“Are you writing about the precognition fight?” “No, about when you threw the coat at me.”

Doyle and I were yelling at each other in the kitchen.

Kelsey: (After he took a swipe at my head and caught hair instead.) Argh, you floofed my hair!

Chris: Wait, floofed?

Kelsey: Yes, floofed, and-

Chris: No, no, you can’t just – you dictionary that shit right now or never say it again.

Kelsey: No, I know the rules, so-

Chris: I’m sorry, is it funner to say it like that?

Kelsey: … stop.

Chris: What? It’s not more funner to-

Kelsey: You asshole.

Cue fighting for a good five minutes about being English majors and ruining the English language before he shouts:


Kelsey: OR, get thee to a PUNNERY.

He chased me out of the kitchen and threw a coat at me.


“Good luck.”

I’ve been made aware of a prank happening to me sometime this month. Doyle is delighted.

Chris is elated enough about this plan that he has been habitually dropping hints whenever he’s bored. Which is often. He is chipper. He is downright gleeful.

I… I don’t even.

I thought I’d post the hints up here, just in case someone can actually guess what they’re plotting, but also in case the police need some sort of record or something maybe just in case things go wrong, which is far too possible.

1. First of all. The prank cost our friend Sam $120 dollars, funded to my knowledge out of sheer spite.

2. Remember that part when I was like, “at least this thing doesn’t glow”?

…yeah. Yeah.

3. Somehow Chris’ cancer-playboys are being used for this.

4. I was told that “My Little Pony” plays a part in this. I’m not sure if that was a decoy, but I wouldn’t be surprised either way.

5. It’s from Belgium.

6. It’s here.

I’m scared, guys. I’m scared.

“Let’s not throw burning shuttles into my window.”

First of all, we had the housewarming party.

Doyle and our friend Zack cuddled:

This happens often.

Dyck was bored.

He was sleeping at first, but then he was pretty contented to just stare into the nothingness of the wall.



Right. So. Party happened. It went pretty much as expected. Dyck was drunk and antisocial, Doyle was sober and social, and I hid in my room. All in all, good night.

In any case, the next day, Doyle and Dyck decided to  install curtains/blinds into most of the windows of the house. Here I was, thinking that we were going to have a day of responsible adulthood.


At some point the decision was made to make the instructions for installing the blinds into paper airplanes, light them on fire, and send them hurtling out of Doyle’s bedroom window.

Dyck would wait below to bat at it with one of our curtain rods.

He was enthusiastic.

Tabitha (our friend): Can you guys have fires in the backyard?

Doyle and Dyck (simultaneously): Yes/No.

Dyck: Wait. No, we can’t. There are rules about this sort of thing. It’s completely irresponsible.

Doyle: Look at what we’re doing.

Dyck: …fair.

The best part about this is that even after we said that we probably weren’t allowed to do this, our guests never said a word. Thanks for looking out for us, guys.


Kelsey: You know, we just move out, still in the middle of trying to convince our parents that we’re capable of living on our own and being responsible adults, and then this. This happens.

Doyle: I think we should try this with cardboard.

Kelsey: What if one of these lands in the neighbour’s yard?

Doyle: Get me some cardboard.

I don’t actually know what he’s doing here.

At this point Dyck started throwing the flaming airplanes back up to Doyle’s window, but most of them didn’t cover much ground. The cardboard airplane seemed promising when Doyle threw it down.


It flew into the neighbour’s yard.

I was laughing because this actually happened, but below us, Dyck absolutely did not want to go into the neighbour’s yard to retrieve it. I thought he definitely should. Then he would have to explain how it got there.

Doyle tried to convince Dyck to go and get it, but Dyck wasn’t a big fan of explaining the flaming airplane to the neighbours. They were very serious when they were discussing this. It was hilarious.

Fortunately, Tabitha volunteered to help get it and Doyle went with.

Trespassing and pyrotechny all in one day.

