Apparently sweet dreams are made of cheese.

I often have odd dreams. Don’t know why. Last night I had a bunch to drink and ate a considerable quantity of cheese before bed. I was prepped. I think my subconsciousness delivered.

I was on holiday with two of my friends somewhere. Let’s call them Friend Q and X. I’m not sure where, it was a dream. We had to get to our Air BnB but we’d drastically underestimated how far it was. We stopped off at a car rental place to check out their deals, in case it worked out more affordable that way. Q went to talk to the clerk while I looked around. A couple of seconds later, X came up to me giggling mischievously. He had some woman’s magazine with a sealed section in the middle. He looked at me and pulled out the sealed section, putting the magazine back.

An alarm sounded, panels on the walls shifted and folks in hazmat suits walked out. I grabbed my friend at the counter and yelled “we’ve gotta scram!” X called out and told us to follow him. He bolted and we scrambled to catch up. We got outside and couldn’t see him. Suddenly we heard him yell “hey guys” and a huge horn sounded out. He was in the driver’s seat of one of those massive trucks that transport cars. We jumped in and drove off.

The hazmat folks were chasing us Terminator 2 style. We were in reverse and driving up an impossibly steep road (physically unreal roads are a common motif in my dreams. Don’t know why). They started gaining on us. Q said she had an idea. And jumped out to the back of the truck. She began undoing the chains holding the cars in. I nodded and signalled to X to serve back and forth. I joined Q in the back and pushed the cars with all my uncanny dream strength. They tumbled out the sides and down the hill to take down the hazmat people. With the weight lifted, we zipped up the hill and made our escape.

We got to the Air BnB and couldn’t believe how spacious it was. A Japanese house, complete with sliding doors and futons. There were nigh endless rooms and the place was all ours. It was astounding. I congratulated Q on finding such an awesome place on a tight budget. X whispered to me “hey Leon, check it out”. He was holding up the sealed section he’d swiped earlier and grinning like a loon.

A fun, silly, action packed adventure. Pete Holmes is right in saying how cool it is that every night we get to close our eyes and our brain makes movies for us. I don’t know why my friend was so mischievously pervy, but I do know the journey would’ve been far less fun without his odd proclivities.


Wolfe of Wall Street would’ve been a far more infuriating film

Here’s what’s going on in today’s entry. I’ve just come back from holiday a changed person. You know how vacations are meant to leave you rejuvenated and ready to attack life head on? That’s me right now. I’ve hoisted my metaphorical battle axe in preparation for whatever life throws at me and I’m ready to hew. While I’m riding this high, I want to have a pseudo state of the nation with myself. The idea is to look at what I’ve got going on and recognise how much of it is truly fantastic. Then maybe when I’m feebly struggling to claw my out of a rut I can look back at this list and get a little boost. Like a motivational jet pack. So what neat things are going on in my waking hours?

  • My relationship. I’ve got an incredibly supportive partner. She’s switched on and we complement (and compliment) each other wonderfully. We’re in a non-monogamous situation and while neither of us has really acted on it much, it’s nice knowing that we have the emotional wherewithal to own our feelings and support one another. It feels like we’re a team and I can’t overstate how gratifying and secure that feels. Also she’s super cute, y’all (after Austin, y’all is a thing I say now).
  • My friends. Both in Toronto and abroad, I have a ludicrous and possibly undeserved number of amazing people I’ve connected with. Seriously, so many of my friends are people I adore and/or admire. They’re creative, talented, funny, clever, sweet, thoughtful and they tolerate all my eccentricities. Back home I have the kind of lifelong friends that make time and place irrelevant. I have utter confidence that they have my back and that’s a pretty lucky position to be in. In Toronto it’s rare that I need to feel lonely, because my friends here do a phenomenal job of making space available. I have a deep, abiding love for my close friends and it’s unfair how many close friends I have. I feel selfish.
  • My family. I talk to them all too rarely, if only because I know they’re still supporting me whatever I’m up to. That’s unbelievable, right? Some people can’t talk to their parents or have contentious relationships based on their family’s innate bigotry. I have a wonderful family who cares. I am who I am because of how they raised me and honestly, it’s fucking hard to find fault with their methods. Despite how infrequently we chat, I tend to enjoy it when we do. If I ever got into serious trouble, I know they’d be there for me. How did I get so fortunate?
  • My Toronto communities. Doubling down on the talented, smart, excellent people around me, these talented, smart, excellent people form a number of local communities. So many individuals who create events, art and support for people across the spectrum. They’re welcoming of all sexual, gender and cultural orientations. Even New Zealanders. It’s because of all the awesome people that I managed to fall in love with Toronto at all. They make a potentially cold city shine bright and add colour even in its darkest days. Toronto may be humdrum to some, but to me it just hums.
  • My health. It’s the epitome of privilege. I’m physically fit and have access to a multitude of resources thanks to both Canadian health care and my work benefits. As far as I know I don’t have much in the way of mental health challenges to deal with. I’ve been fortunate to have access to education on healthy eating and as such, learned over time how to take care of myself. I’ve also after many years gotten to a point where physical activity is more of a joy than it is a drag.
  • My employment. I may bitch about my job a fair amount. I may feel creatively unfulfilled, stunted and at times downright miserable. In the end though, even if my job is a phone it in home by five sort of ordeal, it still pays the bills. I’m fortunate to a) be employed and b) be employed at a workplace that for the most part really tries its best. It strives to be anti-harassment and progressive. There are all kinds of perks. Things could be so much worse and I want to recognise that I’m all kinds of lucky that even my lows are pretty damn high. I might not be raking it in, but I’m also not in a position where I need to worry about money. That’s a hell of a privilege. I realise too that if I were just doing a job that I cared about, things would go from sub-optimal to goddamn ideal overnight.

