She mentioned that she liked Drake. I mentioned that I read an article on the Internet about how Drake allegedly likes to have his asshole eaten. We promptly turned it into a verb. She dared me to Drake the hole in the ground that we found the big spider in. I flipped it back onto her with a double doggy dare. She said that was cowardly and unoriginal. She was right. She Draked the hole anyways. I asked her which of the two men across the park drinking slurpees she would rather Drake.
“The one not wearing the cargo shorts. Obviously.”
I asked her if she’d Drake me. She took a moment.
“I’d Drake you.” I told her.
“Right here in the park?”
“Right on this bench.”
“So you wouldn’t Drake me even if I Draked you?” “No, I would.”
“Who goes first?”
“Should we go at the same time?”
“Would that work?”
Portraits by Matt Munn for #POBEshow 2015
It’s not exactly depression. I’d say it’s closer to a neighbour or cousin of depression. Maybe not even that close. Actually, it’s a completely different but kinda similar thing. Like sitting on the Skytrain and your thighs are pressed up against the thighs of the people sitting beside you––technically you’re connected but it doesn’t mean you’re the same. Yeah, that’s more like it. I try to stay away from that feeling the best I can but sometimes I let my guard down, you know, like maybe I nish work early and I reward myself with one. But it was a really good day so I have another. Then another, until I’m creating excuses. Justifying my gluttony––“oh, it’s too late to call your sick Grandmother now anyways”––until I’ve watched the entire season. Then the following days are more of the same until life turns into a withering spiral of regret. I lead myself to believe that I’m gathering creative inspiration, and maybe in some universe watching seven-hours of Kevin Spacey spit a southern drawl can do that, but not this one––no. I know what that feeling is now. It’s shame.
Portrait by Katie So for #POBEshow 2015