My favourite Sesame Street character growing up was Oscar The Grouch . I no longer need the tv character, I have a young nephew; his name is Oscar, and he’s a grouch.

Myself and Oscar have been in a battle for as long as I can remember. I have attempted to buy his love for a very long time. It literally took 2 years to get him to look at me. The second I’d enter his space he’d try to get under the table, turn his head away, or close the lid on his trash can.

At the core of our disagreement is his refusal to love airplanes. I cannot fathom how a little boy can hate airplanes. Especially a boy who loves motorcycles even more than I do. I mean it’s not like he’s decided to play with dolls or go in a new direction. Loving airplanes is an extension of loving motorcycles as far as I’m concerned, but not for Oscar…

“Oscar, can I take you flying one day.”

“NO” comes the swift reply. “I hate airplanes.”

You know why it bugs me? I know he doesn’t hate airplanes. He knows I love them, so he hates them. I once took him down the toy aisle in Wal-mart. I found the coolest airplane I could find. Months later, thinking I’d finally found a chink in the armour I said…

“Hey Oscar, check this out, can I buy you this?!

“No” comes the emphatic reply. “I hate airplanes.”

We stare each other down like two gunslingers on a dusty street. He doesn’t blink. I don’t even bother drawing my gun, this flinty eyed assassin has already won. We leave Walmart with a damn motorbike. I’m pretty sure it cost more than the airplane.

He also has no problem telling me the cold hard truth. When I recently bought a toy for him I got the name of the character wrong…

“You don’t know anything about it.” he said with disdain.

If I had swallowed my pride and tried with everyone else as much as I have tried with Oscar the grouch, I’d be happily married, wildly successful in business, and friends that would know I cared more than they do now.

So why do I try so hard with Oscar? It’s possible it’s as pathetic as needing validation to feed my ego or build some self esteem, I’ve read the memes. But if you were to ask me, I’d tell you Oscar is an original. Authentic. Honest. His Dad told me the other day after I attended his birthday party that he said..

“I like Uncle Tris.”

Well that was news to me. But it speaks to my theory, that the reason I take rejection so well with him is because of who he is, not my feeble insecurities.

My Oscar the Grouch is the kind of guy who will stab you in the front, but have your back when it’s turned. Thats rare these days. I want to live in a world full of Oscars. At the very least I want to be surrounded by them. I’m so tired of everyone behaving like they just attended some goofy winning friends and influencing people seminar at a budget airport hotel. I find him very, very refreshing. He’s worth the rejection.

Love to you Oscar. Never change. Well actually, I really think you need to reconsider your position on airplanes, but I still don’t think I have the courage to clear leather on that one.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

My Son turned 18 today.

I have written for an hour. I stop. I delete. I start. I stop. I delete.

18 years ago God entrusted Alastairs’ mum and myself with one of the two greatest creations he has ever made. I have never found the words to describe that night, and I can’t find them this night.

The other day I was trying to remember the last time I cried. Tomorrow I will not have to try.

I love you Alastair Jack Cottier. I love you so much it hurts.

If you read this far, ty. Tris.

It’s Friday night, and I’m alone, writing, and listening to music. An accusation is ringing in my head:

“You are alone because that’s what you want, you want to feel sorry for yourself, listen to sad country songs. You LOVE misery, you are a lone wolf.”

Ouch. Is it true? Would it hurt if it wasn’t? Should I defend myself? I feel I have lots of evidence to refute this accusation. I want to explain how every time I felt I really found happiness in relationship terms, it was snatched from me, or I realized what I was feeling wasn’t shared. Sounds like more self pity, the very thing I’m accused of.

So, no defence. No plea besides guilty. I DO really like sad country songs. Let me introduce you to a few of my faves!

He Stopped Loving Her Today – George Jones

This is a classic song about unrequited love. It has a happy ending though, she comes to see him at his funeral. I hope she donated funds to the local animal shelter in lieu of flowers like the memory card may have suggested.

Chiseled in Stone – Vern Gosdin

In this lovely jingle some poor bastard angrily leaves a tiff with his wife, only to end up on a barstool next to some poor soul who informs him things could be worse; the wife he left could be laying under a rock with her name and best before date chiseled on it. Realizing his folly, he goes home and buys her flowers while she’s still fresh. Sounds like a happy ending to me.