It was a good day for adulthood.

Shortly after putting the curtains up downstairs, Dyck remembered that he had bought a whiteboard to hang in the main living area so as to write down lists, our schedules, or other such things that we shouldn’t forget. This was a good idea. I thought the day was going to end on a note of normalcy.


“You… you rubbed your saliva on my face today.”

Dyck and Doyle came back from the school early today because Doyle had a fever.

I was upstairs for a bit, so I wasn’t convinced that Doyle had a fever today until he started making wild hand gestures and chewing on his stuffed alligator for about five minutes straight.

You read that right.

I was kind of watching with the slightest amusement and possibly uneasiness (it’s weird to watch your friends shove stuffed alligators into their mouths), when he flung it at my face.

It was soaking wet.

I shrieked and he promptly grabbed it back, let me shriek for a bit, and threw it at my face again. After the third or fourth time of him doing this, my face was actually damp. I ran to the kitchen to wipe his saliva off of my face, and upon returning, he had gone upstairs with the alligator.

The alligator didn’t come back down with him, so I thought that he put it in his room. That is, until I noticed how pleased he looked.

He was way too satisfied.

I bolted up the stairs.

This, ladies and gentlemen, greeted me:


That is my laptop, and my French homework, and my beautiful new desk, with his saliva-covered alligator on it.

Kelsey: You ASSHOLE! You are so GROSS, CHRIS!

The boys are killing themselves with laughter downstairs, and when I return, Chris is positively beaming.

Kelsey: What the hell.

Doyle: At least I’ve started to put my own stuff in my mouth now. (Chris has a history of putting my belongings in his mouth, by the by. I won’t go into details.)

As I’m sitting in the armchair next to him downstairs, visibly perturbed, there is a silence. Then:

Kelsey: You… you rubbed your saliva on my face today.

Doyle: And I have a fever.

I stare at him. He grins.


Doyle: Aww, but why?

I think he was actually sincere with that one, because a couple minutes later he followed me upstairs to ask me if I’d seen the new Taylor Swift video.

Doyle: HEY. Have you seen the new Taylor Swift video?

Kelsey: There are furries, I know, Emily showed me.

Doyle: One of them winked at me and I felt uncomfortable.

Kelsey: Okay.

Doyle: I just thought you should know that.

Kelsey: Okay.

Doyle: Once she did a music video with T-Pain and she was rapping and stuff, but about lots of girly things, like doing her hair and makeup, but she was all, “BUT I’M STILL THUG” and T-Pain rapped behind her and it was awesome. At the end they bleeped something out that she said, but it wasn’t even a swear word, and she seemed all upset and stuff, and T-Pain ended the video and her name was T-Swizzle.

Kelsey: I… T-Swizzle?

Doyle: T-Swizzle.

He actually is pretty sick/exhausted. I would feel worse if he hadn’t nearly taken my eye out with a pillow earlier.

“Know how we should test out the new knives?”

Chris Dyck and I were responsible today and bought a set of really nice new knives.

The boys tested them out by playing fruit ninja in the backyard with one throwing the fruit (that we got in our welcome basket from the Co-op today… fitting), and the other slashing at it wildly as it hurtled through the air.

In the dark.

I don’t know if it unsettles me less or more that they cut just about everything cleanly in half.

“This is a democracy.”

When I came home from work the other day, the boys were making dinner. This sounds like a nice surprise, which it was.

For all of about five minutes.

I had just enough time to think, “Aww, how sweet-“, and then, this:

What. The. Fuck.

I just stop. This giant, glowing rectangle is on top of the T.V. It is bigger than the T.V. I instantly feel this overwhelming sense of dread that’s slowly turning into a mixture of disbelief and exasperation, because when I take a closer look:

You have got to be kidding me.

Kelsey: What, is that?

Doyle: Art.

Kelsey: It’s bigger than the T.V.

Doyle: And better than the T.V.

