Oh Beautiful Day

Flipped thru most recently updated blogs! Gotta luv whats out there! Peeps write like this! Interspaced with meaningful stuff like 'Be bold for Jesus!' Cause Jesus loves him some exclamation marks! And that's some bold assed shit, being willing to end every fucking sentence with an exclamations mark! Come to think of it, pretty sure Jesus dreamed of the day that twenty-odd year old exclamation mark addicts would 'Be bold' for him by painting their toenails with bubble gum pink polish, despite the fact that we all know bubble gum is so last season, and dusty rose is the pink du jour!

Ain't it stunning how much I despise you, simply from reading one little post?

Anyway, back to reality, sort of. Today was great. Hung over, shoe shopping for the wedding, somehow ended up with a somewhat stanky hamburger in my purse for the majority of the shopping expedition, which always puts me in an odd state of mind. Well, not 'always', per say, I'd just like to think that that'd be the norm, should I ever again happen to wander the halls of Metrotown with a cheeseburger slowly oozing it's way, drip by drip, out of the confines of my purse, and down my leg.
So the lack of reality led to me wandering out of my usual shoe buying confines (black, brown, or beige, anyone? and heels are a no go all around), and into the land of the Pink Snake Skin Pump
With The Four Inch Heel. Always shop for shoes hung over. With a burger in your pocket. Cause if you can't laugh giddily at your feet, what can you laugh at? That's right, baby. See me teeter, see me totter, but my feet look hot while doing it.
Later, got spray painted on my balcony, then got my leg humped by a very loving poodle in the elevator, then M. came by to burn the cd's for the wedding tomorrow. Hit the balcony for a smoke, and was witness to the most beautiful thing I've seen in some time. Cuddle in close kids, cause this is truly a wonderful story...
A t-bird parked in the street below. Right in front of the strip club which I'm proud to call my neighbour. This car, this car knew love. This car knew the intimate details of every paycheck it's owner received. Cause each and every one of those paychecks went to more chrome, more shine, oh yeah, that car was the most well loved peice of eighties tack you have ever seen.
As we're smoking, M. points out that the owner of the car has materialized from the bowels of the aptly name Mugs & Jugs. He's got him a lady. And what a lady she is. Heck, he picked her to match the car. She had booty, sealed into a miniscule pair of pink terrycloth shorts, and an itty bitty little tank top, straining in the effort of retaining those breasts. These garments would have been severely revealing, had they been three sizes larger. Since they weren't, well, what's three times more revealing than severely revealing? You tell me. Oh, and the shoes. Oh yeah, those puppies lit up when she walked. Just like the ones my four year old daughter always wants me to get for her.
So buddy figures that he'll hand over the keys, let his new found love give the old t-bird a whirl. M. and I watch expectantly...
Me: Watch her jam it into reverse and smash into that truck.
.....
Oh yes. You guessed it. M. did not have the time to respond before.....yeah. It was beautiful. Truly, a magic moment. Maybe it would've been more funny if she'd rammed that truck harder, but I don't think so. Less damage the way it happened, but more time for M. and I to enjoy the oh no, you can't be serious...she's still fucking reversing...all my dreams are coming true...she's really gonna....
Yup. Honestly, it was too funny to laugh. All I could do was bend double and wheeze like a chain smoker who'd just run a marathon.

I love my view.

You Say What Now?

You're getting married tommorow? Fuck me, time flies. Back to the old Things To Do list:

• Get shoes
• Fight hangover
• Get strapless bra
• Fight hangover
• Get shawl
• Fight hangover
• Get blank cd's
• Fight hangover
• Download and burn music
• Fight hangover
• Confirm hotel
• Fight hangover
• Make sure cake will show up
• Fight hangover
• Make up breakfast basket for hotel room
• Fight hangover
• Confirm rides and shit are in order
• Puke

Pretty sure I'm missing something here....yeah, I'm sure it's not important. Really. I'm sure of that.

