Reasons I could be a Lesbian:
1. Scarlett Johansson, Sandra Bullock and Jessica Alba
2. Between the rugby, kick boxing and fine arts communities, I would have plenty to choose from.
3. Diagrams and explanations of the female anatomy would no longer be necessary.
4. No longer would I have to fear “The Dutch Oven.”
5. My sandwiches would be made and brought to me.
6. The house would be clean and tidy by the time I got back from work.
7. Chocolate, Advil, and backrubs around “that time of the month” would be available without explanation.
8. Good, old fashioned tits and ass.
Reasons I could never be a Lesbian:
1. Men.
Monday 26 April 2010
Friday 16 April 2010
The Capable Essay
I was a fat child. No, seriously. Though I may look good in a pair of spandex shorts now, were you to have gone looking for me in junior high PE class, you’d have easily found me at the back of the pack, panting and huffing as I jiggled around the soccer field. I spent years with a stash of chocolate bars covertly placed between my diary and Barbie collection and hours arguing with my parents over whether or not it was appropriate for me to have seven cookies for snack. And despite my best and loudest efforts, those bastards dragged me out to soccer practice twice a week, with my round little body over their shoulders screaming, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Fortunately, my parents were not only more stubborn than I was, but well aware of just how good of an incentive an ass-whopping, wooden spoon can be. So I went to soccer practices scowling. And swim meets pouting. Then basketball tryouts, where I knew I wasn’t going home anytime soon so, fine, I’d shuffle towards the net and I’d try jogging to defence. Hell, the other girls were doing it and they looked like they were having fun. Then I scored a couple of baskets, dribbled around a few girls and wrestled a ball or two away from the other team and I began lumbering out of the gymnasium like I owned it.
“Dad, did you see that? That girl swung around when I grabbed the ball! Did you see my break-away? There was, like, no one there.”
At practice the next week, I bounced out of Dad’s car, through the gym doors, and tied my laces super tight for extra speed during scrimmages that night. I was running faster and dropping weight, but not everyone is as lucky as I was to have a father willing to confiscate anything that kept me in the house and a mother able to prod my butt out the door with her wooden spoon.
In 2004, right around the time I was getting into basketball and off the couch, almost ten percent of kids between the ages of two and 17 were obese, according to Statistics Canada. If I’d had a Body Mass Index of 30 or higher – BMIs comparing height to weight ratio – I would have been considered obese, and might have been part of that statistic. These results, on the other hand, do assume that the excess mass is fatty and not muscular, but considering how long I’d spent lolling in front of the TV, I doubt I had much muscle mass to go on.
That same year, CBC reports that 23.1 percent of all Canadian adults had BMIs over 30 and later, in 2008, a staggering 26.7 percent of adults in the United States were considered obese. Not just overweight; obese. If I remember anything from grade five, that’s approximately a quarter of all adults in North America. A quarter! That means every fourth adult getting on the bus in the morning is statistically likely to be about one thirds straight body fat, and I could have easily been one of them.
I was fifteen and playing for my high school basketball team when the math teacher across the hall started dropping hints that I aught to come out for rugby practice. I would shake my head and tell her that I was a baller not some “rugby” player and, besides, I was just getting good at sprinting my way down the court. But then she told me that I was of a build that would be advantageous on the field, that she knew I wasn’t unfit, and besides, didn’t I regularly get kicked out of games for being too hands-on? Was she recruiting me? Shit, did she just say she thought I was fit?
I decided a tryout or two would be worth my time, tackled a few girls, made the team and fell in love with the game. Even at that age, I would get off the field and vibrate happily for hours. This is not surprising, though, considering that the endorphins produced from a match’s hard running or heavy hitting are about the same as what get released during orgasm and actually act on the same neural receptors as narcotics like heroin or cocaine. Any rugby player will tell you that the adrenaline thrill that comes from a tackle which lays out the opponent is the sort worth banging your head for. That season, three of the most devoted players ended up with concussions.
These days I could probably get away with saying that I work my ass off at the gym; realistically though, strength training hasn’t done a thing to diminish its veritable size since I started seriously hitting the weight room three years ago. I had let a couple of months of cafeteria food and then a determined coach get to me and – Poof! – there I was, doing weighted squats and dumbbell curls for an hour-and-a-half three days a week. With every push up I counted and every weight I added to the barbell, I could feel my body strengthen, my muscles grow and my overall health improve.
