This Friday I will be returning to Winnipeg for the Valentine's Day long weekend. This is akin, I feel, to a hit and run victim returning to the scene of the crime where they were mowed down over and over and over again, forward then backward, practically used as a human speed bump before the driver sped off with an explanation. (In a new book I'm reading, one of the characters is described as a young Spaniard with red marks all over his face that render him quite unattractive. In my mind, I have chosen to visualize YP in this role. Fictional casting win.) I'm flying in for a rehearsal weekend for an album being recorded in March, which is all well and good, but the director on this project has yet to issue a formal schedule due to having recently suffered a work-related mental breakdown, the only upside of which is that he tells me his symptoms and I will in turn recant them to my therapist in the hopes of acquiring a nice little Celexa nest egg of my own.
Onwards. Everything old is news again: my wallet is missing. HOWEVER, this time I did not lose it. I feel that it was pilfered on the streetcar and you know what? GOOD. I'm glad. This wallet has been the bane of my existence for the past 7 years and at this point it has become a hemroids-level pain in my ass. I don't care about the $40, IDs, transit pass, bank credit cards and random loyalty rewards cards in it. I got another Vuitton that's been in the wings for years, so who needs you, Wallet?! I just want that fucker gone!... Except if I get it back.
In better news, Apple has sent me a new iPod, so I'm assuming the fact that I tried shipping the old one via Fedex by putting it in the UPS box worked out just fine. Lesson: reading is for suckers.