Why the College and Spadina Popeyes is the best

Popeyes is my guilty pleasure. I don't have many guilty pleasures but this place is one of few, so don't you judge me.

Today, I was served by Bibi (I looked at my receipt), whose name resonates a green character with hair that stands up from my childhood, however, she looked nothing like that. Her name almost beats the manager at Burger King's name, Minerva. Any way, Bibi not only forgot my drink and stared at me for a good five minutes wondering what I was waiting for, she also hesitated to put my biscuit in. We all know the biscuit is quite possibly the best part of the meal, in all it's buttery and artery clogging goodness.

Unlike the Yonge and Dundas location, the prices here are cheaper and so is the service apparently, because although the Times Dundas Square location might have more expensive rent, it isn't a reason to charge me extra for a meal I can get for $2 cheaper at other equally delicious Popeyes locations (including the one at Queen and Sherbourne, which should reduce prices by another $2 just for the courage of going in there alone). But I'll gladly pay that extra $2 for the safety and well being of those poor employees.

More facts about College and Spadina location:
- Out of the four visits I have made in seven months, on two separate occasions, the old man who works there ran to the frier because he left the fries in the fryer for too long. He looked at me and smiled nervously.
- One of the female employees cannot be bothered when she is writing down an order. And she will remind you of this (reminiscent of the service found only at the Pizza Hut in my hood)
- It takes two employees to work one cash, both do not know which buttons to press
- Although there is seven employees lurking in the back, no one can serve you until you tap your palm really hard for them to notice you (another trick used at the Pizza Hut in my hood)
- Your meal, although you can see it, will take 9 minutes to be ready
- The relatives of various employees always seem to drop by for a visit. This is okay, except when the employee ignores the line-up that is building up.
- I have never seen any tables clean.

That's why it's the best. All entertainment, all the time. Visit College and Spadina Popeyes today.

Inquest of boys

See maman et papa have made me become so obsessed with criteria when finding the right mate that when a friend attempts to set me up with one of their friends, it turns into a giant fiasco of questions via this patient third party. My parents' criteria, according to them, is simple: same race and religion (preferrably hailing from the same village and avoiding a long list of villages they've laid out for me along with reasons why I should avoid said villages), a degree in one of four majors (masters is preferred), a good job that can provide (be a provider gurl), his parents must also have good jobs and a good reputation, he must be tall, good looking, polite, be prepared for a wedding fiasco (weddings are for parents, the more you learn to accept that, the more of your life you'll live), left wing, no health concerns, no more than five years my senior, a sense of humour fitting to mine (bless their hearts), open minded, speaks more than one language (with French being one of them but this one is not that big of a deal for them), and be prepared for interrogation questionning about anything and everything while surrounded by 75 of my closest male relatives (60 extra men that are friends of my parents will be considered "family" for this day).

Here's a conversation that took place between myself and a friend today regarding someone she'd think I'd be perfect with. Since I'm always the pessimist (even my boss tells me so), this convo was more complicated than it should've been:

N: So I just thought of one of my guy friends who'd be perfect for you. Fits all your criteria (race, religion), however, he's in Ottawa
Yuppie: What's his name? I probably know him.
N: Joe Average*
Yuppie: I just facebooked him, we have 11 mutual friends
N: Adddddd himmmmmmm!!!! He's super nice, gonna text him now, I was talking to him all day!
Yuppie: I don't add people I don't know.
N: Let me give him your number.
Yuppie: No. I'm terrible on the phone and no. I don't know him.
N: Then Facebook add him.
Yuppie: No!!!
N: Why not?
Yuppie: He doesn't even know what I look like and I don't know what he looks like! His profile pic was a side profile. Some people's profiles are better than their faces.
N: He's cute, I wouldn't send you an ugly.
Yuppie: We have different taste.
Yuppie: Is he educated? What does he do for a living?
N: Yes educated he does work but can't remember what company he works for
Yuppie: How old is he? What degree? How open minded is he? Where does he hang out? How do you know him?
N: No more questions. Message him.
Yuppie: No you can't expect me to talk to some random! He can message me!
N: Okay can I give him your number?
Yuppie: No! Let him facebook msg me or something. Send me a photo will you?
N: Okay he'll be adding you shortly. He's at the gym.