After spending rugby practice running horseshoe-sprints (don’t ask), I came home to lie on my couch, revel in the glory of sore muscles and gloat in front of my roommates – just a little bit. I put a granola bar between my teeth, picked up my Women’s Health magazine and flipped straight to one of those articles that tells me how awesome I am.
“Dude!” I yell to my roomies in the kitchen around the oats in my mouth. “I burn an extra 120 calories a day for every three pounds of muscle. Did you know that? God, that’s awesome.”
A blonde head sticks out around the corner with the sort of “duh” expression the girls I live with have come to reserve for me. “I’ve seen your pipes, T. All you fucking do is eat.”
It’s true. Between the gym, rugby practices and kickboxing classes, I get hungry. And when I get hungry, I get weak, tired, indecisive and – worst of all – I became a straight-up raging bitch. Getting enough of the right type of nutrition all the time is not only necessary, but unfortunately complicated for any athlete. Do I get enough protein? What about my complex carbs? Does that triple-decker sandwich have enough vitamins, acids and fats to keep me going? Or was half a block of cheese not the right choice? High-intensity athletes can need up to twice the amount of nutrients as a non-athlete – like the football player who needs 150g of protein daily as opposed to the average 75g – and are put at risk of micronutrient deficiency (which results from restricting diets) and the female athlete triad (disordered eating, amenorrhea, and osteoporosis). And let’s not even get into just how much of my paycheque goes directly to food.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, grab myself a banana to munch on while I wait and flip back to my magazine. On the next page, I’m told that weight training not only has me eating more, but I get the added benefit of more stable joints. Sweet. Curious, I asked the physiotherapists who work with the varsity teams at UVic what they thought when I went to the Athletic Training Room later that week before practice.
“Oh I am a massive advocate of weight training,” says the girl wrapping tape around my finger. Nodding at the stretch cords and balance boards that litter half of the room, she tells me that the more you prepare your muscles for unexpected movement, the less likely you’ll be to injure yourself.
“Why do you think we get so many first years in here?” one of the trainers pipes up as he massages a calf. “They haven’t had enough time in the weight room yet.”
Thinking back to high school, I did spend a lot more time on the bench – and it had nothing to do with how slowly I made my way down the court. I remember rolled ankles, cramped muscles and pulled groins. When I was off-season too, I can recall a few times that my back spasmed on me in the pool or that I nearly popped a knee skiing. Granted, as a kid I was hardly strong enough to pick myself up off the ground if I fell on the slope and often had to get my frowning father to pull me up.
These sorts of injuries translate into the home for everyone, not just athletes and Colorado State University recently ran a one-year study comparing injury rates and BMI. They concluded that the higher the mass-to-height ratio, the more injuries were reported by the 2,575 adults who participated; the most (26 percent of men injured and 21 percent of women) being reported by the extremely obese. An entire half of these injuries, such as falls or acute overexertion, happened inside the home.
Take my mom, for example. Though she has never been obese, she let a few years at home with the kids get to her until she herniated a disc in her back. The doctors only shook their heads and told her, “Lady, there is essentially nothing wrong with you, but your back muscles are so weak they can’t hold themselves together. Get your fat ass to the gym!” (Or something along those lines.) Twelve years later she’s still working out religiously and now is so fit she not only looks 15 years her junior but could beat up most women that young anyway.
Of course, I would be lying if I said that exercise is the trump-all prevention for injury. Quite the opposite, in fact. The very point of athletics is to push the body to its limits and do it better than the competition. Runners end up with athlete’s foot for spending too much time in their shoes, tennis players dislocate shoulders swinging rackets for hours a day and basketball players develop shin splints just sprinting up and down on solid wood floors.
These injuries are not just normal consequences either. Every single woman I have ever played beside, regardless of the sport, has continued to play through an injury to “tough it out” and win and has often caused more damage for doing so. I have to admit, I’ve done it myself. I once dislocated a finger during a rugby game, popped it back in, and continued playing. I had to spend a month and a half punching without my left hand at kickboxing classes, but that didn’t stop me from trying. When I complained to my trainer about how bloody long it was taking to recover she looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Honey, you play rugby.” Oh yeah.
At home for Christmas holidays shortly after I’d made a lightning bolt out of my finger, I spent the better part of the first hour in my parent’s kitchen with my mother clucking over my tape-covered hand.
