Cyclists Be Wary

I nearly ran over a kid on a bicycle with my bus, Friday night.  Scared the living shit right outta me, along with a couple attentive riders.  The kid, unknowingly sped off, never realizing how close he came to becoming a crimson stain on the asphalt.  I joked that my britches were still dry, but in reality, I spent the next ten minutes taking deep breaths to overcome the high level of anxiety I was experiencing from the ordeal.

I would estimate that about ninety percent of those I tell what I do for a living, all repeat the same comment: F*ckin' bike lanes.  While I agree that the bike lanes do impede progress on some streets, even going so far as to reduce public parking for automobiles, they're not the bane of my driving existence.  My peeve are the cyclists who insist on riding in traffic, immersing themselves alongside speeding motorists.

I don't know if it's a bi-law or whatever, but for some reason, a majority of cyclists ride in traffic, which causes more problems than it solves.  While I agree they probably shouldn't ride on public sidewalks in the downtown area, I can't say the same for the arteries leading out of the downtown.  Streets where there isn't congested foot traffic, I don't see a problem with cyclists riding their bikes on sidewalks.  It's safer for them and safer for us motorists.  There's less stress and ultimately less anger and confrontation.  Or at the very least, those who insist on riding their bikes on street surfaces, should find a less traveled route.  Side streets and such.  Areas where they're less likely come up on the losing end of a fight with the bumper of a car and no offense, but you're goofy looking helmet is not going to protect shit, when that happens.

I have no problem with anyone who chooses to ride a bicycle over climbing behind the wheel of a motor car, but at the same time, I have no empathy for the cyclist when they ultimately do meet face-to-face with an automobile.  I'm a firm believer that bicycles belong on the sidewalk, not in the street.

Most modern sidewalks are built quite wide.  Certainly city planners could make them in such a way that both cyclist and pedestrian could share the space.  They already do so in the newer parts of town with the bike/hiking trails and shit.  No reason why the same can't be done elsewhere, too.

I understand that not everyone can afford a car and at the ever fluctuating prices of gas and diesel, even I have thought maybe another form of conveyance would be best, but in the end, I come to my senses and continue to drive.  That aside, for those who do choose to cycle rather than drive, should do so with an ounce of consideration.  Consideration to those who do require the city streets and the limited spaces available do successfully travel and also consideration for their own safety.  Getting hit by a vehicle is no picnic.  I've had fender benders in my youth and it hurts.  Both physically and mentally.  Getting hit by a Buick while riding your Schwinn is far worse, often ending in death.  Is it really worth it?

IF, and that's a big IF, a person is capable of keeping up with traffic speeds, ie. 30km, 40km, 50km or more, then hell yeah!  Welcome to the fast lane, young chap!  However, if you are not able and we (drivers) forced to follow behind your sorry ass, because you're too stubborn or too proud or too ignorant to pull over to allow us to pass, then you're an asshole.  Plain and simple.

I can't count how many times I've been stuck behind some asshole riding his bike down 20th Street in Saskatoon, with three giant bags of recycling slung over his shoulder, meandering back and forth across two lanes, like he's riding his bike down a summer trail next to a babbling brook.  It's infuriating.  You can't pass the dumb son-of-a-bitch, because there's a fairly good chance he may stray in front of you.

I can't say for sure what is worse.  These drunken idiots on their bikes or the assholes who act like they're a passenger vehicle until they have to follow the rules, like stopping at a red light.  That's when they decide that they're no longer a motor vehicle and now they make up their own rules and plunge forth, cutting through a busy intersection.  I would have to take my shoes and socks off to count how many near-miss accidents I've witnessed as these bicycle short wearing motherf*ckers cut through an intersection of cross-traveling motorists.  On Preston and 8th, alone, I've seen nearly a dozen.  Maybe more in the downtown district.

I haven't witnessed anyone getting smoked, yet, but will likely chuckle when I do.  It'd be justified.  If you're gonna act like a dumb piece of shit, don't be surprised when you get rundown like a dumb piece of shit.

