I had fucked up my life, career or the direction of it. That is to say—I had no idea what the fuck I was going to do. My brother Tyler, before the drugs and drink took over his life, pulled me aside and told me to go to university. So, I did. I made inquiries and discovered that Psychology was probably the easiest path. Why? There are lots of women and multiple-choice exams. I was still working at the LCBO and trading stocks. The first year generally went okay until I discovered Rooster’s pub and a woman called Elizabeth. Liz, to me, was a serious “older woman.” Twenty-six or seven, recently divorced, and a model gorgeous real blonde.
The summer prior to my first year at Carleton, Tyler introduced me to the best hangover cure—a cold beer the next morning, fucking delicious. From there, and after my first year, I mapped out a routine. After my shift at the LCBO, my friends and I would go to my uncle's hotel, a block or two down from the liquor store and proceed to drink till close. Needing to get to class and being the organized person I was, I had a six-pack of beer stashed for the morning—getting to class was no problem. The great thing about the morning after the drink is it puts you on that plane of inebriation without the sloppiness. After my six beers were finished, the “fever” would set in. The fever is what I termed my physical and mental compulsion to carry on drinking after running out. My answer? —Rooster’s. Classes could wait. My second year, I passed by the skin of my teeth. My third year was when I met Liz.
Now, I’ll stop here on this blog and on my next you can read my encounter with Liz, and after that blog, I will continue with this one. To this day I still think of Liz...
