Forever Tainted

Spent a short time in my old blog tonight and remembered how much I loved to write. It’s been so long since I’ve actually taken a pen to paper and had something decent to say. Perhaps the passion is dying. Maybe my soul just isn’t as fiery as it once was. Or perhaps I’m just getting old.

I was a poet once. I was a woman of words. Now, I can hardly find the words to talk coherently.

Maybe I need a cause. Maybe I need a niche. Or maybe… just maybe, I’m just done?

Arena (known to self and others) caring, confident, intelligent, powerful, warm	Blind Spot (known only to others) able, adaptable, bold, brave, cheerful, clever, complex, energetic, friendly, giving, happy, independent, kind, knowledgeable, loving, mature, searching, self-assertive, sensible, sentimental, spontaneous, sympathetic, trustworthy, wise, witty
Façade (known only to self) dependable	Unknown (known to nobody) accepting, calm, dignified, extroverted, helpful, idealistic, ingenious, introverted, logical, modest, nervous, observant, organised, patient, proud, quiet, reflective, relaxed, religious, responsive, self-conscious, shy, silly, tense

All Percentages

able (18%) accepting (0%) adaptable (9%) bold (45%) brave (18%) calm (0%) caring (27%) cheerful (9%) clever (45%) complex (45%) confident (9%) dependable (0%) dignified (0%) energetic (9%) extroverted (0%) friendly (18%) giving (45%) happy (9%) helpful (0%) idealistic (0%) independent (27%) ingenious (0%) intelligent (27%) introverted (0%) kind (18%) knowledgeable (9%) logical (0%) loving (45%) mature (9%) modest (0%) nervous (0%) observant (0%) organised (0%) patient (0%) powerful (9%) proud (0%) quiet (0%) reflective (0%) relaxed (0%) religious (0%) responsive (0%) searching (9%) self-assertive (9%) self-conscious (0%) sensible (9%) sentimental (18%) shy (0%) silly (0%) spontaneous (18%) sympathetic (9%) tense (0%) trustworthy (9%) warm (18%) wise (9%) witty (18%)

It’s amazing how much a person’s death can affect your life – even when you’re expecting that death to come. It’s amazing because death is the only certainty we have in life. We should be ready for it. We never, ever are.

It’s been 2 months now. And it feels almost like my life has been on hold this entire time – despite so much happening and so many changes taking place.

I’ve moved out of Squamish, where Squish Gems originated and was meant to serve. I moved back to the island, the help my father and brother with the after-mess of mom’s passing. Each day, feels like a little emotional roller coaster.

Mom’s death has been a burden on us all financially, but it’s also given us insight and opportunity to what we need to be doing as a family and as individuals. All of us are contemplating the types of business we need to be running. We’ve contemplated from a petting zoo; my dad has the perfect bit of land for it, to a second hand store; they were mom’s passion. We’ve solidified little. But then, we’re taking baby steps. We’re still in shock I guess. And we’re still mourning. We’re still battling for my mother’s rights.

Today, I made a section on my store in mom’s honour. I will donate 15% of all profits to a local charity in her name. I will sell the types of things she liked to buy. And I will remember her, and use her strength to help me m

FOUCHIER, Anne Patricia
July 23rd, 1954 - July 23, 2009
Survived by her mother, step-father, partner, 3 daughters, 1 son, 6 grandchildren, 2 dogs and 5 cats, she will be sorely missed by many. Patricia lived a full life in a short time period, having traveled the world and living more than a decade of her life in Dubai, UAE. She touched the lives of many, taking in, loving and caring for strays, both human and animal her entire adult life. Those who were closest to her watched her health decline, both physically and mentally over the past few years and know that she is no longer suffering. We'll always love and miss her and she will never be forgotten. If you would like information on her memorial, please contact taintedfemale (@) gmail.com. Donations made to any cat or animal society in Pat's honor/name will be much appreciated.

I’m going to send the last entry, the letter to my grandmother, to her house once a week, every week until the bitch dies.

I’m going to fight this as fiercely as my mother would have.

