for some reason today, i keep on thinking about when i moved to winnipeg when i was 14 years old.
i thought i was all grown up, smart as could be, running off with my knight in shining armour.
needless to say, it was mostly miserable aside from the partying in my last three or four months there, and even that could be mistaken for miserable.
i still hadn’t been able to talk to my father (even though i had not been under his roof for months before leaving) but went out seeking the perfect x-mas gift for him.
i ended up ordering in a book to the my favorite local book store that he used to read me when i was a kid. “Seven Little Rabbits by John Becker.”
weeks before the holiday i received a large package in the mail, full of silly little gifts from him and some photos are a card. I called. We cried. He told me he finally understood why i left and he was sorry for chasing me so far away.
from then on i called as much as i possibly could (between work and sleep and drugs and work) and when he received the book i bought him in the mail, finally, I asked him to read it to me over the phone.
in the same silly voice, and almost song like tone, he read me the entire thing in tears. i couldn’t even speak. i pretended to sleep, like i would when i was small; and would think. maybe if he thinks i’m asleep he will read me to sleep again tomorrow.
hard to do things when your head is full, your hands are clammy and frozen, and your whole body is shaking like a leaf in a lightening storm
embarrassedtobehuman asked: do you still want someone to tell you a story? I can do that.
always, my life is just a series of true stories, stories are the best
and there would be a giant statue on the side of the highway in shubenacadie, and as families drove past it the little snot-nosed kids would say “mommy what is that?” and the moms would say “don’t worry honey, that’s a giant disgusting monster that lived thousands of years ago. they were covered in thick matted hair, and they were so large they could feed a village for weeks just off their fat”
and all the kids would feel safe knowing that our modern world is safer for the extinction of such an abomination
*turns off metal to try and push myself out of the house* *sings*
OH THERE’S SEARRA, LET’S GO FOR A POOP
PUT ON YOUR MONEY MAKIN’ SHOES, TIME TO GO MAKE MONEY
MONEY MAKIN’ BLUE HOOOO HOOOO’S
*stomp stomp stomp pace kick*
i wished on so many smokes and stars, and it hasn’t come true yet so i have to spill
just please come home soon, even if just for a minute, your insults aren’t the same when they’re not in person
they’ve gone from “you eat like a squirrel and sleep like a sloth, what the fuck are you?” “you look like a big lesbian predator with uglier hair and you probably smell worse”
even the sweet whispers to my dog ” you have an ugly badger face and nobody will ever really love you “
to simple ya pud, ya slut, ya yada yada it’s just not the same, i miss you ok, and if you’re admitting you miss me SOMETHING IS SERIOUSLY WRONG.
There’s a place I’ll always cherish, ‘neath the blue Atlantic sky
Where the shores down in Cape Breton bid the golden sun to rise
And the fragrance of the apple blossoms sprays the dew-kissed lawns
Back in dear old Nova Scotia, a place where I was born
The Scotian and the Ocean Limited, and the Maritime Express
Their mighty engines throbbing, make their way towards the west
And the sturdy fishin’ schooners, sways so laz’ly to and fro’
Nova Scotia is my sanctuary, and I love her so
For across the great Dominion, I have traveled far and wide
Where the shores out in Vancouver, kiss the blue Pacific tide
I have crossed the snow-capped Rockies, saw the wheat fields’ golden blaze
Headed back to Nova Scotia, where contented cattle graze
Where the pretty robin red breast, seeks its’ loved ones in the trees
And the French di’lect in old Quebec, keeps callin’ out to me
It seems to say, be on your way, there’s a welcome at the door
Where the kinfolks are a-waiting on that gay Atlantic shore
Down through beautiful New Brunswick and across the P.E.I.
To the rock-bound coasts of Newfoundland, I’ll love them till I die
But if God came here on Earth with us and asked if he could rest
I’d take him to my Nova Scotia home, the place that I love best