Last night the smell of Toronto's garbage strike and a questionable choice of chemicals danced through my nostrils. I left my own party to wander through the back alley with my hands out making airplane sounds and spinning and laughing to myself. I climbed onto someone's roof deck and they kindly let me swing in their hammock as I preached about communism and other stuff I can't remember. I left right around the time I thought I was going to bite a hole right through my bottom lip. Nine phonecalls, four text messages and three voicemail gems later I fell asleep with pasta sauce in my hair. Today the pictures on my walls are breathing and spinning not so serenly. I would like to sleep, I would like to eat, I would like to press pound for more options.