Adam already has the best story of the year. I happened to be carrying when we were stopped for a traffic check on the way up (which made me nervous enough), but it wasn’t anywhere close to what Adam had on him. I didn’t need a flaming shot to calm myself though.

Isn’t it funny that Matt talks about burning his lashes minutes before Adam singes his own.

A photo of Lisa, lying on Trolley’s bed, treating her surface piercing with salt water after a mid-day burn. The light was already coming through the window, but the smoke made the individual rays distinguishable. I’m pretty satisfied with the way the colours turned out, although the picture doesn’t really capture how much darker the rest of the room was. Definitely a very particular mood, like being under a flourishing tree on a sunny summer day, with the cool feeling of grass underfoot.

Lisa is one of those people with which one can spend time without having to worry about running out of things to say. She can do enough talking to keep a conversation going, so as long as the vibe is right, there are no awkward silences. She gave me a super for the first time, and I could barely move afterwards (although this is also partially be due to the hydro I graciously got through Adam). It was a little scary to feel so out-of-control, but everything was comfortable enough for me to keep it together. I was peaking for more than an hour straight, something I hadn’t experienced since I first started, what Scarface would call, “back in the day”.

It’s always interesting to meet someone from a totally different group of stoners. Each group has their own style, rituals, etiquette. One can tell a lot from how someone rolls, how long they take before passing, how carefully they correct runs, or simply how they act when they’re under the influence. The session becomes a way for people to share their traditions with others, to discover the characters of people that may otherwise remain hidden behind the guard put up in everyday life. By taking part, one becomes open in letting others know that one is comfortable enough to even act out of character.

A couple emerged from two heavy doors at the National Arts Centre (Human Resources entrance) as I was on the 95 today, passing down the Mackenzie King Bridge. One was a woman, very slender, who looked as if she was in her early thirties but was probably in her late thirties. The man was what someone would consider an appropriate match, being slightly taller than her, and dressed in the same half-casual jeans-with-overcoat style.

For a moment, they stood outside the doors, appropriately adorning their shuffled coats and scarves according to the late winter weather. They looked as if they had emerged from the resolution of an emotional fight, or some very guilty sex in a broom closet.

Their first steps were almost languid, but I could tell that it wasn’t a physical exhaustion. They were pacing each other out, waiting for the other person to talk first, and their footsteps were how they subconsciously spoke to each other. It was as if they both knew that they had done something wrong. Whether it was intentional or not was unclear, but it was certain that neither person was more at fault than the other.

They continued walking together, westbound, with that slight distance between them that’s reserved for couples who are either trying to hide their physical longing for the other or trying to express their angry emotions. I could tell that the silence was comfortable, as neither of them spoke, because there weren’t any right words to be said at that moment.

I watched them in fascination as they continued down the street with their hands in their own pockets. Each of them understood exactly what the other was thinking, but were hesitant to say anything before knowing how the other felt first. When they spoke next, it would be in one-word sentences. Their faces showed how much they had been through together, and how much was at risk at that very moment.

But it was how their silence spoke volumes of how well they knew each other that made me wonder if I would ever feel the same.

So, what I meant to say was that I got a haircut. Due to a series of bad experiences, I generally don’t trust women to cut my hair, but Josée is different. She’s sarcastically funny, she’s cute (Trolley thinks her eyes stand out the most), and she does a great job with texture. I also feel comfortable sitting in her chair, talking or not, and don’t have to worry about her thinking that I’m trying to get in her pants (a worry, due to yet another series of bad experiences) because she’s not stupidly fucking self-absorbed like so many other girls are.

What I really wanted to talk about, though, is the discount she told the receptionist to give me. The discount came in the form of student rates, although I’m not a student anymore, and she knows this because we discussed it during the texturizing process. I’m not sure if she did it knowingly and I don’t like to take advantage of anyone, but I also don’t want to mention the fact that I don’t deserve the discount in case she did it on purpose. I thought about it for a few days, and eventually decided that she most likely acted out of generosity, and the next time it happens, I would leave her an extra tip so she could share in that generosity.

A little while ago, I shared a correspondence with a woman who once found this site by searching for “cool futon covers” on the web. She was a single mother (the search was for her daughters’ new futon), and she told me that she gained a new consciousness after reading my entries. She led me to believe that this somehow changed her life, a woman who was beginning to realize that she had come to the end of the direction of her life in her early thirties, and that she grew up too quickly, and couldn’t relate to her teenage daughter.

She had always been nervous, and what I believe was a little intimidated, with our correspondence; I could tell that she was putting up a wall, a sort of separation to keep her distance. When I brought this up to her, she acknowledged it. Later, she sent me this letter.

This is me. Without spellcheck or the comfort of a cut + paste option. Ink is honest. Even more I hesitate before completing the thought/sentence. But I wanted to give something more and this seems like an acceptable amount for now.

What if I am just “trite”? I established that opinions are irrelevant, so what the hell.

I had a massage tonight + I feel better, physically. I can move my neck and look over my shoulders. I was beginning to look like a little old lady when I drove, turning my entire body at the waist to look left or right. It cost me $80 to not be in pain. Funny, that’s about the amount that my company paid me to get in this shape. Ironic.

I just climbed into Jessi’s top bunk of her bed + hugged her. She didn’t hug me back, but she didn’t push me away either. That’s progress. We argue over the most insanely stupid things. It is usually by accident that we find ourselves getting along these days. Putting forth an effort doesn’t seem to work at the moment. I suppose that will change over time….but I sure do miss her.

It is late. I’ve had my bath, I ate dinner (egg salad + cheetoes). I won’t read tonight. I have enough in my head right now. Besides, I’m afraid I will be tempted to stay up too late. I can’t function on a few hours of sleep like some people. I need a solid seven hours minimum…and that’s been rare lately. I have a big closing at 8am with a very important client. She is there because of me. I’d love to tell the primadonna bitch to kiss my ass, but she pays my bills…so instead — I will kiss hers. Being a grown up sucks.

I wonder what it would be like to “check out” of this world? To give in to the notion of insanity and be forgiven anything + everything for lack of a functioning mind? Perhaps that sounds a bit dramatic — but for me it sounds like peace. If only I could somehow be sure that I could find my way back — maybe then it would be a viable option. I’d never have the guts. I couldn’t let go of the controls. Voluntary insanity — — now there’s a fantasy I could play with. But alas, I would never make it in a world without logic + order. Wow. I have written non stop. No more hesitating. I realize I’m no longer breaking up the paragraphs correctly: and I’m sure I’m starting sentences with the word “and”. Ha! I haven’t reread one thought, haven’t ripped out a page + started over — see — it’s just me.

I could tell that just from talking with me, learning how I understand my life, she was beginning to understand many parts of hers that she wasn’t comfortable thinking about. Raymond Lindquist once said, “Courage is the power to let go of the familiar”, and I admired her for what seemed to be a great effort to share herself with a stranger.

For a while now, our correspondence has stopped. It was her decision, and something I assume to have ended only because she has given no response and no reason. She always told to me of her dreams, to one day buy a motorcycle and take the highway to the woods, instead of her exit home. From there she would save the world, one tree at a time. I’ve always hoped that that’s what happened. That the reason why she stopped replying was because she took Jessi with her, and left everything else behind.

And I wish her all the best.