As the days go on, any joy I feel seems more contrived, more chemical.

Inside, I too am filled with rust.


I may have a place of my own, come April.

Assuming that I stay in Ottawa, and don’t run off to Toronto, Amsterdam, or Rio de Janeiro until then, I may have found a one-bedroom apartment for a decent price, here in Ottawa. Considering that we currently have the lowest vacancy rate in North America, that is no simple feat.

On related terms, some web design group wishes to interview me. They are in Toronto, and they want me to meet them next Monday. I am still undecided as to if I will show up.

I dream of Toronto, nearly nightly. I dream of my lost roommate and incense sticks, of laughter and moody music.

Jes does, as well. She doesn’t say so, not quite so clearly, but something in her dies a little bit more, every day that we’re away.


I have a stress fracture in my left tibia.

At times, I don’t notice. At others, it feels like someone’s trying to extract my bone marrow with a butter spreader.

The hospital-proscribed treatment for such an ailment is 6-8 weeks of relative rest, and little-to-no high-impact activity. ...

I went to a goa party in Montreal, this weekend. Hours in a packed van with no heat, map mixups, money issues, and relative craziness was the norm for the traveling.

I danced from the moment I could feel my toes again until they turned the lights on and told us to get the hell out.

It wasn’t enough.

Dancing has become a method of exercising my demons, I think. It’s cathartic, it’s release, it’s bliss; and unlike other party-related activities, it doesn’t leave the taste of chemicals in my mouth.

The day after, I could hardly walk. My leg was meat, useless screaming meat.

Today, my throat has followed suit.