I feel so behemothian like you.

I disappeared.

My last weeks in Victoria were...colourful. My boss at Starbucks was creepy and when he failed to recognize that being in the hospital was a legitimate reason for missing work, I quit. More accurately; I walked out, passed a drug deal under the welcoming green awning, and took the back roads to Hillside where I celebrated with bong hits and Grand Theft Auto.
The next day I faxed an email to the Hornby Island Co-op and prepared to say goodbye to my seductively sedentary city life. Goodbye to the Hillside hoodlums. Goodbye to dirty dick-flashing cab drivers. Goodbye to dating douches, throwing beer bottles off balconies, drunken gnome-stealing quests, free pizza (thanks Kyle), LRPro2.0 sessions (again, thanks Kyle, I love you), jamming with Peter Poon and the Pastors (we'll be famous some day, Sean), and kinky dress-up (one of the classier activities sponsered by the gorgeous Sadie).
In the meantime, however, I needed to find another job because BC Ferries was making it financially awkward to get across two stretches of water. I opted for the easiest choice, next to selling my box on Pandora: a Temp Agency. Yes, I joined the ranks of alcoholics and smack junkies who give scant personal information and a SIN number in return for shitty jobs with shittier pay-checks. Delightful. My posting, which was entirely up to Labour Unlimited, was at Budget Steel, a recycling plant in the industrial district. I started work at 8 in the evening and on the first day I knew I didn't belong there. The place was inescapably noisy, dusty, and crawling with bush men. I walked into the small trailer that served as a office and handed in my sheet and the man at the desk almost spewed his oil-slicked cup of coffee down my front. The guy who was to be my 'supervisor' looked a little less impressed. Our first task was finding me overalls. The smallest size hung at least two and a half feet from each of my limbs as I was clearly the only female insane enough to work there (not that I had a choice). My job description involved general maintenance on machines I could barely climb up on to; shoveling lead-sodden dirt from the gears of the grinder (which turned entire cars into dime-sized bits of metal); driving a Bobcat around without adequate licensing or training; and sorting chunks of steel the width of my torso into 'manageable' piles. All while inhaling microscopic shards of fiberglass and god-knows what else. I would hack up black shit while walking home at four am after shift. Surprisingly, by the end of my week-long stint, they wanted to hire me, but possibly less for my demonstration of femme-power and more for the fact that I had boobs.

On to Hornby Island. I started at 40 hours per week at the Co-Op, the largest of two places on the rock where you could purchase necessities other than weed and hallucinogens (although I was asked for both more than once at my till). I was cashier-bitch and while my fellow employees 'stocked shelves' I served the hoards of vacationers flats of alcohol and power tools. Being that we were the only establishment on the Island selling liquor, I got to know the locals very quickly. At least the ones that drank. Most were quick to fabricate small details about my life as Deb Taylor's daughter (she's been there for two years) and weave these details in with whatever form of debauchery they had seen me amongst outside work. I learned quickly to keep a very low profile lest I be pinned to some raucous beach party where *gasp* mushrooms were being consumed or *horrors* hard liquor was being passed around. I made friends quickly; strangely, with people I would probably never approach if I saw them in the 'real world': old men with purple hair, DJ's, whacked out space-cadet spiritualists, doctors, reiki healers, supposed former IRA members, you name it. And it wasn't long before I found a boy; a gorgeous, curly-haired Islander named Matt. I spent nearly the entire summer in his trailer practicing for my future life as a resident of Sunnyvale.....kidding..but I would love to live in Sunnyvale. Yeah. We had fun, that's all I will say.
I also volunteered at Joe King Ballpark where all the kids went to play. By kids, I mean manglers of all ages, and by play I mean PARTY. HARD. I bartended and did clean-up and it was a right shit-show most nights but the most fun I've ever had not making money. One time I drove some drunk Vancouverite home because he was falling on the ground on the way out to his car. He took 45 minutes to explain exactly where he lived and once we arrived, proceeded to grope my arm in gratitude. I told him to kindly fuck off and left the driveway only to realize I was on an Island with no streetlights and I had forgotten my flashlight. After hours of climbing up sign posts to read street names by the light of my cell phone, I collapsed in the road and almost, ALMOST cried. Then I managed to use my Brownie skills and some novice astronomy to crawl my way home. That was one of a scattered few traumatizing moments during my working vacation. The rest of my time was filled with bonfires; jam circles; groups of old women spinning local wool; fire-spinners; circuses; phosphorescents; shooting stars; Brazilian dance troups; stunningly beautiful scenery; festivals; local organic food; wood-stove-smelling laundry; techno parties (go figure); and truly beautiful, nice, honest, down-to-Earth people. It was magic, and there is not enough 100% recycled bio-organic wheat grass hemp extract paper in the world upon which to record everything I saw, heard, and felt.

And now I am back in the place I was born. Where buildings are shooting up faster than the addicts crowding around them, and I can't see nearly as many stars in the sky. However: ugly or pretty, it's still my city. I have a week to pack my house in Victoria, and corrall all of my shit into one large-but-manageable pile, and then I can relax to an extent. It's good to be back, it's good to know that I'll see my old friends again- I mean, I have a Facebook account now so I'm bound to be popular *cough*. And then in three months I'm off again- to Mexico! Viva la cerveza!