“Nishy, you really should be careful. What if it doesn’t get better? We’ll have to chop it off.”
“Yeah, but look what I can do!” I dropped to the linoleum floor and proceeded to do more full push-ups than most women my age and definitely more than my parents dreamed me ever capable of when I was fourteen. And to be honest, my first basketball practices mostly involved me holding my body off the floor from my knees, trembling slightly at the thought of actually lowering myself to the ground with my own strength. Dad, watching from the kitchen table, asked what sort of work out schedule I was running on these days and nodded along as I rattled off my weekly routine.
“So long as you still have time for school,” he said. “And take a break if your body needs it. Don’t over-exert yourself, sweetie; it can be just as bad for you as no exercise at all.”
He’s right, of course, though I still have a hard time believing it. The problem with exercise is that the hormone release and the resulting “runner’s high” experienced makes it surprisingly easy for a serious athlete to over-train. One of my best friends, for example, has spent the last eight months doing nothing but training to improve his fight statistics and – though he doesn’t see it – is experiencing some considerable symptoms as a result: insomnia, moodiness and a compulsiveness to exercise. And after every two months of hard time at the gym, his body has developed a tendency to crash completely and leave him so sick he can hardly crawl out of bed.
Getting back from the gym over the break, I flopped down on the carpet in my living room and channel-surfed my way to a rerun of The Biggest Loser. I adore the way pitting a bunch of people against each other in a weight-loss competition is ridiculous and extreme, but still manages to showcase the hard work I admire. Plus, you know, I get to feel like a rockstar just watching it. Thirty burpies? Whateeeever. Two hundred crunches? Puh-leeze. Not to mention that the episode that I’d found was one from the beginning of the season, when all of the contestants range from extremely to morbidly obese and simply getting to the show counted as exercise for them.
I watched as they set up a challenge, huddling the players as close to each other as their girths would allow and explaining that they would be walking up a set of slowly rotating escalators to find out who could stay on the longest. Great, I thought, popping baby carrots into my mouth. This is going to be the most exciting show ever. They all waddled up the stairs, took their positions and, once the buzzer sounded, began huffing their way upwards. Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, it was over. Seriously. I just about choked on my carrot. That was it? That was all that an entire quarter of the North American population was capable of?
Fuck the bruises, sore muscles and scars that I am covered in; at least I can move. Thanks to the dogged-asshole insistence of my parents, I never forgot how to run after a ball, or how good sweating feels, or how to bike to school or make my muscles scream. I get to walk down the street knowing I look good doing it and knowing that I can run to catch my bus. I could have been another one of the 5.5 million obese Canadian adults. I could have run the greater risk of premature death, diabetes, heart, stroke, breathing problems, and arthritis. But instead, I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I’m capable of rocking short shorts while kicking some serious ass.
Fortunately, my parents were not only more stubborn than I was, but well aware of just how good of an incentive an ass-whopping, wooden spoon can be. So I went to soccer practices scowling. And swim meets pouting. Then basketball tryouts, where I knew I wasn’t going home anytime soon so, fine, I’d shuffle towards the net and I’d try jogging to defence. Hell, the other girls were doing it and they looked like they were having fun. Then I scored a couple of baskets, dribbled around a few girls and wrestled a ball or two away from the other team and I began lumbering out of the gymnasium like I owned it.
“Dad, did you see that? That girl swung around when I grabbed the ball! Did you see my break-away? There was, like, no one there.”
At practice the next week, I bounced out of Dad’s car, through the gym doors, and tied my laces super tight for extra speed during scrimmages that night. I was running faster and dropping weight, but not everyone is as lucky as I was to have a father willing to confiscate anything that kept me in the house and a mother able to prod my butt out the door with her wooden spoon.
In 2004, right around the time I was getting into basketball and off the couch, almost ten percent of kids between the ages of two and 17 were obese, according to Statistics Canada. If I’d had a Body Mass Index of 30 or higher – BMIs comparing height to weight ratio – I would have been considered obese, and might have been part of that statistic. These results, on the other hand, do assume that the excess mass is fatty and not muscular, but considering how long I’d spent lolling in front of the TV, I doubt I had much muscle mass to go on.
That same year, CBC reports that 23.1 percent of all Canadian adults had BMIs over 30 and later, in 2008, a staggering 26.7 percent of adults in the United States were considered obese. Not just overweight; obese. If I remember anything from grade five, that’s approximately a quarter of all adults in North America. A quarter! That means every fourth adult getting on the bus in the morning is statistically likely to be about one thirds straight body fat, and I could have easily been one of them.
