the stretch of Seymour

When I was 15, me and my best friend used any day that we weren't required to be in school to take the 351 bus from White Rock to Vancouver. A solid hour of travel but any day was better spent huddling under a bus shelter doubling as a hobo's bachelor suite, than anywhere in White Rock. It can't be just me that feels the place you grow up in, during the fuck awful years of high school anyways, that is the place you couldn't wait to run away from screaming and punching. It's rad thinking back that my behaviour and big thoughts, in all their earnest alternativeness, were so very vanilla.
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