Quick Post – Also, Kenny Chesney, we need to talk.

Dear Future Leslee,

This will be a quick, not-very-organized or particularly well thought-out post because I’m off to MONTREAL this weekend and I’m pretty much as excited as I can physically get without peeing myself all the time. That being said, it’s been a while since I’ve dropped by to visit (You look fabulous! ) and I thought it would only be appropriate to give you a little somthing-something *wink-wink* before I go.

Firstly, we put my dog of eleven years down about a week ago and it has been very sad. We keep reminiscing about all of the cute or evil or heroic stuff he did, and just generally about how he was the best dog ever. He used to eat twenties. He once saved a girl from drowning (fact). He used to get really, really offended if you stopped petting him for any reason. He was a hundred pounds of awesome, and I miss him to death.

Disgruntled was a good look for him.

His name was Wylie (As in Wyle E. Coyote) but I always just called him ‘baby’ or ‘puppy’, because I am lazy about proper nouns. When we first got him, I used to carry him around in my arms all the time. He liked eating yogurt, but only off a spoon, probably because of that one time that he got his whole head stuck in a yogurt container and I had to rescue him. He made me feel invincible.

Best. Dog. Ever.

Besides horribly depressing things, though, I have also been having awesome adventures. I saw a friend of mine perform in a park, and I went to my first ever honest to goodness real swing dancing class, and I had a lady stop me downtown to take a picture of my shoes. Incidentally, no matter how many times someone stops you for shoes, it never gets old.

I’ve also been doing my usual Wednesday nights at Maxwell’s, watching Johnny Vegas and his All-Star Band perform the classics, along with my Beaki! She is a mad vocalist, that is a fact *wink-wink…?* However, I recently went there on a Saturday and the place was different and strange and I didn’t like it AT ALL. Twenty-something hipsters? Club music? Crowds?! What. The. Hell.

Johnny Vegas is a lounge singer, and his crowd is of the mature persuasion. They do a little dancing, a little drinking, a little making fun of that one guy who always shows up in a cowboy hat.

Johnny Vegas. And some old dude.

That’s my Wednesday night, and frankly, I like it that way. I hardly get hit on. Nobody tries to grind me (they haven’t broken in the new hip yet). The bartenders have time to chat. You can dance like a lemur on ‘shrooms to ‘These Boots We’re Made for Walking’ and nobody says anything. It’s safe.

But on Saturday night, it becomes a smelly, cover-charging, packed-to-the-brim Dans Cluub.


Not that I have anything against hipsters, except that I do, and not that I have anything against packed Daenc Kloobs, but it is not my Maxwell’s. I didn’t see any of the regulars, although I did see my favourite bartender, who I’m pretty sure has been pouring me doubles the last couple of weeks. I waved as I got up to the bar.

Bartender: RUM AND COKE?

The worst part was, Maxwell’s was a pretty great bar that night. The music was super predictable but really fun, and everybody was having a good time and we ended up closing the bar, which I have never done on a Wednesday, mostly because I am maintaining the fiction that I do not have a drinking problem. Although the bartender did say “See you on Wednesday” as I was leaving, which isn’t a good sign.

Anyway, after Maxwell’s the crowd of us went to Dunn’s on Elgin and I ran into Maxx Nitro of themeltingsky.com (check in out in my blogroll – I know, I have a blogroll, I’m scared too) and then a random guy came out of the restaurant and was all like “I know you!” and Maxx (trying to protect me from skeeeeve) was all like “Uhh, no, you don’t” except that after a second I realized that yes, he did, which just goes to show you that you can’t protect me from myself.

In other news, I saw Kenny Chesney at the Capital Hoedown last night and he is a dork. A DORK. He kept waving his one hand at us in a kind of a rapper-looking way and flicking his hat and pumping his microphone and he couldn’t goddamn finish an entire line of the song without leaning back to make faces at his band. Kenny, you perform the way my very un-cool sixty year-old uncle would perform, if he was trying to look cool. Bad. Scene.


Listen, I’m not trying to be mean, but what was that? WHAT WAS THAT?! Doc Walker was way better. At least they know where the microphone is, and can reliably sing into it. Goddamn.

Anyway, all that is to say that I love you, and I’m sorry I stay away so long, but I’ll be back soon, covered in French. All over my damn self.

