Sourced from my umpteen photo files & albums throughout the years...
To enhance your image-viewing-experience click on the video for a delightful selection of background music!
I sat in disbelief. Confronting Ken or trying to change his attitude was my other options. I quickly determined they would be to no avail—and may put me in a dangerous situation. He had potential weapons and a hatred for life at his disposal. I only had air freshening spray, and my wit and charm.
I drove to a bridge. Stopping mid-span, I reached over Ken's large, gruff body and opened his door.
Final destination, have a great flight!
Certainly, my second drive of the day would be better?
I never missed work. I was a functioning addict. In my life, I host a roster of demons. I took another toke and looked down to the street below. I saw a white van parked on the corner, engine idling. Two cretins were standing beside it—one large, balding, gruff—the other skinny, slimy, both lowlifes. They were forcing two girls into the van. The girls were resisting. I slammed another rig into my veins, continued my climb, took another swig--and started my descent to the street below
They took me outside, asked me where I lived—then escorted me to my home. The haze was beginning to lift. We climbed the stairs as I dropped from the sky. The slimy punk was a bloody mess—out cold—lying on the floor of my room—a butcher knife lay next to his scalp. My room was dripping in blood. I took control of the situation—doing what needed to be done—I have no regrets. You don't fuck with women.
Two weeks later Shaun left Chintz & Co. He planned his own going away party. Nobody went.
During his last day, he approached a salesman named Duane. Duane is gay. Shaun expressed how he believed Duane's next life would be stupendous. Things will be better for you, he said.
You know I suck cock, right—Duane replied.
Another gay sales associate named Calvin approached.
He glared into Shaun’s eyes and asked: Do you receive a free toaster for each conversion you make?
This morning I ventured to a pharmacy and purchased a five-blade razor. Once home, armed with the sleek device I headed to the shower; quickly undressed, slathered my dome, I then swathed my skull with the razor back to front. Clumps of hair peeled off my scalp. Blood began to pool at my feet.
When I completed scraping, I folded toilet paper into twenty mini-sheets, attached them to my wounds, and smiled. In eight days I will follow these steps again; unless--
One of the biggest challenges of telling the story of your life is—it's incredibly hard for a writer to make strangers feel things about the events and people in their lives readers have no reason to care about—that brings me to the question:
Am I a good enough writer?
After countless hours of reflection, I feel confident: I am. I do know without hesitation our lives are meant to be shared—that's the main reason for living. Our stories share lessons capable of making someone's day a little brighter. They connect us. Where to start? I guess the best place would be DAY 1.
Bernice was born in the middle of the Great Depression in a rural town in the prairies, on New Year’s Day. She was the first born.
One might think with her being the first and me being seventh we'd share a strong bond. You'd think she'd look out for me. Protect me from my older brothers. For the most part, she was absent from my life, except when we visited her on family vacations and when she'd return to the family nest a couple of times every year for the holidays.
We were never close—she had left the family home years before I was born. She hung in the background of my life, filling the air with a biting, running commentary, each time she visited: Lindsay, you will never amount to anything. You will never be as good...
When I was 8, my dad crushed his hand in an industrial accident. Poverty paid our family a visit. We were forced to move into a subsidised apartment complex called Sturby Place.
At least the move took us into the city. In Saskatoon, I made real friends. When we lived on the outskirts of town, all of my friends were imaginary. For sanity’s sake, I created a fantasy world in a walk-in closet where I could hide from my siblings. It was either hide or risk physical and mental assaults.
In the city, I took it upon myself to rally the neighbourhood kids together by organising sporting events.
Being named Lindsay in the era of the Bionic Woman (actress Lindsay Wagner), posed a challenge, especially since I assumed the role of an anti-smoking advocate because of my disdain of my parents' smoking addiction. If I saw one of the neighbourhood kids lighting up, I'd try to talk him or her into quitting.
Hey, Billy, smoking is dumb. Do you want to die young?
The thermostat read -23.6 Fahrenheit. Dad and I were returning from lunch at an Italian restaurant where we feasted on spaghetti smothered meat sauce.
Occasionally, I suffered from motion sickness when I rode in automobiles. On this freezing January day, that was to be the case.
We crossed the Broadway Bridge coming to the intersection of five corners. My stomach churned. I puked on the front floor mats of Dad’s Buick Electra. Dad pulled over. He kicked me out of the car and sped away, forcing me to walk home. We lived three miles from five corners.
On that day, I developed an aversion to spaghetti.
I despised Aunt Mary. Her voice was gravelly from years of inhaling Export A Cigarettes and the after-effects from the over consumption of gin. She donned winged glasses, resembling those of an evil librarian. Her eyes were a piercing black.
My anti-smoking campaign worked on my mother; however, when we visited Mary, my mother would always partake, chain-smoking right alongside her, tearing at my heart’s fibres