If you happen to hold the misguided notion that there is one true or superior skin color/country/god/cooking style/sexual position/ring to rule them all, then I would strongly urge you to never, ever visit me in Vancouver. At any given second there are too many languages being spoken around you to possibly ever try counting. If you walked one city block you might pass shop signage in, oh, 6 or so different languages. One block I walked down contained the following shops:
- Something in Japanese with a picture of sushi, so I'm guessing sushi
- A Blockbuster video
- A hip little fusion restaurant
- A tattoo parlour
- A cheque cashing place. (They spell it cheque. I think it's nice.)
- A Subway sandwich shop
- Pizza Hut
- A Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses
And let's not forget the Starbucks. Every corner has one and they are jam packed all the time. ALL the time.
We are sooo not in Kansas anymore.
At quarter to twelve, after a really f'ing long day, Ms. Fussy McGrumpypants had yet to fall asleep and so I decided to tell her a bedtime story while she screamed the hellish cries of the banshee. I chose Three Little Bears. I thought a cute little blond girl story might do us both a little good. Except that I have no idea how that story ends. I didn't realize this until I got to the end, so I improvised and made up my own ending...
So, Papa Bear, Mama Bear and Baby Bear searched the house for the person who had eaten their porridge and slept in their beds. At long last they found her, crouched under the table. Papa bear pulled her out, they tore her to shreds and ate her for dinner. The End.
I'm not so nice when I'm sleepy.