On The Road

We're roaring up the freshly paved road to the nation's capital at first blush tomorrow. With Dean Moriarty's rapacious desire for incessant 80 miles an hour in his beat green jalopy, we'll arrive quickly and dangerously. When fatigue overcomes us, we'll crash some sordid character's sleazy apartment in the Red Light District to rescue some princesses.
Nextly, we'll pour down Quebecois Avenue to Montreal and emote care for the French heritage and likely emulate Jean-Luc Godard for kicks. We'll subsequently dig the streets for ripe antelopes and enigmatic dharma bums until the ebbing of the sun --when we punch into poetry jam sessions and gone jazz blasts.

Black Sunday

Remember that time we were traveling to Trinity Baptist Church but then learned that Google is mendacious and thus Trinity Baptist does not even exist in Ancaster at all. So we hit the church strip to find another church but it was eleven and the only church that began around then was some Catholic church; and we thought, hey, Catholics cannot be that different; and then once inside we realized that Catholics are that different; and communion was about to be served and we thought, hey we're Christians too, may we not partake in communion?; and then we realized that we knew nothing of Catholic tradition and I had essentially plucked Jesus' flesh right outta this woman's hands and began to walk away with it when she sternly advised: "sir, put it in your mouth, now." -- and I ate it really quickly because I was scared of the woman; and then she stared us down because our actions were seen as turpitudinous; and then we booked it outta there before 'cause we were so terrified to spill Jesus' blood. Remember that time we basically defiled the Catholic church and chuckled cause they had a framed photo of Benedict and then had to finish communion at Tim Horton's?

Loneys, five hours until second tryout

The original aspiration to become a Redeemer hockey hero has fizzled for the following reasons: I have no endurance; I've lost skating ability like nothing else; my once booming shot is now merely average; and I am pathetically weak. Regardless of these salient anti-attributes, I will likely attend the second tryout. Once again the following thoughts may run through my head as I struggle to simply perform a figure eight around a dot (each phrase is presupposed with a "loneys"): "Everything feels so heavy and burns ever so painfully; cut me now; my soft and inaccurate shot is akin to Nazi soldiers; I am getting beat as morbidly as a Nazi soldier", and so on. This may sound like a no gooder situation -- and it is -- but I am not overly concerned about my whilom abilities. Side note: Whilom is the word of the day.

Some of my classes are offering some intrigue, which is a pleasant. Further optimism: We have solidified a ball hockey team for intermurals.

L'envoi

Life is cold; but not hypothermia cold. No, no, I am content for the moment.