I tried. Someday you’ll see.
What a bizarre couple of weeks, well…month really…
The Ducks won the Cup. I got greviously drunk, moreso than the Christmas party, maybe even moreso than the night of Jack at Daniel’s. Scarily so in fact, but no one needs to hear that. Thankfully, I took the next day off work and wasn’t too bad when I actually was able to make it there. Joyous times.
K-Murf went well, as always, it’s good to see those who are important to me. In some cases, it’s sad that these sort of things only bring everyone together once a year. I don’t care to post a blow by blow diagnosis, but we were able to get a table at the Split Crow, my memories of the Alehouse are fuzzy, god bless Red Bull and we moved from petty vandalism with fountains to outright destruction of property, although thankfully we continue to duck responsibility at every turn. I swear, K-Murf 2010 is going to end up with Murf and I driving to dockyards to dispose of a body.
The rest of the time is a mish-mash of happenings. Work has been busy, which actually, at this point, is a welcome distraction. I went home for Canada Day weekend. There was a girl, and now there isn’t. I’m going to be playing soccer on a regular basis, it looks to replace running for a bit. I still don’t go to the gym, despite paying for it. Daniel’s going away (the one I used to live with, not the Evil Twin). I saw Die Hard, Transformers and Sicko in the past two weeks or so. I ran into Crystal again, and now she has hair. Facebook scares me (more on that later, as in another post). I need to write for HF soon, I need to capture the muse again. I received a box full of swag from Versus, a sports channel in the States, via Hockey’s Future. What am I going to do with a martini glass?
On Saturday, I went to Josh’s place. They got a letter from their landlord describing the place as squalor and being full of chattel (look it up). It was hilarious, simply because it didn’t faze them at all. “Well…he IS right…this place has seen two and a half months of straight partying…” Then we sat on the stoop and talked to people, including greasy thirtysomethings and a dude who traded us a too-small chair for a beer, a smoke and a can of soup. Later on, we went for pizza and along the way, a penis was shown to a bunch of Asians (quoth one of the gentlemen “Holy cow!”) and more such ridiculous occurrences happened. We thought we saw the cheeseball thirtysomething later on and yelled and chased him down, but we were mistaken. I can’t imagine how the guy we chased down felt. It was a great night, except the mozza sticks were cold.
On Sunday, April came to visit, which was great. I met her at the mall. Metro Transit changed all the bus signs and the new numbers didn’t work.
While waiting for the bus, a car pulled up with 4 Tim Hortons cups in a tray on their roof. All the other cars were beeping and the guys inside were just beeping and waving back. I pointed and yelled and the guy rolls down his window and launches a French tirade at me. I shake my head and he goes to roll the window back up before explaining the tray was taped on. Alberta plates…I wonder if they did that the whole way here. Curious.
On the bus, there was a woman with a puppet of a dragon. She was having a conversation with said puppet. I tried not to stare, but it was pretty odd.
After hanging out with April, I got back to the apartment and took the elevator to the usual eighth floor. The elevator stops and the doors don’t open. I try the “open elevator” buttons, nothing works. So I travel to the seventh floor, same result. Keep going down. At the fifth floor, I check to make sure the emergency telephone is there (I had my cell, but do you call 911 for that sort of thing?). Once I get to the lobby, the doors open fine and I take the stairs. Eight stories up, the hard way. The elevator has been working fine since then, so I don’t know what’s up with that.
Today, when I left the apartment for soccer, I ran into my neighbour in the hall. She’s an older lady (side story: I first introduced myself when I moved in and didn’t catch/forgot her name and spent the next…well…year, avoiding saying her name while she called me Kevin. Thanks to the old man who sits in the lobby and yells at traffic, I now know her name….and I wrote it on my fridge). Anyway, my neighbour stops me and asks me where my sweater is. I’m in shorts and a t-shirt, because I’m going to play soccer, and so I explain that to her. She tuts a bit and says I should make sure I dress for the weather. So, I pretty much have an adopted grandmother. I hope she makes me baked goods.