I’m going to insure that my mother’s last wishes are fulfilled, if it bankrupts and/or kills me to do so.

I’m going to make sure my mother is given the respect in her death she deserves.

I’m going to move back to the island at this end of this month and insure that I can be there for court cases, to arrange a proper memorial – after informing all her loved ones of her demise.

And when this is all over, I’m going to survive; somehow, some way.

On the 31st of this month, my whore-cunt-slut-bitch-insult-to-all-women-kind of a sister had my mother’s body cremated without a funeral, without informing anyone, without anyone’s input until my mom’s body was already in the oven. My grandmother, my mother’s mother stood by her side while she did it.

Yesterday, my other grandmother pointed out the obituary my sister and that wicked witch had written.

It’s an insult, another slap in my mother’s face! How much colder, insincere, thoughtless can an obituary be than that?

I will have a proper one, telling the world what my mother was really all about, published as soon as possible.

These people aided in her death, refusing to help her over the past two years. And now that she is gone, they’ve raped her body and murdered her all over again. And they are both her blood... They are her mother and one of her daughters.

There are some things that are to never be forgiven. There are some people that do not deserve to live. There are some things; it’d be worth going to jail for.

But instead, we are taking them to court. We will sue the fuck out of them, and demand that my mother’s Will be followed to the T, despite that cunt stealing the original signed copy, and denying it existed. We will attempt to sue the coroner for releasing my mother’s body to a mentally challenged bitch. We will make my mother’s mother sell her home if she’s stolen an of my mother’s willed belongings.

And I know my mother would have it no other way. Before my mother was sick... she was just. And she’d expect the same from me.

Do you remember the attached letters? Do you remember the other letters, the phone calls other family members made to you, begging you to help us help my mother? Do you remember shooing away the ambulance, just minutes after you watched my mother seizure – denying her medical care when she probably needed it most?

May you never forget, bitch. May you live a long life, knowing that in my opinion and that of many, MANY other people who loved my mother, YOU are responsible for her death through sheer neglect and ignorance! May you grow to be a hundred years old, alone and unloved and with the guilt of knowing you murdered the ONLY good thing that came from you in your entire life. May your heart slowly eat you from the inside out, and when you go may it be the most excruciating, humiliating, disgusting way possible! And may people laugh at your remains!

My mother was a miracle. The fact a person with such morals, such modesty, such love and compassion, and such nobility came out of such a dirty cunt as you, is a fucking miracle. And now that she’s dead you have raped her body, and attempted to steal all her humanly possessions. May you rot in fucking hell you dirty fucking cunt, disgrace of a human being, bitch.

I’d kill you myself, if only I believed you deserved that quick a way out.

My mom was born on July 23rd, 1954. She died on July 23rd, 2009. She was 55 years old.

There's so much I have to say, and too few words to get it all out.

I love you mom.

So I ran away... I’m sure I’m not the first and I won’t be the fucking last. No doubt I’m scared. You fucking scare me. It’s amazing how I meet you and I’m about ready to abandon everything I’ve ever known and believed in, just because it feels so god damn right with you. It’s amazing how fucking right it feels...

I’m pissed at myself for feeling so much so soon. I’m pissed at myself for being such a pansy I have to run as quick as I can, as far as I can, as soon as I find an excuse. I’m pissed at myself for fearing your rejection so severely and trying to hard to avoid it, I hurt myself in the meantime just as much if not more.

I’m pissed at you for not caring. I’m pissed as you because I’m not sure that you feel the same. I’m just fucking pissed.

I should have stayed in that unhappy marriage. I may have never been happy... But at least I’d never have to give a thought about being alone... At last I’d never have to question being without you.

Dumb people never question whether or not they are happy. Maybe... I should stop asking and just be.

But I’m not sure how funny any of them are.

A week or so ago I went camping. While there, I met a boy who was trying hard to make a good first impression on me. In the wee hours of the morning, in the middle of the bush, next to the river, miles from civilization he thought to impress me by showing me his caveman abilities. He tried to pick me up and throw me over his shoulder and carry me off caveman-style, forgetting only that he was too drunk to catch and forcing me right over his back and into the wet sand... face first.