Kelsey: It’s not staying there.

Doyle: I think it is.

Kelsey: No, it’s not.

Doyle: I think it looks nice and is perfect for the living room. Right, Chris?

Dyck: I… I actually like the lighting from it.

Doyle: You’ve been outvoted. Two to one, it stays. This is a democracy.

I kept myself contained as much as possible.

We had dinner in the warm glow of the hideous Molson Canadian sign, which could probably be made into some sort of metaphor for how the rest of the year is going to go.

By that I mean that I’m going to have to be drunk.

Very, very drunk.

UPDATE: The Molson Canadian sign is no longer in the living room, but safely in the pantry where it will no longer burn the retinas of our unsuspecting guests. Surprisingly, getting it taken off the T.V. was more of a matter of politics than accidentally shattering it while cleaning. Now? Not necessary.

I’m actually a little disappointed about that, to be honest.

However, the day after the Molson Canadian sign died, I went into the bathroom and there was this:

Some sort of ammunition container? I don’t even know anymore.

I just left it. At least this thing doesn’t glow.

“Bad day. Time for wine and eating my own weight in chocolate.”

The day started off badly when I flooded a bathroom that wasn’t even mine. I don’t have a picture because I was too busy nearly in tears, frantically apologizing, and flinging towels about the floor, but it looked something like this:

This is a pretty accurate depiction, actually.

I banged my head against Doyle’s car door in frustration, realized it was scalding hot, shrieked, jumped back, got in the car and promptly started to cry.

Yeah. It was one of those days.

So, I didn’t actually think it would get worse, but then there was a reprieve. It was like some deity was actively trying to cheer me up.

We had a visitor.

Fuck yeah.

A cat followed Chris Dyck into the house.

At that point, who was I to tell it to leave? It earned being in our house. I was grinning ear to ear like a crazy person while Chris Dyck went all about his business telling me that we couldn’t keep it and that it shouldn’t be in here and that he was allergic and whatever, but I didn’t care. I had my cat. It earned its place.


This cat was seriously so cool. It just waltzed in like it owned the place. Dyck meowed at the cat and the cat just yowled right back at him and Dyck kind of shrieked a bit and it was awesome because the cat totally won.

Apparently Chris’ eyes puff up and seal shut when he’s around cats, but this cat didn’t care one bit.

This cat would not stay out of Dyck’s room.

It just didn’t care.

Which is why this cat was so awesome. I tried to tell Dyck that the cat just really liked him and that he should take this as a sign that we should definitely have a cat, but Dyck wasn’t quite seeing things from my perspective. The cat just wanted to be friends and Dyck wasn’t even giving it a chance.

Why do you deny the love of an innocent animal, Chris? Why must you be so full of hatred?

I suggested that the cat should be named Grey, because that’s a cool guy’s name, or Watson, because that’s an amazing name for a cat, but Chris suggested that the cat should be named Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-My-House, which just wasn’t cool, Chris. Not cool.

He pretended that he didn’t like the cat, but he did.

It’s hard to deny cat love.


Hee. This cat is totally lying on Doyle’s chair.

And then the cat was on my bed and we snuggled and I gave him food because on some bizarre chance, that same day Doyle’s mom gave us a can of cat food in case we came across a stray cat or something.

It was destiny.

Eventually Doyle got home and I bolted out of my chair for some reason and immediately he was all, “WHAT DID YOU DO” and I was like, “WE HAD A VISITORit’spossibleitwasacat” and he was all, “WHAT” and I was all, “WHAT” and then he fumed at me and stormed about the place ranting about how he left for only a few hours and I had already kidnapped a cat.

Then I pointed out that I had actually catnapped a cat and Doyle’s eyes went all bulgey.

His mom walked in and approved of my catnapping, so whatever, Doyle. Whatever.