Goodbye Time – Conway Twitty

Ok this is just a damn sad song. If you have ever walked out on, or watched someone walk out on you, this song hits ya. However, I have an antidote if you buy this man’s masterful performance. Immediately after you listen to Goodbye, check out You’ve Never Been This Far Before. You’ll be glad the old dog said goodbye. If the #Metoo movement was in the 70s we’d have to rename it #Whowasn’t, thanks to Conway. That man would love to lay you down and softly whisper pretty love words in your ear, touch you as you tremble with a slow hand. Not a 2020 kind of guy.

How Can I Help You Say Goodbye- Patty Loveless

Listen to this song, and you’ll wish you were a duck, the ocean, whiskey. There’d be no need to swim to the bottom, you’d drink your way down till you hit sand. At this point you’d order another Ocean:

“Can I get some ice this time? Ya, the Arctic is fine.”

I’m Over You – Keith Whitley

Pretty much the best Country song ever written. It kinda goes like this:

You heard I’m drinking?- Pffft – I look like shit?- Pfft – You see tears? – not over you.

Never let the bastards get you down.

I Can Still Make Cheyenne – George Strait

This man makes the classic mistake of chasing money. Likely to provide for his family. But while he was riding cows his wife was riding something that presumably didn’t last 8 seconds. The good news was since she got straight to the point, he had enough time to get to his next cow riding. While I don’t question this mans courage, his choice of rides is questionable.

There’s many more. But I got my two favourite Georges in there, Keith, Vern, Patty and Conway. It’s a good starter pack for broken hearts, and loss. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do, if you don’t already.

Does it always matter how you feel, as long as you feel? Just don’t feel like Conway. You’ll get arrested.

If you read this far, thank you, Tris

I’ve lost my way. It’s hard to acknowledge. It seems most of my life I’ve been in the fog. I wake up, I go to work, I eat. Work is the only thing that makes sense to me when I lose my way. When you have kids depending on you, you at least feel like there’s a purpose to your life, and that feels good.

I miss the church I used to attend. I miss sitting alone, lost in a crowd, listening to the music. I miss watching the faces of the vocalists and musicians, seeing a light and warmth, even if I didn’t always feel the same. I’ve never been a jealous soul, seeing others happy, makes me happy. Life seems so simple for some. It’s not simple for me.

My daughter told me today how excited for Christmas she was. Instead of telling her I hated Christmas, I tried to act excited.

“Why do you not like Christmas?” she asked, seeing right through me.

I told her Christmas in my childhood home was often not a happy time. I told her my Mother had died, just before Christmas. I told her I hated the commercialization of the birth of Christ. There’s other reasons I can’t really talk about with her. I then grinned and told my daughter I was an asshole, and needed to wake up. She concurred. I told her I’m going to get excited for Christmas this year.

I have everything I could possibly want. Maybe that’s the problem? When a man has a son and a daughter, a dog, people that love him and those he loves, a faith in God, a motorcycle, airplane, and a home he built for his kids to hide from the world in, he’s has no reason to feel sorry for himself. But in my defence, I do not feel sorry for myself. I guess I’ve always had a penchant to see the injustice in the world. Like my sister who is trapped in a hospital. I have another sister fighting health issues. I have two brothers who barely get to see their very young daughters. I have another sister who works day and night to look after children. I have an employee who recently worked 60 days in a row to feed his 3 kids and spouse, I can see the stress killing him. Businesses are failing everywhere. Children are locked up in schools, getting reprimanded when a mask slips. Youth sports are cancelled, while casinos are full. I read about a man who killed someone over drugs in front of others openly, served 2 years, came out and raped and tortured a woman, only to get a couple more years. Then, I watch a cop take down and throw a man into a van for not wearing a mask at a Costco. The same Costco that made a billion or so off this pandemic. So let me get this straight, fentanyl deaths and suicides are spiking due to depression and anxiety and our finest are enforcing mask policies for Costco? Go fuck yourself, I think to myself. My anger burns. Earlier this week I get 400 dollars in tickets because I didn’t wear my seatbelt, and forgot I put my insurance card on my phone. If we care this much about safety, why again are we letting murderers and rapists walk? What the fuck kind of world is this?

I question everything. I question everyone. I come home and just want to punch the wall. My phone dings. It’s my daughter. She wants to come over, hang out and watch a show with me. I pick her up and we start watching, we laugh together. My son joins us, we always love that. My son shows me how to flip an omelette, a skill I could never achieve before. Anna texts, despite our differences, she went to the hospital and took my sister a coffee and a couple donuts. A friend texts me, she’s in her friends music video. It’s called “Penny”, and it’s the great work of another local musician. A lyric that sticks is: “Come to the river and be baptized, let go your hurt and leave your lies…”

Perfect timing.