Yours with love and music,


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Cast of Characters

Dear Future Leslee,

If you’ve been reading this blog for more than fifteen seconds (Hi!) then you’ve probably become familiar with some of my closest and best friends – My Sopie, Beaki, the Gorg (of both The Gritty Gorg and The Wine Jury) the Woman (of How to Become Canadian) my Mamasita, Trevs (of Bent The Podcast) and various other ladies and gents. However, like most people who live out there in the big wide world, my life is also populated by a host of familiar faces, people I see everyday (or even just once) but never talk to. I want to talk about those people a little bit, because my life would be so much emptier without them.

 Wolfshirt, for example, is an awkward, charming looking young man with too much hair
who regularly takes the bus to work with me. He dresses fairly well, except for this one shirt he wears that makes him look like a stereotypical butch lesbian. Every time I see Wolfshirt I get a warm, fuzzy feeling inside because I know that is exactly
what I would have been like at nineteen if I was a dude…or a stereotypical butch lesbian. Also, I recently saw him walking through the mall with his equally awkward girlfriend and it was so cute I almost died.

There is also a very adorable red-head who rides the bus with me, and I just want to snuggle her so bad, even though I think it would be bad bus etiquette. And let’s not forget the guy on the bus who always wears six or seven watches on his wrists, and then holds one in each hand. Or that one lady who I absolutely despise for no reason at all, except that she looks awful in sling-backs and insists on wearing them every damn day.

Of course, that’s just on the bus. There are dozens of people I regularly see at the hospital, who’s names I don’t know and may never find out. There is the ‘hot gynecologist’ who made me call him by his first name, and whom all my friends take great pleasure in finding ways to embarrass me with. No, guys, I will not go up and say “tell me everything I don’t know about my vagina” or “you can smear MY pap any day” because I don’t want to lose my job, okay? I don’t think this is unreasonable.

My recent favourite is Doctor Hipster, who came by the unit a few days ago wearing rolled-up skinny pants, moccasins without socks and the biggest hipster glasses I have ever seen. He wore his badge clipped to the back pocket of his pants and had what I can only describe as “douchebag” hair. The nurses and I could barely contain our snickering when he walked by, although when he was discussing the patients he did sound like a competent medical professional. I just couldn’t look at him, which is kind of a problem.

So then I made some comics:


Because I don’t get to be a real blog until I make fun of hipsters. Twice.

I showed this to my nurses and they loved it. Also, consider stopping over to the Wine Jury (http://winejury.blogspot.com/) as I just wrote a love letter to booze and it is pretty epic.


Past Leslee.


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Hope Volleyball

Dear Future Leslee;

Just in case they’ve destroyed charities in the future and replaced them with blood sport (bludgeon your opponents to death for breast cancer!), let me tell you a little bit about Hope Volleyball: it’s a volleyball tournament, and you play in it, and they donate the money to pay/raise to charity. Relatively simple. But of course, it isn’t.

I managed to get to the beach on time despite staying out dancing till 2 a.m. the night before, and quickly located La Capitana, Debrawr. She had organized our entire team (Gooooooo Cookie Thrashers!!!) which is a good thing, because none of the rest of us could manage it. We lost four out of five games, but we did win one and I delivered the winning serve! Whoooo! Suddenly, team sports make sense to me.

Not really.

As a child, I hated all team sports primarily because I was bad at sports and also anti-social, but I dressed up my repressed misanthropy as savvy individualism and pretending that I was just too good for all this bullshit. Needless to say, I was an unbearable child.

Throughout the day most of us ventured into the water, despite the no-swim advisory. The way I look at it, I can either absolutely get heat stroke or maybe get e. coli, so I’ll take my chances with the eerily fish-less river. The weather was gorgeous and so was the water, although the rest of the crowd were a mixed bag.

On our way to the bathroom from the river, a couple of dude-bros started cheering and asking Debrarw and I for high-fives. I complied, because why not? But then my high-fiver lightly low-fived my ass, and that was awkward. It was pretty unspectacular, and I was so confused that I didn’t even realize what happened until we were at the washrooms.

I wasn’t particularly upset or offended, although I should have been. I should have turned around and been like “Dude, not cool.” But the whole experience was so decidedly unsexual that it took me a minute to collect my thoughts, and by then the bro-dudes were lost in the crowd. You know in football, when the guys on the field pat each other on the ass? That’s what it felt like.

