Path of the Vampire forum

July 30, 2014

There is something oddly comforting in the repetitive bump and squeal of a railroad train car. Some find comfort in silence, but I’ve always been a big fan of mechanical noise. The hum of an electric tower, the persistent rattle of a radiator, and even the clunk of an ice machine always were far more to my taste than anything Chopin could provide. Technology has always just made sense. Far more than society, that’s for certain. As I stare around the comforting warmth of this comfort class car, I see all sorts. The business man permanently attached to his mobile, the over-worked ticket taker, and even the fussing mother with her two sugar addicted hell spawn. Or should I call them darlings? It’s really hard to tell with kids these days. Those knowing glances and their tendency towards unpredictable noise didn’t exactly make them welcome presences. Thank you for the diversity, VIA Rail.

I feel that ever familiar discontent itching away at my mind. There’s so much unknown and so many questions that lay unanswered that it makes any attempt at creating roots impossible. Winnipeg certainly wasn’t the place, and I sure as hell am not going anywhere near Seattle. It’s time for a change of pace. It is my chance at a living renaissance, a locale where I am simply the unknown. I am neither a nut nor a pitiful charity case. Sure, I don’t have a past. Sure, the name was inspired by a folk song I heard in Horton’s before my latest bartender interview. Ms. Scarborough certainly has a better ring to it than Ms. Doe. Neither doctors , whiskey, scotch, nor tequila could find out the trigger point for my curse. Dissociative amnesia, journal reader, if you’re curious about the medical jargon. But you know what? Sometimes it isn’t that dreary not having a past. I may have no clue who I was, who knew me, and hell even where I came from. But at least I know how I take my coffee.

There’s something so very narcissistic about writing journals. It’s like I expect some Smoe out there to think my thoughts and my history is interesting enough to waste his time on. I’m just a roamer. It’s not like anything particularly interesting will happen to me when I reach Ontario. So if I somehow lose this in comfort class, the trash can is right by the fire extinguisher to the left of the toilets.

July 31, 2014

Downtown Oshawa, Ontario is my kind of town. The glare of neon street signs scream out in welcome as the melody of passing sputtering street cars splatter past my little motel haven. Neal never could get over my affinity for noise. “There is a certain comfort in calamity,” I would attempt to explain. He wasn’t big on my explanations. It takes a certain kind of man to deal with a woman with no past. You certainly can’t look to my parents for an explanation. Hah! He didn’t understand my humor much either. It’s amazing what you’ll glance over for a pretty face, comfortable bed, and the right kind of stamina. But in the end, the same old questions lead to the usual change of venue.

Sadly, day one has been a bust in finding some form of employment. I certainly haven’t chosen the centre of economic prosperity. The night wasn’t a completely bust though. Just ask Joe… no wait I think it was Laik: The self proclaimed artist with a taxi car and a photography bag permanently hitched to his pant leg. He’d been good company and his friends certainly had full wallets. They really should be more mindful of their belongings, especially around pretty, clumsy blondes. But they won’t be knocking on my door anytime soon. You hit the friendly drunkards and you only take enough that they think they went a bit too hard the next day. That way you never have to wake up with a pounding hangover as some bullish brute rams through the doorway in a quest to retrieve their pocket change.

Thievery? Before you pass judgment, J.R. (journal reader for short—I thought I’d short hand it because what the hell right?), I feel you need to understand the position I’ve been placed in. On December 31, 2013, I was found wandering the SR 18 in Seattle without a stitch of clothing, hair butchered like a three-year-old who just found her first pair of scissors, and no semblance of an identity. I won’t tire you with endless details about the police, doctors, or even my stay in what I fondly call “Attica 2.0.” I’m far too drunk to give it justice. All hail Agave Tequila!

To Do List:

1. Find a map of Ontario. There has to be a root-able town in this Province.
2. Nab another pack of Menthols. Laik used up my last pack.

August 1, 2014
4 a.m. –Motel Cheapo- Oshawa, Ontario

There is nothing quite as fierce as the brutal clang of an early morning hangover. The garish yellow wallpaper seems to cast a judgmental glare as I attempt to escape the pounding twisting inferno. Man that tequila is brutal. Yet, it wasn’t nearly as brutal as the vision of loveliness that greeted me in the bathroom mirror: Smeared mascara-caked raccoon eyes and what once resembled a blonde wig now dangling askew down one shoulder. What a beautiful sight to wake up to, Ms. Scarborough. It’s no wonder they race out after a few quick puffs.

Thank god I caught sight of that gas station half a block down the way. If I don’t have coffee and menthols soon, my head isn’t the only thing that’ll be screaming this morning.

Caffeine and Nicotine withdrawal +Hangover= Morning from Hell. If I survive this, J.R., I’m not touching agave tequila with a ten-foot pole.

7 a.m.

I seem to be becoming addicted to this journaling fad. It’s strange that an activity that was once a recovery procedure could provide such… catharsis for the lack of a better word. Man I sound like I have a few screws loose. Boo, hoo I need catharsis. Please pity my plight and myopic view point as the ubiquitous they thrive on eschewing any happiness in my world. Fantastic, a little sarcasm dancing with an external locus of control. How’s that for a thought to start your morning on? Buck up Scarborough.

But you know what they say, J.R., it’s the ones that claim normalcy that you really need to fear. This morning’s coffee could have removed paint enamel. Best cup in the world! Pah! Either way, map and menthols acquired. The gas attendant was raving on about some Harper Rock place a few hours past. Next thing you know, Nessie’ll be sipping tea with the Abominable snowman a few streets down. I’ve never been much of a fan of conspiracy nuts. From government cover-ups and aliens in office, next thing you know the Queen was taken over by a body snatcher! Drug testing much?

The place seems to be only a few hours away from my latest haunt. Maybe I’ll take a pit stop on my way to Montreal. It sounds like they have one hell of a public relations department.