Things To Do Today

• Get emergency loan from school, cause I'm out of beer and cigarettes (yeah, my school's cool and understanding like that)...done
• Look for shoes for wedding. Wear sandals. Get rained on. Find no shoes. Get coffee...done
• Reclaim, feed, water, clean, and bed child....done
• Watch Raging Bull for the umpteenth time...done
• Call Erica...done
• Get drunk, sing random shit, and chain smoke while on phone with Erica...done
• Listen to Erica mumble incoherently about online quizzes while getting drunk and wasting phone batteries...done
• Sympathize with Erica's occational coherent yelps about a tragic lack of beer chez Erica...done
• Get off phone, finish that final lap away from the last vestiges of sobriety...done
• Get laid.....
• Get laid....
• Get laid....

Okay, gimme a hand here people. Or a penis, whichever is more convenient.

Why am I never horny as a dog in heat while at, say, the Roxy, surrounded by dozens of pygmies which are all overwhelmed by my beauty, or half exposed breasts, whatever. Oh where are the pygmies now? Hell, I'd take a non-pygmy right now, I'm not picky, and I may even consider someone who enough self-respect stay the fuck out of the Roxy.

But seriously, I don't think it's too much to ask that, should I feel horny, I should get laid. Now. Well. And good.

Oh, the humanity. What has become of us?

The Kid is Musically Inclined

Picked The Kid up from daycare the other day. She's singing to herself: this is normal. Then I realized what she was singing - Adam Green's Bunnyranch. Specifically, the line that goes, Bind me, gag me, take me to the bunnyranch. Not good. Hope she's not teaching it to other kids at daycare. Get us banned for life. At least she hadn't made it as far as, Do me doggy, rape me in the parking lot.
Gotta start monitoring the tunes around her.
And remind me not to play Peaches' Shake Yer Dix anymore.
Or Naked, Drunk and Horny. But it's so bloody catchy....

Sophie's Choice

So I'm reading Sophie's Choice. I don't understand that book. I'm not an English major, I don't know literature, maybe you understand, but I don't. It seems like such a, well, callous means of story telling. Six paragraphs framed by an endless succession of handjobs, wet dreams, schizophrenic lust, alcohol soaked lunch dates, blue balls, and abusive relationships.
Surrounding six paragraphs.
Why do we need the male perspective on the difficulties of unrequited love given to a woman who has seen hell? How is this important? Yes, the book is called Sophie's Choice, and it is, but how is it okay to construct the book using the perspective of a selfish, spoiled, lovelorn youth?
I know, it shows the dichotomy of the American life at the time, the difference between what was perceived by those on the outside, versus the reality lived by those on the inside, but it still seems like such a horrible way of approaching things.
Your child is dead. The narrator needs a better handjob. You chose which child would die. This shmuck thinks he can score with you. You watched your child walk away from you, to the gas chambers. Seriously, give the fucking twit a blow job.
There are so many issues which people choose to hide their heads in the sand rather than face, and find a means of doing so by using the excuse of sensitivity, but this time I have to say that there are some issues which should be approached with a modicum of sensitivity. And by that, I do mean that brutal honesty is so much more appealing than readability.
I don't understand this book.

Do we have to use tragedy as a punchline?

An Apology

If anyone is waiting for me to post something moving, amusing, or just plain confusing, it may not be happening for a while. I'm just not the kind of person who thinks in public, and these days, my private time is somewhat lacking. Between being a houseguest, having houseguests, sporadic wedding planning for M, and wandering from beer to beer, I seem to have temporarily fallen into what some may call a social life.
Don't worry, it won't last long. Soon, my fine friends, soon I will return to you....
Please don't give up on me. I would never give up on you.

Damn, I think that opener may have been plagiarism...sorry Brando, you can sue me later if you want to. Right now, I'm busy.

