You’re driving in a labyrinth of deep suburb. You’re lost. You are always lost. You look down at your phone to pull up a map, and when you look up again, 26 new houses have appeared in front of you. They are all painted grey. You rub your eyes, and more houses emerge from the aether. Small children peer out at you from the windows, unblinking. There are no trees here. You keep driving.
The chinook winds blow in. The People tell you with benevolent smiles that it’s a good thing, and yet, the city is plagued with headaches. The birds are acting strangely. You find you can’t quite remember your name.
It’s the long weekend, and everyone is going to the Mountains. The city is empty, and it’s deeply unsettling. Once, to escape the overwhelming sense of dread, you tried to go to the Mountains on a long weekend, too. How foolish.
For ten days in July, you must eat the free pancakes every morning. You’ve been eating the pancakes your entire life. You want to trust that there is nothing sinister in the batter. The People all wear plaid.
You’ve seen Nenshi in the flesh. You don’t remember when, or where, but you know in your gut that it happened. You just know. You update your Facebook status. 85 people like it.
You’ve been driving on Deerfoot for an hour. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You don’t want to think about how much time has truly passed. One by one, the radio stations are turning country. You seem to be the only one that notices.
You hate the Quebecois. You don’t know why you hate the Quebecois.