Part of it is also the fact that if I’d felt scared or threatened or uncomfortable, I could (and would) have made the whole thing a Very Big Deal, and knowing you have the power to make something a Very Big Deal is comforting. It makes me feel safe, even if it shouldn’t. In the future, I’ll be faster with my right hooks. Or left hooks. Well, I won’t necessarily know what hand I’m punching with, but I will be quicker on the up-take.

Also, having just gotten out of the lake my ass was no doubt a dripping bacteria farm, and part of me secretly hopes that after his enthusiastic butt-smack the bro-man-guy ate something and my ass gave him severe gastric illness.

It's a trap!

Anyway, the moral of the story is that is you’re going to sexually harass someone, even if they don’t quite realize what’s going on, you deserve to have your drunken revellery ruined by dehydration and electrolyte imbalances.

After Hope I went and saw Beaki perform and Tuscons, which was awwwesome, and stayed up and danced till midnight despite mild heat stroke. Good times! Especially at the end, while we were leaving, and one of the women that had been on the dance floor near me stopped us.

“Okay, I just have to ask.” She began. “You two are sisters, right?”

Beaki and I laughed it off. Sisters? Pshaw! No, we’re just very good friends. She seemed to mull this over for a minute, and then:

“Well, you’re joggers, right?”

Um. What?

More awkward laughter. No, we’re not joggers. Just really good friends?

“Damn, I’m not getting anything right tonight!” She said.

“Let me guess,” I jumped in, pointing at her. “Libra!”

“Uh, no, Virgo.”

“There, now we’ve all gotten one wrong.”

And that was my Saturday. Awkward and wonderful, especially dancing with old people. Awesome!

Hope to see you on the beach next year! Please don’t touch my bum, or this time I will give you e. coli with my fists.


Past Leslee.


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Lists! Or – the laziest post ever.

Dear Future Leslee,

I want to write a blog for you, filled with magic and rainbows and dick jokes and pictures of me getting mauled by small furry animals but life doesn’t always turn out the way that you plan, y’know? At the same time, I do kind of believe in writing for its own sake, or to keep the blood moving to my fingers, or to remind me that I am loved and supported by many people who seem to be willing to put up with my enormous, endangered-blue-whale sized ego.

Truth is, as an only child (look at me! Look. At. Me. Loooook at meeee! lookatmelookatmelookatme!!!!!) I need stupendous amounts of attention or I pretty much shrink and wither like that nectarine you’ve had sitting in the bottom of the produce drawer in the fridge for six months. Thank god, the internet is willing to pander to me. Certainly, I know very few people besides me who get excited about their junk mail, because look at all the emails I’m getting! Why yes, I WOULD like to learn about hot senior Christian singles in my area!

Pictured: desperation

All this is to say that yes, I am writing you a post, and yes, it is pretty much about nothing at all, but I hate leaving this blog for too long because I’m worried that if I don’t keep flapping my arms and squawking everybody will forget about me.

So! Welcome to the laziest post I will ever do, complete with crippling insecurities!

Things I have entirely too many of:

-CDs that don’t play
-complicated opinions about online dating
-clothes for sex even though duh, lingerie is itchy and stupid and you’re only going to take it off, anyway.

Things I will never have enough of:

-Predictable and ultimately meaningless gender-proscribed materialistic desires!
-Recipes involving zucchini!

Things I used to have and kind of miss, even though it is psychologically unhealthy:

– A Craigslist stalker*
-A meaningless, low-wage job that I could blame all my problems on
-‘Frenemies’ who made me feel like a good person because at least I didn’t sleep with so-and-so’s boyfriend and then post it on Facebook
-An addiction to bad anime

Things I have gotten wrong:

-Said: “Employee pricing”. Heard: “Demon-y pricing”
-Sign read: “Cinnabon”. I read “Cannibal”
-Tried to say: “I found a weird nickle”. Actually said: “I found a weird nipple.”
-For years I thought that Harry hooked up with Seven of Nine on Voyager, and when I found out it was actually Chakotay I realized that my mind was basically sappy and unreliable Swiss cheese.

* * *

In other news, yesterday I was making spaghetti and I picked up the bag, not noticing that it was open at the bottom, and spilled spaghetti everywhere. When I finally cleaned up the mess and tried to put the pasta away I picked it up from the other side, and that’s when I realized the bag was open at both ends and also lost my faith in God. First world problems, folks.

