less with it. But we don’t have to.

I’d raise a glass to that.

Oh, the buck is only just STARTING here

Ready to get buck and/or doe?

I’m always up for an adventure. Always. When my friend floated the idea of crashing a Buck and Doe party in her hometown I immediately said “PICK ME! PICK ME!” Then I was all “it doesn’t change my answer but what’s a Buck and Doe?” The short answer is that it’s a wedding fundraiser. The longer answer is that it Is An Experience. But we’ll get there.

I’d slept not enough, and coffee’d too much. Which bode well for a frenetically chatty train ride from Union Station to Brantford. It was exciting. My friend and I don’t hang out that much, but every time we do we’re like “why don’t we hang out more?” So having an hour’s train ride to catch up was a stellar way to start a neat trip. More importantly, she hadn’t had breakfast yet (I on the other hand tore chunks of chicken from a rotisseried carcass and dipped them in tomato sauce, while crafting a big ol’ chicken sandwich for the ride. I’m trash inarnate and I’m okay with this). She was talking a big game about the snack cart and avidly awaited its arrival. An attendant came by ot check our tickets. “Oh, you’re getting off at Brampton. That’s the next stop.” The snack cart FINALLY arrived just when we were about to offload, so my friend got her ham and cheese croissant and we tucked in hurriedly. We finished maybe a few minutes before arriving, then jumped out all hopped up on snack induced pep. Second wind time!

Her dad picked us up at the train station, and drove us back to their home in Simcoe/Norfolk. Look, it’s one of them, but amalgamated provincial town politics ain’t my specialty. They have no Starbucks. They do have three Tim Hortons. More importantly, they have a Giant Tiger (which we did visit, and I narrowly avoided dropping $34 on a colossal human sized teddy bear. It was touch and go, but I knew I’d need to carry it back on the train). We arrived at her place and met her mum. Her parents were so goddamn nice and friendly, it was crazy. They were practically falling over themselves to be hospitable. Her mum had expected a larger group (who were coming later in a packed car), and had set out enough spreads for a Greek wedding. Mini muffins, chocolates, several bags of chips. A toddler sized bag of popcorn. It was just like being back at Nana and Papa’s house as a kid. Just couldn’t do enough for us. It was very sweet looking around their place, a comfy spot with so many treasures, baubles and memories from over the years. The customary baby photos of my friend were around the place (I’m usually not good at seeing adult features on babies, but she looked IDENTICAL). We hung out and chatted for awhile, before she and I walked into town.

I hope I didn’t imply in any way that it was a journey. Town was maybe ten minutes’ walk. We visited the aforementioned Giant Tiger (which I guess could best be described as a small town discount Walmart?), and walked around a bunch of closed signs. It was 4.30pm on a Saturday, most establishments had closed for the afternoon/weekend. We went into an adult store and chatted with the owner a bunch about the ins and outs (okay, pun kinda intended) of running an adult store, locals with specific tastes, and competing with Amazon. She was a friendly chatterbox and we managed to get out my invoking a need for coffee. We wandered the streets, and looked around. It was quiet, nay, empty. A few passing cars, maybe, but mostly a gentle state of serenity. We walked through a lakeside park, all untouched snow and wintry trunks. Geese flew overhead, no doubt shitting over everything. Ducks swam idly though the lake, occasionally taking brief flight only to come skidding back across the surface of the lake. It was like they were skating. We bought personal NY cheesecakes from a local food truck and roamed the streets, amazed at the size and stature of local homes. We weren’t in Toronto anymore, Toto.

Oh wow, I haven’t even gotten to the Buck and Doe yet. We did around 9pm, after a few beers and evening game show watching. Her mum had prepared a big dinner for all of us, but everyone else was still stuck back in Hamilton picking up travellers. So we just ate a bunch. There was KFC (I mean, I needed to accomplish the chicken trifecta. Breakfast, lunch and dinner), sweet and sour meatballs, rice, coleslaw and pasta salad (and of course we were offered dessert post dinner. I swear her mum was just about to ask if I was eating enough. That I’m just skin and bones, etc. I also shit you not, as I’ve been writing this at the kitchen table she just dropped off a plate of meat and cheese, a fruit platter, mini muffins and chips. She already made us bacon and eggs. Jesus it’s an onslaught). So we arrived at the Stag and Doe already stuffed. Her mum had a sore foot, so she was driving. I told her I couldn’t in good conscience accept a ride for the 200m or so to the event. I was sure my mum would astral project and guilt trip me into walking regardless. Also, more accurately, I wanted to smoke a bowl and I was already bonded to my friend’s parents. Even if it’s totally legal, I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me.