With the smash of my face into the ground, and the bleeding nose that followed we made our way back to the cabin.

I woke the next morning with a bruised face, and torn legs and feet. My biggest concern that my nose was still strait after already breaking in my early teen years. But it seems it was my forehead that hit the ground and not my nose, so as the bruises started to heal I thought myself fine...

...until 3 nights ago.

As I slept I felt a rush of liquid gush out of my nose. When I woke, I thought I must have been dreaming and thought nothing of it until I was getting ready for work and it happened again. I pulled a hair brush through my hair and spontaneously, a gush of clear, water-like fluid spilled out of my left nostril. I didn’t have a cold. I had no known sinus problems. Just this fluid. From work I called the nurses hotline and asked her about my symptom. She suggested I go to the hospital immediately. As stubborn as I am, I finished my shift and went only at 11pm that night. I ended up there, then home, then to the ER again only to return home the following morning at 8am. I’ve been on bed-rest ever since. I’ve been told not to cough, not to sneeze, not to push too hard while going to the bathroom, not to pick up anything heavier than the size of a small dog, not to move too fast or too much.

I have a fractured skull.

I can’t help but laugh at it, and that’s probably only because I feel so fine. I’m handicapped though at the moment, realizing I can’t do laundry myself, or even sweep my floors. The fear is that the longer the break stays broken, the longer the brain is no longer sterile, and the higher the risks of getting an infection, meningitis. The only other symptoms I’ve noticed over the past week are sensitivity to sound, head ache and neck ache. But the aches I’ve suffered regularly in the past as well, so I’m not sure how associated they are. I've been told if there is any noticeable change in them, to contact the Dr. immediately.

This morning however, I actually took a look at my face, and realized there is still bruising between my eyes. It's not too obvious, and looks deep, under the skin. And perhaps my recent depressive mood is a symptom as well.

I have a CAT scan being scheduled, and a neurosurgeon has been contacted. The next few weeks are not going to be fun for me at all. But I laugh, and I joke about how I now have a reason to do stupid things, or what being blond didn't accomplish for my intellect, my subconscious is fighting hard to make happen... I was dropped on my head.

And of course, the reason cavemen no longer exist is obvious... Either their killed their potential mates, or they failed so miserably at impressing them, they never got laid.

I think I’m getting depressed again. All I want to do is eat. When I’m not hungry, I want to eat. When I am hungry, my eyes are bigger than my stomach and I’m eating until I’m full... and then some. I am literally just stuffing my face, on anything and everything all the time; except mornings. I’ve never eaten much when I wake.

I think I’m getting depressed and I think food is an attempt to fill some other emptiness I must be suffering but can’t really figure out what or where it is. The only true bad in my life is being so far from my son, and well... mom’s situation. And I try really hard not to dwell on either. I know my son is doing well and we’ll be together as soon as possible. And I know my mom is about as good as she will ever be.

I think I’m getting depressed but everything else is great. My job is fantastic; I’m well compensated for my time, well respected, and comfortable with the daily challenges. I’m starting my own company, officially getting the government licenses in order, the tax accounts, etc. I’ll introduce that in a later post, because it’s an online company, and it’s not quite ready. I’m surrounded by people who love me, people who make me laugh, people whose company I sincerely enjoy.

I think I’m getting depressed and since I’m not really sure why, and since I’m not hurting myself in any real apparent way, as I have done in the past... I’m not sure how to drag myself out of it.

What do you think of the new design?

I’ve been thinking about death all day long it seems. I vaguely recall a time in my life when I was obsessed with death. I thought about it constantly, perhaps I even longed for it. Today’s thoughts have been a stretch from those of the past. Today, my thoughts are more like morbid curiosity. I want to know how I’m going to die.

I wonder if it’ll be sudden, like a car crash which is probable since I have a heavy foot and a need for speed. I wonder if I’ll be murdered, and this small town I live in will have yet another story to whisper among neighbours about so-and-so’s sister. Or perhaps I’ll grow to be an old woman that knits, and complains about the water until she dies in her sleep. Maybe, I’ll be a victim of myself, and depression will eventually win, and I’ll slit my own wrists or swallow so many pills there is no turning back?

