The Twelve Days of Festivus: Day Two

THE TWELVE DAYS OF FESTIVUS

Day Two: Grade One

Grade one was a good year for me. I had a really cool teacher (Mrs. Hammond), and good class (no tattlers), and Mr. Mugs to help me learn. But I ended up missing a lot of school. I had been particularly prone to bronchitis when I was a child, and it reared its ugly head several times during my first year of school. Usually, staying at home was preferable to going to school, even though I didn't mind school in grade one, but there was one time in which the last thing I wanted to do was miss school.

In the spring of 1985, the students of the school had a special treat. On the Friday of the week, the kids would get the afternoon off from learning and get to make tacos! I was very excited about the chance to make some tacos. So much in fact that I looked forward to it for weeks. Sadly, all that anticipation built up and built up to a point that the taco-making couldn't possibly live up to my expectations. Even more sadly, I never had the opportunity to find out.
I got sick just a day or two before it was time to make tacos. I was smashed to the floor by a bronchial infection and despite my best pleading, my mum wouldn't let me go to school. I was devastated. I wanted to make tacos so badly and I wouldn't get the chance. I'm sure I cried. And moped. And cried some more. But no one could do anything.
From time to time, someone comes into your life who touches you (metaphorically, you sickos) in a way that you remember forever. Mrs. Hammond was one of those people in my life. Mrs. Hammond had heard soon after about how disappointed I was that I didn't get to attend the school on the day of the taco-making. But rather than feeling sorry for me or patting me on my head in a "there there" fashion, Mrs. Hammond went up and above the call of the teacher.
About a week later, on the weekend, my mum insisted I come along with her to a dog show in which my mum had registered one of her dogs. I didn't really want to go but my dad was at work and I didn't have a choice. Little did I know there was more to mum dragging me to the show than I imagined. When we arrived at the dog show, Mrs. Hammond met us at the gate. Mrs. Hammond knelt down and smiled at me and told me that she had something planned for me. She took me into the dog show (my mum obviously being in on the plan) and walked with me to a food kiosk. At the kiosk, Mrs. Hammond bought tacos. However, when she got the tacos, they were served in pieces. Ingredients, if you will. The plan was obviously to allow me the opportunity to make my own taco since I missed the opportunity before. Mrs. Hammond and I put together our tacos and ate them at a picnic table. I was so happy that day. I got to make those tacos after all. Sure, it's a silly thing, but it was important to a six year old boy for some reason, and Mrs. Hammond and my mum pulled the strings to make sure I had the chance.
I'll never forget Mrs. Hammond for what she did. It was just a small gesture but it stayed with me forever.

The moral of this story is pretty straightforward. A little thought goes a long way. You never know when you might be able to make a difference to someone that will stick with them throughout their lives. So get out there and help a kid make a taco!

P.S. How many times did I say "taco" without making any sort of double entendre references (i.e. "bald taco" giggity)? Oh wait...too late. 

See you tomorrow for Grade Two!

The Twelve Days of Festivus: Day One

Well, it's been about four months since I started blogging. Not a long road, nor a difficult one. However, after some thought, I've decided that it's time to retire my blog. There's just not enough interest in my entries for me to keep it going. Also, there will come a time when I'll be out of stories to tell. Once that happens, all I'll write about are the adventures of my daily life, and I'm not nearly self-centered enough to blog about the boring and mundane and assume people give a shit. There's too many bloggers like that already. So Get Ready for Story Time is going to sing its swan song.

But I won't leave you empty handed. I've decided to write what I call The Twelve Days of Festivus (TTDOF). TTDOF will feature a daily "mini post" about a humourous, dark, or sad point in my past. I thought about whether or not to do TTDOF as having random stories or having a theme and opted for the latter. Since there's twelve days in TTDOF and twelve years in school, I decided I will share a story of my life from each year in grade school (some school related and some that just occurred that year). I couldn't pick twelve of the thirteen years (thirteen when you include kindergarten), so I'm throwing you a thirteenth bonus story one of these upcoming days. So complicated. Anyway, without further adieu, I present to you:

THE TWELVE DAYS OF FESTIVUS

Day One: Kindergarten

Ah, Kindergarten. The prep school of grade school.  A great way to ease kids into the rough waters that is school. A half day of toys, singing, and learning. School seemed so awesome to me then. What the hell did I know?

