Signoff and goodbye

So I guess this is goodbye. A bit late, I know. I overlapped.

I had a sinking suspicion that saying goodbye to this blog would be hard, it charted what turned out to be an incredible year... my most amazing thus far. And perhaps ending these annually (or somewhat annually) is the best way to go, arbitrary blocks of time to see my ups and downs. I don't even know what I'm saying, but I guess that is part of the trend.

So farewell pink blog, goodbye links to comics and Montreal ramblings. Goodbye whispers of boreale and nicknames that Anjali came up with. That, I suppose, is that. And I have nothing to say but thank you for this year.

Up next: Oxford. New school, new country, new life,
. NEW BLOG.
This one has pictures. See you there!

As promised

Wrapping up the week in style.

That night we reconvened in NDG for a round of Edward King-Can Hands (adapted because we felt that 40s on our hangovers would be a bit excessive). As Jordan said to me later, "Caroline, its amazing how a very mundane night like sitting around drinking King Cans of Molson Dry sounds really boring, but throw in a roll of packing tape and you make an amazing night in." We stumbled around with beer on our hands, Petie and I had an interesting bonding experience, and overall the evening went off without a hitch... that is, until I woke up on my previously single-occupancy futon to find a snoring scot to my left and another boy passed out on the couch to my right. I ended up moving and sleeping in another room, very uncomfortably.

That Thursday we mooched free pizza and I spent a blissful few hours with Curly. Over the course of this trip I must say that he was the company I most enjoyed. Every time we see each other it is as if we become closer. I can't wait until next time, which I hope will be over his reading week. I tried to convince him to come out with promises of tea and effective schoolwork, but I think we both know that it would become he and I talking until ungodly hours every night. It would be well worth it.

Thursday night was perhaps more of a gong show than my birthday, if for no other reason than because I remember all (most?!) of it. We started out at Peel Pub, and hit the wall. After a bathroom pep talk which brought to light the fact that neither of us were willing to back out, and we decided to (for lack of a better phrase) just giv'er.

We went in search of coffee, ending up at the patio of Cafe Depot on a busy street corner. After finding out our venue of choice was closed until midnight (but snagging some passes in the process), we sat down to consider our options. Petie spotted some guys she had met the previous weekend, and we all decided to grab some very cheap beer at the dep down the street - 12 beers, 5 paper bags and $12 later we were back on the corner. We stayed there through all the beers and some crazy rugby initiates.

At midnight, or just before, we finally hit the club. It was the usual insanity. I was waiting for the bar when someone offered me a beer. I warily accepted, only to be faced with a large bottle purchased for me by our new friends. The night was downhill from there. They played two of my requests (having told them it was my birthday) and I was abandoned and rediscovered time and time again. Oh the joys of Cafe Campus. Late in the night I spotted a cutie in a baseball tee hovering by the stairs. His friend caught me looking and asked whether I was interested. I played coy, but eventually ended up in his arms. A phys ed teacher and a surprisingly good kisser considering the circumstances. My drunken logic prompted me to lie and tell him I couldn't come home.

We got pizza and chocolate and bundled into a cab, home at 4am. The next morning as I lay on Petra's bed after four hours of sleep, I lamented my decision to stay alone. She laughed. "Care, I love how your drunken logic is more responsible than your sober logic." I guess that's the story of my life? Not really.

Friday I moved back into downtown, crashing my stuff at Curly's before meeting Jess for breakfast. The rest of the story is history. Friday night we hit the Bifteck for one last hurrah, and Trouble proved to live up to his name. Not enough beer and not late enough, still, I had reached the end of my rope. I came home with Curly and we stayed up all night talking. Three hours of sleep later I was dragging myself through the airport and on my way home.

Topping Twenty One

I had thought that nothing could top my 21st birthday, but I was so wrong.

Twenty Two started slowly, painfully, I felt sickness overcoming me and wondered if I would manage to make it past dinner, let alone past a few drinks. My oldest friend was in town, and we drank copious amounts of wine, pondering the future and casually catching up. I can't really describe how it all felt really, looking back: suffice to say that I managed, somehow, to prevent myself from standing up on a chair to make a toast about how lucky I was to have such amazing friends.

After we get to Bifteck, my memory becomes hazy. I recall a beer, some faces, Jordan, Jess, Krista and company. Scottish boys in kilts. Fatty, of all people. Shots from Mike, by that point I had given up on my promise that I would not do any shots. The rest is a blur. We ended up at Cafe Campus, and I am under the impression that I did many inappropriate things that my friends are loathe to remind me of.

I managed to get through the night without having to vom, without getting kicked out of anywhere. I ended up in a cab with Petra and her sister, the two Scots who were staying with them, clutching a rose. Somehow, this feels anticlimactic describing it all here, as I'm sure most of these nights do.