I’m not sure why I want to know. I just know the thoughts have been creeping in the back of my mind all day long. And what’s even more frustrating is I know that I’ll never actually know the answer. When I’m dead, I’m dead. I can’t look back and see how I went out. Until then, even the world’s most renowned psychic would have no certainty. It almost feels unfair.

I know for certain that I will die. In fact it’s the only certainty in my entire life. I just wish I knew how it’s going to happen.

...You're nothing that you claimed to be and I am every broken little thing I thought myself to be.

But who am I to talk? I'd pick up a broken bottle from the street just to give it one last throw and watch it shatter to a billion pieces, or pick the last petal off a dying flower too...

Out of all life’s emotional throws, I don’t think anything hurts as deeply or sincerely as the sound of your mother’s tears. This is true, even when those tears are about the silliest, mundane things; when it’s something real, something tear-worthy, it’s a like a dagger in your heart.

Mom called me this morning. My father left for Ontario last week and my brother finally moved out of her house. She’s been all alone for 3 or 4 days now. So I’ve been calling daily with hopes to check in on her. Not once has she answered her phone. This morning she called me back. This morning she was straight.

I have a bit of a cold. My throat is itchy, my muscles feel frozen, and my skin hot. But today is better yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. During our conversation my mother talked about her own medical issues, the perpetual need to run to the bathroom. The fact that sometimes she can’t make it and had to move a bucket next to the bed yesterday is what cracked her voice, broke her composure, and brought her to tears, “It’s horrible, “ she quivered. All the while, she was insistent that I go to the doctor because I really don’t sound good. Funny that is, the words I should have been saying to her, she was saying to me first.

The tears stopped and she talked about the frustrations of having a dead battery on her cordless phone, she asked if disconnecting her internet account – because my brother moved out taking the computer with him, would disconnect his account wherever he is at as well. She talked about the bills he left behind and she asked about a solution to her laundry. All in all, she sounded good.

I told her a bit of lighter, happier things that have been happening around here. I had her laughing a little, and smiling a lot, I know. I suggested she come out for a visit, and she responded that she doesn’t want to give the children whatever it is she has. “One doctor said he thought it was Tuberculosis,” she said, “I don’t want to give that to the kids!” No doctor ever made such a suggestion. One doctor did ask if she had ever been diagnosed with TB in past as a history of it would explain some of her vitamin deficiencies. And she hadn’t. In her mind though, his was made up. And TB is what dooms her.

I’d rather listen to hear talk in circles and answer her silly questions than listen to her cry. But even as we ended the conversation she made me promise that if I get worse, I’ll go see a doctor.

I just don't. But I'm scared I'm already there.

We’ve had a few conversations. Unlike most conversations I’ve had recently, talking with him is a little different. He’s honest, he’s open, and without intent to harm he speaks bluntly. We’ve talked about perspective. We’ve talked about emotions. We’ve discussed human nature and experiences. We’ve dabbled in dreams and spirituality. Out of everything he’s said to me the words, “You’re already fucking dead,” have resonated truest.

Along with those words he mentioned my sincere wish to be dead. Though, that’s hardly the truth. I sincerely wish I was never born. I don’t want to die. There is a difference. I want to turn back time, but with the knowledge I have of life and be given the choice to be born, or not to be born. I would choose not to be born. And I bet I’m not alone in those thoughts.

If you had the choice and the laws of physics didn’t exist would you do it all again? Are the good times worth the bad, knowing that eventually it’s all going to end anyway? And what about eternity, if it exists after death or not; is life worth the chance of eternity in heaven or hell or even no existence at all?

I believe in God. I believe in Heaven and Hell. I also believe my life has been hell and what I’ve done in my life deserves an eternity in Hell after I die. So if I could do it all again and go back to the nothingness of before my birth, I would choose that.