I was fifteen and playing for my high school basketball team when the math teacher across the hall started dropping hints that I aught to come out for rugby practice. I would shake my head and tell her that I was a baller not some “rugby” player and, besides, I was just getting good at sprinting my way down the court. But then she told me that I was of a build that would be advantageous on the field, that she knew I wasn’t unfit, and besides, didn’t I regularly get kicked out of games for being too hands-on? Was she recruiting me? Shit, did she just say she thought I was fit?
I decided a tryout or two would be worth my time, tackled a few girls, made the team and fell in love with the game. Even at that age, I would get off the field and vibrate happily for hours. This is not surprising, though, considering that the endorphins produced from a match’s hard running or heavy hitting are about the same as what get released during orgasm and actually act on the same neural receptors as narcotics like heroin or cocaine. Any rugby player will tell you that the adrenaline thrill that comes from a tackle which lays out the opponent is the sort worth banging your head for. That season, three of the most devoted players ended up with concussions.
These days I could probably get away with saying that I work my ass off at the gym; realistically though, strength training hasn’t done a thing to diminish its veritable size since I started seriously hitting the weight room three years ago. I had let a couple of months of cafeteria food and then a determined coach get to me and – Poof! – there I was, doing weighted squats and dumbbell curls for an hour-and-a-half three days a week. With every push up I counted and every weight I added to the barbell, I could feel my body strengthen, my muscles grow and my overall health improve.
After spending rugby practice running horseshoe-sprints (don’t ask), I came home to lie on my couch, revel in the glory of sore muscles and gloat in front of my roommates – just a little bit. I put a granola bar between my teeth, picked up my Women’s Health magazine and flipped straight to one of those articles that tells me how awesome I am.
“Dude!” I yell to my roomies in the kitchen around the oats in my mouth. “I burn an extra 120 calories a day for every three pounds of muscle. Did you know that? God, that’s awesome.”
A blonde head sticks out around the corner with the sort of “duh” expression the girls I live with have come to reserve for me. “I’ve seen your pipes, T. All you fucking do is eat.”
It’s true. Between the gym, rugby practices and kickboxing classes, I get hungry. And when I get hungry, I get weak, tired, indecisive and – worst of all – I became a straight-up raging bitch. Getting enough of the right type of nutrition all the time is not only necessary, but unfortunately complicated for any athlete. Do I get enough protein? What about my complex carbs? Does that triple-decker sandwich have enough vitamins, acids and fats to keep me going? Or was half a block of cheese not the right choice? High-intensity athletes can need up to twice the amount of nutrients as a non-athlete – like the football player who needs 150g of protein daily as opposed to the average 75g – and are put at risk of micronutrient deficiency (which results from restricting diets) and the female athlete triad (disordered eating, amenorrhea, and osteoporosis). And let’s not even get into just how much of my paycheque goes directly to food.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, grab myself a banana to munch on while I wait and flip back to my magazine. On the next page, I’m told that weight training not only has me eating more, but I get the added benefit of more stable joints. Sweet. Curious, I asked the physiotherapists who work with the varsity teams at UVic what they thought when I went to the Athletic Training Room later that week before practice.
“Oh I am a massive advocate of weight training,” says the girl wrapping tape around my finger. Nodding at the stretch cords and balance boards that litter half of the room, she tells me that the more you prepare your muscles for unexpected movement, the less likely you’ll be to injure yourself.
“Why do you think we get so many first years in here?” one of the trainers pipes up as he massages a calf. “They haven’t had enough time in the weight room yet.”
Thinking back to high school, I did spend a lot more time on the bench – and it had nothing to do with how slowly I made my way down the court. I remember rolled ankles, cramped muscles and pulled groins. When I was off-season too, I can recall a few times that my back spasmed on me in the pool or that I nearly popped a knee skiing. Granted, as a kid I was hardly strong enough to pick myself up off the ground if I fell on the slope and often had to get my frowning father to pull me up.
These sorts of injuries translate into the home for everyone, not just athletes and Colorado State University recently ran a one-year study comparing injury rates and BMI. They concluded that the higher the mass-to-height ratio, the more injuries were reported by the 2,575 adults who participated; the most (26 percent of men injured and 21 percent of women) being reported by the extremely obese. An entire half of these injuries, such as falls or acute overexertion, happened inside the home.
