I taste dead people.

I work in a basement to afford to rent someone else’s basement.

I can tell when I’m missing out on sunny weather by looking at the rows of glass bricks that wrap around the workshop. It’s still an upgrade from working downtown, where people frequently used the bench outside the patio to smoke a cigarette. I’d step out to use the air compressor to redirect their smoke and annoy them with the noise.

That didn’t work as well as one would expect. I frequently had to shut the door to keep the smoke out, and while this bike shop had windows, they were covered in decals. I’ve yet to see a bike shop that is clean, cozy, and aesthetically pleasing.

Anyway, the daylight hours have extended enough for me to soak up some sunshine after work. Last Sunday, I joined Daniel for his “recovery” ride, as did Rory. I suggested doing some hills around Cadboro Bay, but the waterfront loop Alexa and I did last week seemed more straightforward for my first ride with these guys.

It was a mistake until it wasn’t.

Continue reading “I taste dead people.”

A stabby week.

It’s been two days since my dental work, and I’ve been following the aftercare instructions, which advise against smoking. Instead, I’ve been enjoying an evening highs fuelled by cannabis beverages. It gives me the best kind of high but at a higher cost.

I have stitches halfway down the middle of the roof of my mouth. After pushing it deeper, the dentist did a bone graft to reinforce the implant.

Before I got the implant, I asked a friend who I knew had them how the procedure went for them. What they said was reassuring, if not vague (given their implant happened over 20 years ago).

To anyone who has stumbled upon this post and wants to know how much it sucks to get dental implants:

Continue reading “A stabby week.”

Grab a snack because this is gonna be a long one.

I dreamt I lost Jordi in Costco. I texted him, telling him I was in front. As soon as I sent that message, my message was auto-corrected to “I’m going home.”

Then my panicked fingers couldn’t find the letters I needed to communicate where I was or what was happening. My keyboard didn’t make sense anymore. Only emojis were available, and I could not back out of that keyboard, all while I kept getting texts from Jordi demanding to know why I’d gone home.

I remember this much because I immediately explained my dream to Jordi when I woke up. Later that night, we shared a joint with my roomie outside and discussed the brain’s inability to incorporate actual text into dreams. I have recurring dreams about struggling to communicate in writing. Often, the text in my dreams resembles that of the fake text in Animal Crossing:

It’s merely a suggestion of text and it frustrates the hell out of me. However, the roomie is convinced he can form text in his dreams.

How about you?

Continue reading “Grab a snack because this is gonna be a long one.”

Night of 1000 French Knots.

Millennials or older, do you remember how jogging was a hobby in the 1990s? Now nobody jogs anymore: they RUN.

Soon to come in 2030: sprinters, gallopers, and going to hell for leather…ers.

This is not a revelation of my newest hobby. I’m still hyped about the slow art of embroidery. Last night, I learned how to do French Knots and thought, “Oh, I will do this entire section in French Knots!”  So far, I’ve French knotted a surface measuring 1.5″x1.5″, and it’s taken me at least five hours.

Continue reading “Night of 1000 French Knots.”