Friday night, it was dark.  Real dark.  The time was around eleven o'clock at night.  One of my final runs for FolkFest.  I was traveling east on Taylor Street, waiting at the lights for some pedestrians to cross Arlington Avenue.  My destination was a mere few feet from that point, when it was clear to proceed, I began to make my turn when a darkly dressed kid, meandered around my bus, nearly getting himself squashed in the process.  I sounded my horn, but the kid never flinched.  Just kept riding, quickly disappearing into the darkness.  It scared the bejesus outta me, sending me spiraling quickly into a state of anxiety.  If I would have hit the kid, it'd reflect poorly on me.  They say in training to be intuitive of everyone around you.  Three hundred and sixty degrees around you, you need to be aware of what everyone may or may not do.  For the most part, I can do that.  I can't, however, speculate the actions of a dumb little bastard who appeared out of nowhere.  

If I would have run the little fella down, would I have felt terrible?  Perhaps.  Probably more so for myself than for him.  I can't feel bad for the actions made by a stupid person.  I would have felt horrible for myself.  I'm still under probation for the next few months and I don't want to lose this gig.  It's pretty cool, for the most part.  I like it and it pays well.  A selfish position to be in, perhaps, but it's nevertheless true.

These words that I type, tonight, won't solve anything.  I will get up tomorrow morning and go back to work.  I'll start up my bus and drive my assigned route and will undoubtedly cross paths with another selfish, overindulgent cyclist who believes the street is for his use only and motorists be damned.  Nothing I say in these few paragraphs is going to change any minds.  More than likely, anyone who's spent any time getting to this point in the blog, will likely side with the cyclists and call me an asshole.  Whatever.  This has been therapeutic. 

There was one bicycle rider that I knew once upon a time.  He was a friend of my mom.  They'd grown up together, going to school.  He'd lived in the city, here, almost as long as she has.  His name was Donald and he was a little person.

Donald used to live in the same neighbourhood as my mom and delivered the flyers to her street.  One evening, Donald was riding his bike down the street.  Being a little person, he wasn't able to ride a regular sized bike, opting instead to ride a child-sized bike.  He had been riding along the parking lane of the street, out of the drive lane, but some distracted fella in a pick up truck, ran over Donald on his little bicycle.  Run him over and proceeded to drag the poor guy for several blocks before the inherent sound of scraping and clanging forced the driver to stop and make the grisly discovery.  Donald, obviously, did not survive.

When I first learned of Donald's demise and how it had occurred, I was extremely disturbed.  The thought of what must've been going through Donald's mind in those final moments of his life was quite disturbing to me on a personal level.  It's not something I'd ever want to experience in my own life.  That being said, if Donald had been riding his little bike on the sidewalk, he'd still be alive today.

This Is Us

When I bought my house, now fourteen years ago, my plan was to get myself a housemate almost immediately.  I went out to all the popular pet stores at the time and got everything I thought I'd need for the big day.  I got this nifty litter box that would eliminate the need to manually scoop, by sifting the sand through a series of mesh pans.  I got all the dishes and a place mat and the whole nine yards.  Then I procrastinated.  I never sought out a cat for a couple of years.  I don't know why, but perhaps it was fate.

I'd gone through some personal turmoil and finally in 2010, I thought, this is the right time and during a break at work, I visited the SPCA's website to look at the creatures they had onsite.  The first cat I saw, was a little guy named 'Sprout'.  He was adorable, so that night I set out to go to the SPCA to see Sprout.

Sprout was a cute energetic little fellow, but when we went to the isolation room to get acquainted, Sprout had no interest in me and lurked all about, ignoring me completely, as if I weren't even in the room.  So I took Sprout back to his cage and tried another cat, Perry.  Perry was an orange tabby and about three times the size of Sprout.  In his cage, he was lively and quite a character.  He reminded me of Norman, my sister's cat, who went to live with my mom after my sister's divorce.  Norman was a cool cat and Perry seemed to match that personality, but once more, in the isolation room, Perry had no interest in me, opting instead to search for a means of escape.  Back to the cage for him.

Next was a smoky grey cat.  I can't recall it's name, but when we got into the isolation room, it remained at my side and I got to play with him and have a nice little visit.  I thought this.  This little guy will be my cat and I returned him to his cage, informing the folks at the desk that I'd be back the next day, a Friday, to pick up my new cat.

All day Friday, at work, I kept going back to the SPCA website to look at the cats, but it was 'Sprout' who I continued to stare at.  Sprout had a unique face.  A black and grey tabby with a white patch on his face that mimicked a face mask that extended from just above his nose down under his chin.  Though he had completely ignored me when we were in the visitation room, I knew I could break through that tough exterior and we'd be best of friends.  So immediately after work, I raced to the SPCA and told them that I was there to adopt Sprout.  That's when they gave me the shattering news that he was already spoken for.  He was being adopted by two college girls who were coming later that day to pick him up.  I was shattered.  Even now, as I write this, I'm welling up.