Take my mom, for example. Though she has never been obese, she let a few years at home with the kids get to her until she herniated a disc in her back. The doctors only shook their heads and told her, “Lady, there is essentially nothing wrong with you, but your back muscles are so weak they can’t hold themselves together. Get your fat ass to the gym!” (Or something along those lines.) Twelve years later she’s still working out religiously and now is so fit she not only looks 15 years her junior but could beat up most women that young anyway.
Of course, I would be lying if I said that exercise is the trump-all prevention for injury. Quite the opposite, in fact. The very point of athletics is to push the body to its limits and do it better than the competition. Runners end up with athlete’s foot for spending too much time in their shoes, tennis players dislocate shoulders swinging rackets for hours a day and basketball players develop shin splints just sprinting up and down on solid wood floors.
These injuries are not just normal consequences either. Every single woman I have ever played beside, regardless of the sport, has continued to play through an injury to “tough it out” and win and has often caused more damage for doing so. I have to admit, I’ve done it myself. I once dislocated a finger during a rugby game, popped it back in, and continued playing. I had to spend a month and a half punching without my left hand at kickboxing classes, but that didn’t stop me from trying. When I complained to my trainer about how bloody long it was taking to recover she looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Honey, you play rugby.” Oh yeah.
At home for Christmas holidays shortly after I’d made a lightning bolt out of my finger, I spent the better part of the first hour in my parent’s kitchen with my mother clucking over my tape-covered hand.
“Nishy, you really should be careful. What if it doesn’t get better? We’ll have to chop it off.”
“Yeah, but look what I can do!” I dropped to the linoleum floor and proceeded to do more full push-ups than most women my age and definitely more than my parents dreamed me ever capable of when I was fourteen. And to be honest, my first basketball practices mostly involved me holding my body off the floor from my knees, trembling slightly at the thought of actually lowering myself to the ground with my own strength. Dad, watching from the kitchen table, asked what sort of work out schedule I was running on these days and nodded along as I rattled off my weekly routine.
“So long as you still have time for school,” he said. “And take a break if your body needs it. Don’t over-exert yourself, sweetie; it can be just as bad for you as no exercise at all.”
He’s right, of course, though I still have a hard time believing it. The problem with exercise is that the hormone release and the resulting “runner’s high” experienced makes it surprisingly easy for a serious athlete to over-train. One of my best friends, for example, has spent the last eight months doing nothing but training to improve his fight statistics and – though he doesn’t see it – is experiencing some considerable symptoms as a result: insomnia, moodiness and a compulsiveness to exercise. And after every two months of hard time at the gym, his body has developed a tendency to crash completely and leave him so sick he can hardly crawl out of bed.
Getting back from the gym over the break, I flopped down on the carpet in my living room and channel-surfed my way to a rerun of The Biggest Loser. I adore the way pitting a bunch of people against each other in a weight-loss competition is ridiculous and extreme, but still manages to showcase the hard work I admire. Plus, you know, I get to feel like a rockstar just watching it. Thirty burpies? Whateeeever. Two hundred crunches? Puh-leeze. Not to mention that the episode that I’d found was one from the beginning of the season, when all of the contestants range from extremely to morbidly obese and simply getting to the show counted as exercise for them.
I watched as they set up a challenge, huddling the players as close to each other as their girths would allow and explaining that they would be walking up a set of slowly rotating escalators to find out who could stay on the longest. Great, I thought, popping baby carrots into my mouth. This is going to be the most exciting show ever. They all waddled up the stairs, took their positions and, once the buzzer sounded, began huffing their way upwards. Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, it was over. Seriously. I just about choked on my carrot. That was it? That was all that an entire quarter of the North American population was capable of?
Fuck the bruises, sore muscles and scars that I am covered in; at least I can move. Thanks to the dogged-asshole insistence of my parents, I never forgot how to run after a ball, or how good sweating feels, or how to bike to school or make my muscles scream. I get to walk down the street knowing I look good doing it and knowing that I can run to catch my bus. I could have been another one of the 5.5 million obese Canadian adults. I could have run the greater risk of premature death, diabetes, heart, stroke, breathing problems, and arthritis. But instead, I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I’m capable of rocking short shorts while kicking some serious ass.
