028. Irvine Welsh Screening Trainspotting + Signing (Part 1)

So I’m in Toronto, sitting in a Tim Hortons right beside TIFF and waiting the three hours or so until I have to go line up to get to meet my favourite author, Irvine Welsh. There will be a screening of Trainspotting and then he will be doing a signing of his books and it’s amazing. I’m going to go and grab a copy of his newest book, A Decent Ride and hopefully read that tonight.


This trip is a literal last minute plan. Irvine told me about this whole thing on my Twitter today after we previously exchanged some words (I’m notorious for having broken my hand the read a part in Skagboys that was relevant to my injury while in the ER, I Tweeted him and he knows me as the broken hand person hahaha). I told my girlfriend who proceeded to buy my ticket, and a friend who was heading into Toronto gave me a ride.


I live an hour away so this was a very nice thing for him to have done. I’m going to be posting about the show afterwards, but for now, I need to pass the time by sitting in this Tim Hortons and hope they don’t kick me out (because I don’t know anyone in Toronto and thus, would have no where to go).


This is a once in a lifetime chance for me and I am extremely excited for this to be a thing I get to be apart of. I’m hoping to get a photo with Irvine, but if I don’t, I’ll have my books signed and have seen him and that will be awesome enough for me.


I will try and update as I can but for now, this will be a 2 or 3 part post.


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026. And It’s Been Awhile.

Since I could hold my head up high.

You’re welcome on the ear worm. I’m noticing that I still have visitors despite having not updated this blog in quite some time. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do about it but I wanted to do something so here’s a post. I should probably work more at getting this site up and actually having content… we’ll see.


Not much to say about the first five months of the year (well, four, but it’s almost May, so..) – I lost my friend Gale in January (her cancer returned, this time terminal). I broke my hand a week before her funeral on January 27th, and in March something happened but I don’t recall (unless you want to know the logistics of the GI issue that sent me to hospital). April wasn’t any better – my mother made a suicide attempt and was missing for 36 hours (full-on police search, she was in the news, etc). Now as May is coming up, I’m hoping the only ‘big’ thing is the fact that I’ll be 29 in two weeks.


Some positives: I’m still in DBT even though I’m a bit ‘stuck’ or perhaps they’re right in treatment-resistent depression. I started CPT last week and am working on that as well. Not sure if I’ll continue my mental health blogging over at Nixy Interrupted (which is equally as un-updated because no1curr to listen to someone’s negativity on the internet) or move here.


My kitty-face is turning 2 today, and otherwise… I mostly spend my days sleeping, working on therapy, or gaming. I’m boring as hell, and you know you’re avoidance of past trauma is high when you have to bug your fiancé at 3am to help you remember events in a certain order.

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005. The Writer’s Insanity.

I am live blogging from The Winchester Arms for the National Novel Writing Month (NANOWRIMO) TGIO (Thank God It’s Over) party which is dinner and thankfully so. I am starving, and eyeing the Shepard’s pie that is on the menu.

At the moment we have 23 people (as of 516p) and it is 5:09p so everyone seems to have made it. Excited to be around so many writers!

Expect this post to be updated throughout the evening.

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004. Isolation.

It’s all scribble. I don’t really have anything original to say. Writing can’t save me. How can I escape from the demons in my head?

Hemingway had this classic moment in ‘The Sun Also Rises’ when someone asks Matt Campbell how he went bankrupt, all he can say is, “Gradually, then suddenly.” That’s how depression hits. You wake up one morning afraid you’re going to live. —Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

Being bipolar is an excuse to be a bitch. Having borderline personality disorder is an excuse to explain away the guilt, the hot-and-cold emotions (on-again, off-again relationships), the flitting in and out of people’s lives until they can no longer take it and you find yourself without friends. Having a mental illness is a crutch, an excuse to do stupid, regretful actions and to say horrible, regretful words. 

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003. Kush.


The voices around him disappear as he lights his torch and the bud lights up, glowing in the darkness. He takes two quick inhalations and then another slower, longer one, until the sweet smoke burns his throat and he can feel tendrils of it curling into his lungs and nose. There’s chatter but he’s vaguely aware of anything other than the glow of the burning drugs and the soft snick snick of the lighter.

As the pipe warms in his hands, he takes one last inhalation before handing both the lighter and pipe off to the girl beside him. She’s his age, with shoulder length hair that is bleached blond. She is totally beautiful. Married, unfortunately, and her husband is asleep inside, as are her three children and we’re sitting on the porch, the townhouse unit beside us empty of its previous tenants and darkened. The pipe is passed around and suddenly the laughter and hushed voices come rushing back. The peak of the high is quick and leaves his face feeling numb and slightly pinched, as if he’s just had botox or something.

Soon they’ve made it through a couple of bowls and she decides to start walking. They gather their drinks – his is Jack Daniels and Nestea – and walk with the pipe, dodging spider webs between the townhouses and trees and trying to light the pipe while walking, with the flame getting low. They’ve used up all of the lighter fluid already.

He wants to see the shell of this house that burned down five months ago and so they go, then decide to hit the Palmwood, but the beach still reeks of shit, and they aren’t that high to appreciate ‘nature’ like that. One guy drives by and asks where they’re going.

To the bar! They say.

Well.. you’re going the wrong way! He says. It takes a minute and they all laugh.


The walk home seems slow as the drugs kick in and the air is sticky and humid. Heat lighting is off in the distance and humidity is starting to fog up the air. They trudge home, splitting off at each of their respective doors, settling in to do their nightly routine – she goes to bed with her husband and kids; he goes to write on his laptop and the third – his cousin – gives into his munchies and hits the sack.


Eventually, he is left awake, alone, watching storm come in and sitting on the laptop, alone, slightly hypersensitive to sound but not enough to truly be psyched out. It’s a good high; and short-lived. Just for this week, and come Thursday, when he arrives home – no more oxys, kush or skag.


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