Seeing how devastated I appeared to them, the lady behind the desk told me, that if they didn't pick him up by 7pm that night, that she'd give me a call and I could adopt him.  This news gave me hope.  'There's no way two college girls are going to pick up a kitten on a Friday night instead of going out to the bar to get drunk and stupid', I thought to myself, handing over my phone number.  Sure enough, at 7:30pm, I received a telephone call informing me that the original adopters failed to show up and if I still wanted Sprout, that he was mine.  I graciously said 'yes' and early the next morning, I raced across town to pick up my little guy.

We placed Sprout, now renamed "Monkey" into the newly purchased carrier and we departed.  Monkey was quite vocal all the way home.  Rightfully so, he was plucked from the safety of his own little apartment and was now riding in a new container that smelled rich with plastic and vinyl, destined for the unknown.

When we arrived at home, I placed the carrier in the front room and unzipped it.  I never attempted to retrieve the little kitten, leaving him, instead to get acclimated to his new environment.  I took the fast food that I'd purchased on our way home with me downstairs and clicked on the TV.

Throughout the next thirty minutes or so, I could hear some rustling upstairs and some little squeaky meows, but no sign of the cat.  Then at one point, there he was, at the top of the stairs staring down at me.  I said nothing and he'd disappear.  Returning he'd come a little closer, then turn and run.  He did this a number of times, growing more brave each time.  Then he'd get poofy.  The hair on his back rose and his tail was tremendously large for a cat so small.  He'd then turn sideways, making himself appear larger than he was and he'd charge at me, then turn and run.  He did this over and over for the next twenty minutes or so, before finally hopping up on the chair and giving me a few sniffs.  I think he felt like I was okay and that's when the trust first began.

I've mentioned a lot about my TBI and the loss of most of my memories.  I can't remember most of my childhood or the years since then.  One memory that I am so relieved that I can still recall, are these first moments with Monkey.  He had finally accepted me as his 'daddy' and he climbed up on my chest, as I sat back in the chair, and curled up, just under my chin and went to sleep.  We both had a nap at that time, as father and son.

I wish I had more pictures available of Monkey at this age, but sadly they're all on the various cellphones that I've had over the years and aren't available (at this time) until I find the right cables to transfer them onto my computer.  All I have are these three individual photos taken by my mom at her house.

The next while was a learning curve for us both, Monkey and I.  He'd constantly get into mischief as young cats tend to do.  I had to repeatedly scold him when he'd get behind the TV and chew on the cables.  He used to climb up under my bed and get stuck in the void between the box spring and the frame of the bed, forcing me to pull the bed apart to rescue him.  One night, he drove me completely insane, getting stuck in there a total of three, maybe four times.  This prompted me to place everything that could fit under my bed to block his attempts to get in there, and everything has remained there ever since.  He's now ten times bigger than he was when he came to live with me, but I know if given the opportunity, he'd wriggle himself up there again and call for me to rescue him.

For most of his years here, I've given him his own freedom to what he wanted.  My backyard presented some problems, though.  The fence was complete shit.  Rotted out 2x4s caused fence boards to fall out.  Gaps at the bottom lead into the neighbours yard, so allowing complete freedom meant Monkey had to don a harness then have a tether attached to him.  While he had "complete freedom" outside, that freedom was reduced to a small radius around a corkscrew spike in the yard, strategically placed so Monkey could hang out under one of the bushes in the backyard.  This was troublesome only in the fact that Monkey constantly got tangled up and I'd hear him wailing for help.  Later on, I would attach a couple eye screws into my deck and the shed in the corner of the yard and run a "clothesline" across and attach 12 feet of line for him.  Now Monkey could wander the width of the yard, just short of getting through the gap into the neighbours yard.

Finally, a couple years ago, after a decade of watching the fence continually deteriorate, the neighbour and I had a new fence installed and after so many years of dragging the leash around and getting tangled, Monkey had true freedom to roam the yard.  Nowadays, at least three times a day, like a diligent security guard, Monkey will walk the grounds and piss on everything to ensure that everyone knows that this is HIS yard!