Hours later. During these hours, I get hit on agressively by the employee at the pizza shop who attempts to guess my ethnic background and provides me with the best service a dingy pizza place can provide. He guessed all the usual ones and didn't get one right.

N: Did he add you?
Yuppie: No add.
N: Ugh I am going to msg him and see what's up.
Yuppie: Stop being a pushy mother.
N: No no, I just told him to add you and invite me to the wedding.
Yuppie: Loser
N: He's at a BBQ
Yuppie: I can't see what he looks like you know.
N: Are you shallow and only care about looks? Bahahahahah he's good looking with a nice body, trust me girls stalk him.
Yuppie: Ahem, I wanted to see how Gino he was.
N: He isn't!
Yuppie: Where does he hang out?
N: I have no idea?
Yuppie: K did he go to u of o or carleton?
N: He went to college but I think he went to Uni after...
Yuppie: I see. I see. Does he wear white shoes? LOL
N: Well he did work at Aldo during school....
N: OMG you two keep on asking me about looks, LOL!
Yuppie: How did you describe me?
N: I didn't, I said he has to find out on his own.

*Name changed

Latest work: Trapped in the Captivity of Originality

I wrote an article about Fritz Helder and the Phantoms, it's in Cheek Magazine, maybe you should read it, click here to do that.

My Major, My Background

Today's discussion focuses on the relation of race and choice of university majors. This piece is merely to give Western people a better understanding of why most of us (immigrants) enroll mainly in four majors. Last year, when I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts, my father wiped that smile off my face by saying "it would've made me happier to see you graduating as a doctor." See, your entire life is spent learning to be okay with such horrible comments. For us, making choices for university and moving away for the experience was not part of the package. Some of us start off pursuing the dreams of our parents and move on to follow our own, however, it's kept secret from mom and dad until graduation when they find out that the white on your robe means Faculty of Arts and not School of Management like they planned. The only benefit to studying something you loathe for four years is that if your parents can afford it, your education is paid for, also because they hate OSAP, which helps with something called future debt. And no we don't travel to Europe after. Chances are, Europe is a family trip, which you would want to avoid taking. Can I get a DRA-MA?

Please note, this article contains or may contain many stereotypes. Also note, this is based on my university observations and my parents, and the parents of my friends. Cases change with some but otherwise, it's accurate.

Engineering: This field is most definitely dominated by immigrants and international students (some may confuse them as the same breed but there are various differences). As a young child, my parents were sizing me up to become an Engineer. Of course I had zero interest in it, so the day that I switched over to a major that did not require math classes was one of the most disappointing days in their life. They didn't know universities offered a degree that had no math classes attached to it (hence why I kept a minor in Commerce).

• Civil: White people love this because it is associated with order. Matter of fact, isn't the engineering ring, which reminds engineers of learning from past mistakes, a Western thing? Some call Civil the B.A. of Engineering because it has an architectural and artsy side to it, or its easier, depends on who you ask.
  
• Electrical: Most Persians and Arabs (often confused as interchangeable but don't call them Arabs) love this one yet their countries lack it (electricity). Asians are also known to steer close to taking over the world electrical.
  
• Mechanical: This one is dominated by Arabs and Brown people. Both however, do not have any cars made in any of their countries. One is where cars go to die (have you ever driven in Cairo or Beirut?) and the other has roads catering more to human and animal crossing then vehicles. There is, however, an abundance of auto mechanics in the former.
  
• Software/Computer Science: More Brown people are leading towards this field thanks to the high tech industry in Bangalore, however, it's also flooded with Arabs and Asians. Most Arabs that wanted to be artists but were forced to be Engineers by their fathers lean towards Software because they feel they can create art through computer programs.
  
• Chemical: Most people with extremely foreign names have started avoiding this route, because well, they would like to leave the country one day.
  

Sciences+Medicine: There is one fact about Science, it's dominated by Brown people. As Kumar (from Harold and Kumar) says, Brown people have a natural affinity for medicine. But according to Lisa "Bunny" Friedman's book Jewish American Princess Jokebook, doctors are also Jewish. You didn't need the book to figure that one out. Eastern Europeans also love Sciences, and they usually go into those topics with complicated names. Persians have an honourable mention here, mainly in the cosmetic department. But they have lately attempted to steer clear of anything associated with "nuclear" and "chemicals".

