Not Sorry

Today I woke up at Chase’s house and realized it’s 2017. How much has changed over the years. How many parts of me have come and gone and how many things are different.

It’s been 6 years since my exodus to the western seaboard. 6 years since I tried to leave a lot of hurt and pain and suffering behind. A lot of things have happened. A lot.

I woke up this morning with the words “I’m sorry” on the tip of my tongue and tears staining my face from dreams about shit that happened so long ago and about things that happened in the space between these last 6 years.

It’s been 6 years since I tried to leave an abuser and tried to remove a toxic community from my life, but the reminisce and reminders of abuse never really leave a person. They change us, somewhere down in our core, for ever.

I’m not sorry.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

I tried to believe in something and got sucked into more pain and hurt than I had bargained for.

I left to try and get better and it happened again, but in a different way. And that time too, it snuck up on me while I was trying to believe.

So yeah, I believe the sentiment “If you keep doing the same thing and it keeps going wrong, then you’re doing it wrong”, but not all the time. Because if I believed that as an absolute I’d have to stop trying to believe in people and things and I don’t think that’s right. I think that sounds like giving up.

Fuck giving up.

So fuck no, I’m not sorry. I’m not going to say those words. I’m going to try and stop feeling them and thinking them all the time too. I didn’t do anything wrong and the things I’m afraid of that make me feel this way aren’t even real most of the time. You just made me believe they were.
It’s 2017, you’re gone and might as well be dead. I won’t forgive you or believe you’ll ever change and I don’t have to. Knowing that is one of the most positive parts of my healing process.

Forgiving any of you is not my responsibility.

I am only responsible for myself.


December 31st, 2016
11:58 pm:
Peter farts.


January 1st, 2017
Peter says, in a false dismal sounding voice “happy new year” from the couch.
The stench of 2016 still lingers in the air.
I hope 2017 smells better soon.

Peter and I go for our last smokes of the 21st century.
Peter says “Tonight was perfect, exactly what I wanted for New Years Eve.”

I point out to him that he started 2017 by smelling a fart from last year.


January 1st, 2017
I’m sitting in my room laughing so hard I feel like I might have an asthma attack.
This year is gonna be hilarious.
It’s time for bed.

New Year//No Fear

I live in an interesting world.My car is broken and I feel so passive about it that I’m wondering if I should even bother to keep it. Maybe I’ll fix it and pass it on.

Yesterday, when walking to Jojo’s to get the house sitting, dog/cat/chicken run down, I ended up in a good old Canadian traffic stopper. Darcy, a local mechanical guru, saw me walking and stopped to offer a ride. We chatted on the roadside for a half hour about cars. He says to just call him when I’m free and we’ll see what’s wrong with my car.

When I got to Jojo’s, they handed me $120. It was confusing. I didn’t expect to get paid to watch Netflix, pet chickens and talk to a dog for 3 days.

Ally called me and needed help. Her and Rob are ill. Could I go to the cafe and finish refinishing the floors? She let me keep her car overnight.

I ended up working an hour shift at the pizza place. Another $15 and a free pizza.

When I brought the car back today, Ally demanded to pay me for my work. I tried to refuse, it was only 45 minutes. She gave me baby bell cheese, gluten free chocolate cake, $20 and a whole smoked salmon (it’s good until November 2022, no added preservatives. The amazing power of smoked meat!).

Tomorrow I’ll be 4 months sober.

I had a dream on Christmas night about getting totally boss hagged. I woke up the next day to find my room mate just shredded on the couch. When I returned home, 5 hours later, he hadn’t moved. I made him tea and Kraft Dinner. I gave him a gingerbread cookie I had made. I know all too well what a body destroying hang over feels like.

I never want to drink again.


Even if I feel the draw towards it. The cold and clammy hand of a can of beer gripping for mine.
Fuck that shit.
It’s all a waste of time.
I need to remember that while I’m hanging out with PDad when he’s working at the liquor store. I need to remember my strength and resolve when I think about the dozen of failed quit smoking attempts I’ve crawled through the last few months (last year).

Soon, we’ll all be referring to 2016 as “last year”, as in “a time that’s passed”.

I’m going to think of it as “last year; as in the last year of my life that I did all this shit.”

The last year I ever drank. The last year I ever smoked. The last year of my life that I put up with abuse dynamics and bull shit. The last year that I ever let fear stop me from tearing down the cities in my mind.
2016, thank you for all the things you brought me. All the beauty and strength. All the love, compassion and kindness. For the gentle and soft souls who’ve touched me deeper than I yet understand.
Thank you for almost destroying me. Taking with you the lives of friends as your days passed. For stealing pieces of the ones I love and loved ones of those I care for. For taking parts of me with you and dragging them out over the rocks of your shorelines while I watch, injured and helpless trying to find strength.
Thank you for letting me dismantle my ideas of how things should be so I can move forward. Because there’s no where else to go but forward.
Thank you for almost being over.
2017, the best of both worlds. Let’s hold hands about it?

Cute kid 

I feel the dawn of a new time shedding its soft, warm glow on the horizon.