So Future Leon, unless the rapture happens and you’re left on this earth surrounded by people who repost David Avocado Wolfe, chances are you’re doing alright. Chill and be zen, things will work out.

If you don’t stand for Summer, you’ll Fall for Winter. Spring back the clocks?

So here’s a thing. I’ve always desperately wanted to do stand-up. I did it a bunch before I left for Canada, then a couple of times while I was travelling through. I never did well. I got disheartened, then scared to get back up. The honest truth is I was going about it all wrong. The “way to do” stand-up is to write a couple of jokes and refine them, editing to find the funny in your concept and tweaking them over time as you work on the right delivery, wording, etc. Instead, I’d write five minutes, it wouldn’t work well (because I was trying it for the first-third time) and I’d discard it to write another five. Accordingly, I was getting the response I deserved. Eventually I threw in the towel. For years now I’ve been secretly ashamed and resentful of myself for giving up. I’ve felt cowardly and had a hard time reconciling that if I’d just stuck with it through the hard parts, by now I’d be better regardless. It’s been the kind of thing that with no exaggeration I’d think about at least once a week, going back to try again. Fear told me no and I believed it had my best interests at heart. Or it was easier to do nothing than to try, which is a whole different kind of seductive.

On this holiday, my comedian friend said she was curious about trying an open mic in a new city. I pondered out loud about whether I should give it a try. She and my other friend couldn’t have been more supportive. “Sure”, she said “go write some jokes”. Simple as that. It was weird too, but in her cavalier delivery of those words there was something I heard that may or may not have been intentional. She said it so matter of factly. It sounded like she didn’t for a second entertain the notion that I wasn’t fully capable of writing jokes. So I chose to believe her. I went off to write and wrote a ton. There was so much waffling. I knew though, that I had the kernels of some decent jokes once I cut out the chaff. Even better, I’d worked within a structure I’d always wanted to replicate, but never had. You know when a comedian does the punchline and the room laughs, then it goes quiet? It’s like “well, that was a funny joke”, then instead of moving onto the next joke they tag with the real punchline, which is even funnier because it defies the room’s expectations of structure? Well I wrote some of those, and if felt so goddamn good to finally be able to see how that worked as opposed to only reaching that first stage. I looked at my page. I had material. I got excited. I woke up at 6am the next morning, too excited and nervous to sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Then as the night approached, fear crept back on in. I thought about how badly I’d feel if I tried and failed, See, until I did it I existed in this Schroedinger’s Cat style situation. I didn’t know that I could do it until I tried, but at the same time it wasn’t confirmed that I couldn’t do it. If I did it and sucked, that was it. If I never tried, in some twisted logic, I could never fail. I tried to make excuses and mentally talked myself out of it. I implored my friends to talk me out of it. They wouldn’t. We went.

