Festering childhood memories.

Okay. I’m in love.

I’m in love with Ponyboy, which means Rocky got sold. I’d posted Rocky on Craigslist and UsedVic over a month ago, and go no bites. Was it that the bike was too expensive, or people have terrible taste? Then Rocky ended up on Facebook Marketplace via someone else’s account. First week: nothing. Then, last week, the sun was shining and all of a sudden people were interested.

Before I knew it, Rocky was gone. I wasn’t even around for the transaction. It was awesome of my co-workers to help sell the bike so that I didn’t have to organize a meet-up only to get ghosted. I genuinely had so little hope that the guy would show up on Friday and actually buy the bike. So, I’m showing my gratitude by flooding the shop with baked goods.

Yann asked me if I missed Rocky yet. I don’t, but it is weird knowing that the bike isn’t mine anymore. I’ll probably still see it around the city, possibly being mistreated by the new owner. It’ll be easy for me to spot as I haven’t ever seen another bike like it in Victoria. Or France:

Rocky before Rocky before an armless lady with meaty thighs. (Banyuls-sur-Mer, France.)

After reading a comment on the previous post, I have the urge to expand on my riding history. I really was a tween equestrian champion; however, my riding club was Pacific Riding for Developing Abilities aka PRDA. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t good, but it does mean the playing field wasn’t level; I competed against blind kids, kids with muscular dystrophy, and other disabilities that put them at a far, far more disadvantage than me and my deafness. I still beat the other deaf competitors though.

The lack of competition was only a part of the reason I stopped riding. My parents discouraged sports: mom didn’t want to chauffeur me to all the practices and games involved in many sports. I think Dad had more of a problem with being around aggressive sports parents. I agree that it’s pretty fucked up how emotionally invested adults can get during a soccer match played by ten-year-olds, so I can’t fault him for not wanting to be around those types. My parents also cited financial constraints as reasons I couldn’t join any teams, which I now know is bullshit because if I can afford it now, they could have. Fortunately, horseback riding lessons were only a week, the stable close to home, and Dad was ignorant to the crazy horse people stereotype.

After sweeping the board at my first horse show with Dandy, the stable got a new horse named Kai and assigned me to him. Kai was a smaller and faster horse and more fun to ride. But after a few months, PRDA decided that he was too temperamental and therefore unsuitable for most riders. So, Kai got sent off, and I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I remember my parents breaking the news to me at the dinner table, and I just BAWLED. I was heart-shatteringly ANGRY. In retrospect, it was fucked up how nobody considered how something like this would be a big deal to a kid who had bonded with the horse. I rode a few different horses after that, and it wasn’t the same. So, I quit horseback riding after about a year and a half, leaving me with a shoebox full of blue ribbons to show for it.

Soon after, the horse posters came down. Up went posters of The Lion King and the original Anything Goes Board:

The Lion King Posters were on the other walls.

Unlike most of my friends, I was more interested in Disney movies than boys.

When I am not busy being nostalgic, I repair small appliances. Two days ago, the charging dock for my silverfish vacuum crapped out. The wire had broken in half where it attached to the base. Rather than put the vacuum out for free on the curb as people in Victoria are wont to do, I flipped over the base and undid the screws. It looked like it would be a ridiculously easy fix–as long as you own a soldering iron. As luck has it, I do not have a soldering iron; however, I had access to one at work. A quarter of a lunch break later, I was a master electrician.

When I am not busy with overstating my electronics repair skills–or riding Ponyboy–I’m on Etsy looking at bespoke planters, such as this unlicensed NFL planter:

I find that baby’s physique unnerving.

$42? Well… someone in Montréal is going to tackle this deal.

And this licensed NBA planter:

People do have terrible taste.

Etsy has many gems, but you need to dig deep in a colossal pile of shit for them. I was blessed to come across this decal which I felt was designed with me in mind:

“What the fuck even is that?”

There’s an oarfish in the middle of my full sleeve tattoo, inspired by a random childhood memory: while staying at a motel by Osoyoos Lake, Hard Copy ran a story on fishmongers finding these things swimming near the surface. “What the fuck even is that?” Indeed. I got freaked out about swimming in the lake after that. Kids are dumb, and I was no exception.

Browsing sports-themed planters soon turned into clicking through page after page of custom gimp masks which raised the question: Why am I the way I am?

Had my short-lived stint as a horse girl been long enough to do irreversible damage?

One thought on “Festering childhood memories.

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