Dear Ex,

Please get out of my dream.

As you can see, we are in my subconsciously-reconstructed form of Port Hardy. See that half-finished mansion? That’s my uncle’s house. Where you’ve just parked your car? That’s Trena and Keith’s house, circa 1993. See these people? They’re my friends and relatives from times gone past.

No, you cannot come to my Godson’s christening. My family hates you. Get off that seine boat; those are my friends in there, not yours.

Also, why are you acting so reasonable? Is it because you’re an uninvited guest in my dream? You were only really reasonable for short periods of time in reality. I appreciate that my mind may have constructed you as reasonable here, but I know it’s only a matter of time.

You’ll go on a mega-healthy exercise kick and cut out all forms of sugar while putting yourself on an extra supplement diet that will include gingko biloba and L-Creatine and I don’t know what else. Then you’ll insist on cooking only with duck fat. Hint: You’ll have to shoot and render your own around here, Health Boy. Next, you’ll go macrobiotic. You can’t go macrobiotic in Hardy. They’ll string you up as a stinky hippie. Actually, go right ahead. I’d like to see Port Hardy kick your ass.

Anyhow, after the macrobiotic thing, you’ll read something on the internet about how fiber is really quite dangerous. Around this time, you’ll decide that the ‘occasional’ drink is ok. Within two months you’ll be drunk every night and looking around for the best deals on weed.

Never content with the status quo, you’ll move on. You’ll get one of the skanky apartments in Tall Trees and set up a meth lab in the mildewy bathroom. Do you still think you’re my boyfriend? You might. Remember? I’m the one thing you haven’t managed to destroy. Having me be your girlfriend makes it ok that you’re a sketched-out drug dealer with no real friends, only people you get high with. Of course, we won’t hang out together, because I hate your friends and this is MY town. I have my own friends.

Well, you’ll be heavily stuck into your own product soon, and won’t go out for much of anything at all. Eventually, your dingy-walled apartment will become a veritable junk store of stolen goods people have traded you for their drugs. Your home will be littered with stolen tools, bikes, and electronics. Except for the one chair where you sit, all furniture is covered. There’s a miter saw on the coffee table and oily rags and plastic bags and fast food wrappers all over the floor. They rustle. It might be roaches. Could be rats. Oh, speaking of rats, the one you bought as a pet is dead in the corner over there. I can smell it. Or maybe that’s the friends who are hanging out with you. Nice. Hey, is that Ronnie Smith? He drinks Lysol. I know, I’ve watched him. And, hey, you asshole, that’s Evan’s ratchett set. I’m taking it back to him.

I’m dumping you now, so get out of my dream. I haven’t actually been your girlfriend for a long time. Those guys on the seine boats? Yeah. I’ve been sleeping with them for weeks now. Yes, all of them.

So go, already.


Where to spend Christmas?

E has said that he’d like to visit his folks this year. That’s fair, and I can understand that. His brother, who I have never met, will be there. I should be there as well. I should meet his brother, even though, from E’s accounts, he’s not exactly a fun guy. Kind of like my own brother, but without the communication or charisma or sense of humour. His bro is doing his PhD in Religious Studies in…Windsor? Waterloo? I’m a bad girlfriend; I don’t even know where the guy is. But whatever. All this is second to my own little convoluted mind. (Why? It’s all about me, me me!)

I’ve never had Christmas away from Vancouver. I recognise that it was immensely unhealthy for all involved when I stepped into my dead mother’s shoes and assumed many of her Christmas responsiblilities. I should have petitioned that my father take us to Cuba, but I am a sorry-assed, weak-willed little traditionalist, and so was overwhelmed. Traditions are comforting. They enfold us with the (sometimes choke-making) traditions of the past, like an old duvet that holds the ghosts of farts that were atrociously pungent, but are now only faintly unpleasant shadows of ther former fragrance. And my family is nothing, if not traditional.

So, am I a terrible daughter if I abandon my father and maybe my brother and sister-in-law (but maybe not, as they’re encouraged to stay on their respective campuses and go to conferences between Christmas and New Years that may have a serious impact on when and where they gain Professorial employment when they’re done their PhD’s) for the Holidays?

No idea.

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