I was nervous and shakey, which was only exacerbated when the host said sets were three minutes long. Back in Toronto most open mics have five minute sets. ‘That’s like one of my jokes’, I thought. I had three long jokes I wanted to try. I resolved not to rush, but to accept that I I would do the one joke and take my time with it, find the correct cadence.

Honestly, the set went better than I could’ve hoped. I was nervous, but my delivery felt natural and even. The structure and lead in felt right. They were laughing in the right places. It’s not like I ever expected I’d crush, but I had a bunch of big laughs and the joke I really liked got the whole room cracking up. They flashed the light at two minutes and I realised I was rounding off the end of my joke, that there was no way I could fit another one in. That felt good enough for me and I was stoked to get in the whole joke at an even pace, without rushing.

It felt so amazing to have faced my significant fears. I was proud of myself for getting up and overjoyed to have done it. Even now, the morning after, I still feel like I’m glowing. It’s probably just sunburn, but maybe I sunburned my heart, y’know? This holiday has been outstanding. I’ve enjoyed the pace, my friends and I have really complementary travel styles. We’ve done so much cool shit, but this is one of my favourite memories from it hands down.


You know what? It IS a good morning. Thanks for asking. I’m fresh faced after a night out on the town. I can confidently say that I’m having a capitol time here in Austin. As soon as we stepped off the bus the smell of barbecue was both immediate and arresting. I think that’s what “living your best life” is. Everything here is enormous, both in value and impression. I’m sitting in Summer Moon cafe enjoying a colossal 20 oz Summermoon, their signature drink. It has a quad shot and it was all of $6. Ridiculous. It’s something I always forget about when in the states. Portions. We bought a couple of $5 happy hour “appies” and they were basically full meals. Two sliders and fries, a chunky slab of mixed cerviche/avocado with a side of nacho chips. Gargantuan. Food is abundant and inexpensive. Do I have to ever leave?

The drinks are STRONG too. I chatted with our server about them. I told her back in NZ, a double shot was standard. In Canada a single shot is the go-to. How was the US in this equation, I asked. “Oh, they’re single pours” she assured me. “Our barman just happens to have a heavy hand.” According to the rest of the night, Austinites just have heavy hands. We met many heavy handed bartenders, like the one making White Russians for my friend. “We’re out of cream” he said “so I’ll just use baileys instead if you don’t mind.” My friend very much did not mind, so the bartender handed him a cup of straight liquor. Yeah, we had a night. Happy Hour is a revelation here. Cheap mixed drinks EVERYWHERE. Lots of snacks and apps. The locals come out and they’re chatty. It’s the best. After some hectic afternoon drinking last night we settled in at The Ginger Man, a quiet and comfy craft beer bar. A huge variety of international beer, big leather couches and most importantly, a dart board. The three of us spent hours playing Around the World and getting to know whatever locals stuck around the bar. There was a dude on a date who started jokingly (but maybe not?) accusing me of stealing his date. Odd, I was chatting with the two of them, zero ulterior motive. I dunno, she seemed to be enjoying herself hanging out with the three of us, but he decided to call it and take her with him. There was some older British/American lady who ended up bringing over her entourage to all hang out. It was fantastic. They were all so friendly and she was a fun, punchy artist with a starfucker streak. She was telling us where to go to meet Mike Judge, his favourite bar wasn’t from our Air BnB. Then she casually mentioned knowing Richard Linklater and my brain kind of broke. She offered to take us all fo a drive out of Austin central if we wanted, to get barbecue at this great place just outside town. It felt like a super genuine offer. Her husband was super into architecture and told me about this place called Soane House to check out on my impending London holiday. We were having a fucking blast, then decided to hip hop on out of there and off to a dance night at a messy student bar. 10/10, exactly the kind of night I wanted.

I guess it’s worth mentioning my travel companions. They’re a couple and honestly, I fucking adore them. They’re excellent to travel with. We’re all pretty easy going and there’s a pervasive atmosphere of “greenlighting” going on. If anyone ever wants to have an experience, the rest of us do what we can to accommodate them and make that experience happen. We’re all close enough that we can speak honestly and bluntly if need be. We’re having good emotional check ins and helping to facilitate everyone enjoying their holiday to the max (like we used to back in the 90s. Remember taking things to the max? It was radical). They’re both sharp as a tack, witty and clever. He has this natural gift with words and they both have immense emotional aptitude. She’s a comic and they’re both unbelievably funny. We’re all just doing bits and callbacks constantly. It’s absurd. Tossing out malafors and messing with protracted idioms, it’s getting gloriously bizarre. Holy fuck am I ever happy right now.