Home

It's good to be home. That's all I have to say. I love sunlight in my apartment, I love spider free living, I love my own bed, I love easy access to beer, I love walking up the street and running into ten people I know (even if they are the corner store people who love me for my daughter, the taxi drivers who love me for my daughter, Denise from the cafeteria who thinks I drink too much coffee, and the neighbours in the building who I swear I've never seen before, but aparently know my daughter).
I love hot showers, sans spiders.
Now I'm going to take advantage of the spider free shower and the easy access to beer.

Home

Okay, I'm ready to go home now. What?!? What do you mean, I can't go home yet?!?
I always forget how easy it is to get to Campbell, yet how leaving never seems to be an option. Suppose leaving The Kid here makes it a little harder, Ma's got work to do, can't just ditch The Kid with her. The parents are taking The Kid camping next week, and that can't be avoided. The only other option is going with them, and I want my own bed back. At least a bed without child in it. The Kid is amazingly mobile, and vocal, in her sleep. She dreams about soccer. A lot. And plays soccer. In bed. In her sleep. And it hurts me. Cause getting kicked and head butted by a small fiend shouting, "Soccer Team! Soccer Team!" at 4 am really puts a damper on my eight hours.
So I'm counting the minutes 'till Tuesday, when I can take a shower whenever I want, and fuck the hot water supply. And I'm so gonna hop in that shower without checking the tub for Giant Mutated Spiders first. I hate Giant Mutated Spiders. Fucking hate them. Coming to Campbell really makes me appreciate living on the seventh floor of a cement building. At home, I have no Giant Mutated Spiders, and I don't think living a Giant Mutated Spider free life is too much to ask. Come on, people, we're in Canada here, not the fucking jungle.
Tuesday. I can make it. Just until Tuesday. And I don't even have to count Tuesday, cause I'll be home in decent time then.
Oh yeah. Shower, spider free. Beer. Patio, pub, wherever. Good talks. Sleep. Child free bed. Twenty minute shower. Coffee. Patio. Beer. Patio.
I'm ready to go home now....

Gone Fishing

Sung to the tune of 'Going to the Closet' from Zaboomafoo

Going up to Campbell,
Gonna eat free food,
Going up to Campbell,
Free food is real good.

Artistic license: food does rhyme with good, dammit.

Yup. Visiting the parents for a week. Got here yesterday, had a good trip up. Hit the beach, and went for icecream before getting to the house.
The house, by the way, is not the house I grew up in. Hell, the house I grew up in isn't the house I grew up in. Don't really know where I grew up. Lived in the old house from grade six through grade ten, then back on and off for the first half of grade twelve.
When I first left Campbell, I didn't come back for two years. Then came 'home' for a summer, by then they'd sold the old house. Spent that summer sleeping on a mattress in the office.
There's nothing in this house that reminds me of me. The (now) spare bedroom is mainly The Kid's room. That summer that I came to visit it was my sister's room.
After that, didn't come home for another two years. Came home when I was pregnant, was supposed to run the restaurant while my parents where in Scotland for a year, then move out of the house, go to school here, get my hotel and restaurant management diploma...
They never went to Scotland. I was back in the office, working under my mother at the restaurant. That didn't last too long. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
I always forget when I'm away how much I hate Campbell. This house is out of town, no bus service, nowhere to go. And I spend the entire time I'm here cleaning, while trying to keep The Kid and Ma from undoing anything I've done. Often, there's little difference between taking care of Ma and taking care of The Kid. Except Ma's fully capable of taking care of herself, she just doesn't want to. No time, apparently.
I don't see how much time it takes to put a banana peel or peach pit in the garbage.
There's no one in this town I want to see, other than R. Of my old friends, all either left, or have become part of the heart and soul of this town. Which is an evil, evil thing.
Anyway, since I'm in Campbell, I think I'll try to spend the week (or at least the next four days, while Ma's out of the house,) reminiscing about Campbell. Heck, we'll make it theme week. One post a day, one person a day as the focus of that post. How very organized.
So, we'll do the following people (and don't even try to hold me to it, I plan far better than I function):
Rachael
Jaime
Brian
If I can still post after Ma's kicking around, I may stick with the theme, I may not. So there's the list, for now. I'll start tomorrow.