I have no regrets about anything to do with Monkey except maybe introducing him to a small stream out of the bathroom sink as, to this day, he insists that I turn on the tap so he can drink.  He still has his dish, but he prefers it straight from the source.  Often times, he will nearly trip me going up the stairs, racing me to the bathroom so he'll be ready for me to turn on the tap.  Another bother that I regret is buying the weeble for him.  It's a toy that wobbles with treats inside. Ideally, a cat is supposed to knock the toy with his foot to knock out treats.  It's supposed to engage the cat and make them think, which it did for the first week or so, then Monkey got wise.  At first, he'd knock the shit out of it, forcing two or three treats to come tumbling out, but then he got lazy and for the last five years, he simply cocks his head to the side and scoops the treats out with his tongue.  I think this practice has caused some damage to his shoulders which will likely get arthritic in his old age.  Even now, he walks with some labour, but I can't take the toy away from him.  Whenever I've tried, he just whimpers and won't eat.

I remember the first time Monkey ever saw snow.  He raced from the front of the house to the back, as the snow fell.  He was like Chicken Little running about, yelling "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  It was hilarious.  In later years, he'd accept the snow, and hate it as much as his daddy does.

A month later would be Christmas.  Normally, at the time, if I left any room, he'd accompany me, but on Christmas Eve, he remained in bed, while I snuck downstairs and into the garage, where I had this new addition to the household.  I placed it in the front room and returned to bed.  Christmas morning, we came downstairs and he glanced to the right, then turned left to head into the kitchen.  He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that something was different, turned and went to investigate.  I raced back upstairs to grab a camera, but in the three seconds I was gone, he'd already managed to tear off the feather that hung below the apparatus and there were feather's strewn everywhere.  A huge mess, but this remains one of his favourite "toys" despite the base being void of its carpet and the wood severely carved up.

Forever, it seemed like we did everything together, which includes watching wrestling.  You may think it's only me watching while he sleeps beside me, which does happen, but he also enjoys watching the action unfold in the ring.  His favourite wrestler is A.J. Styles and if a match begins and Monkey isn't present, he gets audibly upset with me that I didn't tell him A.J. was wrestling.

He's a smart cat.  Very smart, except when he vomits.  I believe he thinks it's helpful if he avoids the linoleum, opting instead to toss up on the carpet.  Now the carpet looks like a faded Dalmatian.  Later in his years, he's come to realize that this bothers me, so he's taken it upon himself to hide the evidence.  He does this by either pulling a flyer over the spot or he'll pull a corner of a rug over the blemish or one time he removed a dish towel, normally slung through the handle of the oven and pulled it into the front room to cover his mess.  I can't be upset with a cat that is that intelligent.

Monkey is a very smart cat, that I can guarantee, but he does have his quirks.  He doesn't like having his picture taken.  I see photos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram where cats are all posing nicely for photos, but Monkey's reaction is like that of a primitive tribe in the jungles of Peru, who believe their soul is being stolen with every click of the camera.  That's why a majority of my photographs are of Monkey while he's asleep.  Although, looking at these two gems, which are among my most favourite pics, he is quite animated when asleep.

This blog is really dragging on, but I can't gush over this little fella enough.  I've had some really tough goes of it in my shitty life.  Years ago, when I got fired from a job, I turned to the comedy of Christopher Titus, who remains one of my favourite comedians.  His life was tough too and he taught me to stick to my guns, so-to-speak, 

and weather the storm.  Another time, I had an accident at work that resulted in my breaking my back in three places.  The accident also caused me to break four and a half teeth in my mouth, all of which require extraction and I was horrendously ashamed, but a similar thing happened to Bert Kreischer when he was just a kid and he muscled his way through it, which gave me the courage to do the same.  Bert is one of my most favourite people on the planet and though he's been rude to me any time I've interacted with him on Twitter, I still love and respect the guy.  Everything else shitty in my life, I know I'll be alright because I have this fuzzy little face looking up at me, with nothing but love in his eyes.