More than anything, my stomach’s dreams are coming true constantly. Yesterday we had the best tacos I’ve had in my life. One was a shrimp taco slathered in proprietary fish sauce. The other was a diabolically hot jerk chicken and mango one. Here in Austin there’s a taco spot on every block. Some have several. Torchy’s Tacos have set a high bar. Let’s see if anything’s gonna clear it. I also think my central character development through the trip is gonna be understanding and setting my own limitations. I think I discovered one of those boundaries at a bakery yesterday. I was taken by this enormous and elaborate Cookie Monster concoction. It was constructed of two chocolate chip cookies with a large dollop of whipped cream in between. The top was adorned with what I assumed was some kind of blue fondant, but happened to be more whipped cream. Enough to make the word “excessive” an understatement. I assumed Cookie Monster’s eyes would be marshmallows or something. NOPE. More whipped cream. I was a whirling dervish of stray blue cream, which got fucking everywhere. My hands were stained, my teeth discoloured and my tongue looked like a giraffe’s. It was brutal. Blue-tal? I knew it was too much before I bought it. I was certain it was too much when I set it down in front of me. The first bite assured me I was making a mistake. The beard full of blue whipped cream only brought it home. Before I even finished the first cookie I knew I’d feel awful if I proceeded further. Not having anything to prove, I should’ve quit while I was ahead. Being me, of course I didn’t. I had so much fucking sugar that I felt like a total mess. Underslept, overfed and wired on coffee, I was trash incarnate. It was wonderful.

This morning my poo was a toxic forest green. I think Cookie Monster may have impregnated me with a weird alien foetus. Hey, we’re in Austin. The city motto is “Keep Austin Weird.” I’m only following the imperative.

I remember that time that you told me, you said “Love is touching souls”.

I was listening to James Blake in the morning commute. No particular reason, I hadn’t heard him for a while. I figured I’d start with the Enough Thunder EP. When I got to “Case of You”, I put down the phone and really listened. I had a seat. The song’s outpouring of emotion had me stuck fast. When I got to the end I skipped back to the start, closed my eyes and listened again. I was pulled deep into a catharsis, releasing something held back by the stifling regimen of the commute.

I stepped away from the irritation of constantly moving my large bag so as not to inconvenience others, of contorting my body around other people and their baggage (literal and metaphorical). Of trying to be considerate of making space. Of encouraging other passengers to move into unoccupied areas of the train so potential passengers wouldn’t be stranded at the station for no reason. Everyone just wanted to get to work, so the best course of action was to make room for as many as possible. As Blake’s voice washed over me, I forgot all that. I thought back to when I first heard the song, working late nights at Sky TV. I thought of Joni Mitchell, who wrote the original. I thought of a Sunday morning post drinking at age 20. I walked into a room to find one of my friends peacefully listening to “Big Yellow Taxi”, humming along, blissfully unaware anyone else was awake.

I realised I didn’t know much of Joni Mitchell’s oeuvre and resolved to hear more. When I got to the office I put on Blue and went about my work. Something about the sound pulled me back to my childhood, to my parents. I’m not sure that my parents necessarily listened to Joni, but there was something in her sound that brought a scene to mind. In this mental snapshot it was night time. My parents must’ve been having friends over. We were all in the lounge. The long curtains and trusty old speakers stood out to me. The mood was jovial, adults chatting amicably, glasses filled with deep red wine. Plates were piled high and a couple of us kids were scattered around. The conversation was mostly going over our heads, but we were just excited to be around the adults that late. I don’t even know if this ever took place, but picturing it brought rise to feelings of safety, comfort and contentment.

As the album went on, it gave birth to some simple fantasy in my mind’s eye. In this fantasy my girlfriend and I go out to meet friends for lunch somewhere. We’re all a little older. The meal is great and laughter fills the table from start to finish. Phones are nowhere to be seen. We’re totally present and in the moment. We’re getting nostalgic over past adventures, stories we’d forgotten to the ages. It’s a long overdue catch-up and we revel in the affection we hold for each other. The warmth is abundant and it’s hard to keep from smiling. As we settle up and prepare to head on out, we all realise we have no particular plans. Maybe someone needs to run an errand in the surrounding shops and we decide to tag along and meander with them. The rapport continues as we mess around. It’s fantastic. Everyone’s doing bits and lifting one another up. We’re having a time.