Ericabloggin' Pt II

That's right, more of that fun and funky writing style commonly (yeah, commonly, traditions gotta start somewhere, baby), known as Ericabloggin'. That's right, its a one paragraph breakdown of the end of the days events:
So, got to the park. The Spiritualist was already there, kids in tow. She'd been called in to work, so after rustling up a sufficient amount of pizza, juice, fries, and coffee to keep us going, she headed off, to meet back up with us in three hours. I watched the kids play. Although watched may be a slightly optimistic term, I occationally remembered that I was supposed to be watching kids, and rarely remembered that there was supposed to be more than one child. And it didn't matter which kid I spotted, once I'd found one, I was happy. Somehow, made it through the day with the same number of kids as I began with. (That's two.) Lost my bra somewhere along the line, found it in my bag later, but only after my unleashed boobs escaped the confines of my shirt not once, or twice, but three times. Well, if your gonna flash at a kiddy park, Grandview's the one to do it at. No one as much as blinked. Made it home eventually. Got The Kid fed, cleaned, and bedded. Now it's my turn. My feet are black. There's actual gravel in my shirt, not just sand. I haven't yet come up with the courage to free my hair, in the hopes of finding a way to get a brush through it. I'm so dehydrated, swelling has caused my anklet to dig in so deeply, I can barely get it undone. Yup. All in all, it was a good day. Fuck, I stink.

Ericabloggin'

That's right, treatin' ya'll to a one paragraph breakdown of the daily events. Walked. Hit Commercial Drive, ran into Che just as she was gonna take her car to the wash. Hopped on board, laughed at a bunch of Spanish guys laughing at Che for bothering to get a car like her's washed. Mooched a coffee of Che. Hit her apartment, scored a washcloth, some deoderant, and toothpaste. Che was out of t.p. Found babywipes. My hooha smells like babypowder. Got ahold of The Spiritualist, meeting her at Grandview park. Her mother's at my apartment, has keys, so The Spiritualist can leave without having to worry about locking up. Good timing.
Gonna sit at the park, drink to much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, listen to the Spiritualist drum, and watch the kids get dirty. Good times.

Hmmm....

What to say, what to say. The Spiritualist is over here right now, trying to get the kids to sleep. May be a slightly muddled process, her daughter is used to laying down with her, my daughter is used to being alone in the room. My guess is, when one starts to doze off, the other will begin. Running low on beer, this is a serious concern. Very serious. Bored. Hate the computer. Don't feel like typing, but it's better than reading the same posts over and over again. Refuse to expand to new bloggers, that'll just distract me on the times that I actually have something better to do. Could take a nice, long, summer's nights walk, appreciate the fact that I'm actually outside after dark, but that would involve busting in on the Spiritualist, trashing the bedtime process. Fuck.
I'm fucking bored. I hate evenings lately. (Read the last post.) I'm sick and tired of waiting for shit to happen. I might be just about the most laid back person on the face of the planet when it comes to scheduling, but when I want out, I Want Out.

Okay, I gotta quit dicking around. I know that you're gonna read this, and that my anger is abrupt, short lived, and often has nothing to do with the situation at hand, but this is my blog, my outlet, and I'm pissed now, so I'm gonna spew. And if you hold that against me, when you read this next week, and I've forgotten that I was ever pissed, well then, grow a back bone.
Babysitters are few and far between. I may ditch you without notice, and without a second thought, but that's different. What you sow, you shall reap. I, on the other hand, have to rustle up a babysitter to get out. Normally they flow by in the current, and one can be fetched if you happen to be paddling that current at that given time. To hook up a babysitter, with advanced notice, is a thing not just uncommon, but down right fucking miraculous. So if I have plans to go out some time tonight, some time tonight better fucking refer to tonight.
And before you get on your high horse, and figure you've gotten under my skin, refer, again, to the last post. This has nothing to do with you. Repeat, This Has Nothing To Do With You. I Want Out. And don't give me a fucking excuse to get out, then not follow through.