I remember my first day was something of a shock as my mum dropped me off at R.J. Hawkey school in Airdrie and then fucked off without me. What? In hindsight, she was wise to give me a hug and a kiss and then leave. No turning back as that would delay the lesson I had to learn sooner or later...independence. 

Anyway, about half the way through my kindergarten year, I had still not been able to play in the sandbox. The sandbox was a play station in the kindergarten classroom...one of several such stations that each had their own theme. The teacher would separate students into small groups, and each group would be assigned a different play station to play at for the day. If a child had a birthday on the particular day, they were given choice as to what station they got to attend that day, but sadly my birthday fell during Christmas break. I was fucked. Anyway, for some reason, likely just coincidence and a thoughtless teacher, I never ever got in a group that went to the sandbox station. Every day I lost out and I admit it was really frustrating. Sure, it was just a stupid tiny sandbox in the classroom, but it was way more fun that the toy station or the book station or the colouring station. It even seemed more fun than the Play Doh station (which I don't remember ever attending either...was this teacher out to get me?). I wanted to play in that sand! 

On the day in question, my brilliant four or five year old mind went into overdrive and I came up with a plan. Once we were separated in groups to play, I snuck away from my group and into the sandbox group. I FINALLY got to play! But my victory was short-lived. Maybe a minute or two after I started playing, Mrs. Millen (I think that was the name of the teacher) approached our group and asked which of us wasn't supposed to be there. I kept my cool, but a couple of other kids said I wasn't supposed to be there. Ms. Millen told me that I had to play in my own group and escorted me away. 

Oh man I was mad! Tattlers, unfair teacher, and NO SANDBOX? #%$&#*(&@@*&$*)(^&T%^(#@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I ran over to the sandbox again, but this time it wasn't to play. One of the kids said I couldn't play in the sandbox because it wasn't my turn. I said I didn't want to. The kids then returned to playing with the sand while I watched. When I felt they were suitably distracted, I whipped down my sweatpants. I was wearing underwear, but I preemptively released the mouse from the house before walking to the sandbox. I took my preschool peter and aimed it right at the sandbox. OPEN FIRE!!!

I let loose a stream of the most vengeful pee you've ever seen! A perfect arc, it sprayed out like a fountain and landed in the sand. The children ran away, all of them screaming. As I drained my bladder and ruined the sand, Ms. Millen came up to me and pulled up my sweats before nearly dragging me away to "the corner." "The corner" was where the bad kids had to sit and think about what they did. I had done very little thinking in "the corner" because I was usually very good. Even while I was sitting there after wetting the sandbox, I was filled with so much satisfaction. If I wasn't going to use the sandbox, neither was anyone else. I regretted nothing.

I don't remember if I got in shit with my parents that night. But I do remember coming in to class the next day and the sandbox was gone. In fact, it was gone for the rest of my time in kindergarten. I wonder if it was removed just while I was attending or if it was removed permanently. Either way, it was my first real sense of victory. And perhaps my first stand against authority that wasn't my parents. It was an important day for so many reasons.

Whenever I think of this story, a thought always crosses my mind. Wouldn't it be fantastic if my actions scarred one or more of those kids at the sandbox when I took a leak in it? For life? Imagine one of those kids, grown up and in their 30s, waking up screaming and sweaty from a nightmare involving being in a sandbox filling with piss or sinking slowly into urine soaked quicksand while trying to no avail to escape. Imagine them having a lifetime of torture all because of me. 

If that is the case, all I can say is...they shouldn't have tattled. Let that be a lesson to all of you. Tattle on me and I'll piss in your sandbox. Every. Single. Time.