But if I believed in nothing, if I believed after death it’s just a void like the time before my birth, what the hell is the point of all this wasted time and energy anyway? Why would an intelligent being continually take a bucket of water from one end of the pool and dump it into the other end of the pool trying to change the depth in one way or another? What temporary satisfaction is worth anything at all?

Just what the fuck is the point of it all anyway?

When I was 17 or so, I lost the love of my life. Every relationship I’ve had since then has been compared to what I considered perfect. I did not believe there were two people on the planet more compatible than he and I, and until today I still picture what he and I had as the epitome of true love.

Sure, I’ve loved many people since. It’s just that none of those loves have been as pure, as innocent, as all-consuming as the love he and I shared. We lived in a dream world. And it was a dream world we built together.

It’s been more than 10 years, and a part of me still loves him. I still think about him almost every day.

A few days ago I was talking to a friend here about relationships and love, and naturally A’s name came up. The following day I found myself Googling his name. I didn’t really expect to find anything, so when links popped up and I found him in a photograph taken just a few years back at a work function where he was handing out awards, my heart dropped, my breathing paused and I could do nothing but stare.

His hands were just as beautiful in the photo as they were when they were wrapped around mine. His face hadn’t changed. He was stunning to look at.

For an hour or two my whole world seemed to stop. I had to know what he was doing with himself. I had to know if he had ever married, if he enjoyed his job, how many of his teenage dreams came true, and most importantly I needed to know he was happy. I cried for a bit, as memories rushed through my mind and I thought of how badly I still wanted him.

I picked up the phone and called his office.

The man who I spoke to wasn’t the same carefree, life-filled, optimistic, calm man I’d fallen in love with so many years ago. He was polite and graceful as I knew he always would be. He asked about me and mine and he didn’t try to hang up the phone at the first opportunity I gave him. But the man I spoke to was miserable. He sounded unhappy beyond belief. He was pessimistic. He was broken. 10 years had taken their toll.

So many days have passed. And so many moments I’ve wondered what could have been. Yesterday, I found out. Had I been by his side today, I’d have been just as miserable as he was. Had I gotten what I’ve wanted for years now, I would not be half as happy as I am today.

When we were together, we truly shared one heart. And if I had to feel today what I can feel you’re feeling, I think I’d have to kill myself. I love you. I always have and I always will. But I think you’ve finally given me the closure I needed to know I’m better off without you.

I’m getting restless. In the past little while I’ve picked up knitting, fabric printing and a paint brush again. I’ve read an entire book that I found lying around my office during the course of 3 shifts. But even with a new hobby each week, and a new boy in the picture I’m not satisfied. It’s like I’ve always got to be going somewhere or doing something.

Yesterday I drove to Vancouver. For a minute or two in the morning, Squamish just felt too small for me. All I could think while on the way was, ’the US border is just an hour or so that way’. I had my 18-year-old niece with me. Maybe, if I have time for it and this urge to move doesn’t up and leave me, I’ll visit Flur next month. I want to go to Seattle. It’d be a nice change, being the odd Canadian driver on American streets, rather than the odd asshole with Washington plates on our roads, forgetting their high-beams on, blocking traffic, failing to give way, and driving slow in the fast lane of our Canadian highways. Sometimes, it feels like a curse living between the boarder and one of the world’s best ski resorts and usually, that’s when I’m either blocked or blinded by an American driver making their way up to the resorts.

The sun is coming out and the snow is melting. I’m starting to wake up early again, as if all the winter sleeping is done with and life can begin again. I wonder if it’s just the seasonal transition that makes me feel so restless? Maybe I should get a second job?

Last night while I dreamt I was shot in the head, twice. It didn’t hurt and as far as know, I didn’t die. I just had a gaping, bloody hole in the back of my head. It’s rare that I dream of being injured, so I thought that was worth mentioning.