Okay, so you called. Still gonna post this; if you show me your thoughts, I'll show you mine.
And I've never deleted anything I've said, or photographed. One thing I've learned through life; no matter how momentary and passing, or how drunken and delusional, everything I think has been worth thinking.
Hopefully the walk down will cool me down enough I don't 'accidentally' spill my Spanish coffee on you when I get there.
I'm getting out. Out is good.

On Waiting

Do you ever get that feeling coming on? I'm sure we all have it. They wrote a book about it. I don't know who 'they' is, but the book oughta be mandatory reading: Dragons Hate to be Discreet. Excellent book. I'm going up to the parents house for a visit soon, gonna have to scam that puppy.
I get this feeling every once in a while, like I'm just waiting for the right moment to come along. Like I'm going to do something, against all my best interests and common sense, and although I pretend I'm trying to talk myself out of it, really, I'm just waiting.
It used to be summer which would bring the feeling on. Of course then, I was a little more of a fatalist, and didn't do much of that 'talking myself out of it' shit. Back then, I was pretty convinced that my life had a cycle, and that spring was for the break down of all things old, summer for the living outside of life, and fall for the creation of a new life. Sounds kind of contrary, doesn't it? But if you think about it, it is close to the natural system; animals enjoy the freedom of summer, then spend fall finding a means of supporting themselves through winter.
For me, the spring breakdown rarely revolved around events of my creation, I'd spend my springs trying to outlive the repercutions of what happened. Sometimes, I was involved in the instigation, generally, not. Spring was for deaths, divorces, rapes, hospitalizations, comas, more deaths...and then summer would come. And by then, I would have given up. And the release provided by that giving up was the ability to breath deeply for the first time in months.
I don't miss my summers, but I loved them. That's the thing about what you loved though. You can't recreate it once it's gone. You can try, but hey, look at Woodstock. Still, my summers gave me an opportunity to live in the Yukon, learn how to play baseball, see the Red River exhibition in Winnipeg, perform an exorcism on a pig barn, learn how to drive, learn how to drive a tractor, learn how to drive a big rig, loose my priviledge to drive for the next five years, learn how to have sex, learn how to break up with a man (boy, then) without breaking his heart, learn all the lyrics to Sweet Home Alabama, learn how to take a punch from a man twice my size without crying, learn how to ruin another persons life. Learn how to be myself, by myself, for myself.
Anyway, it took me along time to get over summer.
The summer before pregnancy was the first that I spent living in a place I called home, the first time in nearly a decade. I'm glad that I had that summer, I would hate to think that I had changed everything for The Kid; what would happen after she grew up and made her own way? Or if before that, I stumbled into some crisis to overwhelming not to give in to my baser instincts, and run? At least I have the security of knowing that a certain sense of stability and responsibility had grown within me, and was not just something I invented for the sake of my daughter.
So now I'm back to waiting. Not for a major upheaval (I have no intentions of ditching The Kid, and Satans Cat, and The Fish, to hitch to Tuktayuktuk for the season), but I know the feeling well. A cross between that out-of-cigarettes twitch, and the expecting-to-get-laid giddiness.
Wish I knew what the fuck I was waiting for. I guess I'll find out, when the right moment comes along.

