Cyndi Lauper, no matter how bad it got for me when I was little, and it got really bad. I could count on her to be “right there waiting, time after time” and to see my “true colors” I know that sounds stupid, but I would get my tape and my walkman, go and hide in the dog house with Tramp, he would sleep next to me, and Cyndi would sing to me and I would sing with her, and it was okay for a few minutes, I was safe. Nothing existed but Cyndi’s voice and the warmth of Tramp’s body, it was almost like it could be okay.

So Cyndi Lauper, she was always inspiration to keep going, it could be okay if I could hear her voice.

My partner. A powerhouse of a person. Thoughtful, honest, kind and generous, unique and curious and untameable like a cat but as civilised and moral as captain Picard.

I’d probably be in so much more trouble if it were for their invisible hands of kindness.

Guy in my apt complex. Gang stuff, drugs, jail, now he’s turning it all around. Both of us spent years in homeless shelters, we trade war stories. He just got a job, bagger at a grocery store. We’re both struggling, overwhelmed, but seeing him employed gives me hope.

I’m closing in on 40 and I’ve had this mid-life crisis spell happen during the later part of COVID, 2020-2021. I love to write short stories and poetry, but with my “crisis” it became a burden to even think about putting thoughts down. Then this person comes into my life, we will call her Martha. I’m twice her age, her superior at work, and generally not someone I would talk to. But besides all that, we strike up a friendship. It’s weird at first, the age gap, the maturity level, and me the authority figure. But we connect somehow, and my writing returned. At first it is mostly about her, and these torrent of emotions that she drew out of me. Her personality, energetic, kind, and thoughtful helped invigorate my own life. Like a nurse pulling poison from a wound, I felt liberated after all this time. All because of her.

We eventually went our separate ways. We seldom talk anymore, but that friendship we made still helps me write. I think of her, and my inner voice sings to express itself. She is my muse but I’ll never tell her or say anything about it (maybe if we ever reconnect in the future). Martha has changed me and is my inspiration.

My wife. She tells me when to shut up and listen.

I chase my own dreams.

I do have friends & family that i do care about and want to help in the future.

I also have a crush on someone.

But i’ve learn that the best path to being happy is being self-sufficient. I might not be able to do/help everyone i want, but at the end of the day i can look back and appreciate my own effort.

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All my female professors who probably had to work so much harder to get where they are now and on top of that had to deal with so many gross men because my field is very male dominated. I’m a bit scared to get into academics because of the stories I heard.

This year I started volunteering as teaching aide at an English school for refugees coming to Canada. Hearing their stories, and seeing how hard they work every day to build a new life here – it really puts things into perspective for me.