Sorry I don’t have anything better for you than stories about pasta and lists about basically nothing. I have a French test next week and I’m mad stressing about that, and also today my boss interrupted my work to make me print labels for her, which I failed spectacularly at, FYI. Then I had a fight with the new fax machine which included me calling the staffing office and using the phrase “emotionally damaging encounter” which, to be honest, is how I could describe every encounter I have with technology. Or the staffing office.

Don’t get me wrong, the new machine is sexy as all get out. It prints, copies, faxes, and even scans documents. It is arguably more valuable than I am and possibly better at multi-tasking. But don’t let the shiny facade fool you: that Hollywood glamour cannot hide a heart so rotten and cruel that it suddenly changed its default paper setting to ‘Bond’ (WTF is ‘bond’ paper anyway?) and screwed up every computer on the unit.

It’s trying to get me fired. And it will probably succeed.

Love and kisses,

Past Leslee.

*Edit: I interrupted my Sopie and her manfriend’s sexy all-shirt dance party to make them come read this, which naturally resulted in a request to explain the nature of ‘Craigslist stalker’. Basically, there was a guy who came around my work back when I had a low-wage meaningless job that I could blame all my problems on and he wrote some really creepy “missed connections” posts about it, asking me to marry him or seduce in our storage room.

He also wrote that “[my] face could launch a thousand ships….ten thousand, if there were that many ships” and this bothers my Sopie immensely because who doesn’t know how many ships there are?! To which her manfriend replied that indeed, he himself didn’t know how many ships there were.

“But obviously there are more than ten thousand.” – my Sopie

“Well yes, but maybe he was thinking of a specific type of craft. Like ‘not canoes, your face is too good for those’.” -the manfriend

“I would argue that there are more than ten thousand ocean-going vessels.” -my Sopie

They then asked why I would miss this Craigslist man, to which I replied, of course, “Because I liked the attention.”


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Dear Future Leslee;

Bluesfest! I went on Friday and saw the Black Keys and even though I almost died it was great. I arrived at about six and the weather was hot and miserable and I kept thinking ‘Why in the name of all that is good did I wear pants?’ which is the kind of thing I think all the damn time. So, it was blisteringly hot for a bit, and then it was just nice for a bit, and then while we were standing and waiting for the Black Keys it started pouring rain and the temperature dropped by about 15 degrees and a terrible wind whipped us from all directions.

As an aside, I love Bluesfest, and I’ve been going since I was quite literally eight years old. I will say though, when I was younger the old people were less ridiculous and the crowd overall was considerably less good-looking. When did all the hottest people in Ottawa start showing up to Bluesfest? And when did all the old people start doing such large quantities of drugs?

Welcome to my childhood. Sorry about the pot smoke.

Anyway, the Black Keys did perform, albeit an hour late, and they were fabulous. I’m trying to think of something funny or sarcastic to say but they were just really good and actually kind of bluesy and I totally enjoyed the whole damn thing. Except maybe the part where the Gorg’s friend kept suggesting I make out with the other girl under the umbrella, you know, to keep warm. Obviously.

Boys, I hate to break it to you, but no girl has ever fallen for that, ever. If we start making out “for warmth” it’s not because you’ve convinced us or we’re stupid but because of one of two things: either we are using our sexuality to manipulate you, or we just happen to want to make out. And under the circumstances, I would say those are both totally legitimate responses.

And no, I am not going to post a picture of two girls making out with a clever caption underneath. It’s only recently that “sleeping babe black cock” stopped showing up under that “things people search for that send them to your blog” widget and I’m perfectly happy to leave it that way.

Anyhoo, I also saw an Australian reggae-ish band called Blue Dog Brown who were also very good, especially the keyboardist, who was good-looking enough to cause me to turn to the Woman and exclaim “Forty dollars well spent!”. Later on I was discussing this with my Mom (because I’m boring) and she mentioned that she’s always had a weakness for musicians, which just goes to show that poor judgment is genetic.

In other news, I’ve basically given up going to the gym in favour of doing pretty much anything else. I attended five Fringe shows last month, went swing dancing, went to Toronto, and recently went on a fantastic bike ride, and I guess all that living is way more interesting that running in place for half an hour. I still feel guilty, though, which is stupid: there is nothing morally superior about the person who runs in place for thirty minutes three times a week compared to the person who doesn’t. Health is not a measure of personal goodness, nor is our dedication to getting sweaty on expensive machines in little coordinated outfits. Gym memberships do not a good person make, although considering the extent to which we fetishize health, it’s not surprising that we treat it that way.

