July first. The one day of the year that the sun peeks it’s head out enough to threaten our igloo habitats, as we casually nosh on beaver lard while wrapped in our moose pelts. In the distance, if one listens hard enough, you might even hear the scream of the enraged athlete as he swings stick against puck in the ancient mating ritual that has brought so many generations together, in weddings catered exclusively by Tim Hortons.
(Did I do it? Hit on enough stereotypes? Do I win the blogging about Canada awards? Should I have mentioned geese a few more times? Maybe thrown the Queen a figurative fascinator-wearing-bone?)
On Canada Day Gabe came over and chilling commenced to the sweet tunes of Beyoncé.
Later we were walking through the patch of the woods close to my house which I’ve posted about earlier. As promised, hey, look, pictures that weren’t taken with my I-pod camera. Woah girl, getting pretty fancy, I know.
We eventually headed uptown, to meet some of my favorite people, and proceeded to kick back, chill, and make way too many offensive remarks for one Vitos to handle.
Instead of watching fireworks my group of friends hung out in a basement that’s basically a mini slice of suburbia and watched a terrible movie (the plot hinged on the use of texting) while cuddling. Cool kids, ‘sup.
Happy belated (Or early, as the case may be) nationalistic holiday of your choice,