On My Body, My Baby, My Heroin

This is one of those vastly boring posts. Skim it, don't look for amusement or information, but do think about the issue. And let me know. I might not like your view, but it may help me find my own.
So here's the question. And this, for me, honestly is a question. To anyone who reads this, please comment, I do not have an answer and I would truly appreciate all and any input into this:
Should heroin addicted prostitutes be forced to use depo-provera (a.k.a. the shot)?
At school today, my friends, The Spiritualist and Psyche, were engaged in one of our ongoing debates: the rights of the drug addicted mother. Psyche feels very strongly about this issue: children should not be born to drug addicts. Heroin babies are guaranteed to have massive problems, of which I'm sure I don't need to get into, besides, even I don't have the time to list them all. For Psyche, women who are addicted to drugs should not have the right to bare children. (Remember, this is women who are addicts, not women who have been addicts).
The Spiritualist took the opposite stance. (Although her argument incorporated more than this, for the sake of concision, I'll stick with this one). The Spiritualist is close with a man who is the child of a drug addict. He was born an addict, raised in multiple foster homes, abused, and had no family to call his own. Alternately, he is alive. And would not wish to loose that.
Let me be clear here: This is not to debate pro-choice versus pro-life issues. Although the debate ended up being framed in a style that could be constructed to argue against a woman's right to choose, this was not the debate at hand. The Spiritualist was saying that, should a woman choose to bear a child, and choose to shoot junk while bearing that child, that this was her choice to make, and the consequences to the child were not guaranteed to be worse than the consequences to the child of a rich white god-fearing republican family, where Uncle Lester just happens to have a penchant for little kids.
So the question is, where does a woman's rights end, and a child's rights begin? Keep to the context, dammit. We're talking a child here, a situation where, given no outside interference, a birth will ensue. If a woman's actions are going to lead to irreparable damage during pregnancy, what does it take to stifle the rights of a woman, in hopes of saving said child?
I have absolutely no answers here.
Legalize prostitution, adds ability to enforce use of birth control. Sure. Doesn't help in this situation: may lessen increases in drug addiction, but those who are already addicted will not all clean up to be legal. And for those prostitutes that are legal? Well, they're no more addicts than you or me. So they should not fall under the aegis of enforced birth control. (Not to say that johns shouldn't be forced to use condoms. Legalized prostitutes have to undergo std checks - johns don't.)
So we're back to the question for debate: Should prostitutes (I realize this sounds like a complete generalization - when debating this issue, we are referring, specifically, to majority of those on East Hastings: severe addicts) be forced to use depo-provera?
I thought that in writing I'd come to a tentative conclusion, at least something to toy with. But I have nothing. Maybe I can add in time, maybe having this post here will keep the issue in my head, thereby forcing me to think about it often enough to find my stance. Until then, any input I can mull over would be greatly appreciated. I'm at a loss.

In Progress

So, I haven't posted in a couple of days, and let's face it, Monday was a cop out. This is no way to treat a newborn blog.
So, yeah. Sooo.... yeah. What's new. Been drinking a lot of coffee, smoking a lot of cigarettes. Drinking other peoples beers, which they keep conveniently leaving at my house. What's good for the wallet's good for the gander. Well, goose, I guess. Except I'm not really a goosey sorta person. Not a ferret either, that'd do, except they're too much like weasels. Not cat or dog, too done. No herbivores, especially ones with hooves. I am not a hoofed mammal.
Okay, so I don't know what animal I am. Year of the horse, but there's that whole hooved mammal thing there, so that doesn't help. (Like the way I typed hoofed once, and hooved the second time, so I'm guaranteed to be right at least once. Yeah, I'm sneaky like that. Gotta figure out what's up with my spell check.)
There we go! This post is about....The Beer. Tonight, I have broken a four year old promise to myself. I have failed me.
See, when I was pregnant, I was hot. And cranky. And had allergies. And lived in a hot, cranky, parking lot. And I really needed a beer. But that's just not kosher when you're preggers, so I just dreamed of beer.
And then it hit me: after all those years of having woken up to consume the half empty can of luke warm Canadian left on the dresser before rolling my sorry ass off to work, I did not, truly, want a luke warm, nasty-flat can of Canadian. When I dreamed of beer in my preggers days, (and these were deep, meaningful dreams, full of graphic, sensual detail, and the foam, Oh the foam!) stop....drink beer....
I dreamed of great, wondrous beers. Of Irish pubs with fifty different beers on tap. Of ice cold bottles of Corona when it was hot, not to be touched without a wedge of lime, of pints of Guinness by a fire and pool table for those days that are pissing down rain. So many beers. So much love. (I can't elaborate right now, got a heineken sitting in front of me. It's like trying to think of one tune while another's blasting in your ear.)
Anyway, I made a vow to myself. I would never again settle for a shitty beer. No cans. No warm beer. No macro brewery crap. And never again would I drink a bud light, just cause it was there and free. Beer was to be loved, treasured, and appreciated for all it's true worth.
And now? Tonight, for the first time in over four years, I am speaking to you while drinking a can, yes, a can, of beer. The first time I have cracked a can since before pregnancy.
I have truly, deeply, failed. All it took was opening my fridge door, to be face by cans of beer, and no mix for the rum, and I folded like a Russian gymnast.

