Then I'd turn back to the door, past the Mudhoney flyers, to oblivion. With no support group to haunt, web site to troll or speed-dating service to enable my fear of prolonged conversation with strangers, there was really no place to go but home. Somewhere around Saskatoon I resolved that a childhood deprived of nominal persecution would not define me. As any family therapist worth their prescription pad will tell you, the deprivations of the mind will manifest themselves in the body and vice-versa. I put my arms around every hipster I saw, but every fantastical story of Orange-fuelled tribulation, every smothered quizzical mouth reminded me how hollow was my victory.
Inaugural tutorials are a blur of dread.
As my name was called out with a tentative, strangled French twist, I sensed the faces in the room wrench slightly with intrigue. Weary, nearing graduation and the end of my tall-tale capacity, I settled on the policy of truth. Sometimes on the phone, sometimes at tall counters or in glowing petri-dish offices. But mostly on the phone. Yes, great-grandpapa Giuseppe, it has come to this.