Down Days on Lake Samish with my Godfather and his Fiance

I’m in Vancouver, BC at my friend Jenny’s apartment. Last night I went swimming with my friend Jeff at the public swimming pool. We went off the diving board. We practiced swimming underwater. We went in the hot tub. And all the while I was thinking, “I’m going to live in this city.” “I’m.” “Going.” etc etc.

Now it’s 8:02am and the traffic is passing by on 16th Avenue East. I’m contemplating a move to either 49th parallel to get coffee….or tea, or maybe Snackland just down the street to get a yerba mate. A mate. Why do I call it “yerba mate?” Only goons call it yerba mate and the only reason I call it yerba mate is just in case some jackass comes across this blog and doesn’t know what “mate” means. Also, there is never an accent over the “e” in mate. It’s not pronounced, “ma-TAY,” it’s pronounced: MA-tay. Easy. So don’t ever put an accent over the E.

Maybe I’ll make some of Jenny’s coffee.

Today I’m going to: Walk to Whole Foods to get a smoothie, not apply for jobs, smoke a couple rollies with Jeff, write Clara, possibly walk downtown or somewhere far like the Indigo on Granville and Cambie, reserve my train ticket for tomorrow morning even though it would be kinda sick just to go to the island today to meet up with B and H.

And yeah. That’s about it.

Growing up on Bainbridge I used to love to go to the one dollar blackjack tables at Clearwater Casino, but then when they moved out of the bubble they only had five dollar minimums. Too rich for my blood. God, I love going back there. Not to the casino, that place is pretty awful, but to Bainbridge. I don’t know why I never hang out in Seattle. Seattle is a prison of techies and people with lots of money but very little culture. People who don’t read. You gotta fucking read.

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