The pharmacist at the local drugstore reminds me of Wayne Newton. Every time I go in to get a prescription filled I cannot help but hum a little bit of Danke Schoen. I am still not entirely convinced that Wayne Newton hasn't given up show business in favour of pursuing his dream of running a relatively small pharmacy in Southern Ontario. His voice even has a similar cadence to Wayne's and, while in reality he is explaining possible symptoms and saying things like "rash" and "palpitations of the the heart," I imagine that he is crooning to me in a low, sensuous voice.


Because apparently he believes an angry stomach is an indicator of a future contraction of an STD

He wouldn't stop talking about poop, and not just his own poop either.
"Did you feel that?" I asked him, in response to his excrement anecdotes.
"Feel what? My gut is rumbling."
"That's not your gut," I explained, "that is our friendship evolving. You just brought us to a whole new level."
"I think my gut is angry with me," he said, ignoring me completely.
"That is probably your body's way of telling you that you are going to get the scootes later."
"What is that?" He asked, "Some sort of STD?"
"No, it is diarrhea, but close."



There was poop. On the floor. Gross, runny poop on the living room floor, which is carpet.
I'd spent the past twenty minutes thinking my sister had dropped one hell of a bomb in our shared bathroom, prior to leaving for work, when really it was poop. Dog poop. Yuck.
I stared at it for several minutes, t-shirt hiked up over my nose in an attempt to keep the smell at bay. Could I pretend that I just hadn't seen it? Yes. Yes I could.
- 4/4/07

Sick of the tyrannical oppression of the fenced in yard, the dogs decided to escape into the woods.
Confused at their sudden absence, I stood on my parents patio, scratching my head, as I waited for my brain to kick in. When a combination of whistling and calling their names failed to draw them back, I tried yelling out invectives at random.
The woods are beautiful, but they become exponentially less so with each additional minute that you are forced to trek through the near-frozen mud wearing your brother's Crocs.
- 4/11/07

The mouse, no matter how hard I stared at it, did not get any less dead or any less smelly.
- 4/13/07

I called him, crying. "I miss you," I whispered into the receiver. My confession was met with silence, and I closed my eyes wishing for a way to take it back.
"I miss you, too" he finally answered.
- 4/19/07

Looking back on it now, I have spent the past two years trying to distance myself from everyone I've met here. Slowly, I stopped returning phone calls, went out with less frequency, and started spending more and more time out of the city. It wasn't until yesterday that I really stopped to think about it. And now I am suddenly overcome with a complete and utter sense of regret. It's done now. It's over. There's no going back.
- 4/26/07