2001-06-15 || 12:38 a.m.

Montr�al is a gutter whore.

Sweet Jane, it's hot as hell outside, it's hotter than hell inside, the humidity's at it again and I'm sweating like a pissant jonesing for a glass of gin. I begged for help but nobody came, and now I'm as bitchy as a cat in a canvas bag.

Not happy, not happy at all. I can't get *too* messed up over it, though, because then I can't breathe. What a crock of fuckups.

Thanks be to the gods themselves that I'm the only one up and about. For the roomies' collective sake.

**********

The newly-unemployed Monstre came by for dinner and a movie to-night. We watched Almost Famous. I don't know why, but I had to call Da afterwards. At least I didn't know why then, but I think I've got an inkling now.

You know what I miss?

I miss being young. Like, real young. A kid, a pre-teen, even. No hair aside from what was piled on the top of my head, and no damned responsabilities. I miss being na�ve enough to think that my parents could solve any problem I could dream of. I think I miss waking up to the dry British Columbian summer with the smell of Da's coffee brewing everywhere, I miss getting up, padding to the kitchen, and having that morning tay as we got ready to go sweat the day off with lumber and tools. The usual walk along the promenade that hugged the shore-- North Vancouver on one side, the expanse of the Burrard Inlet on the other. Looking up at the palatial homes of the British Properties. Watching the fish at the Aquarium for hours. Sitting on the SeaBus and going to Gastown, only dreaming of what responsability could ever be.

Montr�al, what have you done to me?



||Gods save the Queen,
||cf

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