At work yesterday, I took a call for the newsroom about a kidnapping of a 5-year-old boy from school that morning. Listening to the child’s aunt talk, I felt my own heart was ripped out of my chest and stomped on a little bit. Thinking of the amounts of ugly I get to listen to in a day, whether it be one drug dealer or another in the US trying to report another drug dealer, or a report of an 11-year-old girl’s rapist’s whereabouts being shared on the Crime Stoppers line because the caller is more interested in getting a reward than actually having the rapist caught, or just your average dick who thinks the women’s crisis line is there for his own personal entertainment and all the support workers are there just to prank call, or the Alcoholics Anonymous line where alcoholics need to find a meeting as soon as possible as they don’t have the personal strength within to stay sober one more minute without group support, I know that my issues are far smaller than so many other’s.

But, my mom’s been given 6 months to live if she doesn’t start taking care of herself. Should she clean herself up, stop drinking and start eating properly, she may have a few years. I don’t see that happening. The last time I saw her, I woke her up in the afternoon. Sleeping by her side was a new toy dog. She paid a thousand dollars for a dog the size of a rat, that’s better off at Paris Hilton’s side than my mom’s. This little thing is just a puppy. It can’t jump off the bed itself to eat or go to bathroom. The results are disturbing. The last time I saw my mom, she was sleeping on a bed that was covered in this dog’s urine and faeces and she didn’t care enough to clean it up or remove the dog. I’d been told that should my brother or father take the dog away to feed it or walk it, she accuses them of stealing it. They do it anyway, out of compassion for the little guy. And while I was there, I mentioned it was cute and all of the sudden my mother was rambling on about how I was fighting with my brother (who wasn’t at home and I hadn’t seen in weeks) about who gets to keep the dog.

My mom was pretty much lethargic. She was talking in circles, and I couldn’t get her out of bed let alone out to lunch. She had growths on the bottom of her feet the size of golf balls, and her mind clearly wasn’t there; every now and then a cheerful “Hi!” leaving her lips mid conversation, as if I had just walked into the room though I had been there close to an hour trying to get her up and out. Eventually, I had to leave as I had a ferry home to catch. It was heartbreaking. Everything that’s happening to her and that she is doing to herself is heartbreaking. And I’m no longer convinced it’s psychosis and alcoholism. I believe most of what she is today is purely alcohol related. She lost a few marbles before she started drinking as much as she does, sure. But what she is today isn’t my mom at all, and the irreparable damage drinking excess of a litre of Gin a day has done to her brain and body is beyond comprehension.

I miss my mom. And I can’t stand to see her this way. But I live my daily life and try to push the sad reality of what’s happening to the back of my head. And still, life is good for me. I have it so much better than so many others. And there’s literally nothing that can happen to me, or that I can do to myself that can change that.

I didn’t need it. I wanted it. I could have come home and gone to bed. Instead, as soon as I was dropped home, I jumped into my car and to the store to buy a pack. I then drove to Whistler, because I live so fucking close and hadn’t bothered to do it yet. From Whistler, I drove back into town, to Shoppers where I bought the lightest, brightest blonde hair dye I could find. I now sit waiting for it to take to my somewhat brown hair. I dyed it dark at the start of winter. It’s still fucking cold, but it’s time to be blonde again.

I met a boy. He confuses me. I confuse me. I don’t need a boy. But I think I may want one. And even worse, I think I may want him. But he’s so wrong for me in so many ways... and so right in so many others. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing with him. But I know next time I see him, I’ll be blonde.

Boys are bad. Girls are worse. And I smoked a cigarette.

With every separation
every lover of mine lost
with every aching craving
every unrequited lust
I’ve carried doubts.

This time it is no different
you haunt my heart and mind
creeping out of nowhere
you never fail to remind
I need you.

But like every failed union
every one I’ve left behind
like every other reason
and every other time
you do me wrong.

And like every other swindler
every other con
concealed all true intentions
sang a hypnotizing song
and fooled me.

But now I turn my back
I’m finally able to see
the sadomasochistic binding
between you and me
needs breaking.

With every time I burned you
sizzled your fragile skin
with every intimate moment
I took you deep within
you tried to take my life.

~*~

I quit smoking yesterday. It’s almost amazing how much it feels like losing a lover. It’s the first thing I’ve felt passionate enough about to write poetry in years it seems.