The weather starts to take a turn and an idea sparks in my head. Why don’t we keep this party going, duck into a bottle shop and head back to ours? Everyone’s on board and we follow suit. We grab a couple of bottles of wine, order a car and pile in. The driver picks up on the vibe and turns out to be really interesting in their own right. We learn something new and by the time we’ve arrived, it felt like we shared a moment. It’s pissing down, so we rush the front door and get in as quick as we can. We’re all a little soaked, but the heat was left on. It’s beautifully balmy and inviting, despite our wet clothes. We figure we’re all friends and there’s nothing we haven’t seen of one another, so we all end up stripping down to various states of undress. Maybe someone’s still cold and they’re lent a plush garment. What we’re wearing doesn’t matter one iota, but what does matter is that we’re all abundantly comfortable.

My girlfriend grabs some glasses and I head to the stereo to toss on music. It’s something universally familiar, say The Big Chill soundtrack. Pillows and blankets are everywhere and we all cosy up with one another. We’re all chatting amicably, excited to be together. A song comes on and it sparks a memory for one of us. A long, heartfelt story is told, one we’ve never heard before, and we all feel privileged to be have shared in it. We realise it’s been a while since lunch and someone rounds up snacks while we all resolve to order takeout. We opt for candles in lieu of overhead light. The night continues in much the same vein. We lounge around, filled with wine, food, memories and song. The warmth we feel is in sharp juxtaposition to the storm raging outside. There’s an unspoken quality in the air that’s simply the representation of being excited to be together with the rest of the world on pause. The hours drag later. Wine swaps out for scotch and the music grows softer. Eventually it gets late enough that we realise we’re softly drifting off. It’s time to part ways. The storm has lifted. Nothing’s lost in leaving, because we’re all so filled to the brim with everything we could need. We don’t want for anything. A car is called and our friends get dressed to go. It arrives, we share long hugs and resolve to do it again sometime. There’s a note in the way it’s said that carries with it meaning. We know it’s not an empty gesture. Our friends head off into the night and we’re left with a warm, quiet house. One of us turns to the other and says “that was nice. Like, really really nice.” There’s no point in disagreeing.

That’s how I want to grow old.

I guess I’ll just pits and moan about it forever instead.

I. Had. Too. Much. Coffee. Today. So it’s gonna be one of those entries.

I’m adamant about washing my hands after I pee. It makes sense in the abstract. Pee is unsanitary, right? Of course you’re gonna want to wash your hands if they have pee on them. Thing is, it’s pretty rare for me to pee on my hands. Statistically my chances of coming away from a tinkle with pee-palms is don’t count on it. My hands rarely stray to my urethra. It’s not practical. I hold the shaft betwixt my thumb, index and middle (I’m not here to brag and I’m certainly not here to pee erect). None of those fingers wander into the stream. Yet time after time, I wash them post-urine. They shouldn’t be dirty, but I feel like I can’t not wash them. I’d most likely side-eye other guys who peed then immediately left the bathroom.

At the same time, is there any necessary reason to Horoi o Ringa Ringa? Your penis isn’t fundamentally dirty. It lives in your underwear pouch all day. I guess there’s an argument that the head could gather stray dried droplets as it sits in its lil’ hammock, but you don’t touch the head (unless other dudes have interesting techniques. Come to think of it, are there any hyper-efficient pee manoeuvres I’m missing out on?). Most of a penis is just skin. Folds and folds like some weird sexy Shar Pei. It’s not like it sweats unnaturally. There’s no silver trail of excretion. Is everything underneath your knickers dirty by association? If you touched your upper thigh, would you need to wash your hands? You could wager that it’s not possible to over-clean your hands and thereby you may as well. I think that’s where I fall on this argument (for fuck’s sake Leon, there is no argument. You started this). I’m glad we discussed this.

