I hate myself.

Amy loves herself.

Maybe that’s why we get along.

High school was sorta traumatic, what with me killing a couple of friends in a car crash, doing jail time, and then going to university and hiding myself in my studies so that I eventually became a prof.

But I was always an asshole.

Over the years I’ve reconnected with some of those Brantford friends – facebook can be wonderful – and am grateful to learn what I never expected.

My high school friend Bob, who was always there for me, sent me a note the other day, saying, “And that’s why you are loved. If it helps I now cook all bbq with a thermometer-because of you-and the food is better; cross contaminated perhaps, but better tasting.

What an unexpected and kind thing to say.

Changing the world, one thermometer at a time (Chapman, I’m running out).

It’s really hard for me to accept love, for whatever reason.

But if I can coach hockey and be lineman for my first game, with people screaming at me, then maybe I can welcome some love too.