The next day we got up and made breakfast, I met Julia downtown for lunch. She said something to me that almost tops the list of funniest things said during my trip: "Care, I realized something last night, that when you drink, you get to this point in the night where all you want is sex. Its not that you don't want sex all the time, its just that at a certain point you drop all pretenses." So I will take that as advice to not get myself into any trouble at Oxford by getting overly drunk.

My next installment? Edward King-Can-Hands and the supreme Thursday, getting hit by the week-long-hangover and the funniest quote of my trip.

The Tatty

I would like to write an epic, and I will, in installments, of the rest of my mad trip. It was, without a doubt, the most fun week of my life. Sure sure, I have had fun elsewhere, and incredible formative life experiences, but for sheer fun-crazy-amazing-good-times: this was it.

So since everything kept coming up roses for me, my spirits lifted higher and higher, and I decided (somewhat spontaneously) to act and get that tatty I'd wanted last year so badly. The trouble was, I couldn't choose a place or design... rather the one I was considering didn't ever fill me with that 'get up and go' desire. Here's my feelings about tattoos in general, before I talk about the day of.

I had wanted it done in April/May to commemorate Montreal for me, those amazing four years that changed me. To remember the feeling of that city and remind me always of what amazing memories I made there, the wonderful people and general love I felt the entire time throughout all the ups and downs. So I decided to do it, but the feeling never took me. This is the other aspect. While I do think it should mean something, I also enjoy the crazy spontaneity of it. That getting a tattoo should be both a well thought out action and a sudden decision, to always know that I was once that spur of the moment person who would wake up and decide that 'today was the day'. And so when I fell upon the design on a day of internet browsing with Jess, and as I found its meaning more and more appealing the more I read about it, I could feel that 'modification urge' start to set in. Big time.

As my bender-ous week continued, I became more and more obsessed with the idea. And on Thursday I came upon another website with more stories and words about it, one being that the goddess the symbol represented was also the patron saint of tavern owners and beer. Well, I must say, that this clinched it. Of course I had to know that the greater representation meant more than this little aside, I felt like it was a sign that on my bender to end all benders, my tatty design of choice was also subtly supporting my chosen lifestyle in Montreal... well come on, how could it not be mine?!

SO. Thursday I walked into my favourite parlour for a quote, still unsure if I would chicken out. To be honest I was feeling kinda tired from King Can Hands the previous night. But that particular evening will be included in my next post. This is about the tatty. Friday rolled around, and I met up with Jess for brekkie after a truly debaucherous evening and four hours of bad sleep. Shaking. Drank about two litres of water before noon. Felt wretched but alive. And we prolonged breakfast, knowing that the artist would be arriving at noon and I was just going to drop in.

I was nervous walking up the street, but excited. It just felt really right. The fact that my drop in went so smoothly just confirmed in my mind that the whole episode was meant to be. As he prepared the stencil and placed the design on my back, centred symmetrically along my spine and high enough to be centered through my body (and hidden from view when I wear low-rise pants). It looked great. But then my nerves kicked in.

The rush of piercing is different from getting inked. But similar. The anticipation. The pain is less acute, but sharper. I sat backwards over the chair and leaned forward, Jess held my hand. I was terrified of moving, terrified that I would move inadvertently, and focused on breathing in and out steadily. The first buzz of the needle set my pulse racing. Its touch... people always ask how it feels, and frankly I must say, it feels exactly as it should. A sharp needle rapidly but lightly stabbing you being dragged across your body. I winced over my spine, and surely it felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life, but overall very manageable pain. Jess talked the whole time, I was too afraid of moving to talk back. But when it was over I felt very little pain.

And I love it. It is pretty and sexy and very well placed. It was a great experience to top off my life in Montreal, and I will never regret this. Its beautiful.

My concerns now involved aftercare, having returned home and being out of the country, I will not be able to get touched up if need be. But thus far its going really well, no scabbing at all and not even sore anymore. I clean it and do what he told me, hopefully that will be enough. I think that if it goes as well as my week did, I will be golden. I heart my first tatty.

Happy Birthday to Me

I feel like that fat guy in that episode of the simpsons where Krusty gets busted for tax avoision (evasion? well I say avoision). Oh crap! I shouldn't have said he was a customer! Oh crap! I shouldn't have said it was a secret! Oh Crap! I certainly shouldn't have said it was illegal! Ehhhh, its too hot.

Indeed it is too hot, and humid, and I feel like I really shouldn't have spent my afternoon drinking yesterday.