All the spandex in the world doesn't change the fact that she's a racist

I’m not saying ‘don’t be healthy’. All I’m saying is that it’s stupid of me to get mad at myself because I spent more time last month having crazy adventures than I did stair-mastering. And if I’m not allowed to call myself stupid, then who is?

Fuck you, elliptical machine.

I guess I’ll just continue to do some physical activity some of the time and take the stairs once in a while and not eat seven cheeseburgers everyday and more or less rely on my genetic lottery winnings to keep me from losing my ability to tie my shoelaces. I wish I was more dedicated, and I have the utmost respect for people who are Serious About Their Health but I am waaaayyy too busy getting hit on in cougar bars and plotting to steal my friend’s adorable children to go to the gym everyday.

Otherwise, I continue to muddle through with my life, such as it is. I’m moving back in with my mamasita in September, and my Sopie and I will continue to be friends, but simply from afar. I have applied for no less than 38 positions at the hospital since March, and I’ve finally gotten a single callback. Wish me luck!

I still go on twitter sometimes, and if you haven’t already you should check out The Wine Jury at http://winejury.blogspot.com/ to watch my friends and I drink wine and just generally make fools of ourselves.

Have a wonderful day 🙂


Past Leslee.

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Canada Day, etc.

Dear Future Me,

Hello again! How are you? I’m doing peachy, except that I am once again sick, for like the fourth time this year. I really don’t know where these random colds, flus, fevers and strange mailbox-shaped rashes come from, but when I find out I promise you’ll be the first to know.

Hint: it’s probably zombie plague, in which case you might just want to shovel me in the face the next time you see me.*

As for Canada Day, I celebrated the auspicious occasion of our country’s still-existing in the traditional way, with an all-day drunken barbecue and a trip downtown in the evening. The barbecue also featured Rockband, which is one of those games I don’t suck at too hard. I usually do the singing, not because I am a good singer, but because I can keep that little shaky arrow inside the glowy green bar.

If you get a long enough phrase streak they make you Lady Gaga

Please note that the image shown above is DEFINITELY NOT from yesterday’s epic Rockband game. We certainly never got close to 800 000 points because people were just having too much fun, which made me realize that I am the kind of person who can’t enjoy a game if I’m not getting an A at it. Numbers let me know I’m enjoying myself, which I guess makes me the worst kind of person to invite to party, but at least you found this out before I ruined your wedding by grading the speeches.

A toast! To your best man and his fucking dangling participles!

Anyway, after many drinks and hamburgers and dips and so forth, and surprisingly little of me ruining everything for everybody, the whole group of us wandered over to the transitway and headed downtown. I assume that most of the group went off to watch the fireworks, but my Sopie and I chose a live-band swing night instead.

You might think it’s kind of lame to go to swing instead of OMG FIREWORKS but I have spent my entire life in this very pleasant city and I have seen fireworks literally dozens of times and I’m good, really. Also, I’m scared of loud noises. Fact. I still get enraged when people pop balloons around me, although not as enraged as when I was going home and I overheard some drunk guys yelling racial slurs. Nothing says “I love this country” quite like the ‘n’ word and Jew jokes.


Canada Day swing was pretty good (and less racist, thank god), but next Friday should be even better because we’re bringing a whole crowd of peeps. Still, swing has so much personality all by itself that it’s hard not to love it. For example, the dude who sent me a creepy facebook message was there, and so was the guy who punched me in the face (by accident probably!) and so was the cute boy with the “Be Like Jesus” shirt, and that one guy I won’t dance with anymore because all of his moves ended up with me touching his bum.

It's not sexual harassment if you dip at the end

Edit: I should point out that swing is also a lot of fun, and it isn’t actually sexual harassment town. Most of the people are friendly and neat and good dancers, and many of them are quite attractive and fun to have swing-based crushes on, but who wants to read about that? Also, all of the above things totally did happen to me, which is why you never go to swing for the first time without a guide. It’s like going on safari: you are going to have an exciting adventure and see lots of neat things, but it is always a good idea to take someone along who knows which of the berries are poisonnous.

