January 12, 2013. Toronto. "Record-setting highs". Wearing summer pants in the midst of Canadian Winter.
I woke up this morning in woe for having spent the night before in an alcoholic glaze, ramming destructive substance after substance down my thorax. (Bushmills-Ramen-Hotdog-Beer-CC-Pizza-CC-Fallafel.)
I sweated toxins from my body and mind. "Why is it so hot out?", "Why didn't you have dinner with your mom and go home?", "What are you doing?", "You said you were going to get out of debt?"
Pieces of dreams and the night's idiocy return: a friend betrayed for Self-love; a focus, the same.
And then she appeared. An angel in denim and long hair. We joked and flirted and I declared my Canadian Love for her; cautiously, politely.
"Well, I've considered it," she replied. "But I'm in love with Klaus."
Good enough. On the day that could have easily been the end of everything formerly normal, I'd been considered for Saintly Salvation.
O my unseasonably springy walk home, drunks fighting, meeting a friend trying to mend his tattered soul, laughing together at all the ridiculousness and feeling infinity in the unusually damp air.
That was the day I met Datherine and it began to rain.
