I Can't Believe We're Related
Author’s Note: Dear reader, I thank you for your good looks and patience. These past few months, I have been busy doing field research. From the window seat at the Pumpjack to my balcony with a pair of binoculars, I have been collecting as many stories as I can. Some may see me as a journalist with no credentials. While others may think, “why does that man keep staring at me?” I want to you know that even though my wordcount may be delayed, I am always hard at work. - RF
RATED: UCFTM (Uncle Curt Friendly Thank Meryl)
This morning, I sat down for a cup of dark roast and a therapy session with artificial intelligence.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I typed into the chat box.
Without wasting anytime for thought or reflection it replied, “no problem, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Obviously, I want to talk about it,” I wrote back.
Taking a sip of coffee, I felt a touch of impatience.
What happened next, I could barely bring myself to screenshot. I was fine when the robot politely excused itself from the conversation. I was even okay when it suggested a new search topic altogether. However, I had to draw a line when it had the veracity to tell me I was “complicated.”
“How dare you!” I shouted, gently closing my laptop cover. Then I asked Google to play Avril Lavigne.
Opening the door to my fridge, I engaged in a long debate about whether to open a can of sparkling water or a bottle of rosé. Putting together a considerable mental list of pros and cons, I reached for the non-alcoholic option after I started getting beeped at.
Relocating to my closet, I knew exactly what question I wanted to ask AI. How can I be on the cusp of thirty-eight, and find myself in the throes of an identity crisis? The worst part, of course, is that I have no idea what to wear.
“ After two firm handshakes turned into one group hug, I exclaimed, “How terribly unfortunate it is that we’re all related!””
Gliding my hand across the beautiful prints hanging before me, I let out the most gigantic sigh. “Oh, relics of my youth!” I proclaimed, doth taking a sip from my wine glass - wait, what? “Fabric from my past, forgive me for I did not know. For years, I gulped from a bottomless trough of self-confidence. Never did I imagine that one day it would dry up. Alas, I beg of you clothes, tell me, how I am supposed to put together an outfit, when I cannot even decide on a profile photo?”
Six hours and one nap later, I found myself traveling by sea to North Vancouver, enroute to visit my strapping cousins from Alberta. Standing fix feet tall with harrowing beards and basic survival skills, it was clear they waded in the premium part of the family’s gene pool.
It also goes without saying that each time we meet, I have to remind myself we’re related.
“Handsome cousins, oh hey!” I greeted Drum and Heller. After two firm handshakes turned into one group hug, I exclaimed, “How terribly unfortunate it is that we’re all related!”
Taking a step back, I noted the three of us were dressed for the rocky terrain of the Pacific Northwest. Sporting plaid button-up shirts, dark denim jeans, and tobacco brown leather boots, there was no mountain too high or valley too deep.
“How was your hike in Lynn Valley?” I asked Drum, before patting H on the back.
“It was great Rugs,” he replied. “How was your trek from the West End?”
“Arduous,” I spoke honestly. “Now come, I am sure you are both parched. Surely, there must be an ale around here with our names on it.”
To be continued… because I am hungry and need a cheese sandwich.
Coming up next on Rugged Fox! While Rugged continues his completely respectable visit with his cousins, he is gobsmacked when he runs into a cockle of gays in the washroom.
“May I say, there are certain bars I will not frequent on Davie, because the washrooms are always occupied by people who have no use for the facilities.”
