Sweaty Tits and Heavy Boxes

Fact: If you make an awkward joke to your gynecologist when she’s doing her ‘business’, things will get uncomfortable.

Fact: It’s totally worth it.

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So, it’s hot as balls in Toronto right now.  Walking around with sweaty tits and impending pit stains makes a girl feel pretty sexy, if I say so myself.  Nothing removes panties faster than tit sweat. 

Don’t quote me on that.

(Actually, I changed my mind, please do.)

There are many reasons to curse this heat, but overall it’s pretty awesome. The season of park drinking is upon us and that pretty much means that life is worth living again!  Nothing says vacation like a bottle of wine (vodka?) on a park bench surrounded by a bunch of crazy, strung out junkies. (I’m looking at you, Allan Gardens.)  Seriously though, fuck all y’all and your tropical vacation pictures on Facebook. I’m tired of looking at your stupid face on the stupid white sand beach in your stupid bikini. Befriend a junkie and lie in the sun in your underwear like the rest of us.

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Since I’ve been bitching and moaning about moving for far too long, I figured it was worth throwing in a little bit of an update/you don’t have a motherfucking choice and you’re going to hear about my move whether you like it or not.

:)

Update 1: Uhaul vans smell like corn.
Update 2: We kicked moving’s ass, and made it our bitch.

All of our shit is now sitting in our (soon to be) apartment with a stranger while I crash at my wonderful friend’s house until Friday.  I am 89% sure that the stranger will not steal/break/pee on my stuff. I probably should have put in a special request for ‘no urine’ when dropping off our shit, but what can I say? I like to live on the edge a little.

So now I’m covered in tiny bruises and a grimy feeling that doesn’t seem to want to go away. If I left the house 2 hours earlier this morning, I probably could have been mistaken as one of the hookers that hang outside of (endearingly nicknamed) Hooker Harvey’s.  (Yes, I did just compare myself to a prostitute.)

Moving out of the apartment was a little bitter sweet. I said my silent goodbyes to Keith and Roberta and thanked them for imposing their presence upon me over the past 2 years.  Without them, I never would have known what a raccoon fetus looks like, or what it sounds like to have something living in your wall, scratching inches away from your head at 5am. 

Sorry, I don’t mean to brag.

In honour of Keith, and leaving him behind, I’ve dug up an old text conversation my good friend Ivan and I had after one of my Keith encounters.

If you don’t want to lower your IQ, you should consider skipping this all together.

Raccoon Conversations

Interpreted and reenacted by Britt & Ivan

Britt: Do u think, when raccoons communicate, they ever talk about -or even have the ability to talk about- things that have occurred in the past? 

Ivan: Like, 'Hey man! Remember that pizza crust from last Thursday? IT TASTED LIKE TITTIES.'

Britt: Yes.

Ivan: ... then no. 

Britt: Example… Keith would be all "Yesterday this crazy fucking woman yelled at me that it was time to get up and told me to get my act together."

Ivan: "I GOT SKOOLED, YO."

Britt: "Oh no way, bro. I got poked by a child carrying a stick. Pretty annoying."
Britt: "Daaaamn dude. That shit’s one of my pet peeves"

Ivan: "You should have seen this pigeon, homie. She was aaaaall up in ma grillz"

Britt: "I hope you fucked that pigeon up. They play their games. Get all risky and fly all close for no reason."

Ivan: "I found me a boob slingshot. Epic, bro"

Britt: "Do you mean a bra? Like, for boobs?"

Ivan: "Dude. Don't ruin this for me."

Britt: "Let's go sling our shit at other animals. I got beef with a squirrel."
Britt: "Also: totally ate blue cheese today by accident. You know that shit makes me allll bloated, gurl."

Ivan: "IMMA CUT THAT BITCH SQUIRREL. She stole my nuts"
Ivan: (Wink)

Britt: Aw hellz nah!

Fin.