Everyday, I look at Monkey and I tell him "I love you too much."  I believe this statement is accurate.  He's getting up in age.  He just celebrated his twelfth birthday yesterday and I realize that though he is still my baby boy, he's in the twilight stage of his life.  I may not have many more birthday's to celebrate with my little boy and the thought of coming home to an empty house, truly breaks my heart. 💔  During a recent bout of anxiety and depression, I seriously considered suicide for the first time.  Not today, but one day when Monkey is no longer here, I don't know how I will survive.  No comedians joke will be able to pull me through that funk.  But alas, there is some hope.  I've been seeing online, as of late, that there are cats out there that are living well beyond what was normally considered a normal lifetime.  Norman, who I mentioned earlier, lived to be eighteen years old.  Another cat I saw online, lived to be twenty-three years old.  Recently, I read of another cat who'd just passed away at the age of twenty-eight.  Can you believe that?  I'd happily clean up Monkey's vomit for another sixteen years.  By that time, it'd be both our time to die naturally.

When I had announced to the world that I'd gotten a cat, I said, "I call him my son and he calls me daddy."  I've never said that I owned him or really said that he's my cat.  I've always referred to him as "my boy" or "my son", both of which confused a former workmate, who assumed that my boy was a human child, whom I left at home alone while I worked the nightshift.  "Where's your sons mother?" he asked once, to which I replied, "I don't know.  I assume she's living on a farm somewhere."  I never did fess up that my boy was of the feline variety.

Monkey is a big dude.  Ten or twelve times the size he was that very first day when he curled up on my chest for a nap.  I love everything about this kid, especially that little pink nose. 🥰  This is us.  Two peas in a pod, never to part.  He will always be my number one.  He will always be my best friend.  He will always... Always, be my little boy.

Blind Faith

 

It's no secret that I've been lost as of late.  It's getting the point where I barely know who I am, let alone what my purpose in life is anymore.  These days, I live in perpetual sorrow.  Distressed about where I am, who I am, and what is to become of me. I am, for lack of a better term, lost.

Last Sunday our family gathered at my mom's to have an Easter weekend feast.  My mom made a delicious spread, complete with a roast, mashed potatoes and veggies.  It was an amazing meal.  Afterward, as the grown ups were seated around the table, my sister began reading from an app on her phone, regarding numbers and their numerological meanings.

Overzealous as always, my youngest nephew was spouting off numbers faster than my sister could read out their meanings.  Finally, I had a chance to inquire about the number sequence that I continually see, to this day.

The number I always see, is 1129.  I'll see it in books.  On the digital clock at my bedside.  Out in the world.  Randomly, at different times, I'll glance over at something and I'll see the number 1129.  I was born on November 29th, 11-29, which makes the number stand out even more.

I've always held the day in the highest regard, celebrating it's existence more so than Christmas, even.  It's rarely a celebration of my birth, but to commemorate the day.  I've never worked on the day, not even attending school as a kid.  It's just something I've never done.  Well.., actually.  I did, in fact, work on my birthday once, but it was SO disastrous and unlucky, that I've never done it again, to this day.

So when asked, my sister began to tell me that 1129 is an Angel Number.  That angels work in mysterious ways and while they won't come right out and show themselves to us, they will hide hidden meanings in numbers.  She began telling me that I needed to be more charitable.  That I should be donating time and money to deserving causes.  She also said that I needed to get in touch with my spirituality.  That it was necessary for me to get right with God and that God would show me the path that I was destined to be on and that then I would feel happy and fulfilled.

My sister is not a religious person.  I don't know what, exactly, her position is on God and church and all that stuff.  I know my stance on the whole religious situation and it's not good.  My sister, though, has always had a foot into the, I don't what to call it, the New Age thing.  She's always had an interest in reading Tarot cards and mystical shit like that.  I remember one time, she had divining rods, which she claimed could answer simple yes and no questions.  One time, when I was visiting her at work, she had me try these divining rods. Relaxing the rods in my closed fists, as she'd instructed, I began to ask general questions and to my surprise, the rods would move.  Crossing each other for 'yes' and further apart for 'no'.  The reason this memory sticks out, is I inquired as to whether or not I'd rekindle a friendship with someone who'd had a falling out with me, through a misunderstanding.  The rods crossed, indicating 'yes' and to my surprise, a short while later, that friend did, in fact, reach out to me and our friendship resumed.  Though in recent years, we've drifted apart, somewhat, but still keep in touch.