Except in this case, “poisonnous berries” are a metaphor for smelly guys or dudes who will accidentally dislocate your shoulder. Fortunately for the lovely people my Sopie and I are taking with us on Friday, we have currated the swing crowd to a sample of excellence. Guaranteed good-looking gents with sweet moves or your money back! Because they are there, and they are charming, and we are aggresive dance-getting lady sharks when it comes to asking people to swing with us.

I guess  that all in all Canada Day was a success, and I really can’t complain. The drunks weren’t too numerous, the dancing was good, the company  was better and food was delicious. Yay Canada! You sure do throw a great party, but next time, maybe try a little harder to keep the assholes out?

Yours lovingly,

Past Leslee.

*Please don’t actually shovel me in the face.

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Water Park (now with gifs!)

Dear Future Leslee,

Sorry I’ve been gone so long. It’s not that nothing interesting is happening, it’s that HOLY CRAP EVERYTHING INTERESTING IS HAPPENING RIGHT THE FUCK NOW OMG and all those run-on sentences make it difficult to find the time to sit down and hack out a blog for you. So anyway, here I am, back and in business and ready to entertain and delight or at least have a rum and coke and it’s not drinking alone if I’m hanging out with the internet. Plus I’ve decided to try adding images to my blogs to see if I can destroy the Web with my blinding incompetence.

I have no idea how you work, technology.

Last weekend some friends and I went to the water park, and I figure that’s as good a thing as any to ramble about. Calypso is out in Limoges, and it is awesome despite the fact that it is located approximately in the asshole of Ontario, or at least the asshole of local, easily-drive-to-able-from-Ottawa Ontario. The park itself is gorgeous and we all had a good time. However…

1. Waterslides

We’ve already discussed how I’m a wuss, and you know where that doesn’t improve? Flying down a plastic tube mostly naked with water rushing up my nose. The waterslides were awesome, but I’m a giant coward, so I went on all the not-too-scary ones once and then I was pretty good. There were some awesome-looking slides still being built, which was a shame, but I guess that’s just an excuse to go back again later this year.

Not shown: blind terror, crushing disappointment

2. Everything Else

Conveniently for those of us who would rather play on the pirate-themed children’s area (age restrictions are really just a suggestion) Calypso had lots of other fun things to see and do and frolic in. The wave pool was a big hit, especially when I suffered a “wardrobe malfunction” and slipped not just a nip but an entire boob out of the oh-so-inefficient confines of my bikini. Luckily, the only other person to notice was the Woman of How to Become Canadian fame, which will hopefully spawn a new post entitled “Don’t Be Alarmed by Weird-Looking Boobs”.

Let me give you the Leslee  Boob Slip play-by-play: big wave washes by, Leslee fearlessly dives into, Leslee surfaces, Leslee notices bared tit, the Woman notices bared tit, Leslee screams, the Woman screams, Leslee hastily corrects bikini malfunction. Leslee issues a public apology to any franco-Ontarien child scarred by her semi-nudity.

3. The Total Unfairness Of My Face

I am one of those people who burns very easily. Ironically, I am also one of those people who stops all the fun to put on sunscreen every couple of hours. I literally got up extra early to apply a double-layer of sunscreen (cream and spray, bitches) in the vain hope that I would not burn, or at least not burn too badly.

But I did burn. All over my heartbroken self. My face and shoulders especially, making me 1. look ridiculous and 2. hate myself every time I put on a bra. Even more than I hate myself though, I hate the sun, because that terrible cruel bastard laughs in the face of my measly SPF.


In the end, I was most offended because despite putting on more sunscreen more often than anyone else I burnt more and more severely than the entire rest of the group. All I want is to not get skin cancer. Is that so bad?

In conclusion: water parks are awesome and now my face is peeling off. Glamorous.

Before I leave you, I just wanted to mention two awesome signs I saw recently. I was riding my bus home on a street with a lot of construction, and a local security business had replaced their usual “Chose us – feel safe!” signage with “If you think this is bad, you should see Bank street.” Secondly, there is a Dairy Queen in Bells Corners with a sign that simply reads “Scream until Daddy stops the car” and it makes me so, so happy.

This makes me want to have kids so that I can beat them if they pull shit like this

Well guys, I’m back (with pictures!) and yes I’m still having adventures and yes I’ll still write about them when I’m not too busy getting melanoma or getting my rocks off finding wacky signs.

All my love,

Past Leslee

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