See you all tomorrow for Grade One.

Festivus: A Festivus for the Restuvus!

Alternate Title: Why I Celebrate Festivus!

With every passing year, my fondness of Festivus seems to grow. Most people think the obvious in response to the revelation that I prefer Festivus to Christmas; I saw it on Seinfeld and Seinfeld is one of my favourite all-time television shows, so of course I would have a certain adherence to the made-up holiday. But over a decade after the Seinfeld episode "The Strike" aired, I like the holiday even more. I thought I would take the time to explain just why that is.


Festivus, though viewed by many as a joke, has a great deal of significance to me. I see Christmas as twisted, nonsensical holiday. While the religious aspects of Christmas are important to many, I'm anything but a believer. The whole "born to a virgin" superhero bit is far too hard to swallow on its own, let alone the simple facts that if he did exist then he would have likely been born sometime in early fall instead of December 25th. That being said, I understand and appreciate the importance of faith...I just choose to have faith in more earthly concepts. Because of this, the religious component of Christmas is meaningless to me. I don't want to go to church or pray or sing psalms. Sorry, Jebus!

Religion aside, the worst offender of the Christmas season is how it has become just another commercial holiday. When you're a kid, Christmas is magical. A lazy fat-ass with a pedophile beard and a sparkly sled contorts himself through your chimney or keyhole to leave you a wealth of presents for no reason other than because you were "good" during the year. When you're young, the sheer insanity of the story is completely overlooked. To kids, it's just an obese old man who showers you with gifts. It's awesome. But then comes the day...that fateful day. The day you find out Santa Claus isn't real. The smart kids find out through logical deduction and evidence. The stupid kids are told by parents or peers. The smartest kids, such as me, find out early that Santa is a lie, but pretend to still believe to get extra presents until their parents become fed up and tell them. But no matter what, there comes a time when the gravy train stops.
When you grow up, the commercialism of Christmas becomes a devil on your back. The holiday isn't about giving as so many would describe it. No, Christmas is about exchanging. It's fun to give...well it's stressfully fun...trying to find that perfect gift for a loved one can be difficult but rewarding if you're successful. However, no person reading this can deny the awkward embarrassment of giving a $10 gift to a person and having that person give you a $100 gift. And no person can deny thinking of the inequality of the gifts either (if they are the ones giving the more valuable one). I always ask to establish a gift budget with a person with whom I plan to exchange gifts. Ah, the magic of giving kind of falls apart here.
The Christmas holiday (as well as other holidays) is about give and take these days. This makes me ask the question "why bother giving and receiving gifts in the first place?" Why not just go out and buy yourself a present and say it's from a friend or loved one? Why not just keep your money if there's nothing you need? Why be so stressed out during the holiday season and rack up a huge VISA bill just because society says you should? Gifting has lost all meaning to me when it comes to Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, etc. It's become a required activity, which kind of defeats the whole point.

Take away religious and commercial aspects of Christmas and what do you have? Friends, family, and loved ones. Spending time with those you care about and reconnecting with them as well. Appreciating who and what you have. That part of the holidays is important to me, but becomes so drowned out by the other concepts above.

Enter Festivus. A Festivus for the Restuvus.

Festivus is brilliant in that it removes the religion and the commercialism of the holiday season. In a perfect Festivus world, there would be no gifts, no praising of gods, and no stress. Just good times with those who are important to you.

If you've seen the Seinfeld episode "The Strike," then you may be laughing at my argument. There were some very weird aspects of Festivus that border on insane. Let's briefly look at the different ideas that were shown in the episode, so I may explain which I include in my own celebration and which I do not.

The Festivus Pole

A six or seven foot aluminum pole erected (giggity) in place of a Christmas tree. A bland replacement, Frank Costanza said that its benefits were that it required no decoration (as he found tinsel distracting), and it had an excellent height-to-weight ratio. Say what you will, but Christmas trees are just awful! Sure, they look pretty, but the real trees cause no end of trouble, from the friggin' needles getting EVERYWHERE to the dog drinking up the water and the cat swallowing tinsel and dying horribly. And all trees, real or fake, share the drag of having to remove all the decorations and lights after the holidays are over. Ugh! Christmas shouldn't be a drag. The pole is up (giggity) in two minutes flat, and down again in the same time. Convenience is nothing short of a Festivus miracle!

The Airing of Grievances

As long-time friends and people new to my blog are aware, I'm a big fan of the Airing of Grievances. I don't like holding my tongue...I like telling people just what I'm thinking. If someone is being a total retard, I think they should become aware.Unfortunately, in this day and age, people would rather live in a bubble of denial, and no one appreciates my bluntness frank nature. It's insanity made sanity simply because so many people have the same habit. Therefore, people can't handle the truth (imagine me doing my best Jack Nicholson impression) so I vent my frustrations in a next best way. The Airing of Grievances allows me to do that. My "policy" is simple. I give an honest description of the problem(s) I have with a person and how it makes me feel. I just don't use names. This spares the target embarrassment of being "outed" to others who read my yearly grievances. It also has the humourous side-effect of having people to whom the grievances are not aimed to assume it is about them. It's a fun and relieving way to get out some of the things that have bothered me or pissed me off during the year.

The Festivus Dinner

A straightforward meal that is essentially the same as a Christmas meal or any other holiday meal for that matter. I have yet to host a Festivus dinner due to space constraints and cost. However, there's always a family Christmas dinner to be a part of. And since a dinner is a dinner, it can be preceeded by "Festivus" or "Christmas." It's the same thing. It's an opportunity to spend time with loved ones, which as I said before, is the real point of the holidays, isn't it?

The Feats of Strength

Following the dinner, Festivus participants must engage in what is called a "feats of strength." In short, two attendees of the Festivus dinner (one being the household head) must wrestle and attempt to pin one another. In "The Strike," Frank Costanza told his son George that Festivus would not be over until George pinned him. Therefore, Festivus continues until the head of the household is pinned in such a wrestling match.
No, I do not include the feats of strength in my Festivus celebrations. It's a bit too weird...even for me.

Festivus Miracles

What's a miracle? To some it's a bearded man in pajamas walking over water without breaking surface tension. To others it is a 100% recovery from a terminal illness. To me, it's getting through the Festivus and Christmas season without killing someone. So yeah, I believe in Festivus miracles. If you've been near me during the holiday season and lived, you should believe in them too!


Over a decade later, I'm still in what I call a "transition phase" from Christmas to Festivus. One cannot simply turn one's back on Christmas cold turkey. Mmmm, turkey. I have to respect that friends and family love Christmas and celebrate it, and it's unfair for me to request that they change their long-loved beliefs for me. So Festivus is currently a melding of Festivus ideals and Christmas habits. Sure, I throw up the Festivus pole every year (dare I giggity AGAIN?) but I adorn the base with presents. Sure, I don't decorate the pole, but I do string gold tinsel around my door (there was tinsel around the patio door in the Costanza home, which was odd since Frank declared he found it distracting). I also put out a large (maybe even "life-size") Rudolph plush toy next to the pole so to put Christmas lovers at ease when they visit. I also do gift exchanging even though I dislike it. 'Tis the season of giving, so I may as well give some tolerance.

I do ask that friends and loved ones please come to accept the importance of Festivus to me. I understand it seems so silly, but if you consider the traditions of any holiday and think about them objectively, all holidays are just as silly. It's not just a fad to me.

Above all, I wish you all a Happy Festivus and best wishes in the New Year. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to get out my pole.

Giggity.

The Airing of Grievances 2010

Well, here we are again. It's Festivus time in the city. With the return of Festivus comes yet another opportunity for me to express my discontent about some of the people around me. I have a lot of problems with you people, and now you're gonna hear about it!
This should be an interesting entry. This year, I've found that there are very few people who have actually pissed me off. Congratulations people! You've been good.
On the other hand, I've had a spectacularly bad 24 hours and things don't seem to be looking up. I debated actually using names this year in my Airing of Grievances, but opted not to. The goal is not to embarrass others. It's just to let them know, from me to them, what they did and why it frustrated me.



1. You are many things that you weren't a year ago. Now you're rude, you're foolish, you're promiscuous, you're a "fun addict," you're an alcoholic, and you're a user. By user, I mean a user of other people to meet your own ends. Worse yet, you rationalize all these behaviours with a mental illness. I'm not sure what happened to you, but your excuse of psychological problems doesn't fly with me. Knowing one has a mental illness can help explain a lot and even be liberating, but it is never an excuse to engage in self-destructive behaviours. For a while, you frequently tried to get a hold of me. You needed me...you needed someone to talk to and someone to validate that everything you do is okay because of your condition. I stopped caring when it was clear you only want me around when you need to feel better. I hope you have become more responsible and mature since last we spoke, but since you spiralled out of control in the opposite direction in the first place, I'm not holding out much hope.

2. Ah, my dear. You're a long-time star of my grievance airing, as I believe you've been in every one I've ever written. The good news? You've come a long way, baby. The bad news? You still have so far to go. Chronically miserable and filled with regret and complaints, you share with #1 a habit of seeking me out when you need to be comforted. But I look at your situation and can only say that you did it to yourself. Everything about your situation was your own choice. No chance or circumstance. It was all 100% your decisions, so why are you sitting there bitching about how rough your life is? Come on! If you don't like something about where your life is, change it. You're young, you're smart, and you're quite able. Get to work.

3. Poor loser. That's how I'd describe you. You lost the game and didn't handle it well at all. But that's no excuse for the behaviours you exhibited afterward. There was no need to insult the other players behind their backs or to decide to keep away from the team. What was the game? The person to whom this is directed will know.

4. Ditchers. One of the banes of my existence. But what worse than a ditcher is a person who pitches a lie for the ditch that is so mind-bogglingly fabricated that I wonder just how stupid I seem to that person. Your reason, which you know well, was so obviously phony. I called you on it. You got upset and continued to defend it for reasons I cannot fathom aside from a simple desire not to be caught. Ugh. Come on!
Truth be told, I didn't really even want to hang out that night. So cancelling with honesty would have worked out very well for you. Funny that irony thing.


5. One of the worst things you can do is assume you know me. I'm a pretty complex person and I reveal only what I want you to know or what I think you need to know. Earlier this year, you made a very big assumption about my character and my life. Usually this assumption would be that I'm gay...everyone thinks I'm gay, but this one was different and it was a conclusion reached with one sentence of dialogue. What? Assumptions make an ass out of you and makes me not want to be your friend any more.

6. SEE: Epic Datefail #2019245. 'Nuff said.

7. You are ever so judgmental. Knowing me for all of five seconds, you were quick to point out to a third party that I seemed to be extremely rude and looked like a fool. We can't all be epic like you. Oh, and for someone so well versed in child safety, I noticed your car seat was improperly installed. Damn foster parents. I don't get paid enough to deal with you some days.

8. You are interesting in the dichotomy that is you. What you reveal to others is the confident, charming, and funny individual. But beside that is the real you...filled with self-doubt, disappointment, and fear. The problem is not in how you actually feel. It's that you don't do anything to change it. You put on the brave front but I know the real you. You're struggling but you'd rather continue struggling than seek help. Please...listen to me. Find someone who can give you the support you need. Life's too short to waste.

9. When I dated you earlier this year, things were going great. Then something happened. I don't know what and you couldn't be bothered to tell me. That's why you get lucky #9. We dated for a while and I deserved to know why you had a complete 180 degree turn in the relationship. It seems as though you were feeling like you were getting too involved/invested and you got scared, but I can't be sure. An explanation instead of  avoiding me with stupid excuses ("I just don't like to text"...even though you didn't have a problem doing so for a month and a half before hand? Okay) would have been appreciated. But I'm starting to realize the truth is too much to ask from people these days.

10. MRU...you're not a person but I've interacted with you enough that you can fit in this list. Three fucking years now you've been yanking me around by the balls, tossing me from person to person, and no one having the decency to be straight with me. This is my education and my future we're talking about, so I'm not going to give up. Get your heads out of your bureaucratic asses and DO something! (Yes, I will blog in detail about my problem with MRU in a future entry). Of all ten entries in this list, you have pissed me off more than the other nine put together. So middle finga straight up at you, MRU. Friggin clowns.


There you have it. The 10 from 2010. I know I cheated with #10, but nobody's perfect. I'm sure I seem to be really bitter after you have read this, but I'm not. This is just my annual bit of fun to poke at the people that did me wrong or frustrated me with their odd thought patterns and behaviours. Now I've said my peace and that's that.
Well, until December 2011, that is.

Oh, and to those of you who are wondering "WTF? Why isn't Anna in this list?" Well, that story is a fun one that has yet to be told, and I don't want to give anything away just yet. Stay tuned!

Gardening 101

I had been so mean to Jeremy (see Construction House Pee Party and King of the Hill for details). I peed on him, alienated him from all the other children in our neighbourhood, and sliced open his forehead with a stick. I even indirectly gouged his leg with a rebar. And what did Jeremy do to deserve this treatment? Maybe it was the messy hair. Maybe it was the yellowed teeth. Maybe it was the distinct stale body odour that he and his home shared. Maybe he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever the reason, he had been labelled by his peers as a "loser," and for that he was punished.

I cannot speak for Jeremy and all of his experiences, but to the best of my knowledge, what happened to Jeremy after the incident on the hill was arguably the worst. Weeks after the events of my previous entry, "King of the Hill," the dust had settled. At the time that I won the "battle" with Jeremy on the hill, I had felt bad as I watched him limp away while clutching his head and leg. But just as time healed Jeremy's wounds (the physical, anyway), it helped dull my guilt.

It was a beautiful sunny autumn day. Walking back from Treasure Cove Comics and Collectibles, Nick, Michael, and I passed Jeremy's home on our way back to my place. While we passed Jeremy's house, Jeremy was sitting on the front stoop by himself. I remember giving Jeremy a look of daggers but I said nothing. However, Nick decided that he had something to say.

In the case of flashbulb memories, I find that the details that surround the "flashbulb" portion become muddied, and so I do not recall the exchange between Nick and Jeremy. The tone, however, was aggressive and crude. Nick insulted Jeremy. Jeremy insulted Nick. Back and forth it went, all the while escalating in volume and content. Before Michael and I knew it, Nick and Jeremy were pushing and shoving each other on the front lawn.

A responsible person would have interjected. I don't care what anyone says; fighting solves nothing. You win the fist fight, he brings a knife the next time. Then you bring a gun. Then he brings friends with guns. Then someone dies and friends and families of the deceased seek revenge and it keeps going. Worse and worse. Violence breeds more violence and nothing is resolved.

But I'm a very different person now than I was then. Back then, I just stood by with my cousin Michael and watched Nick and Jeremy wrestle on the grass. The fight itself was mundane at best. A lot of rolling around and attempted holds (Jeremy was a fan of the full nelson). A few punches thrown here and there, but it was, for the most part, a whole lot of swearing and dry humping. Soon, however, things got a lot more interesting...

Begin flashbulb memory...now!

Nick and Jeremy were kneeling on the ground. Nick was behind Jeremy with his left arm around Jeremy's neck. Nick had Jeremy in a respectable headlock. I yelled to Nick instructions on how to tighten the headlock and make things more difficult for Jeremy. At my suggestion, Nick put his right arm behind Jeremy's neck and grasped onto his own left upper arm. Jeremy made a choking noise as his airway had been (likely partially) obstructed. Jeremy, seemingly in a panic, pushed his body backwards, and sending Nick into a small evergreen tree. Nick yelped as the pins pressed into his body. Nick then yelled "fuck you, asshole" and Nick pushed himself forward, sending Jeremy back to his knees.

What no one had noticed was that there was something hiding in the shade of the tree:




A Garden Weasel. A tool used for turning and loosening soil for planting, its presence there was inexplicable as no work under the tree had been done. It was just tossed there, a good fifteen feet from the flower bed (which was also not being maintained). It was almost as though it materialized there solely for what was about to happen.

As Jeremy came back down to his knees, he did not seem to see the Garden Weasel either. His right knee landed squarely on one of the blades and it burrowed into him like a hot knife through butter. Jeremy fell forward onto his hands. Nick, seeing what happened, told Jeremy "that's what you get" and returned to the sidewalk where Michael and I watched in disbelief. Jeremy lifted his knee off of the Garden Weasel, the blade notably saturated in blood. A small tear in Jeremy's pant leg was the only evidence of injury, but judging from the sheer size of the blade, and how far Jeremy's knee went down on the blade, there was much more than met the eye.

Jeremy hobbled up the front lawn and then up the front stoop. It appeared as though he was unable or unwilling to use his right leg as he braced against the house while he climbed the steps. Jeremy said nothing. Gave nothing. No cursing, no squealing, no screams of agony. He turned the handle of his front door and went inside. And then we heard it.

An ear-shattering, blood-curdling cry. Jeremy's silence as he returned to his house was merely an act for his benefit and/or ours. Once the door was closed, he let everything out. None of us laughed when we heard the scream. We ran. Ran like hell. There would be time to laugh later. But at the time, we had to get away.

Years after the incident, I found out that the damage caused by the Garden Weasel was nothing permanent. Left with a scar, Jeremy did not lose any functionality in his knee or leg. He mentioned that when it got cold out, his knee ached, but aside from that it was all fine. Despite the fact that Jeremy and I became "friends" again in our high school years, Jeremy never forgot what happened. Jeremy also told me that he blamed me for what happened. And I accepted that blame. Just because I wasn't the one who forced him onto the gardening tool didn't mean it wasn't my fault. I poisoned Nick's mind, as Nick only knew about Jeremy what I told him. Well, that and Nick was also angry with Jeremy for tattling on us. I also stood and watched instead of intervening and sparing someone serious injury. It was my fault as much as anyone else.

While there are other stories about me and Jeremy that will eventually see the light in my blog, none of them took place after this event. We were friends some time after the Garden Weasel incident, but it was never a "real" friendship. It was of convenience, when neither of us had anything better to do. There was also a sense of animosity between us. Jeremy had never really forgiven nor forgotten. Nor should he.

I'm not sure where Jeremy is now. He met a sweet girl with a plain appearance and highly religious lifestyle, which Jeremy had adhered to quite happily. Last I heard, he had two kids, was still working with the army, and was living somewhere in Saskatchewan. Good for him. He deserves better than what he got during his childhood, particularly from me. I first became friends with him because he had a Nintendo and always made delicious turnovers when we hung out to play the Nintendo. I then used him because he got some cool Ninja Turtle figures that I did not then have. After that, I used him to visit his home and sift through his father's dirty motorcycle magazines (your classic naked woman draped over a motorcycle kind of deal that was great reading material for a pre-teen boy). I pissed in his car, pissed on him, and made him bleed. I twisted truths and spread rumours about him that led to a seemingly universal hatred of Jeremy by others in the neighbourhood. I also stood idly by and did nothing while Jeremy was impaled by a gardening utensil. Yeah, I wasn't the best friend to him. Fortunately, he seems to have found what he deserves, and for what it's worth, I wish him the best.

Yes, I was such a mean kid. But say what you will, it makes for great stories. Just don't rub me the wrong way...you never quite know where a Garden Weasel might be hiding.