Lawyers: This one belongs to Caucasians. But just remember JAP Lucy (again Lisa Friedman's book):
She loved to shop with her two young sons. One day, when the trio was cleaning out a toy store, the sales clerk took a particular fancy to the little boys. "And how old are these two handsome young men?" the clerk asked Lucy. Pulling out a credit card, Lucy replied, "The doctor is five and the lawyer is three."

According to Friedman, if you're Jewish, from the day you are born, you are destined to become a Doctor or a Lawyer.

Arts/Social Sciences: Mass Communications, History, Political Science, General Arts, English, Philosophy, etc, etc
If you fall into any of these, you are probably Caucasian, a "white washed" immigrant, an immigrant with liberal parents, or an immigrant with parents who aren't liberal and are confused between raising you first, second or third world, but you get your way because you know how to argue in order to get what you want (holla at yo girl).

If you're an Arab in Political Science or DVM, your parents are probably seeing this as a stepping stone to your Law degree. The pressure is on. Furthermore, if you are an Arab in Political Science or DVM, you already have a bad rep with your classmates, topped off with one of the most annoying opinions that you enforce on everyone (genes of dictatorship, I don't really blame you) and suffer from something that Dre calls "slacktivism". Keep your emotions at home, only the strong survive.

Philosophy: to my knowledge, no immigrant parents would ever accept their child in the major they so fondly call "deep thoughts of being unemployed." Not even as a Minor (which they find confusing and unnecessary anyway). Just sayin'.

Social Sciences: For some reason, Persian women love Social Sciences. And you'll know she's Persian when that Social Science 101 book is hanging out from her beige Fendi bag (usually at York U, located in the heart of Tehronto). French speaking Africans also enroll in Social Sciences.

Commerce: If you've ever visited any clubs in King West Village and the Entertainment district, you'll notice they are filled with people who majored in maintaining the status quo. But Commerce is like Toronto=multicultural. If you're Arab (or an Arab international student), either you're in Accounting or Finance, or you got kicked out of Engineering and were moved down to Commerce before the Uni gives you one more chance to reclaim your grades in Women's Studies or be shamed forever by being expelled and suddenly don't live in Canada anymore (an ode to my uncle). If you're White, your lifelong dream is to work on Bay Street and get all the bitches ladies. You experiement with all the fields in Commerce. If you're Brown, you're in Accounting and only in Accounting. If you're Asian, you're in Accounting or Finance, mainly driven by your love of numbers and stability (straight from an Asian's mouth). You also excel in classes like "Business Decision Models", you know the ones with the highest failure rate in the University. You also have a monopoly on most of the T.A. jobs.

School of Education: Although they might support you in this decision mainly because they think its a step forward to grandchildren, your [immigrant] parents would rather you start collecting degrees instead of putting stickers on some third graders' sheet, i.e. earn a PhD. They might also leverage your studies in education to brag to their friends and tell them you're a Professor at some university in the States, you know at those dinner parties they have when the parents get together and one up each other's kids.

Journalism: According to this handsome devil, Journalism happens to be Caucasia. Makes sense, journalists are on TV, and most people on TV (not as a news story but in movies, shows, etc) are white. And if you've ever watched foreign TV, you'll notice most of the female correspondants have lighter skin.

Ryerson: For most immigrants, this university is a nightmare. Why you ask? Well because it offers majors they never thought possible like Image and Communication Arts or Dancefor example. First off, try to explain to your parents what Communications is, then top that off with the words Image and Arts in between. Good luck! My parents thought I was in Journalism for two years because they couldn't understand the concept of "Communications".

For my parents, what they consider hobbies don't belong in universities, only the following do:

• Engineering
  
• Law
  
• Medicine-Sciences
  
• Commerce (preferably stick to Finance or Accounting or mash up both)
  
• Anything else that contains mathematics in the curriculum.

Disappear Here

"You can move there and come visit me at work!" I say. "Yeah, we'll be like neighbours!" she replies. "Oh but wait, maybe one day, I'll get another job that's in another part of town," I say. "Yeah you'll probably be one of those people that disappears off the face of the earth once you get that job," she replies. "Really? Is that what you think? That's not me at all!" "You just seem like that person", she says. "Well I'm not. If anything people tend to disappear from my life, I'm always around, I'll always be, as long as you decide to be around," I say. "That's good to know," she says. "You can tell when someone is the type to disappear by the amount of time it takes them to answer your text messages, your emails, or return your phone calls," I say. "You think so? Yeah I guess you're right," she says.

I won't disappear unless you do. 

There are only a two occassions where I'll suddenly bolt out of the scene but you'll hear from me the next day, unless said subjects caught up to me:

1) If I encounter those twins that want to beat me up*

2) If I encounter that scary posse of lesbians, just because one of them's got a thing for me.**

*Anyone who has asked me in person knows the story, feel free to ask, but only in person will responses be given.

**She's not my type, even though I'm not a lesbian, I can still have a type right?

***The title of the post is from Less Than Zero

Comedy Writer wanted

I thought the point of trying stand up was to have your own original content? You're not even famous and you want someone to write an act for you? I'd practice my English writing skills before trying it out though, okay?

toronto craigslist > city of toronto > writing jobs

please flag with care:

miscategorized
prohibited
spam/overpost
best of craigslist

Avoid scams and fraud by dealing locally! Beware any deal involving Western Union, Moneygram, wire transfer, cashier check, money order, shipping, escrow, or any promise of transaction protection/certification/guarantee. More info

Comedy Writer

---

Reply to: job-ujttz-1125954846@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}
Date: 2009-04-16, 8:04PM EDT

looking a a comdey writer im a funny guy who wants to try stand up i need some1 too write a act for me will work out a payment 

• Compensation: tba
• Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
• Please, no phone calls about this job!
• Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

PostingID: 1125954846

Barbie - Ottawa neighbourhood edition

The wonderful Ms.Rachelicious sends me an equally wonderful email. The contents? Barbie reapproapriated to fit the demographic of various Ottawa neighbourhoods. I read this, laughed out loud, but then realized some of them are outdated, innacurate or just flat out missing. Enclosed, in italics, are my add-ons to this fantastic creation by whomever thought this up. Maybe a Toronto neighbourhood one in the works? I'd personally love to see a Montreal one first.

Orleans Barbie

This princess Barbie is sold only at Place d'Orleans. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired foreign dog named Honey and a designer kitchen. Available with or without boob job, tummy tuck and face-lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the boob job version. 

Change Kate Spade to Coach, change Lexus SUV to modified Honda Civic or Mitsubishi Eclipse if we're talking teenagers, add government employee and cottage at Lac Simon somewhere in the mix.

Barrhaven Barbie 

The modern day homemaker Barbie is available with Ford Windstar Minivan and matching gym outfit. She gets lost easily and has no full-time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. 

Gotcha, but some of these women had the full time occupation of making sure their newly built home was worth every penny and "customized" in its own unique cookie cutter way. Mercedes Kompressor sold seperately. 

Arnprior Barbie

This recently-paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife, a lo-rider Chevy with dark tinted windows, and a Meth Lab Kit. This model is only available after dark and must be paid for in cash (preferably small, untraceable bills) ... unless you are a cop, then we don't know what you're talking about.

Never been to Arnprior so yeah?

Westboro  Barbie

This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of BMW convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won't be able to afford any of them.

Westboro Village is one of my favourite neighbourhoods, it's the new Glebe. People in Westboro don't drive Hummer's, they like the Mercedes Safari or "Hybrid" cars. Furthermore, they much prefer Bridgehead over Starbucks because it's fair trade and organic and we all know social justice is trendy. Plus, they don't have kids and can be seen wearing Lulu Lemon while working out at the Yoga studio. Watch out though, the American Apparel opening last year has sparked some migration from hipsters* that were once seen on Bank Street. Westboro is also home to most of Ottawa's small jewish population and has its own festival, Westfest.

Stittsville Barbie

This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR t-shirt and tweety bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Bud light and a Hank Williams Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick mullet-haired Ken's butt when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.

Since the tech boom of the 90s in Kanata, Stittsville has served as building ground for huge houses à la Manotick. I'm sure the locals are still around though.

Rockcliffe Barbie

This collagen injected, rhino plastic Barbie wears a leopard print outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while entertaining friends. Percocet prescription available as well as warehouse conversion condo. 

The richest hood in Ottawa is defined by the likes of Marlen Cowpland and her infamous Richard Robinson dress. Now that Mitel is practically defunt and the Corel Centre owned by ScotiaBank, I think we can add Starbucks and rich white kids with lots of money that have a nose for white lines and attend Ashbury College.

Kanata Barbie

This tobacco-chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased beer-gutted Ken out of Butler Barbie's house. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans, fake fingernails and a see-through halter-top. Also available with a mobile home (sold in U.S. as Trailer Trash Barbie). 

Hmm, this is definitely innacurate. If you've been to Kanata since the late 90s (you know when Nortel was in the business of hiring and not breaking homes) you'd realize that it's quite the nice place. It also has streets named after Michael Cowpland and Terry Matthews as a reminder of Mitel and Corel. Homes are expensive, there's actual office towers, shops and dance clubs. People in Kanata are somewhat the "nouveau riche" of Ottawa. The description above sounds more like the Orleans teenager crew.

Glebe Barbie 

This doll is made of actual tofu. She has long straight brown hair, arch-less feet, hairy armpits, no makeup and Birkenstocks with white socks. She prefers that you call her Willow . She does not want or need a Ken doll, but if you purchase two Barbies and the optional Subaru wagon, you get a rainbow flag bumper sticker for free.

Interesting fact about the Glebe: the only place in the city where you have the option of buying coffee from either Starbucks, Second Cup, Bridgehead, Timothy's or an independent café within a one block radius. Another interesting fact: although it is one of Ottawa's wealthiest neighbourhoods, it's very liberal and, unlike the other money filled hoods that are infested with right wing evangelists, Glebe residents vote for Jack Layton's party. Description accurate, but I would've loved to see the rich artist families with their well dressed children and their beautiful old homes described in here.

Vanier Barbie 

This Barbie now comes with a stroller and infant doll. Optional accessories include a bus pass. Gangsta Ken and his 1979 Caddy were available, but are now very difficult to find since the addition of the infant.

Good, but you've forgotten the outfit description: à la 1997: Adidas tearaways, platform runners or Timbalands with kitten heels and EXCO gear. Gangsta Ken would probably also be riding the bus to keep up the weed dealing business.

Mont Tremblant Barbie

She's perfect in every way. Ken has a condo in downtown Ottawa and visits on the weekends. 

Trophy wife, you get the rest.

Honourable mentions: 

Gatineau-Hull: just picture lesbian cuts on straight women and really trashy French people mixed in with Anglo government employees. Drinking age 18, might contain various high school students.

Beechwood-New Edinburgh: A gentrified neighbourhood within a ghetto (Vanier). Infested with really old people, parking lots that are now condos, parks and trendy restaurants.

Centretown/Little Italy: Hipsters*, cafés, grimy dive bars, and home to some of the city's best restaurants. Located on Ottawa's longest street and connected to some of the best places in town.

Downtown: The most eclectic neighbourhood here you'll find the market, the crack heads and their needle disposle, the most entertaining bums in Canada, the half a million dollar condos and galleries attempting to gentrify Rideau and Cumberland, the university students and oh so much more. Click to listen to the best song that describes downtown pusher Barbie.

Ottawa South (Alta Vista-Heron): AltaVista and Heron is my favourite comparison, one is honourary Little Lebanon filled with shawarma shops and driving schools, while the other is filled with upper class citizens working in private companies and living in expensive homes.

* For lack of a better word.

Black Girl Lost

[G1] HELLO?!
[G2] Whassup girl..
[G1] Ain't nothin - this nigga in here stressin
talkin that old off the wall back to Africa shit again
[G2] What, that God Body shit?
[G1] Yeah, that dumb shit
I'm tryin to get up OUTTA here
[G2] I hear that.. but yo, you know the spot is pumpin tonight
[G1] Word f'real where?
[G2] You know, where the real niggaz is poppin the Cristal
NOT THAT WHITE STUFF!
[G1] Ha hah! Word where the real niggaz at?

Always and forever: the best intro.

Eyebrows

***© COPYRIGHT, AD AGENCIES I'M LOOKING IN YOUR DIRECTION***
One of the first features I immediately notice in both men and women are eyebrows. Personally, I keep mine thick and classic and true to their shape. No one touches them but me to avoid any estheticians "vision." You've all been there so learn how to pluck yourself because one day it'll happen to you: an over-plucking, wax loving esthetician. Some women (who either pluck themselves or visit an esthetician) have a hard time maintaining this ever important facial feature properly. Yes, you've all thought about it but dared not mention it publicly until today. This yuppie has been working on a very special ad highlighting eyebrows shaped commes des spermatozoïdes. Why the french version? It sounds funnier.

