I have not travelled far in my twenty nine years as a tax paying 21st century human boy.

My self-awareness can be measured by dividing the preceding statement with the observation that it is most definitely literal and also probably figurative. The cheaper- arguably more concise metaphor- is that I’m getting older and trying to find my place in the world*.

It’s an old story- if you’re a dickhead you might call it cliché- but I’ve essentially packed all of my stuff in a car and drove across the country in search of a change: location, lifestyle and attitude. This is not something I would do on my own, as I’m fortunate enough to have a supportive companion going through the same late-twenties malaise: debt, career-paths, friendships morphing and decaying, more debt, marriage (to me), happiness and a future teetering on the line between hope and desolation. As an anxiety-ridden fellow often locked in a routine, I would not have made this much needed change without her support and guidance. I jumped off the cliff- the water is coming towards me fast and all I can do is brace and wait to hit the surface. Is it deep enough? Will I find a job? Is there a hidden jagged rock that’s going to rip my knee caps off?**

As bright as the future is, leaving behind friends and family with no timetable of when you’ll see them again is fucking impossible.

Like anything I’ve said I’d write (then failed to do so) in the past four years, this blog was a created for three reasons:

1. To commit to at least trying to organize a few sentences a couple times a month, perhaps kick-starting my passion for screenwriting again.
2. To entertain Scott Browne
3. To prove to my fucked up confidence artery that I can still spew hot fire.

So here I am in Kingston, Ontario. Brand new city, province, and way of life. It’s not Vancouver; that much is clear if only having spent 48 hours since arriving Thursday night (and two weeks vacationing in the city two years ago). So far, the pace is slower, there aren’t many buses and I can see the stars at night. I haven’t been asked for any change or cigarettes, no one has budged in front of me in a line nor have I been spit on/very close to by a vagrant. These are all positives.

If I had a nickel for everyone who told me not to go, or who has since told me I would regret it and move back, I would have six nickels.*** But those nickels’ opinions are worthless (because it’s a metaphor and not a physical entity with monetary value). It’s so easy to be pessimistic and down-trodden, especially when judging someone else; projecting, the white-coats call it. I’ve definitely done my share of that. But that’s what moving on is: growing up and getting better. Stagnancy as I’ve come to understand it, is the same as a regression. Fuck that shit.****

It’s been a long time since I wrote 500 words that weren’t about international data roaming or LTE network speeds. I wouldn’t call it pride, but I feel something, so let’s build on that.

Time to bury this with links to old comedy videos.


* I struggle with my outlook on the current state of affairs in the world as it exists outside of my own environment. I recognize that my common problems do not at all equate with that of a person of the same age and gender in say Iraq, Nigeria or even Mexico, let alone what kind of horrendous fucking bullshit a nine year old Nigerian girl has to deal with any given Thursday. Sometimes I read news articles about the disgusting abomination of the day and wish I could just apologize to all the abducted children, displaced migrant workers and mothers of children blown up with IEDs.  But then I remember I’m a white male age 18-49 living in the western world, usually because something far more trite captures my attention, morphing that obvious rage into passive acceptance. Usually it’s a video of an adorable house pet set to catchy music.   The divide is both terrifying and fascinating, the latter only because I stand on the fortunate side of the line.

** Heights don’t bother me. Water doesn’t bother me. Jumping from a height greater than three feet into water however, is crazy.

*** That and a dollar will buy you a litre of gas, which you can either use to drive off a fucking cliff or drink while smoking a cigar. But those are not activities I’d encourage, at least not until they’re part of a Facebook video-bet to kinda/sorta raise money to fight some Liberian dictator you never heard of.

**** Seriously, fuck that shit.


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