Yesterday, I decided to roam my original neighbourhood of North Park for a rush of nostalgia. Here, I occupied the same building for the entirety of the four or so years I first lived in Victoria (2004-2008). The building was in the early stages of decay: the hardwood floors were so trashed that they’d frequently implant your soles with shards of wood; the rear balcony was missing wooden boards and was on the verge of collapsing; the windows wouldn’t stay open without being propped up by assorted objects (mainly dollar store candle holders).
There was a post about the process dated January 24, 2005, but it’s mainly me complaining about having to peel a lot of oranges. The thrilling post was supposed to come once Pruno was ready (but probably not safe) for consumption.
That day did not come, because we forgot about Pruno until I brought it up in a MSN conversation months later. (I’m “bolo throwing champion of 1976”.)
Out of respect for the people no longer in my life, I have edited out their real names.
When I went through my photo collection (see the previous post) I shared with my friends some of the embarrassing snapshots I had of them. I’m not going to post these photos on here, because it’s their shame to share. If my friends want to showcase their bygone dorkiness, they can get their own blog.
The other day, while searching for the most dangerous gun I own, a hot glue gun, I found my stash of teenage-year photos. While my childhood photos are pressed onto sticky pages in photo albums on the other side of the country, and my adulthood photos on Flickr, the photos from my pubescence were in my closet sharing a box with the glue gun.
I remember getting rid of most of the photos in which I looked like a zitty goblin, but I still have all my student transit discount IDs featuring my official school portraits.
My ninth grade photo, in particular, has a little backstory: