he's not my fuckin' saint, thank ye very much

I tried to get work done. I really did.

The siren call of spring dragged me out of my house and into the thick of the dog-poo and mushy show. I couldn't control myself.

Spring is one of my favourite seasons. I love any season where nature picks up and starts moving shit around. When I was a kid I used to wander down into the ravine every year and fall into the creek. Some things haven't changed -- I strongly advise any Torontonians with geomorphological interests to meander through Trinity-Bellwoods park. Erosion and continental drift are being recreated for any drunken bint in Wellingtons to wander through and marvel at. Wear something waterproof.

(It turns out that I have an exposed nail in my boot. One that is digging interesting holes in my feet. Gives you an idea of how crap my skin is that it took me a week to notice.)

I managed to convince caspervonb that sitting on a patio somewhere was a really good way to inaugurate his return to the city, cause you know, playing hookey isn't nearly as much fun if you have to do it all by yourself. Much to my delight, he agreed. electrolyte, the_axel, and mr_sharkey showed up as well.

There is an old story about a witch who hid her heart in order to keep it safe. Usually, she's an asshole and the hero/heroine has to find it in order to kill her and save the day. My heart is much safer, it is broken up into pieces and placed very carefully into the hands of those who I know will protect it.

It's funny, there are people who you don't even talk to for months at a time, but if they go away it's as if East stopped existing. I missed being able to just call him up at random and say, "Oi, this fucked-up thing happened the other day -- lets go for a beer and we'll blather about it."

That kind of shit, I notice.

So instead we catch up in a packed bar with a select number of cool and sympathetic friends, otherwise utterly surrounded by yabos in green wearing big-ass felt green caps and cardboard shamrocks around their necks, doing things with food-colouring that probabaly would have gotten you run out of Ireland on a fucking rail if you had tried it back when I lived there.

Yep. St Patricks day.

Or as we of Irish blood prefer to refer to it, "amateur night".