But Some Things Never Change

Today I culled my Facebook list. Starting out with 332 friends I made myself a pledge that I would half that number. (I actually did one better and got down to 165. )

What a strange way to quantify your life.

I’ve been juggling the idea of writing a post about “growing up” for a couple of weeks now. “Growing up.” Bah. Whatever might that mean? I’ve started drafts in WordPress, made notes on foolscap, Post-its, diaries, and spent a lot of time thinking. It’s something the last couple of weeks have led me to feel is necessary to interpret into words. I know this simple necessity is how I process the abstract concepts I struggle to understand. Writing something out is how I get myself to identify all the random things floating through my head; structuring them into a coherent set of sentences and paragraphs is how I come to understand it. The more simple the problem, the more simple the written word; the more abstract, the more likely it is to be fiction.

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Thou Art a Heartless Bitch

The grieving process is a strange thing. I don’t think anyone knows how it’s supposed to go. Perhaps it helps to realize what stage you’re supposed to be in, be it denial, anger, bargaining, and so on. But I don’t really think so. I think we all kind of muddle through. There’s no really set way you’re supposed to act. There’s no etiquette. No rules.

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Only the Good

I am still in disbelief. I can’t even form a proper sentence. You were one in a trillion; larger-than-life. Unforgettable. You were more sincere and genuine than anyone I will ever meet in my entire life (I know this). You were always yourself, unapologetically and unabashedly. I will always keep you with me.

The stories and memories have been playing through my mind on endless repeat. Fourteen years of you. There are so many I don’t even know where to start; they keep popping up like some ridiculous window devoid of context, no chronology but just moments.

Pure, simple moments: your laugh, the way you pushed up your sleeves; that blue shirt you wore all through grade twelve because you thought (correctly) it looked smokin’; your lewd comments and loud guffaws; how I used to have to prepare people for meeting you (the “Jon Talk”); the way you called me a sister; the way you talked a mile a minute with your mouth full, rambling about pickles; the gel in your hair; your old, shitty car (“ole Bluey”) that didn’t go in reverse and you needed to leave the windows open or die of carbon monoxide poisoning; your bear hugs; the way you hit on my mom; and my sister; and my friends… a lot of my friends; and my aunt; and my godsister; the fact that your favourite series of Red Dwarf was series eight (seriously?); when you were five-foot-nothing in grade eight with that white turtleneck; you knowing all the lyrics to Baby Got Back and rapped it beautifully; seeing the Star Wars trilogy rerelease with you; going through the Lord of Rings gauntlet with you – extended editions and everything; the Full Frampy; you were the greatest character I ever wrote (and I didn’t even have to exaggerate all that much); the way you loved people… your family, your friends… you loved unconditionally and completely; the fact that you were always the first to comfort people… so right now I just don’t know what I’m going to do…

I will miss you forever. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to believe you’re gone.

I love you, Jon-Jon Frampypants.

Uber-epic-osity: John Hughes-style plans for a comedy-rich hypothetical wedding

This month has been quite the maelstrom of epicness. Well, not in regards to my life, but in regards to those around me. Of the people I know, more have come out of this month married than divorced, so that’s always nice. In addition to the newly crowned Darcie Adkins, nee Vaillant, Caitlyn LePard, one of my dearest friends for these last twenty-odd years, is now Caitlyn Atkinson. Frankly, I’m a little annoyed that there’s been all this alphabetical order queue jumping. Don’t we have to wait behind enough ‘A’ names as it is? I’m extremely happy for Caitlyn and Jim – in fact so happy that a hyperbolic statement is virtually impossible in attempting to describe my elation – and it was honestly the first wedding I ever cried at.

 I had the honour/stress of driving up to Manning Park, the lovely wedding venue, with Caitlyn a few days before the wedding to meet up with Steve, the groomsman/wedding planner, to start setting everything up. Despite the stress and workload, everything went swimmingly. Which was fantastic for Caitlyn and Jim, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly hoping for it to play out like a late-eighties comedy; something to fill the void John Hughes left. There was the usual cavalcade of mishaps and stock characters continually teetering on the edge of emotional breakdown, but everything ended well and happy, with only minor injuries. Personally, my funny bone could have used a few more footballs to the groin, but at the least the bride and groom were happy. I’m sure they didn’t think slapstick would have suited their wedding anyway.

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