Welcome To The Funhouse.

To the soulful sounds of Shania Twain crooning “If You’re Not In It For Love (I’m Outta Here)” and the screaming of boisterous children, I type this while the two Supernaturalepisodes I missed load in the background. Public internet access can be such a pain — I remember the days when all I had to do was roll over in bed and flip open my laptop to get connected.Those days are gone. They really do charge too much for internet nowadays.Anyway, I’ve started this little blog as a chronicle of my various exploits, both at work and at home. I’m a self-proclaimed coffee wench. I’ve spent the last almost-five years of my life working in coffee shops, the latest one located in Newmarket, Ontario. Eight months ago I fled Toronto to live with my mother in a small town up north and the only gainful employment I could procure happened to be a thirty minute drive away (forty-five if you take the beloved YRT). It was that or the gas station down the road, and since lottery tickets and the people who buy them make no sense to me whatsoever, I opted for the easy familiarity of the coffee world.

Over the next few months, I’m going to introduce you to my world and all its wacky characters. Some names will be changed to prevent the charring of my ass and the privacy of those involved. Some names won’t be changed. It’s up to you to guess, I suppose. My own little boring guessing game. As I write this, I’m gearing up to transfer to a different location in the big, bad city. That’s right, after eight months of up-north tranquility, I’ve opted to abandon all my new friends and go back to altercations with the homeless and the tragedy of public transit B.O. I’ve got a little over a month left here, with December 1 set as my date to reenter independent living. I still have to find a store to work in, and find an apartment to live in… my sister’s beau has decided that my boyfriend is plotting against him and therefore staying with them has become an uncomfortable last resort rather than an ideal option. Sad, really. I happen to wonder sometimes if that boy has smoked enough weed to render himself permanently paranoid. No matter, I’ve no shortage of couches to crash on should I find myself in need of emergency lodgings. (I’m not certain if that paints me as a harlot or a wannabe hobo, but I’ve decided either way I’m OK with that.)

BETTY (Momma)
My mother is going to miss me. Sometimes I’m not sure if she’ll miss me or the free coffee to which I’m entitled each week (ha!) but I’m going to miss her too. She’s one of those mystifying regular lottery players. If you ask her, she’ll insist she wins more often than not (and hey, she does) but I’ll never understand the language she speaks when ordering her daily dose of lottery love. I don’t know what the hell a quick pick is, or the benefits of playing encore, which is probably why my career as a pump jockey was dismal and short-lived. But do I complain when she wins $75 and buys me a giant bag of green grapes? Hell no! I eat that shit up and say thank you.

My aforementioned sister is 16 months younger than me, but infinitely more mature. We’ve been close since we were kids, even though I knocked her unconscious with a hammer and she tripped me one time and I fell through a window, resulting in 9 stitches and a bad ass scar. She’s also a coffee wench, although she doesn’t use the term as frequently as I do. She’s very very good at being the boss of people and whenever I have to ask someone to do something, I simply pretend to be her. I’m incredibly grateful for our relationship — she’s truly my best friend. (Sapfest over, I promise.)

CHRIS (Sis’s BF)
Her boyfriend works in a vacuum store, selling and repairing Hoovers and Bissells and whatever other brands are on the market. He drives a red car, smokes a ton of pot and plays weird techno/dubstep music when he drives around baked. I remember one time when I was in my drug phase, I took a bunch of MDMA and then rode around with him, my sis and my bf (we were all friends in those days). He played that music and I swear to whatever gods are in the sky that I felt the music absorbing into my face. That dubstep is probably trapped beneath my skin cells to this day.

We’ve been together for almost three years. He’s loud, boisterous, conceited, narcissistic, hilarious, loving, insane… all the things I like in a man. He’s also protective, as he demonstrated one time when he rescued me from a dirty old man and threw the pervert back into his house by the throat. What can I say? I love tough guys. I also love someone I can fight with. I’m not ashamed to admit I thrive on drama and discussion. He’s overjoyed that I’m moving back to the city since it means he’ll see me more than a couple times a month. He lives in Scarborough.

So that’s the main cast of characters. More will pop up, of course.

For now, I’m off. I’m up at 4AM to work at 5, and I find it usually helps to not be a complete zombie when I’m trying to do things like count money and get shit done.

Bon nuit, tout le monde.

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Sorting out my life by writing about it.

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