Friday 9 April 2010
This Side of West
So, a while back I was called in by the up-and-coming ambitious names of the writing future to help out and write a few random things for their literary journal, This Side of West. Yeah, me in a journal. Who'd a thunk? Nevertheless, I raked something marginally respectable together for them to publish. The book is now available for the low, low price of $12.95 (I think?) or - if you use my guest bathroom - you can read my copy for free on the can.
*****
I’ve always liked to imagine that I’m worldly. It makes me feel good, you know? Sitting around my buddy’s ash covered table, twirling a peeled beer bottle, I’ll whip out references to my foreign friends like they’re some kind of celebrity.
“Oh, you know my friend Eduarrrdo,” I’ll say, rolling the “r” to accentuate his exoticness, “was just telling me he might meet me in Prague.” Propping my feet on the adjacent plastic chair, I’ll switch the topic, asking someone about their friend from work because, you know, I wouldn’t want to rub in just how traveled I am. Not outright, anyway.
It takes that special sort of occasion to let myself indulge in full-on, egocentric story telling. I’ll slur my way through a recounting of that one time, in Schwitscherland, when I smoked pot on the train and went to see bears in a pit. And the crowds will ooh and they’ll ahh and they’ll proclaim a new round of Beer Pong in my honour, and I’ll feel awesome.
Then, someone will lean on my shoulder, spilling cheap rum down my cleavage, and suggest I write a story about it.
“Oh, well, the, ah, keyboard could never do such a story, um, justice,” I’ll say, waving down their protests and insisting that my travels are almost too epic to be written down. Then, I’ll retreat behind the plastic cup-covered table, and turn my attention to the crooked projectiles of a friend’s ping-pong ball and away from my ineptitudes as a writer. At home later, I’ll look wistfully at my laptop, before I stumble and decide it’s time to sprawl on top of my covers.
When morning and the hangover comes, I will be no more able to type the story than the night before, regardless of how much more accurately I’d hit the keys. Really, all I’d done was get high and look at bears. Of course they were Swiss bears and it was European pot, but that’s nothing more to write about. Anyone six shots deep would have thought I’d been to the moon, seen a dragon – without a helmet – and lived to tell the tale.
So I leave my laptop out of it, forget that I fail to find inspiration in the setting sun of Schwitscherland, and pick up another Canadian.
“Did I ever tell you that Froweeen wants to visit when I’m in Egypt?”
*****
I’ve always liked to imagine that I’m worldly. It makes me feel good, you know? Sitting around my buddy’s ash covered table, twirling a peeled beer bottle, I’ll whip out references to my foreign friends like they’re some kind of celebrity.
“Oh, you know my friend Eduarrrdo,” I’ll say, rolling the “r” to accentuate his exoticness, “was just telling me he might meet me in Prague.” Propping my feet on the adjacent plastic chair, I’ll switch the topic, asking someone about their friend from work because, you know, I wouldn’t want to rub in just how traveled I am. Not outright, anyway.
It takes that special sort of occasion to let myself indulge in full-on, egocentric story telling. I’ll slur my way through a recounting of that one time, in Schwitscherland, when I smoked pot on the train and went to see bears in a pit. And the crowds will ooh and they’ll ahh and they’ll proclaim a new round of Beer Pong in my honour, and I’ll feel awesome.
Then, someone will lean on my shoulder, spilling cheap rum down my cleavage, and suggest I write a story about it.
“Oh, well, the, ah, keyboard could never do such a story, um, justice,” I’ll say, waving down their protests and insisting that my travels are almost too epic to be written down. Then, I’ll retreat behind the plastic cup-covered table, and turn my attention to the crooked projectiles of a friend’s ping-pong ball and away from my ineptitudes as a writer. At home later, I’ll look wistfully at my laptop, before I stumble and decide it’s time to sprawl on top of my covers.
When morning and the hangover comes, I will be no more able to type the story than the night before, regardless of how much more accurately I’d hit the keys. Really, all I’d done was get high and look at bears. Of course they were Swiss bears and it was European pot, but that’s nothing more to write about. Anyone six shots deep would have thought I’d been to the moon, seen a dragon – without a helmet – and lived to tell the tale.
So I leave my laptop out of it, forget that I fail to find inspiration in the setting sun of Schwitscherland, and pick up another Canadian.
“Did I ever tell you that Froweeen wants to visit when I’m in Egypt?”
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