Opening
Dear Diary,
Oh shit. Okay. First problem. I never thought I’d actually write the words “Dear Diary” in my entire fucking life. Writing in general is already a suspicious activity for someone like me. But they say writing could help me train my brain to get those swimming alphabets in line and make a correct word, you know, the kind that doesn’t show up with that judgmental red squiggly line under it like the computer is personally disappointed in me.
Also, apparently, writing helps organize thoughts. Like trains. Trains that stay on rails. Not the natural situation in my brain, which is more like twelve trains colliding in a flaming pile of metal while someone plays circus music in the background.
Hmm.
Okay.
What else did he say I should write?
Oh right. Fun facts about me. Like the real fun facts about me only people who know me closely know, not the kind you put on job applications like “team player” or “punctual.” And also not about why and when I got my nipple pierced, although, in my defence defense, it’s also a fun fact to know, IMHO, and only people close to me can see them.
Well. Close enough.
Anyway, let see, fun facts, fun facts.. Hmmm..
What is considered a fun fact? Things I do for fun? Because that feels dangerous to write down. Let’s not turn my first diary into my ‘activity’ log that can bite me in the ass later, shall we?
Let’s just start with the basics.
First, I’m twenty fucking three years old, and I can’t read, YET. And yes, I know how that sounds. Trust me, I hear it every time I say it out loud and watch people try not to look concerned. Emphasize in YET, I’m working on it, god dammit.
I’m not dumb or anything, I just don’t read well. Letters like to rearrange themselves sometimes, like they’re playing musical chairs and I’m the idiot who showed up late to the party.
But I’m very fluent in talking with my mouth. Excel at it. I have a PhD in oversharing, a major in TMI field, and a minor in holding my thoughts to myself.
Which I failed. Repeatedly.
Second, I have a son, whose name is Rotie. Not because he’s a rottweiler, mind you, I’m more creative than that in name-giving. Also, technically, he’s a Rottweiler, but that spelling has too many letters doing gymnastics, and I refuse to participate in that nonsense.
He’s two years old, and he’s adorable once you get over that satan’s pet look of his. Whoever tells me he’s a dog and not my son, you’re going to have a beef with me. I love him like I birthed him myself. Emotionally speaking. Physically, that would have been complicated and probably illegal.
Third, I have a background in glass-blowing, see, I’m really good with my mouth. Which sounds wrong now that I read it again, but I stand by the statement. But my internship was cut short when my mentor died of a heart attack. RIP Monsieur Gérard Bouchard. Man could shape molten glass into swans and chandeliers, but apparently, the human heart is the real fragile object. Now I drive Uber for a living, and I also live in my car.
Which technically makes me both employed and homeless, a combination that feels impressive if you don’t think about it too long.
OK. Let’s start with those three fun facts for now.
And before you start thinking this is a memoir of an unfortunate, poor, homeless girl, I assure you, it is not. This is Coralie Hana Beaumont’s diary, not Anne Frank’s, mind you.
Gomez, or the mighty Alphonso Rodriguez Gomez, or El Rey del Taco, is the prick that told me to exercise writing. “Try to write, maybe a diary”, he said, “it’s good for you”, he said. Which is exactly the kind of advice people give when they have already given up trying to fix you in more practical ways.
He was my social worker, and I was his last case before he took his early retirement to pursue his true calling; flipping tacos. Because flipping orphans like me to turn up as a functional human being is a lot more work than assembling tacos. I get that. I mean, look at my life. Even his street tacos have more structure.
His tacos have layers. Meat. Salsa. Tortilla. My life has… vibes.
Gomez is like a father figure to me. He’s the only one who has been there since I was sixteen. After my mom moved back to Quebec from Japan when I was two, I had a pretty basic childhood, up until her addiction took her away from me right on my tenth birthday. She got caught returning the gifts I got from my friends to the store for reimbursement and used the money to buy whatever she needed to function that day. And I went on a line of families. A long fucking line, honestly. At one point, I didn’t even bother to completely unpack my big black garbage bag, where I kept my three pairs of clothing and some trinkets.
Two years without unpacking.
Turns out, if you never unpack, it hurts less when you have to leave.
Wow, I think we just veered into not-so-fun facts about me. I spiral easily. Get used to it.
Now, let’s get back to the most expensive mistake I have ever made in my adult life. At the time, the weirdest thing about that morning was the money.
This turned out to be wildly incorrect.