Click to see larger image

So you see, next time you reach for the tweezers, think about what we're thinking when we see that shape.

Note: this is not an actual ad for Revlon. This site has no affiliation with Revlon other than being a consumer of their products.

Forget everyone

"We 're buddies, we traveled together to Europe last year," he says as he puts his arm around him. 

Friends. 

"Yeah we did," he replies. 

They recount stories.

I drift into thoughts of all the people who graduate, pack their bags and jet off to Europe for a few months, desiring to "discover" themselves, to "discover" the world and start a blog to keep us up to date on their adventures. I stop. Discovering the world? The blogs and photo albums I click through are filled with pictures of them and other like minded tourists, drinking and partying as if nothing else matters. Discovery? Sounds like the art of hedonism, or a scene out of "Eurotrip". To me, discovering the world is going to a country that needs aid, meeting the people, interacting with them, experiencing their lifestyle. Europe is a vacation, a debt incurred after graduating you have to pay off along with your student loan when you get back to reality and realize jobs don't find you you find them. But that's me, a non Western twenty something who grew up reading books about oppression and genocide.

My mind drifts to what I did on April 30, 2008, when I finished writing my final undergraduate exam for a second year class I took in vain. I didn't have any trips planned, just a ticket to the misery of figuring out my personal life plan. No break, just the thought of "what now"? That day I traveled across town in my Helmut Lang inspired dress to an interview for a job I didn't want. Three minutes into the interview, I got up and left. A wasted occasion for a beautiful dress. April turns into May, I was uncertain if I was getting into the grad school I really wanted. Or thought I really wanted. I worked at a job I loathed, barely keeping my eyelids open for eight hours, slowly killing every ounce of creativity I have collected through my 22 years of existence. 

"Why don't you decorate your cubicle?" My colleague asks.

Because it was temporary. They were certain I was coming on as a permanent full time employee in September. I was certain that I wasn't. I had another job that paid nothing that I enjoyed, determined to make it a successful career. I was working for someone who was so afraid of how much I gave to his company and the potential I had that he betrayed me. And everyone was in Europe. 

Sunday night, I walk over to my bed, exhausted from a weekend at a human rights conference. I think of the familiar faces, the riveting people I met, and laugh at the eccentric characters that I'd rather not mention. It's been six months since I moved. Congratulations. There's no one to celebrate with. My roommate isn't home. My inbox has no new text messages, no missed phone calls, no emails. If I get into an accident, no one would know, no one would care to know. The house is a mess, to my standards. I don't feel like cleaning, just thinking. Six months ago I was living on a floor, sending my qualifications to companies that weren't hiring because of the recession while my friends were coming back from Europe, to the debt, to the real world, to no job prospects. I was hanging on awaiting my fate, doubting my abilities, and it came. I moved into a dingy apartment in the east end of town, paying too much rent for what is what worth. Two months after, I'm in this condo, which I adore and I think to myself, where will I be in six months from now? Can I pack my bags and just leave as if it was routine? Can I grow accustomed to the streets of a new city, act as a tour guide to visitors and actually know where to go on weekends? This move was easy because it was within the same province, will it be the same if it was to Western Canada or the USA?

No. I'll be here I hope. 

"You're much happier than you were last year. You're happy here," she says. 

And I am. But I need a vacation, and it might be Europe.

Planting a memory

It was January, an unusually warm winter night. I remember what I was wearing but I’ll save the insignificant details. We were heading back from the restaurant, an awkward dinner it was. She sat in the front seat, her hair flowing down her black dress, sheer enough to reveal that she wasn't wearing any underwear. He was in the back, acting more jittery than his usual monotone self. Drunk.

"I want to ride my bike!" he yelled in excitement. She hummed the music while I nervously smiled and grasped the wheel. She looked over at me, smiling, laughing at his antics, looking for reassurance that I found him amusing too. She was much happier at that moment than she was prior to dinner. That image, a planted thought, sticks in my mind. That’s how I left her. A reminder of the beginning of the end. Now I stare at their photographs, and as much as I don’t want to, I miss them. Her, rarely him. All that’s left is the memory of how it used to be, and how it will never be.