My friend Whistler.

While I like to think that my move to Canada has nothing to do with pursuing my love of all things Tegan and Sara, I'd just be lying to myself.

My relationship with Whistler is vastly different to all the other places I've visited.

I think I'd reached that point when I could have happily returned home feeling fulfilled because I'd seen so much about two months ago. I started regretting signing that 6 month contract with the hotel.

When my brother and I were young and new to Australia, we had a friend that lived down the road from us. Morgan, I think his name was. I remember Morgan always getting us into trouble. He taught me my first swear word. One day, during a game of chasey with several other neighbourhood kids, he'd convinced us all that it would be a good idea to use my mums car as the home base.

Which evolved into Morgan standing of the roof of the car proclaiming he was king and we could all go fuck ourselves. Irritated by his monarchal reign, while he told us to kiss his butt, we too decided to climb onto the roof of the car. As we jumped and yelled at who was more in charge my six year old brain couldn't foresee that the downward force of seven elementary children jumping and dancing on a car roof would cause a sort of inversion in its shell.

In other words, we caused the car roof to bow inwards and I remember thinking that it looked like an elephant had sat on it and the odds of my mother believing such a story was slim in suburban Perth.

To say that my mum was less than impressed would be an understatement because your ability to drive a car is greatly impaired when your neck is craned to the side and your back contorted over the steering wheel.

We spent every afternoon, for god knows how long, plucking weeds from our garden. In order to learn a valuable lesson.

If Whistler was a person, he'd be Morgan. You know, the one that your parents never really approved of because when you went out with him, you'd come home with bruises and scrapes or you'd be dragged home by the ear by someone demanding to speak to your mother.

Whistler cares not for responsibility. It's a ski town where thousands upon thousands of people come to shed their suit and party their face off.

Living here is bazar.

A life of perpetual irresponsibility.

When I first met Whistler, I was overwhelmed. He pushes me to do things out of my comfort zone and I found myself questioning why. Like throwing myself down a 90 degree incline with these wooden boards strapped to my feet.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I ended up as a sadness burrito being towed down the hill by the ski patrol on a day where my confidence didn't match my skiing ability (or lack there of).

There isn't much reason to the things that anyone dose here.

And it's perfectly fine.

Whistler's taught me that there doesn't need to be meaning in everything we do in life because sometimes it's fun to just mindlessly pursue happiness and get yourself into a shit load of trouble along the way.