In any case, I eventually realized that I didn’t actually know where the cat was anymore (“You kidnapped a cat and you lost it?!” “Catnapped.”), and after searching all over the house, we couldn’t find it. I concluded that it must have been some sort of magical escaping cat and Doyle concluded that I was an idiot.

Either way.

I thought the day was looking up, but then Dyck got a ticket and it was my fault and I felt awful so I offered to pay for it, but when we got home I still felt awful (and poorer), so I finished the rest of a bottle of rosé, ate a chocolate bar and a half, and went to bed feeling not much better but definitely more intoxicated.

It was a very healthy, productive day.

Except for that it was awful and I kind of just wanted to crawl into a corner and cry.

But there was an impromptu magical disappearing cat, so you know, not a total loss.

“Fuck boxes.”

This is what happens when I'm trapped inside a house all day with no internet and I'm done with everything.

Two books. Only two actual books. Nothing that actually goes in the bookcase that I was trying to organize, and the box was too heavy to lift back up the stairs.
This is why people punch babies.

Doyle: What have we learned?

Kelsey: Fuck boxes.

Doyle: What else have we learned?

Kelsey: Don’t throw boxes down the stairs just because you’re too lazy to open them and check the contents first.

Doyle: There you go.

“It’d look like we skinned Grover and put it out as a Lord-of-the-Flies-style warning to all the other puppets.”

While I was slaving away at work, the boys went to IKEA without me. Thanks, boys. Considerate.

So Dyck texts me about the color of couch cover we discussed earlier (I said black and he suggested rainbow and then called me an “idiot” when I said “We are not having a rainbow or zebra-striped couch” because apparently I was supposed to know that he was joking – which is something I generally never assume because Doyle has already shown me his zebra-striped couch cover), and I suggested that they send me a picture if they liked something and maybe we could agree on it together, even though I wasn’t there.

The boys have a funny way of interpreting things.

Doyle’s hand in something? I don’t even know.

Dyck: We really liked this.

Kelsey: What… what is this?

Dyck: Doyle’s hand in a trashcan.

Kelsey: …

I suggested pictures to be more productive. You know, like a real adult.

Then the pictures kept coming.

This is a horror movie. This is what a horror movie looks like, guys. That rug is the type of rug that would never, ever die. Ever. 

Dyck: We liked this.

Kelsey: Is… is that a blue rug?

Dyck: It’s going in your bedroom.

I don’t even know.

Dyck: We bought all of them.

Kelsey: What are they?

No response.

This is why they shouldn’t be allowed to go shopping without me anymore.

Dyck: We’re going to combine these.

Kelsey: Are those curtains?

He stopped responding, so I tried Doyle.

Kelsey: Chris, Chris is being mean to me. Make him stop.

Doyle: But… I liked the blue one.

Kelsey: If we put that in our living room it’d look like we skinned Grover and put it out as a Lord-of-the-Flies-style warning to all the other puppets out there.

Doyle: And?

Right. So.

Later that night I went to Doyle’s place. As I snapped a quick shot of my two charming roommates, they demonstrated just how much they care for me.

Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

And also, because the boys think they’re cool (no, seriously),


This is why I tell people that I don’t know if I’m nervous or excited to move in with these people. This. This right here.

I’m just going to go cry in the corner of the bathtub now. No biggie.

“800 dollars for a fox is not a sensible purchase.”

Chris Doyle is watching his siblings at the moment while his parents travel abroad. As a result, he’s pretty bored and he asked me to “entertain him”. So, we had a phone conversation consisting of him bragging about how he got sixty pounds worth of Playboy magazines from an elderly cancer patient.

I hate to admit it, but that is kind of brag-worthy.

He spent the entire conversation trying to convince me of getting a pet fox (“I looked into it“, he says, urgently, as if that makes it a reasonable idea. “We could set the fox on fire,” was his follow-up argument, which is exactly why it wasn’t a reasonable idea) and that although a zebra-striped couch cover was tacky, he already bought it, so we might as well use it.