If you read this far, Thank you, Tris.

Ps. I also have a cat.

We have been working together for almost a decade, Chris and I. He’s not my employee, he’s my partner. He’s without a doubt the best carpenter I have ever met.

I used to be a Framer. A Framer is the person who constructs the shell of a home. A broken back after a fall, and coaching a son in hockey at 4pm made that career almost impossible. It is brutally hard work as well.

Around this time I decided to try my hand at renovations. I had been building homes for 15 years, and a change was needed. One of my first jobs was for a friend; he needed new floors. I had asked a friend to help me, but it wasn’t just a friend, it was my old employer, the man who had trained me to be a framer. His name was Jakob, an Austrian, he was also a very gifted carpenter. He’s since built homes featured in architectural magazines, and he’s still a mentor to this day.

We were ripping out the old flooring when Craig, the homeowner, asked,

“Would you like an extra helper?”

I was hesitant to accept. But when he said he’d work for 10 dollars an hour, I said yes. What could I possibly lose?

The next day myself and Jakob watched as an old chev truck pulled up, and a smaller man in a dirty white shirt opened up his tailgate, and dumped two buckets of tools out.

“You can tell a lot about a carpenter by the way he looks after his tools” Jakob observed.

I wasn’t so sure. I was a good carpenter, and I was the worst at organizing my tools.

“What can I get started on?” Chris asked, after introducing himself.

I gave him a few things that I thought would take a few hours to do. At 10$ an hour I wasn’t expecting much. So, you can imagine my surprise when in less than 30 min he returned, the work all done. Not only was it done, it was done better than I could of done it.

This was the beginning of a long relationship. We are perfect for each other. With my framing skills and attitude, and his deft hands and meticulous eye, we have completed thousands of projects together. From million dollars homes, to garden sheds. We like the variety. We can do it all, from concrete to cabinets. We do our own design now. We don’t make a lot of money, but most of our customers love us. All of our customers love Chris.

He’s honest. To a fault. He’s kind. He’s hilarious. He drinks a bit too much, which led to him asking for a phone call from the drunk tank one night. The RCMP had picked him up for some reason or another. With his call he phoned the Calgary police, and reported himself kidnapped. True story.

We have been through it all together. My marriage ending. His dog dying. Blizzards. Rain. Cops. Thefts. Me breaking his window and dragging him out of bed. Him going missing for a few days at the worst possible times.

But my favourite memory to date was not work related. One night I was restless, and he was alone. He was living in the carcass of the old general store in Madden. I went to see him. He had a room in the back of the store. We played George Jones, Keith Whitley, Vern Gosdin and others. We smoked cigars and drank something toxic. I guarantee it wasn’t expensive. We talked all night and called Bubba at the CBC. It was one of the best nights of my life. It’s not where you are, it’s who you are with.

I’m looking forward to seeing Chris tomorrow.

If you read this far, thank you. Tris

For a few years I’ve tried to reach out to a friend I met a long time ago. His name was Gilles.

I pulled up to Cash corner in the early 2000s, looking for temporary help. My brother had just lost a finger because of my stupidity, and I needed a helper. I drove a 90s Astro Van at the time.

Before I could stop, a thin wiry French Canadian named Gilles was at my door. He wasn’t just at my door, he had it opened and was getting in.

“What are we working on today?” he grinned.

“Framing” I replied.

He was great. My brother was irreplaceable, but Gilles was the next best thing. He worked tirelessly. He also was staying with a friend close to my house. We worked together for a couple years, and I got to know him well. We both liked a drink, and often after work we’d talk. He had served over 5 years in a maximum security prison. He had made mistakes as a kid, and had been in with the wrong crowd. He was connected to, if not a member of the infamous Rock Machines in Quebec City. He had at least one child that I recall, and he loved her with all his heart. There was no work back East, so he was here, doing his best.

Hi was about 46, I was about 26. I was his boss but he kinda treated me like his kid. On a hot day I’d buy him Skor blizzards. We’d go for breakfast every morning. Every Friday we’d drink a bucket of beer. In many, many ways, we were both lost souls. We enjoyed each other’s company. It didn’t end well. I suspect he started using hard drugs again. One day he pulled a knife on me, I pulled a 2×4 on him, and he quit as I fired him. That night the cops called me, he had stolen checks and passed them at a Money Mart. Did I want to press charges? I did not. I thought about him a lot. I missed him.

