The majority of Gen Zers have left behind a digital trail of their former selves, as many social media platforms have been around for more than 10 years. My blog posts from 2000 would have been long gone had I not been meticulous about preserving my e-history.
I have first-hand accounts of my late teenage years, written as they happened; however, I did not straight-up publicize most of my more intimate moments and thoughts.
I was bullied during the last year of school but never published my experiences, knowing that my bully was hate-reading my blog. I also did not discuss the mess that ensued after my breakup with my first boyfriend, knowing that he was reading it. (It used to be easy to determine who my readers were by matching up their IP, which I had grabbed from old emails, with what the web tracker would log.) Instead, I had to disguise my anger and hurt as metaphorical posts.
But, this post is actually going to be about mind-altering substances! I did not start tripping as a teen, as many people did. I was already openly weird and drugs and felt that their involvement was unnecessary. It irked me how drugs absolved my friends of the outrageous things they’d say and do while under the influence.
We are all limited as to what kind of goals we can set for ourselves right now. My fitness routine is restricted to what I can do with a yoga mat, a set of 8-pound weights, and the hangboard we mounted above our bedroom door frame last month. It seems iffy to be leaving our neck of the woods to do some moderate-distance cycling. Even if we go for 4-hour walks, I’m finding that I’ve been spending most of my time on the couch, perfecting that ass groove.
If only I had the inspiration to tackle a new art project.
The most inspiring person I’ve seen in the past week is my across-the-street neighbour who comes outside on his front porch to toot his gold vuvuzela every day at 7pm. Obviously, I can’t hear his masterful vuvzelling, but I can appreciate how he surveys his surroundings when he comes out, “I hope nobody sees me do this,” then gets in position.
I know the point is to thank all the health care workers and that many people are creating their own noise of thanks. To me, it looks like it’s just this one guy tooting away.
I’ve been working on a documentary recap, but until that’s done, I only have the pandemic to talk about. I think everybody is tired of reading about that.
So, for today, I have an update from 2006 I wrote when I also didn’t have anything to write about. This is about the time I was forced to take a month of Music class in elementary school. If you’re new here, I’m deaf.
It looks like I need to expand on the mushroom story mentioned in my previous post. I thought I had shared a satisfying amount of detail, but upon spoon-feeding Yann bonus morsels of information, I’ve come to realize that not everybody was privileged enough to have a backyard, never mind a backyard containing a bounty of mushrooms.
I grew up in the Township of Langley pre-housing developments. All the houses in my neighbourhood were constructed independently in different years, rather than consisting of clusters of cookie-cutter condos painted in a variety of off-white shades. My family’s house was older and slightly smaller than my friends’ homes, but we had a massive backyard bordered by mature cedar trees. At the far left corner was an enclosure where we unintentionally bred rabbits to feed the owls (I realize this will raise more questions), and on the right was–of all things–a tetherball pole.
I’ve actually found a photo of the backyard from five years ago by googling my old address:
Aside from all the hot air balloons that would drift overhead in the summer, it afforded us lots of privacy. My dad would frequently go hot tubbing in the buff, but only at nighttime when the skies were clear of overhead voyeurs travelling via hot air balloons.