Years ago I went on an RV road trip with friends across America. One of our many stops was Huntsville, AL. Our prime stop (aside from our RV-mate’s relatives’ place. It had real showers and beds) was the U.S. Space and Rocket centre. Space Camp incarnate. Of course we exited through the gift shop (though we also kind of “excited” through the gift shop. It was a snazz factory). What happened next, I think about every so often (emphasis on the so). We saw a rack of NASA flight suits. They were a mere $80. We considered the rest of our trip. Heading through the Southern states and up to Los Angeles. For that nominal amount of cash, we could turn situations into events. Anything we did would be a story. We’d create buzz (pun surprisingly not intentional) wherever we went.

Filling up on gas isn’t worth mentioning. NASA staff filling up an RV is certainly an anecdote any stranger would fear to miss out on. Walking the Vegas strip garbed in NASA flight suits would be out of this world. Imagine the Billy the Kid memorial site. Now imagine it with five fucking astronauts. See you Space Cowboy. Talk about paying respects. Not only that, but once the trip was over, once we scattered to opposite sides of the globe, we’d always have something pulling us back together. Every time we met up after that we’d have no choice but to bring the suits. It’d be like Captain Planet, but with the entirety of Outer Space. I’m not even a big “space guy”, but I certainly mourn the loss of every single occasion I missed out on enhancing with a NASA flight suit. Unfortunately, one of our team didn’t want to. With one lone duck, the unity of such a fiscally frivolous fantasy was thrown out the window. Our dreams were tethered to reality and as such, never learned to fly.

Maybe now we never will.

Should I rename myself NapoLeon?

It’s weird when old memories pop into your head. I was just recounting the “cheese block incident” on some Facebook page. The conceit of the thread was about old stories that you got away with as a kid. Now that we’re (ostensibly) adults, we could tell our parents because none of it matters any more. What would they do? I was a pretty well behaved child. I had no interest in drugs or alcohol for the most part (though teenage binge drinking was a) something I did and b) something they knew about. Not supported, but more of a *sigh* boys will be boys kind of thing). I got good marks and most of my friends were the same. In short, we were nerds. My older brothers were the opposite. They’ve grown into upstanding adults with kids of their own, but it took a while to get there. Nothing that ruined their lives, but they have great stories. Mine are just medium. I was precocious more than anything.

Which is why this following story is more for me than it is for you.

My parents were having a party, as they often did. They’d constantly invite their friends around for big barbecues or dinners. The adults would put on music, drink and chat. They’d bring their kids and we’d have a little cluster of sub-adults. Usually there’d be more kids my older brothers’ ages (7-9 years older), but I’d invite a friend to keep me company. The older kids would usually mess with us. They weren’t cruel, but the games we’d play would usually cast us in the losing role. “Chasies” was a popular one. Kind of a “Hide and Go Seek” variant. The little kids would hide while the big kids counted down. If we were discovered, we’d have to run and avoid tackling. If we whined or cried, they’d tag instead. The unique aspect of “Chasies” is that the little kids were armed. We had a collection of toy weapons (a plastic bat we called “The Magic Bat”, swords, etc) that we could fight back with. If we fought them off again, it would give us space to run away more. I don’t know if we realised what a losing game it was, we’d be caught eventually. Seriously though, we were allowed to wail on the big kids. Given the age difference, our damage potential was limited only by our shrimpy bodies.

This particular night, we weren’t doing well. I had one friend, this fiery little guy with a bright red afro. I got tackled hard at some point and started crying. I sulked and ran off to my room, real worked up. I pulled out one of my dinosaur books and showed my friend these dinosaurs that slammed heads together (Pachycephalosaurus, according to wikipedia). This, I told him, would be our winning tactic. One of the big kids came into the room and I screamed at him to get out. I got my felt pens out and starting writing “Leon’s Private Room” on the door so they’d know. One of my parents caught me and told me to cut it out, that I should know better than drawing on my door. I don’t know how many years it lasted, but for maybe a decade “Leon’s Priv” stood boldly in the centre of my door.

Anyway, where it gets good is that my parents forced us to suck it up, go out and get playing again (I don’t blame them, they wanted to get back to the party). I’d kind of forgotten about my whole Sun Tzu monologue from earlier. My friend hadn’t. I was hidden in a bamboo bush, Magic Bat at the ready, when I heard an older kid shout out in pain. I rushed out of my hiding spot and the game was called off. My friend had headbutted one of the big kids right in the fucking face. A big bruise was on its way. The adults chastised the older kids for riling us up and the game was over for the night. For once, we’d won.

Come to think of it, maybe I missed my calling as a legendary general.