Another time, my sister was reading her Tarot cards for a friend and learned that her friend's husband was being unfaithful.  I believed this assumption to be dangerous, as I have some doubts in the legitimacy of this practice, but low and behold, the man was stepping out on his wife, and subsequently, the two divorced.  While still a dangerous assumption, it did pan out.  A result that I, undeniably, had to acknowledge.  That is why when my sister begins explaining to me the meaning behind why I keep seeing that sequence of numbers, I have to believe her to some degree.  Especially considering that I have been curious about religion, recently.

I see on TV and in movies and with people all around me, this blind faith in a higher power.  An invisible force that guides people through the labyrinth of their lives.  I see that and admittedly, I want that.  I can't help but think that if I put my trust in a higher power, that maybe my life will have some purpose.  A reason for my existence.  I recall, during a particularly dark moment, thinking to myself, "I wish I could believe."  I envy those who can dedicate their lives to following the gospel.

I can't believe in an invisible man who lives in the clouds.  Especially, one who simply calls himself "God", as it seems egocentric.  I can't put my faith in something I cannot see with my own eyes.  That being said, I do believe in oxygen.  It is what helps us breath and it's something I cannot see.  I believe in gravity.  I can't see it, but I've fallen down enough times to know that it exists.  I can't see the electricity that runs through my house, but I know that when I flip a switch or plug something into the wall, a light will come on or the device will operate.  So using that logic, I can't help but wonder...?  Just because I can't see something, does it mean it doesn't actually exist?

I've put my faith in people before and have been burned.  So perhaps I'm jaded.  Or perhaps, because human beings are fallible and prone to contamination, that I'm putting my trust in the wrong things or people.

Years ago, I attended a Christian Counselling Group, to combat anger issues.  I chose that space, not because of any faith in a higher power, but because I could pay them whatever I could afford, rather than the inflated prices that similar counselling would cost.  Through reading passages from the bible, I was able to come to certain conclusions and manage my anger more proficiently.  I've long since forgotten what those principles are, but my anger issues have not come back to the violent levels they once were.  So remembering that aspect of the experience, I can't help but wonder if I were to return to such counselling, if my issues with depression and anxiety would be remedied..?

I have not seen my 1129 in awhile.  Not since before this funk settled in on my life, which makes me wonder.  Did the angels give up on me?  Very much in the way I feel everything has given up on me?  These thoughts just reminded me of that passage: Footprints.  Where the person accuses God of deserting him at his most troublesome times, and God responds by saying that He had lifted him up and carried him through those troubled times.  It really gives a sceptic, like me, something to think about. 🤔

It's No Secret

 

It's not a secret that I hide from anyone.  It's just a matter of fact.  A part of the lifestyle I choose to live, these days.  Years ago, before it was formally legalized, I would partake in the consumption of marijuana on a extremely part time basis.  If a friend had some, we'd share a joint.  Later on, I found a supplier and decided to do my own experimentation.

I suffer from seasonal depression.  It's something I've battled for more years than I can count.  Not something that my family or closest peers were ever aware of.  I'm not an idiot, doing my due diligence before moving forward and learning that cannabis can reduce or even eliminate depression.  So that first winter, I smoked whenever I was feeling down and it perked me right up.  Sadly, the more I learned about cannabis, the more I realized that my "supplier" knew nothing.  When I made my last purchase from him, I asked if it was a Sativa or an Indica strain and he blankly looked at me and told me he didn't know what either of those words meant. 

Sativa is the strain that perks you up and Indica is the strain that mellows you the f**k out.  Easiest way to remember is what I learned from the comedian, Doug Benson, who quoted "Indica is like 'in-da-couch'."

In the end, I'm not sure what it was that I received from the "supplier", but rest assured, the depression was suppressed.  So imagine my joy when marijuana was legalized in Canada.  The ease of walking into a legitimate business and conducting myself in an open manner.  Plus, now dealing with people who not only know the good and bad effects of the merchandise they're selling.  Nowadays, I'm able to customize the effects that I hope to achieve upon consumption.  Back in the old days, it was like spinning the tumbler on a six-shooter in a game of Russian Roulette.  Spark up and hope for the best.  One night, as I recall, I was quite gleeful, as I cooked up about 2lbs of bacon and consumed it all.  Another time, I got horribly sick, almost like I'd had an allergic reaction.  I couldn't function for about a week. 

These days, I choose to go the route of vaping the cannabis.  It's easier and more compact.  I don't have to empty the chamber and clean my unit every time I wish to smoke dried product as I do with my one device, but simply screw the vape cartridge into the battery I purchased and I'm off to the races.