The clouds of fog and uncertainty will burn off soon with the heat of the rising sun.

A million blades of grass scream after me “I will cut you like a fish!”
Because they will.
It’s not a threat, it’s a fact.

Shall we wear our socks pulled all the way up?


Directionless Danger Ranger

A rambling update:

Last week, on the 13th, my kitchen boss texted me:

“It’s all good, we’re fine, everything is fine here.
We have you strictly “on-call” for the rest of december…
it’s fine were fine fine fine every thing is fine it’s all fine”
(not the exact wording)

Effectively cutting my hours and screwing me over for three weeks of work I had budgeted for.
Illegally changing my work scheduling.
Knowledge is power, they say. So, I’m pretty powerful, I guess?
Because I know that it’s illegal to switch me from a “scheduled” worker to “on-call” with out a weeks notice, minimum. He technically owes me a weeks pay. There’s more technical shit about it. So, what is knowledge and power if it sits idly in your brain and you don’t brandish it like a weapon?


“Useless information!”
a voice echoes from the back of the room.
The crowded amphitheater in my mind sits silent.
Another voice calls: “Tell us more!”


Really, it’s like when you want to break up with someone, but they break up with you first, and you’re only really heart broken because they cut your lawn about it. (I can’t actually relate to that analogy, other than in the case that my boss broke up with my employment and I was gonna quit… so… uhh…crocodile tears.)

For the most part, I’m insulted. It was really shasty and disrespectful.
His business partner (and wife), who’s front of house manager, told me at the staff party last night how amazing she thinks I am, how she’s really happy she’s gotten to work with me, how much she appreciates me. Will I please come back in the spring?
No, but Thank you Alix. It’s nice to get feedback. Thank you for the respect and appreciation I deserve.

I lit off some fire crackles in the through fare out side the restaurant. Alix tried to give me shit for it, but she was really drunk and started laughing. I couldn’t take her seriously. I wish I had more crackles, but I only had two. Two different people gave me weed, I have a weed collection now. Highlights of the party.

At any rate, I’m done my intense working meditation, it actually started to feel good after a while. I don’t really know what to do with myself, and I know it’ll take a bit of re-adjustment to get back into the wandering life of an unemployed thinker like me.
I’m done my slaving in a kitchen too, fuck kitchens. Fuck kitchens forever.

I’m fricken free.
Semi retired.
Directionless Danger Ranger.

I ran away to Tofino for 5 days, then ran back to get shit done. I don’t feel very rested for a person who just stayed at a resort (fancy shit, yo). Now I’m looking at the rest of December and I’m lost. What should I do? Will I be sad to be without for christmas? or will it not matter? Every year is a gamble.

All these days to fill until I leave again to go east and then back west. Then maybe south? Maybe, i don’t know? Maybe some excitement?

Gotta be home for my birthday though! PDad says he’s making me lasagna, caesar salad and garlic toast.
It’ll be a right fuckin party.

WatlerFest, 2016

Evan’s dad gets annoyed, in the least annoyed way, that no one wants food yet. It’s 8am and everyone is just waking up. I’ve been up since 6, ate my bananas, went for a hike in the dark.

“These people don’t eat much, do they?” He mumbles to himself while making a second pan of bacon to go with the yoghurt and fruit he’s already prepared. It all sits on the table, untouched, while the rest of his family, and the two weird kids his son brought, drink their morning coffee or tea.

Later in the afternoon Cam, Evan and I end up at the corner store. Cam is buying a bar of local made soap.

I say to myself “Now that Eric is dead, I don’t have anymore soap”

“What an asshole” Evan replies.

By late afternoon Cam is surfing. Evan and I are walking the beach and scaling a rockface ocean cliff to a view point. I watched Evan almost get swept out to sea by a tidal wave. Making risky choices so he could climb a rock formation.

He says the fear is part of what made it worth it. I think to myself that I’d be happier knowing that’s how he died as aposed to being another statistic to the fentanyl epidemic. A sad terror that’s hit the west coast and ripped through the hearts and homes of so many people.

A lot of people are dying right now.

Evan threw fire crackles at Cam (not crackers) while he was trying to change out of his wetsuit.

We talked of setting up a hot chocolate stand and selling it for $4 a cup to undercut the foreign traveller trying to raise money for a ticket to Maui who was parked next to us.

We left an anarchy symbol behind in the parking lot. It was drawn in siracha sauce.

We left unlit firecrackles for people to find, tucked away in a coffee shop.

I’m so tired and so physically exhausted from so many things and from working for 16 (? I don’t know) days straight that I don’t know how to interact. I’m happy to be with friends. Im afraid of dying boring. I’m not sure how to find new soap, it feels wrong to not have Eric’s.

There’s a lot more happening inside of me, but I don’t know the words. I’m afraid I’m refusing to feel things. I haven’t been talking so much lately, I’m in an introverted head space. Maybe I just don’t know who to share with.  Maybe I just don’t need to. Or maybe I just worked too much for my little body and big mind. Maybe I just need to sleep it off.

I won’t die boring, Keith says that’s impossible for someone like me.