December 17, 2003

I looked in my pocket this morning to find a brief history of Heather written on a crumpled napkin. “Saint John is Heather’s home city … born in Medicine Hat, raised in Saint John … not all Saint Johners drink screech rum.”

Last night I got progressively drunker while talking to Heather about postmodernism, mindfucks, and everything in between. At some point I found a pen in my pocket and we started scribbling stanzas of gibberish on the pile of napkins besides us: “Slow progression towards skankiness” … “Breasts are very cool” … “Put self first.”

With exams over and Christmas around the corner, everybody crammed into the local bars for one last night of binge drinking before leaving the city in the morning. Four of us went down to Johnny Fiasco’s for cheap drinks and milkshakes. After tequila shots, beer, pool, and laughter the party broke up, and Heather and I stayed behind to finish profound and incoherent conversations.

Strange and lovely are the fragments of thought still remembered in the morning …