Gone are the munchies, although I do keep a supply of snacks on hand that require little, if any, effort to prepare, so there's no danger of burning down my house.  No more anxiety or depression.  All that is left is relaxation, happy times and a flurry of ideas and expressions.  The stuff that makes me laugh like an idiot, I often will share to Facebook and Twitter.  Share my idiocy with the world, hoping that no one will steal any of it.

Sadly, there is also a downside...  It's nothing dangerous, mind you, but simply inconvenient.  Prime example is last night.  I was inspired to write a genius blog.  I had the introduction written in my head.  I had many musings and references to make and even a title, which is usually the most difficult factor to come up with, aside from subject matter.  I'd consumed just enough cannabis to know, however, that I was unable to write anything last night, for fear it'd come out like gibberish.  Even now, I question how legitimate this blog sounds, and I'm 100% clean and sober and the moment.

I'm not afraid to admit to smoking dope.  It's not illegal.  Hell, cannabis, despite all the idiot warning labels that the government imposes onto packaging, marijuana is not dangerous to your health.  Cannabis is a necessary tool that I use to escape my demons and depression.  That is all.  Well....  It IS fun, too.  I won't lie about that.

Black Ice - What Lies Beneath

In the past, I've sometimes found writing this blog to be therapeutic and a viable way to work through whatever issues that may have been plaguing my thoughts at that particular time...
I hope this helps me, today....

Without revealing my chronological age, I can verify that I've been driving for quite some time.  Living in Canada, you learn to drive a vehicle in several different ways to successfully combat the several different road conditions you may encounter in any given season.  Springtime tends to bring a lot of rain, causing roads to be slick and wet during the day, only to turn icy at night when the mercury drops below zero ℃.  Summer isn't too bad, I've found, but as soon as the leaves turn colour and the snow begins to fly, that's when we, driver's need to be more weary.

Black ice is our worst enemy.  It's the thin layer of ice that blankets the road, which is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, unless you're lucky enough to catch a faint glimmer of it.  A faint reflection of ice crystals catching the light at just the right angle, bouncing back to your pupil.  Most, sadly, ignore this and continue to drive just as they had been all summer long.  I've always credited myself as a better driver than these kinds of people.  I've always considered myself a better driver than most people, even on my worst day.  Last week, I had the absolute worst day of my driving career.

I'm not saying that I've never had an accident.  I've had a few misfortunes in my life.  I once lost control and crashed a small Chevrolet Chevette into a row of parked cars.  That was a terrible accident and I was severely injured at the time.  Most people, upon seeing the damage done to the car, questioned how I wasn't hurt more seriously.  It was a nasty one, I will admit, but afterward, I had no qualms about sitting behind the wheel.

This accident that I had on Thursday night/Friday morning, was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I'm afraid to drive.  I ventured out Sunday, but I was frightened by the aggressive drivers around me.  The big 4x4 trucks speeding up behind me.  I thought for sure, one of them were going to corral me into the ditch.  Last night I ventured out to buy some milk, which took me about four hours to get up the courage, as it'd been raining all day long.  The temperature was above zero℃, so there wasn't any icing issues, but it has snowed overnight and there are some errands that I sloughed off yesterday, that need to be done today.  As I look out the window, I can visibly see the ice and snow compiled on the city streets.  I don't know if I can go out in that...  Worse yet, I have to work tonight, which means venturing out in the cold winter night and driving that same route, passing that same corner where I lost complete control last week and slammed into the side of that silver GMC.

It took me about four hours to gain the courage to drive to the corner store for milk, yesterday.  I dread having to go to work, tonight...

I see on television, people who suffer severe anxiety following a terrible accident, and I've always mocked them.  Now I'm feeling about the same way.  I was feeling worthless before this occurred.  I feel even worse, now. 😣

I never found this to be therapeutic, this time 'round.
In fact, I feel a little worse off, now...

Calgary Expo - Day One

Woke up early this morning, packed the truck full of shit and rushed across town to pick up friends before heading out west, Calgary bound, intent on attending the 2015 Calgary Comic Expo.  This is the second such event that I have attended, the first being in Saskatoon, but in comparison, the Saskatoon version is pretty small.  I had heard stories of what these larger events entailed, so I've entered this scenario with predisposed thoughts, but so far, while scaled up in size, I can't help but think, I thought it'd be bigger.

