Warm the mic up, yo, we're about to strike up. Or: Into the Great Unknown

[wrote this las night, Blogger wouldn't let me publish]

I haven't posted anything in a while and I don't know if I'm going to be able to again for another week.

Tomorrow morning I am going to brave not only Kitchener public transit, but the Greyhound people as well in order to get to Victor's birthday. Unfortunately, that means getting off the bus in Toronto. It has been reported to me that my chances of finding Ellen once I get there are slim to none. If no one hears from me in more than a week, I am to be presumed dead.

I will my computer to Bakes (unless Ben can't get his back, in which case he gets it), but it's not quite that simple. The tower goes to Bakes. Blake gets the speakers and every audio file on the hard drive. Of the extensive collection of DVD-Rs (and DVD+Rs for you god-damn pedants out there) and CDs I've built up, Ben gets first choice of them all (although Bakes can make a reasonable challenge, or offer, on any of the games). I command that my POS CRT monitor be thrown from the roof of my dorm building.

Blake gets first pick of my literature.

Ben gets the D&D, to be shared in a memorial session by everyone who wants to. He also, therefore, gets access to all the D&D PDFs on my computer.

Bakes also gets my drums and percussion items (the xylophone [or whatever] in my room belongs to my father). He also gets the right to track down Shane and see if he's done using my spare hi-hats and rudiment sheets. Unless TJ has those. In addition he gets a really poor piece of sculpture I bought today of a drummer. However, he must give at least his old shells and anything else he doesn't want from his old kit (or even anything from mine he wouldn't want) to Victor. He also gets the smug satisfaction of outliving me, if only for 6 years.

My sword goes to Nick. Give it a good blade and a good home.

My shotglasses and the condoms on my bookshelf go to Carl along with my LCBO bag. He and Brendan get to split the 26er of Ketel 1. Together. In the same room. At the same time.

I'm sure no one wants my clothes, so I'm not giving them to anyone. Take them to Sally-Ann and make bums wear them. My linnens are up for grabs, but I've been naked on em, so it's anyone's call.

The vitamins, any money found here, and any money in my accounts go to my parents. My textbooks can be sold for folk money. Although Ellen might want the anatomy one. Also my Gov't rebate cheque is for the folks.

My kettle, mug, spoons, and tea bags go to Nora, about whom I have not forgotten.

Ellen, I'm not willing you anything cause if I die it'll be your fucking fault. You can play in the D&D session though. As long as you listen to Ben.

My accordion folder of OSAP documents is to be burned, the ashes put in an envelope with my name and SIN on it and mailed to the OSAP people with a note that says "If you come after my family I will haunt you until the end of your days and give your children, and your children's children terrible birth defects and social anxiety".

Oh, and they ever find my body I expect all the funeral money to go to a solid gold casting of my schlong for Blake. He can see what a real one looks like without having to ask his Dad. And my hair can go to cancerous folk.

But, more important than these is my legacy, which I bequeath to all who read this.

Intangibly, I will Kiersten my common sense, for use both in Bilyea's bedroom and the tattoo parlour.

Victor gets my (slightly ragged) drum chops. He's younger than Wolfgang and has a better chance of taking them further.

My passion for Comm-Tech goes to Tobin O'Drowsky. Just don't get too attatched to anything there. Bissell will probably tell you its bad and then steal it from you.

My rusty dramatic skills are for the Warden (use the confidence and throw out the rest), although my reading ability is Bakes' by right. Maybe he could share my internal dictionary with Blake though.

For all of you: Bros Before Hos. Calling "Self-first" is something ameteurs made up when the lashes of the pussy-whip started to sting too much.

Finally, my unmet obligations: Footloose needs a drummer, the archery team needs a loser, Tyler Vivian needs someone to beat at pool other than his girlfriend, and this blog needs a new Prof.

That's not everything, but I've still got to pack my bag, so I'm gonna sign off.