A Bride Between Butts

If you've been lurking my Insta-story for butts, you'll notice they've been blended with a lot of mentions of pigeons and a blonde in a wedding dress.

Pigeons second, blonde first.
(as it should be)

That's Chelsea & that wedding has been on-again off-again looming in my life for the last decade.


Not surprisingly, I was not asked to speak at the wedding. As the history is deep and largely digitized, I set off in search of the best photos to illustrate why. However it would seem an equal amount of regret and some semblance of maturity set in for both of us as we were quite diligent in destroying our delinquent digital depths. 

I even went back as far as Myspace - however it no longer makes physical sense and contains no discernible search feature. 


But one thing we both loved and too quickly discounted were Facebook wall overshares - which speak volumes louder than any anecdote either of us could provide; which is no small feat given that we both lack any sense of volume control. 

That maniacal scream-snort-laugh progressing to an attempt at a feminine exhale and return to neutral is fairly reflexive of most of our time together. 

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Our dependance ran deep and drunk and it remains a miracle how Erin didn't skin us both alive.

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(minus makeup)

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My ability to smooth talk her into relative compliance coupled with yours to keep me sober and standing long enough to do so lead to many missions in the *NAME OF YOUR SHITTY CAR WITH PEI PLATES THAT YOU REFUSE TO ANSWER ME ABOUT* while substituting windshield wipers for a rag on a stick. 

Our differences ran nearly as deep as the drunk - the back of your closet has always been barfed on by bridal bullshit and mine has always been growing in concern. 

But that's why it worked. You were my first drunk mom (though certainly not the last as that position has proven to be a life-long one). You were also the same person that convinced an emotionally distraught me to drive 600km solo in November to Sudbury and handed me a measuring cup full of liquor & a pre-selected rebound to regret. But it's the thought that counts, right? 

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I don't know what the fuck I did for you. I suppose my growing hobbies helped your ego.

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And my glass half empty rants seemed to balance yours that was overflowing with dreams and dish soap like your hot tub was in grade 11. 

You were around during my seminal struggles & sternum shouting & never shunned me for it. But asked me many questions before asking me to shoot your wedding because of it - and rightfully so. Because what comes out of my mouth is and always has been seemingly decided by a sadistic roulette and you know I've got the stories and scars to share. 

But maybe what you don't know is how happy I was to be reminded of all of this. 

Our wants and needs took us in entirely opposite directions in life - where it's hard to say if they'd ever fit together again. But they did for one day and I found myself unexpectedly reminded how that never mattered.

I indulged in many human milestones I would not have otherwise because your search for a storybook was so genuine that it was fun to watch. 

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And nothing that I was able to contribute to your existence needs further documentation in writing on the internet.

But that sensation of searching I felt you feel our whole adolescence was entirely absent from this day. 

I spent the whole thing watching your friends and family dote on you in a way I know you've always wanted and rarely received. 


I saw your mom smile infinitely more than she screamed.


I caught your dad having a moment before he performed - not because of the crowd but because it was to you. 

I heard strangers from Brandon's family speak about yours with such enthusiasm and appreciation that I believed in the bond building. 


And that's why I believed you about Brandon. Even as someone that has zero want for her own fairytale and have been been on the outside of your pursuit for yours longer than I've been on the inside. 


Because I watched you and your jawline all fucking day and I've never seen you so happy.


He certainly isn't a three-legged dog. 


Uncontrollably Loud (and Working on Proud)

Off the top - hi Mom. Cause I know you'll read this. Just do so with the reminder of how long I've lived alone and how tiny I am. 

And maybe don't show Dad.

God bless the technologically inept.

Moving on: PRIDE

It's here. I'm only marginally queer. But certainly all sorts of weird.

I think all the best people are.



But I like to think I have good taste in humans too. I only want the wonderfully weird for my zombie apocalypse team and feel very fortunate for the ones I've coraled thus far. 

And if you feel that effort is over-zealous, irrational or outright paranoid, might I remind you: 

Circling back: PRIDE

While I personally don't feel my choices qualify me to participate in pride in the traditionally non-traditional sense, I'd like to think that the intrinsic nature of the celebration extends to the general acknowledgement and attempt at normalization of anything subversive.


I'M GONNA TALK ABOUT ANXIETY AGAIN. You should sense it by now. My issues expect it of you because they simultaneously make me very selfish [as a self-care based coping mechanism] but also hyper-aware of the emotions of those around me; which when coupled with what once presented as incredibly high intelligence/borderline autism [that has now been quietly corralled and streamlined thanks to the simultaneous dulling and calming effects of large amounts of marijuana during formative years] you end up with a multitude of tendencies that float in the grey area between compulsion and talent.


Weird people are usually super useful people thanks to/in spite of the things that make them weird people.

Those that ride the struggle bus also know how to drive; in shifts. 

Struggles subside. And it's interesting how our coping mechanisms naturally start to fuck off once you stop needing them. 

If you don't feed the monster, it can't grow.

But you can still see us, if you're looking. Plucked out of a crowd because you're trying too hard to blend in you end up standing out. It's inevitably going to happen every now and then because you can't control the uncontrollable or rationalize with the irrational.



* Brooke: Human Filter

It's bound to slip and you're bound to slip up and expose yourself as the emotional craft project that you feel like.

But fuck it. Because the things that make you weird usually mirror the things that make you great.

You're just only looking at one side. 

While sometimes it looks like a motionless shell of a human, high-functioning is a real label that is achievable & maintainable; through constant, daily (if not hourly) self-awareness, maintenance and control. And if that sounds like a lot, it's because it is. But if you're in limbo, I promise you it's worth the effort.

You'll never be 100%. 90%, if you're lucky. But that's still a great number.

So in the spirit of "fuck it", the only festive spirit I'm physically capable of being in, here is an exercise in humility and a reminder that anxiety isn't synonymous with nerves or fear.

And that sometimes it's just down to fuck with you.

Pick your battles:

5. I have control issues. I try and use them to my advantage. But busy grocery stores full of idiots buying low-fat sour cream give me rage blackouts.

4. I look at my keys a lot when I'm out. Usually once an hour. 

3. In high anxiety moments, I find it almost impossible to form sentences or use my hands. I often gauge my levels by how well I can roll a joint. 

2. The "Happy Birthday" song is my first notable nonsense trigger and I was unable to be present for any rendition of it until high school. 

1. I smell books. Especially if the pages are thicker.