Quantifying history by how bloody the battles were is the most American thing I’ve heard in a while.

There were trade wars. The history of the Hudson’s Bay Company and North West Trading is bloody as hell. They shaped the country. No one really knows how many people died in their skirmishes. They built forts that still stand today, and they’re why a lot of towns/areas are called Fort(name.)

Louis Riel is a fascinating figure, like a tricksy, bloody, charming asshole who literally beheaded a diplomatic envoy. He, himself, was beheaded. The whole history of the Metis people is fascinating.

The Acadians and their connection to the Cajuns (a condensed slang of Acadian. Cadian. Cajian…) is pretty neat. It’s a whole other French culture most Canadians don’t even know about.

Not to mention all the whitewashed history of indigenous peoples, their histories and cultures. Indigenous leader’s push for justice reform, based on their cultures and needs, is changing the way the justice system works in Canada, and influencing the world.

In Canada we learned all about the war of 1812.

That bus would have its brake lines cut before Trump’s first diaper change.

A dating app.

Track which people have contagious diseases and subtly push them toward others. Use GPS, biometric data and consumer profiles. Program bot accounts to set up dates with real people in public places, the hookups are fake, but they just need to be in the vicinity.

Once a sustantial data pool has been filled and patterns have been established, begin intentionally infecting the swingiest people on the app with a custom virus. Create a matchmaker algorithm based on the data to see how far and wide it can spread.

Call the app: Cuntagion.

Wattpad, Smashwords, and AO3 come to mind for online writing/publishing platforms.

Our list of gang affiliated clothing was so long the teachers couldn’t remember what to enforce. They didn’t dress code anyone because they’d have to start following the rules for everyone.

It included: bandanas, slouchy toques, white tank tops, black hoodies, red or blue hats, and red or blue shirts.

Fun fact: The school sports teams wore black hoodies with gold logos.

Grade one detention. Yelling at another kid for reading over my shoulder during quiet time after I quietly, repeatedly asked him to stop.

I’m in my 30’s now and you can still get FUCKED Mrs. Williams. You can eat a dick too, Patrick. Get your own fucking book.

Good!

Like having a spring full of record breaking forest fires isn’t a strong enough message.

Steve’s still just as fit as ever, he even offered his truck so I didn’t have to pay movers. My kid likes to play with Clara’s on weekends, while she tells me the funniest stories about customers. She’s seeing someone new she’s pretty excited about. We’re all in a band and we practice in my garage on weekends, since I don’t mind hosting. I’d rather fill that space with old friends than bitter memories.

I get whatever’s on sale.

Omega 3-6-9 fatty acids. There’s been a fair amount of research done on its role in mitigating ADHD, specifically. I take them and notice a decline in mood and overall presence of mind when I’ve forgotten to take my pills for a while.

https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4968854/

Day 1: Each plane I boarded was smaller than the last, until I crouched into a cesna, outfitted with pontoons, at the edge of a river. Pilot grinned at me, blazing white teeth set against her skin. “No boss, those bullet holes are old. That fighting is done. The new fighting moved north, you are safe.” She rapped the side of the fuselage with her knuckles, “She’s a lucky plane, I promise you.”

The air around the river was thick and rich. A new soundscape erupted when the engine stopped and and the smell of a different kind of green filled my nostrils. Two men, paste-white on the bottom and bright red on top, greeted me at the fresh wooden dock. They handed my pilot an envelope, and she stopped to count the bills. Satisfied, she clasped their hands, close and strong, one at a time, then saluted me. “Remember me. Your best pilot, no? Good luck.” She tapped her temple.

Day 2: I passed out as soon as I hit my cot, until I felt a prod through the bug net and pulled out my earplugs. The jungle was even louder than before. I ate a breakfast of strange fruit and lentils in the cargo-container-turned-mess hall, where spotted Ellison, who was a few semesters ahead of me back in Philadelphia. I moved my tray over to his table, “Hey, heard you were here. I sent you an e-mail? Didn’t hear back, figured you were busy or the data sucked.” He looked at me long and hard, like we’d had a fight I fogot to apologize for. “Oh, yeah, of course” He said, finally. “I don’t have enough bandwidth to go through all my messages, sorry.”

