When I was little - around 3 or 4 - I carried a stick around with me. I told my mom it was to "poke bad guys' eyes out." I don't have the stick anymore, but I like to think I still have the same sort of philosophy. It's hard for me to put my finger on exactly what that philosophy is, but I think it falls somewhere between "Don't fuck with me" and "Gotchaaa. Just kidding...(But really. I have a stick.)"
I grew up in a small town in a family of six. As soon as I graduated high school, I abandoned ship and moved to Vancouver. The anonymity was refreshing; however, living in the concrete jungle with millions of people who seemingly aimed to wreck my car on a daily basis got old. Seven years later, with some street smarts, some cultural exposure, and a piece of paper announcing I am a professional under my belt, I find myself back on the island living in the sticks.
I live with my boyfriend on his wooded acreage in a travel trailer with our cat and the birds fold our laundry just like on Cinderella. I have my very own garden, a moss gully, and a sweet, tiered fire pit. I shit and shower outside, and our only neighbour apparently likes his privacy just as much as we do (which is good considering that between the outhouse and the shower, we are lacking about four walls.)
Life is good. It doesn't look like I'll be needing that stick again anytime soon. But, just in case, I am surrounded by them. So don't try anything.
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