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initiate transfer December 17, 2006

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know.
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Today I relocated from here

life in the ghetto with the pigs 

^posthumorously marked figure 1

to here (whilst being nagged by assorted family members for not having packed my junk before they arrived. Mysteriously, I woke up this morning to find out that my clutter hadn’t arranged itself into neat and tidy stacks of boxes overnight. Poor! Screw this “affirmative thinking” bullshit)

tower hill

and will subsequently (and shortly) be here. Shit is a lot cheaper in Toronto. Example: for the same price as the box I rented in Cambridge (so small you can’t even see it in figure 1), I can rent a huge fucking apartment. For your convenience, I’ve marked out the location of my new condominium.

my new pad

The Great Lakes look pretty damn boring, so I’ve added a couple of minor embellishments for you, you eagle-eyed wunderkind.

it's not thaaaaaat far

I did forty lengths this morning. bring it on.

NOW REFER TO FIGURE 1 even though none of the other figures have any labels whatsoever.

The red dot marks the exact location of a puddle of blood which was still there when I left Cambridge a few hours ago.

That’s right, this idyllic scene on Station Road is in fact the location of life-threatening crime. I have carefully delineated the zone of peril with a red border so that you can stay the hell out of it.

Last night we were turning into my cul-de-sac when Simon’s headlights caught a girl doing something odd-looking near a man who lay comatose on the floor while his blood congealed into a crimson puddle of gore. I believe the blood was coming from his palm, which looked suspiciously as though it had been stabbed or pierced. Or maybe he just happened to fall on an extremely sharp and pointed rock, these things happen.

Anyway, the moment the light touched her she vamped off in an extremely suspect manner, only to reappear with a rather shady-looking compatriot who had handcuffs in his back pocket (also his panties were showing, how’s that for magical powers of observation (dark blue)).

Both of them kept patting at his bag and helpfully saying that they would take care of him so we didn’t have to worry so we could just go away. Despite his very poorly state, the girl kept shaking him and asking if he had been pushed, if he remembered who’d pushed him, if he remembered if he had fallen or been pushed, if he remembered having been pushed, if he remembered having been pushed by her, yada yada yada. OK, so I might have fabricated the last pronoun, but you see where this is going.

Creepy feel’n. Eventually a crowd of people gathered, so Si/Jo bade me farewell and I went back to pack (yes, yes, whatever) while they very humanely stayed back to make sure he made it somewhere safe. The victim managed to get to his feet in the end and got ambulanced away, while the handcuff mafia scarpered as the crowd grew.

Let’s put it this way, I’m glad I wasn’t alone that night.

Screw you Cambridge, I’m going home.

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