What has Montreal held? An awful lot. Saturday night got a ride home from a random party from a so-called Jay-Z look-alike and stumbled into bed. Spent Sunday walking around, deep in conversation, and met Numoy at the bus station. We hit the lame Sunday town, managing to come up with some Montreal randomness all the same. Monday we sat in the sunshine on campus, my first return since I arrived here last week. To be honest, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had expected, mostly we just felt old. Ran into Petra on her way to run errands, and we decided the time had come for afternoon beers... which led into evening beers, which led to meeting random Scotsmen (who may be joining us tonight for some birthday celebrations) and me stumbing up to JJ's and bursting through the door at seven, singing at the top of my lungs. Drinking in the afternoon is bad, but so much fun.

Now I'm a little concerned I'm sick. Twenty-two hits me hard, and I feel older. I would love to wax poetic about the last year of my life, but right now I'm more focused on avoiding disease and trying to hydrate as much as possible. Tonight will, I think, be full of meds and beers, a lovely combination. My fortune cookie from last night read, "People find it difficult to resist your persuasive manner" so here's to hoping that all comes through. I must say, I am so happy to be here, and anticipate a sappy toast at least once tonight. So raise a glass, here's to squeezing one last Montreal Birthday out of my life.

And so it goes

Yet another year... and since I can't be bothered to write about it now, suffice to say that I am tired, and I'm another year older. Somehow commemorate this moment with a post. Happy Birthday indeed. Happy to be here.

One has to wonder at how little changes. My time, my days, and here I am waiting as usual. I remarked to Anj how Montreal wasn't a place, but an intersection between space and time that was unique to us. She laughed. I don't know how I feel, whenever I stop I feel disoriented and vaguely upset. Like this whole city has become surreal, the once tangible intersection between our spaces and times slowly coming apart at the seams. One day then, who knows when, it will disappear completely. Montreal will be gone. And I wondered then if I would ever come back here, as she said that nobody she knew would ever live here again. Helen couldn't fathom leaving town for school, and then just going back after four years, and really she is right. As much as I am glad I came, it did nothing but throw me into this strange nomadic life where nowhere is home and I can't seem to feel quite right. It is easy to leave, the hard part is returning to what you once had, knowing it will never be the same again, because you outgrew it, but that your new home can never be regained once the people that made it home move on. Ignorance is bliss, so too is staying safe at home and never finding out how much better that change could be. Now? Now to top it? Now to never feel that way again? Who knows. I ramble, as usual, to stop myself from thinking.

First night back

Amazing how quickly a night can turn around here, with everything stumbling distance from everything else. I had almost given up when the phone rang, and with a hop skip and pair of jeans I was out the door. Ah Bifteck, is there any better place to reunite with Boreale? So the four of us sat down, recounted tales of men and the usual bar chatter, while clambering over McGilligans who seemed to have invaded. I felt old and somehow out of place, but good, so good.

Talk came down to birthday plans, and Krista suggested that she would invite her kids from last year, to which I replied that I would like her to invite a certain one that I'd had a thing for... a vague thing, because hitting on him was way off limits to me. It was too bad really. So we laughed, and she made a mental note.

And the night wore on, we went our separate ways, Helen and I headed downstairs and out for pizza. The 99 cent pizza run just isn't the same anywhere else. Who should happen to be at the counter, waiting for a giant pizza? The very same boy that I had requested for my 22nd, drunk as a skunk. So we chatted, I hit, he hit back, generally positive and I took his number down, promising to call him on Tuesday. The only thing that was bad about it was me pushing a bit too much, asking where he was off to and if he wanted company. He gestured to the door, the blondes shaking their hair out. He had some. Hmmmmm.

We walked up the street, he was so cute. And speaking of, we ran into my ex, fresh from the drink, and had a sidewalk fling conversation. We had run into his girlfriend at the bar in the bathroom, but I hadn't introduced myself, thinking that "oh yeah, I'm your new boyfriend's ex and we are going out tomorrow night" wasn't exactly appropriate. He agreed. As we walked off my companion remarked that he was all over me... I think he was just drunk.

So the night came to a close at three, I hit the bed hard. Today is for breakfast, vibrator shopping and a date with JJ, frankly a well-rounded Montreal day. Here's to my second night!

Feels like home

Never before have I felt this obscene homecoming, this sense that a place belongs to me and that I belong to a place. Vancouver has always been bittersweet, home tarnished by something or someone. This time, its pure, so pure. I cannot describe how good it felt to see the city come into focus, touchdown, breathe and exhale. To get off the bus downtown and walk up the street to campus. The cute stylish boys and beautiful Montreal girls.

I can't wait to settle in, make a few calls, get my life back, its already half back, having a date tomorrow and a concert, birthdays and phone calls to return. Its going to be a trip and a half, and I can't fucking wait.