Catching the latest ferry to the island last night, I found unexpected comedy. Waiting in the line up at the terminal then dark, that in the middle of the day is usually enveloped in some of the most calming and beautiful scenery on earth, I caught glimpse of signboards I’d usually take no note of.

The terminal in the day, last autumn:


~*~

~*~


Driving through clouds so low, seeing the fog wrap it’s mystical fingers around fallen orange, red and green leaves always makes me picture little elves and ferries hiding just out of sight in their log homes. But we’ll save those thoughts for another night. Last night’s eye-catcher was more amusing.

The signboards start off like any other official notice. First there was a flash asking us to park within 24 inches of the cars in front of us, naturally to conserve space on the ferry. Then there was this:



Perfectly normal. The 3rd sign flashed was just plain common sense:



But the last sign we got actually made me giggle:



~*~

Who the hell got to determine the order in which these signs are displayed? And why did I find that amusing enough for me to share? I have a feeling it’s like a ferry crew’s internal joke or something. There’s no way they could have absentmindedly given us a number to call while we’re not supposed to be talking on the phones to find out why we’re not supposed to be talking and driving and boarding a vessel at the same time, could they have?

Anyhow... I made it to the island and finally to Greater Victoria. A friend of mine is going through a bit of a tough time right now, having just broken up with his girlfriend, working 5 jobs and living out of a hotel. So I stopped by his one of his work places just after 1am, that just so happens to be a strip club he bounces at, to give him a hug. I decided while I was there, I should watch at least one show – after 12 years of censorship in the UAE, I’m in a place where being naked is legal!! Yay me! (When I reread this, all I can think is "That's gheeeeey..." Thanks mother-of-six-cats, you've ruined me). Anyway, the show wasn’t half as amusing as I thought it’d be, thus I left midway through the show to Sam’s place.

We spent the night watching German movies, chatting bullshit, and simply catching up. My stay was over way too soon, with me waking up this afternoon and rushing out the door while giggling at elementary insults slung at me on an online forum most-likely blocked in the UAE. I thought everyone knew, Samurai Sam has given me his best shot! And there is no internet warrior on the planet that can scorn worse than that boy was able in his day – unless of course, it was my own metaphorical gun pointed at my own head. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing, or a bad thing but I no longer have the motivation, or even inspiration to let my male ego take over and show a bitch a bitch even when provoked - I'd rather knit; which by the way, happens to be my most recent hobby, and my debut scarf has gotten rave reviews! Anyway, back on topic, whether it's good or bad, it certainly is the case. CG would be so proud of me...

So dinner with my family went smoothly. It took a bit of convincing to get my mom out of the house, and every now and then her even sober statements would stray from any relevant topic. She looked frail and fragile, and a little bit vulnerable and naive. She complained about being cold, talked about having to pack up her dinner for the dog, giggled at little jokes, but mostly stayed quiet. Sometimes, it almost feels like my mom is becoming a child again. Today, as I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her, she almost started to cry. She almost started to cry as she did when she departed Dubai for Canada, without me. I think my mom herself knows as well as we all know, that she’s near her last breath. I think she can feel the irreparable damage the alcohol, and sheer neglect of her body she’s done. And more importantly, I think she’s come to recognize and is shameful of her actions over the past year, her actions and the consequences of them that have affected the entire family.

She promised she would come visit. And as crazy as she is, so long as she’s not drinking while she’s here, I’m looking forward to it.

I didn’t get a chance to see a few people I’d planned to while I was on the island. And for that reason, I’ll have to go back sometime soon. But I did have a coffee with Rodney on my way out. And I did have an epiphany while having to go pee more than I’d ever had to in my life, only to be postponed from accessing the bathroom for one reason or another until I thought my teeth were literally going to start floating or my tummy would simply bust right open... and I did observe an amusing table of Jordanians while on the ferry ride back. But it’s 2.30am, and the kittens curled up at my side, are a reminder it’s now time for me to go to bed – or I’ll be late for work tomorrow despite all my efforts to insure I’d make it. So we’ll have to save those stories for another day.

For now, I leave you all with this: