On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
On Oct 12, 2018, I started throwing up and couldn’t stop. By the time I got to the hospital, 26 pukes later, the pain was so intense that morphine wasn’t enough to stop it, so they gave me a drug 7x stronger called Dilaudid, and even that only eased the pain for a few hours 8 days 4 blood tests 3 doctors 2 ultrasounds and 1 endoscopy later (and 15lbs lighter) I left the hospital not knowing exactly what caused it, but doctors thought it might be Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, which basically means because I smoked/ate/vaped marijuana almost every day for 15 years, my body was tapping out. What I *did* know was the guy lying in that hospital bed wasn’t even the real me I was (am) a weed addict, but as much as I was addicted to the drug, I was equally addicted to suppressing myself with every hit. Hiding my light. I filled myself with smoke so, in a way, no one could ever see me. So I could never see myself I stopped using that day. As the smoke cleared over the following months, the real me emerged from the haze, and, particularly through the act of writing, I discovered my voice. A way to shine my light. Wedged against me through it all, or at the very least with a paw always touching me, was Darryl. Touching the me that, despite obscuring it with smoke for so long, he had always seen. Always loved. By my side writing, pushing into my hand for neck massages, stretching his legs like a show-off ballerina during scratches – his touch was, in the most fundamental way, how he said: “I’m here with you” On Oct 6, 2021, thousands of miles and an ocean away, we got the call that Darryl had died. That night we wandered the streets of London, crying and laughing and wishing we could’ve said goodbye. Comforted him. Touched him one last time. Then, from under a car, a cat appeared, meowing loudly and purposefully trotting right towards us, eagerly pushing its neck into my hand as I offered it, just like Darryl used to. Stretching its legs like a show-off ballerina, just like Darryl used to We stayed with this un-cat-like cat for a long time, in a strange way getting a chance to say goodbye. A chance for one last touch. A chance for him to say: “I’m here with you”
you guys hear about this #ringlightchallenge ?
no one asked for this
Shave Away
Congratulations to Safiya Hashi, the 2020 (and 13th!) recipient of the Enough Talk, Hurry Up and Do It Already Arts Scholarship Looking forward to seeing her fly through her time at the University of Calgary where she’ll be majoring in English, then leaving the nest and bringing her writing to the world — writing so sick, it should be ill-eagle! Link in bio to donate or apply!
which horse of the apocalypse is this
Congratulations to Raven Mutford, the 2021 recipient of the Enough Talk, Hurry Up and Do It Already Arts Scholarship Not only will she be studying acting at UBC this fall, but she’s already secured representation at @playmgmt! When I was her age I spent $40 on McNuggets — she’s gonna crush it! Link in bio to donate or apply!
Congratulations to Raven Mutford, the 2021 recipient of the Enough Talk, Hurry Up and Do It Already Arts Scholarship Not only will she be studying acting at UBC this fall, but she’s already secured representation at @playmgmt! When I was her age I spent $40 on McNuggets — she’s gonna crush it! Link in bio to donate or apply!
wanna hear somethin steve
Poet, Musician, Writer and Activist Gil Scott-Heron explaining his oft-quoted phrase “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” I heard those words time and time again throughout my life, and I never understood what they meant. It wasn’t until this year that I looked it up, and discovered how prophetic and profound they were when he said them back in 1970, and continue to be to this day. I think about his words all the time now. Maybe the same will be true for you. footage found via @mediaburnarchive
Top 3 in Sci-Fi! Thank you @finaldraftscreenwriting and congrats to all other writers! #finaldraftbigbreak
I’m so excited and deeply honoured to be a part of bringing you @FoodForTheRestOfUs, a beautiful and inspiring film by @CarolineCoxFilm and @AyalikTiffany Food For The Rest Of Us is a feature film that presents 4 stories of people living life on their own terms, serving as leaders and role models who are lending their voice to the underdog and leading a revolution to a better world, from the ground up! An Indigenous-owned, youth run organic farm in Hawaii, and Black urban grower in Kansas City who runs a land-farm at East High School, A female Kosher Butcher in Colorado working with the Queer Community and an Inuit community on the Arctic Coast who are adapting to climate change with a community garden in a small geodesic dome. Links to official site and upcoming screenings in that Bio!
