I think about weird stuff. Like, it would have been really nice to have a father to talk to about things. My own father, when he wasn't drunk off his ass - which was pretty much never, and when he wasn't raging at the world for how he didn't get to live how he wanted to - was down to earth, and might have been a good candidate for one of those talk-to-about-stuff dads...

He died when he was 58 years old. Alcohol related of course. 58 is not that old. That's ten years older than me.

If I die when I'm 58, that gives me 10 more years. That's 5 years for my 5-year plan, and 5 years sitting in an ice-fishing hut in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

I've got dreams too, ya know.

July 13, 2003