Granted, it is only the first day and we've had limited exposure.  Tomorrow we're going to tackle a whole other venue we discover via a highly confusing event map.  Also happening tomorrow, I'm going to meet the Hardcore Legend, Mick Foley.  I've been stoked all week long, dreaming (and wondering) just what the hell I'm going to say to the man.  As the minutes and hours pass by, I will admit I'm becoming more overwhelmed with anxiety.  I hope I can hold it together when I do finally meet him.  I have a great deal of respect for the man, as a pro wrestler, a writer, an entertainer and an all around genuinely nice guy.  I know from personal experience that sometimes our heroes let us down when we meet them, but I know in my heart that Mick is the real deal.  More on that subject in the coming days.

The one thing that I do know for sure, is that Calgary, in the sense of maneuvering about in traffic, is insanely moronic.  I don't know who the dumb f*ck was who decided on the meandering streams of traffic, but it is confusing as f*ck.  So confusing, I might add, that the GPS in my friends phone, was barely able to provide a definitive route in order to get from point A to point B.  Either that or it was "the reader", but I'm sure she'd flat out deny that.

Over all, Day One has been uneventful.  Just an opportunity to get our bearings.  We have three more days of this insanity.  Now I'm chillin' at the hotel, headphones on and listening to Bert Kreischer's Bertcast with MMA fighter, Brendan Schaub, disrespect the physicality of professional wrestling, using the my most hated word in the English language....: Fake.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Two: The Journey From Diffidence to Being An Asshole

I've mentioned to people that I am painfully shy.  Most don't believe me as I am, for the most part, a smart ass.  I'm quiet and reserved at first, gauging my surroundings, then I'll open up some, mostly offering up smart ass comments of teasing jabs.  I mean no malice, by it, just harmful fun with hopes of making people laugh.  This was a self-preservation tool that many bullied children adapt on the playground.  You're far less likely to get punched in the gut or your underwear hiked up your ass, if you can make the bully laugh, even if at your own expense.  I recall using this tactic many times on the mean playground at King George elementary.  Except one time where I became favourable with one bully, while infuriating another, which ultimately earned me a sharp punch to the abdomen.

These days, I'm always present with a sharp witty comment.  When I'm with my friend, Melissa, I will often hit her with a barrage of comments, when I see someone in my peripheral who's musing at my quips.  I can't recall any of which I can share right now, but I assure you, if you ever have the privilege of meeting her, you can ask her yourself.  She's not shy about sharing those moments.

I wasn't always that way, though.  I actually have been painfully shy at times.  Even today, I find myself stressing out about uncomfortable situations.  I had some people over to my house a few weeks back and stressed about that, even.  Back when I went to university, I was no different, despite my going away to a new city, with new surroundings, I looked at it as a chance to re-invent myself, then when faced with the opportunity to do so.  I caved.  Things got so bad, that I soon found myself ditching classes and in the evenings driving off to be alone at the movies.  I had ample opportunities to hang with classmates, but I found myself overwhelmed with anxiety and fear.  I'd come to my film class, quietly seated in the back, never raising my hand, never offering any input.  This was a class that, academically, I should have been superior to most of my classmates, but the fear of all eyes locking on my fugliness, was scarier than any bully I'd faced off with on the playground.  No witty remarks or jokes would overcome this brood of students, I felt.  Eventually the school year would come to a close, my marks were fair, but not nearly as good as if I'd have sacked up and joined the group.

I'd come home that spring, a failure in my own eyes.  Eventually, I'd need work and sadly the only work I could get was that of door-to-door sales.  To be a success at sales, you can't be f*cking shy for one moment.  It was here that I learned to mask my insecurities and push my personal envelope of comfortability.
Success as a salesman would elude me, however.  I was good at it, to a degree, but personal feelings and thoughts about honesty would overcome the sleaziness of sales and ultimately my demise from the vocation, although it was a car accident that would get me out of that line of work.

The next few years I worked retail, which helped me come out of my shell a little more, as well as add to my arsenal of being a smart ass.  My ultimate downfall, has always been, acting like a smart ass to the wrong people, supervisors and managers, to be more precise.  In an effort to avoid being uncomfortable or that scared little boy, I opt instead, to be a smart ass.  I guess, it's easier for people to hate me because I'm an asshole, than it is to deal with their hating me because of me.  Who knew being a dick would be a safeguard?