Being raised in a small town in Northern British Columbia leaves a kid with very little to do. I remember as a kid pretending that I was the pilot of a spaceship flying around is space and blowing up evil robots while pulling on the wooden blocks of my bunkbed (which had little buttons and switches colored onto them). It was in the very room that I'm writing this now that those memories were made. It's simply the fact of life that when faced with life in a small town a person's imagination gets put to the ultimate test.
I attended the William Konkin Elementary School in Burns Lake BC and learned to dodge bullets at a young age. At this school of hard knocks I soon found myself wondering if there truly was more to life than just the day to day survival via rooftop escapes and underground passage ways. If perhaps there was some way of escaping this lifestyle just as I had escaped the attempts on my life. If I were to be stronger, more important somehow, then all my problems may become only bad dreams that would haunt me night after night until the day it all came to a crashing halt.
This question of importance hit me hard whenever I found myself gazing up at the stars from my cliff-side bungalow. I saw how tiny the stars were and thought if only I could reach out my hand and squish one that I would feel some sense of power over these tiny droplets of light. After three times falling from the roof of my bungalow, and the subsequent trips to the hospital, I soon decided that thinking was a very dangerous thing. I didn’t think again for three years.
I don’t remember much about those three years. They seem to be a haze of black, as though I fell asleep and simply woke up when a stray thought passed into my mind. Who knows how it got there or where it had come from but this uncomfortable sensation once more brought me back to questioning my own being, questioning myself and my importance.
This thought was simple really, it was the thought of a girl. After all, how in the world would guys wind up doing anything meaningful if women weren’t around to trick them into doing it? They don’t even have to be aware that they are doing anything. They simply have to be themselves and they hoop you into doing some of the craziest things, things like writing a book that they will, quite possibly, never read.
But enough about her, this is about me.
I don’t have anything more to say.