It’s been at least 15 years. I tried to find him over the years. He wasn’t into social media.

My brother came to see me on thanksgiving. We started to reminisce. I told him about how I always wanted to find Gilles. Go see him. I told him I had found his profile on Facebook, but he had never responded. My brothers daughter speaks French, so we started digging on the internet again. I was so excited. I found a young woman with his last name posting pictures of him, it must be his daughter, we were getting close!

I saw a picture of him, holding her up and smiling. it made me happy to see him. I found a link to an Instagram post. We were excited. Then I saw one of the posts on Instagram. My heart sunk. My brother and niece saw it too.

It was a tattoo. It was script.

25 Octobre 1957 . 5 julliet 2017

I went silent. We all did. It really hurt. All I ever hear is how emotionally unavailable I am, but I felt emotion. He didn’t even make it to 60. He had a hard, unprivileged life. He was a really good man, and he deserved more. I’m sorry Gilles. I wish I could of come to see you. Thank you for being my friend, and helping me. Happy Birthday, I know I’m a few days early.

• 

• 

• 

If you read this far, thank you. Tris.

There is something that I’ve never been good at. It’s never come naturally to me.

This week I’m teaching myself how to fly instrument approaches in a private jet on my flight simulator. I’ve watched hours of Garmin 1000 tutorials. I’ve even decided I don’t need such sophisticated equipment to get my little Cessna down if I get trapped in lousy weather.

I’ve figured out how to get myself to within a mile of the runway on track, get myself to 500′ above the runway. If I get my speed to 60 MPH and set up at 500 fpm descent, I should be able to hit the runway in zero visibility if it was an emergency. No IFR equipment needed. There’s always a way if you just think.

You know what thinking can’t do for you? You can’t think yourself into a romantic person. That’s magic. That’s a gift from God. God did not give me this gift.

I don’t like cuddling. Not generally. I don’t like gazing into someone’s eyes. I don’t understand flowers. I don’t have any idea why 3 bags of groceries need two people to carry them in. I can put 8 of those bags around one hand. So when asked to help carry in 3 bags I’m completely bewildered, I’m not deliberately trying to be unhelpful.

I have a friend named Sean. He’s got the gift. He’s always planning a surprise, an adventure, whatever. Everyone seems better at it than me. You know whats funny tho? I bet I could write a hell of a romance novel.

I’d write about a humble, overlooked guy in the shadow of a rich peer. He’d happen to randomly meet said dudes fiancée, let’s say. Shocker, they’d connect. At some point rugged humble dude would get falsely accused of something to make him even more sympathetic. The beautiful heroine would see through it all, reach down from her throne, and lift up her prince. They’d hold each other’s faces before he’d drop to his knees at her feet in the rain sobbing, abs showing through his t-shirt.

How how hard is it to make a likeable character?

Then, the jilted fiancé is filled with rage, self loathing, resentment, and lays out a path of destruction that destroys everything he loves as he spirals into addiction to numb the memories of his father telling him he’ll never be enough. All he ever wanted was to be poor, be like his friends, and not constantly be pressured to be the best. Now the kid that got to grow up that way just rode into the sunset with the girl he loved, despite his best efforts to frame him. He’s ends up living on Sesame Street in a garbage can. He becomes a hero of yours truly… Shit, lost the plot there, and let MY idea of romance slip in.

I can’t tell you how many times I think I’m doing so well, only to find out the person I love is unhappy. I never see it coming really. I know they are right, I’ve heard it so many times before. But I never know how to be something I’m not. By its very nature romance is spontaneous. You can’t go learn it.

I want to believe there are others like me. And if anyone reads this, and is married or loves someone like me; I want you to know they love you as much as anyone. Maybe more. Trust it. You likely won’t, but he/she wishes you would.

If you read this far thank you,

Tris.

I dusted off my motorbike this past week. When I put the new sticker on the registration plate I started removing the old ones, and realized I have owned it since 2011. 9 years, two wheels, and one very, very close call.

This January I bought myself a 1970 Cessna 150k. It’s the smallest Cessna made, and I think I travel faster on my motorcycle. It has a tricycle landing gear. 3 wheels, but mostly none.