We walked into a community hall, packed with people. There were small games lining one side of the room. The other side had lottery prizes stretched across the length of the wall. Blue Jays tickets, spa packs, a fish prep table, a mystery man cave pack (whatever that meant. It sounded ominous). There was a ton of stuff, and I didn’t remotely want any of it. But there was something about the event, that I just wanted to find excuses to give the happy couple money. Who, in a weird and mercenary turn of events, I never met. Even if I’d crashed their party. There was a “pick a key” game, where everyone bought a key and only one key would win a prize. There was booze curling, where participants would slide loonies across the ground towards liquor bottles. Whoever got closest without touching, won the bottle. Some dude plonked down $10 and managed to get himself a bottle of Grey Goose. Not bad, eh? I tried the “strong man” game, knowing full well I had no chance of winning. You had to hold a 35lb dumbell straight out in front of you for as long as possible. I looked at the times on the board: 24s, 35s. 55s was the time to beat. I considered 30s to be a decent goal to hit. I braced myself with liquid courage and held tight. Time ticked by all too slowly. I got past 30 and my arms started trembling. At 40, they basically convulsed as I struggled to keep the laughter in. It was so impossibly hard. 42 seconds was not a bad innings, far as I was concerned. I looked up, and dinner had been served. A full buffet table with pulled pork and all the fixins. I tucked in and made myself a big ol’ sandwich. Surprisingly, it was a chickenless meal. I looked to the dancefloor, with the DJ doing his best to hype up attendees. Like any good middle school dance, it was just the gals, as the dudes were clearly too cool (sober) to join in the fun.

My friend and I were shooting the shit, and this tall, muscular dude walked up to us. He turned to me and patted me on the arm. “So, go to the gym, eh?” I shot a look at Lily, eyes wide. Was this dude THIS brazen? I’m not used to getting hit on, and definitely not so obviously. We chatted amicably, and I tried moving the topics all around. Drunk, he kept coming back to me and my gym habits. Sure, he was heavy handed, but he was a friendly enough dude that we were sure was pretty benign. He turned to us. “So what’s your deal? Are you guys fucking?” We laughed and I replied “nope, just friends as far as we know.” He pressed on “c’mon, you can tell me. You’re fucking right?” My friend chuckled “I mean, we’ve seen each other naked, but never had sex.” “Wait.” He replied “you’ve seen each other naked and you’ve never fucked?” My face contorted to horror. “Dude, how many people have you seen naked? It’s heaps, right? How would you even have the time in your lifetime?” He lost himself for a second, then shook himself back to normal. “Okay” he responded “so you’re GOING to fuck?” We shrugged, my friend chimed in “well not tonight at least. We’re staying at my parents’ house.” He then took an unexpected turn and mentioned his girlfriend. “Yeah, she was a virgin when we met.” Beat. “She was 29.” Beat. My friend and I stared holes into each other’s eyes. The story grew. “WAIT. I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.” I implored. He changed the conversation back to the gym, questioned why I was eating pizza if I wanted to keep my body in good shape. “Oh dude, you have no idea where my priorities lie here, but they’re definitely with the food.” I replied. His girlfriend came over and unprompted, started showing us photos on her phone. She was also pretty handsy. Eventually they got distracted and wandered off (don’t worry, he came back to squeeze my biceps at least once more). My friend and I stood in stunned silence. “Did the town swingers just try to pick us up?” I asked. We had a couple of drinks and headed to the dance floor.

Naturally the dude already had his shirt off and was eye-fucking the shit out of us. He had moxie, I’ll give him that.

The event all closed up around 1pm, and we meandered back along the short walk to her parents’ place. They’d set up bedding in the basement. We settled into bed and stared at the ceiling, all warm and cosy. We felt like kids having a sleepover. After a full day of fun, we said goodnight and drifted off to sleep. It was fucking charming.

It’s all geek to me

Last night I finally, finally made it out to Storm Crow Manor. To pinpoint why this is notable, we have to time walk back to 2013. Also we’re in Vancouver now (then). I spent two weeks in Vancouver, and it didn’t quite take for me. Something was missing. Sure, it was a nice looking place. Lots of fit, active people doing things. They also stopped doing things around midnight, because they were looking forward to doing things at 5am or whatever. Some time that I don’t exist, anyway. Here I am, starting my new adventure in Canada, and pretty ol’ Vancouver was kind of a bust. I wasn’t finding my people. Then I discovered Commercial Drive, which is one of the more ironic names you could give to a bustling bohemian neighbourhood. It was great. All kinds of fluoro coloured hair, neat bars and tasty local food. Also, Storm Crow Tavern.

Storm Crow Tavern was something I’d never really experienced. Board Game Bars weren’t a known quantity for me in 2013, much less lavishly themed ones. Storm Crow Tavern has a large Cthulhu bust on the wall. It makes an impression, y’know? I’m losing sense of tenses here, but I guess that’s what happens when you get unstuck in time. Anyway, once I found Storm Crow Tavern I visited basically every day. It felt like the sort of place for my people. I ordered mead from the bar, because that seemed like the kind of thing you do at a fantasy themed establishment. I went for a They Live movie screening, complete with OBEY beer and free bubblegum. Loved it. I followed the place on Facebook and dreamed of finding somewhere like that once I landed in Toronto. Too bad somewhere like that didn’t exist in Toronto [foreshadowing much? -ed].