Well, at least it's not bud light.

Oh! Oh! Let's see what happens when you huck your post into Babel Fish, translate to Greek, then back again!

Thus, I have not placed in certain days, and him you face, Monday it was spo'la outside. This is not no way is faced one newborn blog. Thus, yes. Sooo.... naj. Who young person. Pj'nontas of a lot of coffee, that smokes a lot of cigarettes. Pj'nontas other beers of populations, which they confortably keep in my house. Who good for the good of wallet for gander. Well, goose, I suppose. Apart from I am not really person sorta goosey. No a koyna'vj nor, that'd, unless it is too much as the weasels. No ga'ta or dog, that becomes too much. No one herbivores, specifically these with the hoofs. I am not hoofed mammal. All right, thus I do not know which animal I am. The year of horse, but there this entire the thing suckling there, so it does not help. (As the way that daktylogra'fisa hoofed a time, and the second time, thus are guaranteed in order to I am right at least a time. Yes, I am sneaky as this. The Gotta calculates what above with the control of my orthographic errors.) There we go! This place is for... The the beer. Tonight, I have broken age promise of four years in with. With I have failed. See, when I was e'gkyos, I was boiling hot. And unstable. And it had the allergies. And in a boiling hot, unstable, part of spaces of quartering. And needed really a beer. But this precisely not kosher when you are ami'hanoj, thus i dreamed precisely the beer. And then me it struck: after all those the years you have woken up you consume up to half the void it can the hot Canadian left winger luke in my kommo' before roll dreary donkey in order to works far, genuinely, did not want a luke hot, unpleasant can Canadian. When I dreamed the beer in my ami'hanes days, (and these were deep, important dreams, complete graphic, sensual detail, and the foam, OH the foam!) beer of attitudes... drink.... I dreamed the big, marvellous beers. From the Irish bars with fifty different beers in the tap. From the cold bottles of ice of crown when he was boiling hot, in order to it is not touched upon without a wedge of lime, pjntw'n Guinness from table of fire and lakes for those days where under the rain. As a lot of beers. So much a lot of love (I cannot shape immediately, I took a heineken meeting front from with. It is as the effort to think that his one you coordinate the other anatj'naxi in your ear.) En pa'si perjptw'sej, made my oath in. I would not install never again for a shitty beer. No container. No hot beer. No long brewery crap. And e'pjna never again a light of eyes, precisely cause that was there also free. The beer was to be loved, and it appreciated for all that it deserves genuine. And now? Tonight, for first time in above four years, I speak to you pj'nontas the a I can, yes, a I can, the beer. The first time I have ragj'sej the a I can from then before the pregnancy. Genuinely, deep, I have failed. All that it took did not open my door of refrigerators, in order to he is person from the containers of beer, and no mix for the rum, and folded as Russian gymnast. Well, at least it is not light of eyes.

Beyond Resilience

On my parents dog:
Me: You know how Jake was a very old dog?
The Kid: Yeah.
Me: I'm sorry to tell you this, but Jake died today.
The Kid: Jake is dead?
Me: Yes. He's gone.
The Kid: Oh.
....
The Kid: Well, we're going to have to get a new dog.