The only good idea that happened was covering Chris Dyck’s room with pictures from said Playboy magazines. I can get on board with that kind of thinking.

We aren’t nice to each other which is why the conversation turned to how I am a slut/harlot/the devil and how he is an asshole/the devil/a slut/harlot, and we also talked about needles, which he hates.

Kelsey: Can we get your ears pierced?

Chris: No.

Kelsey: But why?

Chris: I… (There was disbelief here.) needles?

Kelsey: Oh. Right. Well, you can’t even feel it. Actually, that’s a lie. You can. But it’s only a pinch.

Chris: Yeah, not convincing.

Kelsey: Please? I can make sure that they pierce the gay side even. That way we can go to clubs and the men will buy you free drinks. Because you’ll be beautiful.

Chris: I’m already beautiful.

Kelsey: Not as beautiful as you could be.

Chris: Besides, I don’t even drink that much.

Kelsey: But you could. You’ll learn.

Chris: See, usually I’m the bad influence. You’re being the bad influence here.

Kelsey: I’m not a bad influence. I’m just talking about going to get a piercing, and going to clubs and getting free drinks and – oh. Oh. Body mods and liquor. I am a bad influence.


[A pause.]

Kelsey: …we could get tattoos together!

Chris: Uh, no. Needles.

Kelsey: Actually, I was just about to say that I didn’t want to do that. I don’t want a tattoo. Hey, so, what if I slipped those drugs into your drink that keep you awake but unable to move and made you get a tattoo?

Chris: You mean roofies?

Kelsey: Is that what those are?

Chris: Uh, yeah.

Kelsey: Oh. Huh. Okay. So, roofies. What if I gave you roofies and had you get a tattoo? Would you still be my friend?

Chris: Uh, no. Absolutely not.

Kelsey: What if the tattoo was of a fox?

Chris: I would murder you. (Something about a blind, white-hot, seething rage and about cutting me open and my insides. I wasn’t paying attention, really.)

Kelsey: No, no! What if the fox was in a sailor suit? A professional sailor suit?

Chris: I would cut you open.

Kelsey: What if it was a fox in a sailor suit with boobs?

Chris: …you almost had me, but no.

Kelsey: Okay, so what if it was a fox in a sailor suit with boobs in one of the positions of one of the girls in your Playboy magazines?

Chris: Still no, because it would remind me of cancer. I would think of cancer every time I looked at it.

Kelsey: But that could be a good thing. We could even tattoo a little cancer ribbon next to the fox, and people would see your fox tattoo in a sailor suit with boobs and the cancer ribbon and think you were compassionate and thoughtful. I’d basically be doing you a favor.

Chris: …

Kelsey: I’m basically trying to work out the conditions in which it’d be okay to roofie you.

Chris: Yeah, there are none.

Kelsey: (Sigh.) Oh.

Chris: Besides, from now on, if I ever get roofied it’s going to be your fault.

Kelsey: What? How?

Chris: It just will be.

Kelsey: But what if I died?

Chris: Still your fault.

Kelsey: What if I died in a horrific car accident first? What then? You would be sad, right?

Chris: No, I would laugh. I would probably go to a club and drink, and then it would be your fault because you encouraged me to go out and do that, and then when some guy bought me a drink and roofied me, even though I’d feel remorse for your death, it would still be your fault for encouraging me to go out and get free drinks and some guy giving me roofies.

Kelsey: …so you’re saying you’d feel remorse for me?

Chris: …what?

Kelsey: Aww. You would feel remorse for my death. That’s so sweet.

Chris: …that is not the point of what I just said.

Kelsey: That’s what selective hearing is. You would feel remorse for me. I choose to hear just that and not the disemboweling. Aww.

Chris sighed a little bit and made a noise suggestive of disemboweling at me before changing the subject.

You know you’re okay friends when you can talk about giving the other roofies and being run over by trucks in horrific accidents and still have the conversation end on a high note.