Yeah, too bad about that. I’d see their posts on Facebook all the time, and stare wistfully into the past. If only we had a Storm Crow Tavern in Toronto I thought. But we didn’t, so I just sat with it. Then, quelle surprise (yeah, quelle), Storm Crow announced they were opening Storm Crow Manor in Toronto. I bet none of you saw that coming. Look, I’m a good writer. I’m basically the Agatha Christie of navel gazing. I was so excited to check it out, that I managed to not check it out for like 10 months. Oh, they’re gonna be rammed when they first open, better let the crowds settle I thought in italics. They slowly added more menu items, expanded their opening hours, started running events. I missed them all. Yep, sure would like to get to Storm Crow Manor I thought, again in a slope-ier font. I then preceded to do nothing about it and go about my life as if the place didn’t exist.

Well last night my friend had her birthday party there. I was pumped. I had the perfect excuse to go along, see friends and take in the ambience. Neat. So of course I got Tibetan, visited a friend and showed up late to the party after everyone had eaten. Of course I did. Turns out most everyone said the food was highly average. I ate a large cube of blue cheese and had no complaints, but maybe I dodged a bullet. I did, however, order myself a butterbeer and a spiked coffee. Butterbeer was great. I can’t quite describe the taste, but it seemed sorta creaming soda/ice cream-y. Plus butterscotch schnapps. I would drink ample of them given the chance, and maybe I just need to organise more home made butterbeer nights. The spiked coffee was fine, if unexceptional, but it was served in a neat colour change mug (which you can buy for an extra $5). So, drinks were okay/decent.

The ambience, however, was stellar. It’s the kind of place where you unashamedly let your freak flag fly. It’s all about enthusiasm and letting everyone enjoy their things instead of shitting on them. That resonates with me a bit. So it was rad to explore the place, mug o’ butterbeer in hand. The cyberpunk bar was wicked. Very Blade Runner, with an arsenal of prop weapons lining the walls. There were lovely themed stain glass windows, the bathroom was wallpapered with classic Avengers comic covers. The lights in the venue would randomly change at times from say, blue to green. There were all kinds of board games littered around the place for people to play. Infinite photo opportunities with neat little Easter Eggs. Storm Crow Manor was a swell venue running on a gimmick that honestly, works.

I just have no idea if Storm Crow is a LoTR or MtG reference.

Macrocosmic is most certainly not a word. It’s a state of mind

Oh, this is gonna be a shitshow.

I had maybe four hours sleep last night, it’s past 9pm and I’ve already started drinking. No holds barred, or something. Then again, yesterday I spent a significant portion of my entry talking about my literal anus, so maybe lower your expectations. I’m kinda itchy. I don’t think I’m itchy for any good reason. Someone mentioned that there’d been a bedbug warning on the central Toronto subway line. I rode said subway line, and I’m pretty sure I got itchy before I even boarded the train. Psychosomatic or something. I mean, even reading or hearing the word “itch” is sometimes enough to set me off, so the likelihood that I actually contracted (is that even the verb?) bedbugs is pretty fucking unlikely. If it’s real though, holy shit. We all remember 1995’s Outbreak, right? The movie starring that monkey from Friends. The way that film depicted the traction of disease between ports really imprinted on me. Thinking of TTC bedbugs, can you even imagine? Hopping from seats to people, from people to people, from people to other modes of transport, from other modes of transport to even more people. Then those people all go home and create breeding grounds for further bedbugs. It’s insane. How do you even get rid of bedbugs? And I’m sure they’d be in everyone’s winter coat. My proposal is that we just burn Toronto to the ground and rise from the ashes reborn, bedbug-less. If we burn everything we own, the bedbugs won’t have anything to eat [rollsafememe.bmp].

I woke up thinking about rodeos, as one does. More accurately, I was thinking about the phrase “this ain’t my first rodeo”, and what a weird development it is. Yes, I get the spirit of the idiom, but it’s kind of strange how errant a situation rodeos are for most people, considering the mundane activities to which the phrase is commonly applied. Like, if someone’s doing meal prep and they’re all “this ain’t my first rodeo”, what is it about chopping capsicum that evokes the imagery of rounding up steers? I’ve never been to a rodeo, and I imagine most people who use that phrase haven’t either. What the fuck is actually going on at these rodeos? Are they weird macrocosmic societies? Cults or communes? If going to a rodeo leaves such residual experience in so many areas, are they basically ted talks, but with more ropes and bulls?

I think I need to see what all the fuss is about.

I’m trying to will myself to get up and go, but I’ve got no juice in the tank. I’m so tired already, and I feel like it’d be a dumb idea to leave the house tonight. That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it, but it does mean that I’m registering my idiocy for all to see. May I never not be a cautionary tale for the ages. Clearly I just need to get another drink or two in me and I’ll be fine. Or something. I think all the mixers I have left in the fridge have been there for several months. Truly, I’m living the bachelor lifestyle. I think I have more booze than soft drink/juice in the house. That’s a warning sign, if ever I’ve seen one.

Well, I did say it was gonna be a shitshow.