My trucks, the only things I do admit to abusing, are my best friends. I still have Old Red and have asked a mechanic to bring it to life. My grey Ford, now a tired old man himself, has 390k on it. It’s my daily driver. 4 wheels, just don’t count the lug nuts.

I’m not sure if it’s the trucker hat that I found in a clients home, which she graciously gave me, but I’ve recently found myself wanting to learn how to drive an 18 wheeler. All the boys I grew up with seemed to think it was the coolest thing to do, and maybe I’m just late to the party.

I see friends on Facebook who are drivers posting pictures of the sites the see as they travel. There seems to be a lone wolf nature to it, a freedom from society. That kind of freedom has always appealed to me. I imagine it’s not unlike the freedom I feel when I escape on two wheels, and lose contact with the Earth with three.

I’ve gone on a short trip in an 18 wheeler with my great friend, Cory. I really enjoyed it, and can only imagine how much more I’d enjoy it alone, without him. I’m certain he feels the same.

I’d get the hat, buy some cowboy boots, put a rubber duck on my dash, and some of those dancing hula girls to keep the duck happy. I’d get some sunscreen for my left arm and cheek. I’d definitely get myself a CB radio. Depending on my ever fluctuating Bodyweight, I’d be ‘Big T’ or possibly ‘T-boney’. However, its likely after a few months of driving my peers would just call me ‘Jackknife’.

I’d listen to Alabama’s 40 Hour Week as I drive down the highway. Except, I’d only work a 20 hour week. Most drivers try to hide hours in a log, I’d round up. The Sheriff would inspect my log in Golden B.C…..

“You sure you have 6 hours in? Your log says you’ve only driven from Calgary to Golden?” he might question.

“Don’t you have bigger fish to fry?” I might reply.

“You do realize even at 6 hours you are not nearly timed out right?” He would likely persist.

“Listen Bear, I like to err on the side of caution.” I’d respond, “I might not be tired but the Hula girls need a rest.”

“Ok, just asking, have a great nap.” He’d acknowledge.

“10-4, catch you on the flip flop.” Id say with a drawl.

I want an old truck. A light trailer and room for my dog. I want to drive wherever I feel like, and not have a timeline. I want free gas too. I’ll stop for breakfast 3x a day. When I get to where I’m going, I will feel like I have arrived.

If you read this crap, thank you.

Tris.

In my late teens and early 20s, my life was pretty tumultuous. Those that know me, would not be surprised. Those that knew me then, will remember.

I left my family home for the last time when I was about 19. I had been working full time for a few years, and it felt like my opportunities were limited.

My friends all had farms to buy into, land, cattle, and opportunities I just didn’t have. I was a carpenter, sort of, and didn’t see a future.

My girlfriend at that time made a very wise decision that likely made her parents happy, as well as herself, and felt I wasn’t a great fit. My older siblings were all married, and I think selfishly I didn’t consider my younger siblings feelings at all, and I took a job in Meeting Creek.

There, I met another girl, who I fell for. It wasn’t a great fit, she was my Boss’s daughter, and by then I think I had some serious emotional issues, and really was in no shape to attempt any kind of relationship.

She was also no fool, and made an excellent choice, and started dating a friend of mine. All is fair in love and war, and truthfully I think I was so messed up that I couldn’t possibly have known if I loved anyone or not.

I left that job for another. I joined a travelling construction crew, and stayed in hotels for a few months.

This was where I met my children’s Mother, someone I’d marry and share nearly 2 decades of my life with. Someone who I still deeply respect to this day. She worked front desk at the hotel I was staying at. However we didn’t start dating at this time.

Soon I was shipped off to Cranbrook, B.C. to build some basements. The company I worked for was based out of Pincher Creek. So, I spent some time there as well.

This was where I met Carrie. Someone I barely know, but I always smile when I think of her. I was reckless, erratic, and pretty much out of control. However, when I was hanging with her I felt calm, happy. It just felt so right to me. We became friends. I realize I must have been a subpar worker, because again the work dried up. Calgary was booming, so that’s where I went. Anyone could get a job there. So, I did.

I fit in on the crews in Calgary. The other boys where as poor as me. I felt at home. We all drove crappy cars and trucks, all needed advances, all couldn’t afford dinner on the Thursday before payday. I was happy.

What made me even happier was I’d sometimes get a call from Carrie, and she’d sometimes take my call. She was a beautiful soul. I remember one day coming home and getting a Birthday card from her, it made me so happy.

I called her that day….