“Right, yeah,” I smiled. “Must be overwhelming, what with Patricia back with the kids. How old’s Octavia, now?” He gave me that same look. “Oh, uh. Three.”

“Really? I thought…”

Another man, one I didn’t know, came to get Ellison, taking his tray and walking him out of the hall. Reminded me of the nurses in my dad’s home.

An hour later, I was marching in a line through the thick jungle. It quieted as we approached the enclosure. High, fresh cement walls surrounded a two-kilometer stretch of jungle. Inside, in juxtaposition to the refugee-camp aesthetic of the base, were clean acrylic walls separating the observation platforms that extended the entire perimeter. A barrier against dense folliage within. Above the trees were a mesh of wires that crackled when brushed by leaves from fresh growth.

As we walked by an office, I heard shouting. “What do you mean? These number you gave me estimate a 20% increase in mass, and puts it at over two-thousand kilos. Last measurement was three hundred.” “No. That was the first report. We’ve had successive weigh-ins since…”

Day 3: I thought I’d awoken from a dream. I was in the lab, analyzing a section of shed skin. I’d just been brought up to date on PCR read-outs that never gave the same results twice, even using the same batch of enzymes, so I tested the enzymes. While I sat near the centrifuge, looking over blood levels, I heard the whine and crack of branches bending. A slow hiss of sand against metal. A wall of scaled black moved through the trees on the other side of the acrylic panes. I didn’t remember the walk back.

Day 4: I waved to Ellison in the mess hall, he waved back. I asked him when he and Patricia were expecting their first, he told me in a few months.

Back at the facility. The enzymes. I was sure I tested them, but the new readouts gave different results, again.

I heard shouting in the halls. “It will break out of this enclosure in less than a month if we don’t expand.” “What do you mean? This place can hold an animal six times it’s size.” “No, it’s increased, see? I gave you the chart.”

Day 5: Ellison came to the facility to explain his reports on the genotype process, but couldn’t remember typing them. I asked him about his PCR tests, he said he didn’t do any. I showed him his own notes. Behind him, I couldn’t see the jungle. Black scales pressed against the windows.

Day 6: I saw Ellison off at the docks, where I asked the pilot why there were bullet holes in her plane. She shook her head and patted my shoulder. “Old fight, boss.” She saluted me, “good luck.”

I couldn’t go to the lab today, something about a break in the enclosure.

Day 7: A crew was sent out yesterday to fix the facility. Today, we went back. Construction materials were piled on pallets outside, untouched. I found scattered tools in the lab and twisted bolts where the pannels snapped off. No crew. I tried to run another analyses, avoiding the great, shining wall of our subject, coiled into the lab.

Rick is a treasure and I want to get fit with him.

Turns out I can only get off using my feet.

Yes. This is the shit I need. Fun dangly toys on my ceiling.

This is great because I suck at push-ups. I hadn’t considered there was a whole variety of them to try.

I agree with the sentiment of making sure our leaders work for Canada but this is such vague language that could be taken to mean anything. It reads hollow, toothless, and a little bit concerning.

What constitutes foreign interference? What would be done if a candidate was under foreign influence? I’d like a more comprehensive description of “national loyalty,” because that’s a term that could be used against qualified candidates.

Wait, you don’t imagine elaborate narratives where, say, Adrien Brody’s car breaks down in a stretch in the wilderness with nothing but your cabin for miles. So he walks toward the only structure and I’m there studying mosses and it’s so remote I have a sat phone I let him use to call for help, but it’ll be a while so I make him some tea and we get to talking. Night falls before help comes so I light a fire in the pit and let him borrow a sweater I stole from an ex and pull out a bottle of whiskey I was saving for something special but it’s special enough. It keeps us chatting untill the early hours when a tow truck finally shows and I see him off. When I get home from my studies I find a package waiting for me—it’s the sweater he borrowed, a thank you card, and a bottle of fine whiskey?

(I’m uncomfortable sexually fantasizing about real people.)

I have some big news for you about libraries and second hand book stores.

I don’t think you understand this game.