“Hello.” the voice of her mother answered.

“Hello,” I replied, “Is Carrie home?”

“Yes she is, is this Tristram?”

Uh oh… why does my name always sound like a dirty word when someone says it….?

“Yes it is.” I replied.

“Tristram, do you think you’ll ever join the Church, and live a life inside the Church?” was the gist of the query.

Never one to ever say anything but what I feel is the truth, I replied, “I can’t see it right now.”

“Well Tristram, it would mean a lot to me if you don’t see yourself in our faith, that you not call Carrie anymore.”

“Ok.”

A few kind words of encouragement where offered. I was numb. I couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.

So, I never did. Never. Not one single call, card, and this was in the days before text. I’ve never seen her or spoken to her since that day.

Recently, 25 years or so later, I was telling my daughter this story at my nieces wedding. As I just finishing up the story we opened the door to enter the hall and Carrie’s mother was there. I hadn’t seen her since our phone call either. We exchanged pleasantries. I doubt she remembered the call. It just made me laugh. When I think about it I realize she was just being a good mother. I hope she’s happy, and proud of me for respecting her wishes.

I’ve obviously moved on, I heard she’s married, big family, in the faith. Everything is as it should be. However, I will never forget how being around Carrie made me feel like I was enough, ok, accepted and cared for.

I’d be lying if I said I think of her often, but I’d also be lying if I said it’s rare. At a time in my life where I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere, every minute around her made me feel like I belonged. I’ll never forget her kindness.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

I like to write when I’m tempted. The temptation could be to drink or self medicate in other ways.

I have ADD. For a brief time I was medicating it, and it changed my life. Problem was when I went to renew my Medical for my pilots license, I was suspended. I had no idea the med I was taking was prohibited. I quit taking it that day. I wasn’t prepared to give up Aviation. After a letter from my physician, and a 3 month wait, I was back in the left seat.

Life returned to “normal”

A week of a million ideas, all of them great, followed by a couple days of barely being able to get out of bed.

3:00 am sessions of watching my favourite intellectuals speak, returned. Hours of Jordan Peterson, Sam Harris, Thomas Sowell and others.

I also spend a lot of time watching old men do their craft. I strongly recommend everyone watch an old man in Australia build a wooden bucket. He’s built wooden containers his entire life. He is a Cooper. It’s a glimpse into a world where we all had a tangible purpose. I think we all miss that to some degree. Beats the hell out of being an administrator to a bureaucrat. What would you rather do? File a document that approves a process? Or build a damn bucket out of wood that will last 50 years and hold water?

I listen to music that takes me back to my days in a Mennonite community. To most it must be weird, but put a few people together singing Amazing Grace with no instruments and I’m 10 yrs old again, my family is together, and my mum is alive.

I sometimes turn on an old video of Meatloaf, and listen to an old version of Paradise by the dashboard lights. I’ve never decided if I even like Meatloaf, I just love how authentic his performances are.

I have a subscription to a Math and Science channel. I can learn some of the things I should have learned long ago.

I like watching Trent Palmer land his Kitfox on a sand bar.

I get odd ideas in my head and try to speak hound. I’ll howl in my bedroom at my dog. I try to communicate with him.

I often think about my kids. Did I do it right? They gonna be ok? Will they come visit me? Can I take my future grandkids flying?

I spend a lot of time in regret. It’s my nature. I’m always stuck in the past. I don’t subscribe to the notion that regrets have no utility. I do not want to repeat mistakes, and the pain of regret is useful.

I question my faith a lot. Isn’t it narcissistic to believe I’m created by a God, and that he loves me? but always it’s restored. It’s too real. The voice is not mine that I hear, and it never guides me to be hurtful or unkind. When I follow the path it suggests, peace ensues. Peace. That’s not me. My loathing of Mr. Trudeau is not from God, that’s all me. My faith would tell me to love that idiot. I have work to do. I will always bend a knee for God. He will judge me from there.

This bloody pandemic has annoyed me. You cannot be a logical person and not have questions. You ask those questions and people think you are some kind of anarchist. I’m angry over it. I don’t know of a single sick person, but I know many who have lost their jobs and self esteem. It has been handled very, very badly.

There is no message here. No point to this drivel. I lie, there is a point. I’m not drunk. I’m not doing something I’ll regret. I’ll be clear headed when I build a planter box with my daughter and son tomorrow.

I gotta go now, me and Bauer are going to have a chat.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris