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Guess what I just did? I irrigated my mouth stitches with special mouthwash prescribed by my dentist. That’s right, I inserted a little syringe into the back of my mouth and sprayed out all those harmful little soul-sucking bacteria. How’s that for sexy? Can you feel it?

Since I can’t drink (well, I can, but codeine causes all kinds of shitfacedness), I’m joining my lovely girls for an evening of food (which I can’t eat), champagne (which I can’t drink) and general gossip (I can’t laugh, it hurts).

But this rest period? Effing amazing. I could definitely work from home, my productivity is skyrocketing. Too bad my coworkers refuse to reply to my emails.

My travel narrative blog should be up before the weekend is over, and I’m pretty stoked about it. MAD STOKED. I’m so sorry I’ve been neglecting to add linkage to all my new readers, plus the Matador Team, but it seemed like such an unnecessary task as I’m also still waiting for That’s Tangly to launch. I hate this blog and I can’t wait for it to be done with. FOREVER. *lightning flashes* Please be sure that I will give appropriate bucketfuls of love to my loyal readers when I can.

Aside: I’m absolutely loving my new position as associate editor. LOVE IT. I’m flinging myself enthusiastically into the process, possibly biting off more than I can chew, but I love it. There’s amazing stuff happening over at Matador.

This is how I used to look before a dentist ripped into my gums and hauled out two big 'ol wisdom teeth.

So sitting here for the last few days have inspired a lot of thinking. Yesterday, while all my American buds were celebrating Thanksgiving, I thought about how much I have to be thankful for. My friends, my family, my new gig with Matador (when I come home from work in the evenings I’m usually up til 1 a.m., writing, brainstorming, and catching up on blogs, and I don’t mind it one bit). I realize that every decision I have made has led me in the right direction, because I’ve followed my heart.

If I could offer one piece of advice to anyone, it would be to do that: follow your heart. Ditch things that don’t feel right. My lord how many times did I have to push aside the negativity and “are you going to be a teacher?” comments when I announced studying English at Memorial University. But I knew it was what I loved doing, and I know for a fact you can only excel at something if you enjoy it.

So here I am, six years later, with a pretty sweet career, a modest Internet footprint in the making, and a sweet-ass position with an online travel magazine.
And I’m still restless. I hate saying this because I know I have coworker(s) reading, but I assume within a few years I’ll be out of here. I love St. John’s, but lately this place makes me feel very lonely and limited. I need to get out. I need to experience different places. But how can I do that with my debt? I will never be one of those people to push my responsibilities aside. I will never run from student loans or forget about line of credit payments.

But fuck, it’s disheartening. My plan is to pay off all my debt within 5 years, save cash, and hit the road on a Round the World trip. But by that time, I’ll be 28. I know, that’s still young, but I’m losing time. I don’t want to waste a minute.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a giant wiener.

Speaking of debt, Christmas shopping begins tomorrow if I’m brave enough to face the world with cheeks the size of grapefruits. And my mother called me a pussy today because I won’t drink the prune juice that expired in September 2009. I love my mom.

Oh blogosphere, how I’ve missed thee. The rest of the week has been significantly more eventful. Sorta.


I went to Kjax’s party on Saturday with the girls, which was pretty sweet since I haven’t been boozing with those ladies in awhile. Some girl brought jello shooters, and so I proceeded to eat the entire tray. So delicious, and filled with vitamins.

 

Then Ani and I went downtown because everybody else was super lame, and I just needed to get out in public after being confined to my house for the previous week. So we went to Dusk where we met up with Ani’s boyfriend and his buddies, and danced up a storm. Then Metro Guy popped in, and quickly weaselled his way into our dance group, thus interrupting my stellar rhythm.

 

I told Ani she could leave me alone with Metro Guy (I don’t know why), and we proceeded to dance a little. He claimed I did not call him, I insisted that he was supposed to call me, and so went our tango of love. Finally I tried to enter his phone number into my Instinct, but accidentally entered his digits as a text message, and ended up texting him his name. I giggled, he was appalled, and then he left.

I was then entirely stranded downtown. I remember scrolling down through my entire list of contacts on my phone in SHEER UTTER PANIC, realizing for the first time ever, I had nobody to tag along with. So I went to Whalen’s where Greener was playing, tried to stay awake at the bar, and then bummed a ride home with him.

Hot girl action

I’ve just now realized the most ridiculous thing: I forgot to mention my friend’s wedding. Yeah, I’m fucking serious. I went to a friend’s wedding on Saturday with Bob and her boyfriend. It was a small ceremony with mostly family, so the three of us stood awkwardly in church while others just stared at us like we were wedding crashers. Don’t worry, there was no one there worth climbing into bed with.

 

I was sceptical about the whole thing because a) SHE’S 23 and b) I never met her fiance until that day, but everything changed when I saw my beautiful buddy walking down the aisle. Did I mention the onslaught of emotion? Holy shit. I suddenly realized “Wow, I can get married now” and I felt the earth tip considerably towards the direction of HELL. I can’t even consider a wedding until five years from now, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I mean, I do want Nate Gates to be my photographer…and I have my wedding dressed bookmarked in Firefox…and I know my colour theme will be blues…but other than that, I haven’t thought about it AT ALL.

Never mind the man in the background

In other news, Chef has returned from Morocco! My life is filled with the musk of men again! I came home last night to find three boys cooking me supper once again, and now order is restored in my life. We ate lamb tagine and rice with an apricot/prune sauce, it was incredible. Plus Chef brought me back a handcrafted teapot, and did I mention that I really missed him?

 

FINALLY, finally…today Jagerbomb and I had this awesome conversation about Raffi.

 

Candice says: did you know that the banana phone song was originally sung by raffi?

Jagerbomb says: who is raffi?

Candice says: you know, the guy who used to play guitar and sing in the woods and he’d crawl through that log

Jagerbomb says: fred penner?

Candice says: oh shit

Candice says: who the hell is Raffi

Candice says: Raffi does exist

Candice says: HE DOES

Candice says: GOOGLE HIM

 

Then we determined he sings “that baby beluga song.” Enjoy.



 

(I don’t know what the hell is up with the font in this post, but whatever, I’m spontaneous and you can’t handle it.)

Three years ago today, on November 10,  my Aunt was murdered by her common-law husband. Inspired by this Brave New Traveler article titled A Moment of Reflection For Women The World Over, I decided to share this experience for the first time online.

I logged onto Facebook today to see status updates from aunts and cousins, reflecting on how the world changed because of this event. I thought about my father, whom I still haven’t seen cry, and how his life has been affected. I think about her children who have to deal with the consequences of one man, and I think about their children who will grow up never knowing their amazing grandmother. Because of one man.

The following is an essay I wrote for a creative non-fiction course two years ago. I was completely unprepared for the difficulty of reading the piece aloud, but my peers were incredibly supportive and it still remains one of the most raw essays I’ve ever written. The strength of my family is unfathomable, but this essay is mostly about how it changed the dynamics of “home” for me. I’ll perhaps never share it with my family, because it’s entirely my own thoughts and reflections, which I feel is somewhat selfish compared to the magnitude of devastation that hit her children.

 

As Christine Garvin quotes about the regeneration of the soul: “But what can also help it to regenerate are the men who understand it’s not about protecting the women you love – it’s about changing the mindset of the men who don’t love women.”

****

God’s Country

A year ago I headed home anticipating a familiar bed, warm hugs and a hot supper. I squeezed myself between twelve other students on the bus and we sang songs for six hours. We turned onto the Bay d’Espoir Highway and our sighs were collective as the sky cracked open and the sun reflected the clouds with ice-cream colors of pink, and purple, and blue. God’s Country, my home.

But I awoke the next morning to the panicked voice of my mother, and the telephone ringing. I peered out the window at my father, leaning against the rail of the patio while a friend delivered the news. His face was pale, eyes downcast.

My father’s family began pouring in from all corners of the country, relatives I hadn’t seen in years. They still found time to compliment me, to comment on my hair, to engage in conversation. Nearly a family reunion, twelve brothers and sisters, until my aunt’s children showed up in a flurry of tears.

A week went by before funeral arrangements could be considered because the circumstances were complicated. The day the funeral home was opened, we were allowed in groups into the small room where my aunt’s casket lay open for just one evening. I took my father’s hand.

She didn’t look like any relative of mine; her red curls were all wrong, her face too waxy. The smell of embalming fluid was overpowering, like green peppers mingled with the stench of roses and too many flowers. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the purple silk scarf covering the gaping hole in her neck.

I wanted to be strong for my father, so when the tears slipped from my eyes and over my cheeks I felt guilty that he was tearless and patting my shoulder in comfort. Then the guests began pouring in, mourners offering their goodwill, but the outside world was as obscure as the events that had taken place that night on the hill.

The man who committed the act is unheard of, unimportant, although he had been a part of our lives for years. His memory was extinguished once he finished himself off, just seconds after aiming the high-powered rifle at my aunt across the street. Enough force to kill a deer from a mile away, and the witnesses certainly knew it. They certainly knew that her life was over while they cowered behind the water tank, splattered in blood, crying for fear that they would be next as the SWAT team moved in. The thing that hurt my family the most was the image of her laying there, for nearly a full day, while the investigation was carried out. Just laying there in the rain on a patio all alone, her curls sodden while the town passed rumors.

The preacher told us not focus on the nature of the death, but to celebrate her memory. But in a community of 1200 people, rumors build steam until they erupt into ghost stories. My father bought her little blue van, and my brother’s friends refused to ride in it. I sat in the driver’s seat, thinking it didn’t matter who drove it last. I pulled open the ashtray and there was a single cigarette butt with a red rim of lipstick around the end.

My family spent as much time as they could together in that week. Food came from all sources and so we busied ourselves by eating molasses buns, hot chili, and chocolate cakes. Somehow my aunts and uncles still found things to laugh about, and somehow my cousins laughed too.

My grandmother who suffers from Alzheimer’s does not remember her children’s names, so nobody thought she would remember her daughter’s face in the casket. Months later she was still rocking back and forth in her little rocking chair beside the wood stove, mumbling her daughter’s name. I remember my uncle’s shaking hand as he placed it on the casket, lingering it there like just one second longer would make a difference; I remember my father quietly sipping his rum and coke on Christmas Eve, whispering, “Jenny’s comin’ on strong tonight.”

All this, in God’s Country. My home.

Wow, you guys rock my pants off, which is awkward because TOR is sitting next to me trying to watch the hockey game. I had no idea that last post would elicit such genuine concern about the well-being of my social life, but there you have it. I could nearly taste the panic. To clarify, folks, I won’t be cutting out my social life entirely. I’ll now be getting sloshed just once a week, as opposed to two. Seriously, that’s my idea of banning a social life. There are exceptions, of course.

 

So, the big news! Two days ago I received an email from David Miller, the senior editor at Matador, asking if I would like to join the team as an associate editor. I remember clicking down through my emails that morning at work, glancing at that subject briefly, and moving on…only to have this “WTF?” moment, and immediately scrolling back. I’m still having random “WTF?” moments all over the place, including random bouts of happiness which cause me to dance down my stairs at 8:00 a.m. In my pyjamas.

 

I’m still waiting for them to catch on and realize I’m not actually that smart, I just receive Daily Word emails from Dictionary.com.

 

Anyway! I’m incredibly excited, and unbelievably happy to be a part of such a kick-ass team. The whole thing is a little daunting right now, but if I can write technical manuals for software defined sonar, dammit, I can do this.

 

Friends, I think it’s safe to say I can cross off #9 on my 20 Before 30 list. I love life.

 

In other news, I’m also interning for Matt Kepnes of Nomadic Matt. It’s an unpaid position, but Matt is one ambitious fellow and I want to learn everything I can from him. Should be interesting.

 

With all this going on, and knowing now that I have more followers and I’m working with a team of incredibly bright people, I really feel like going back through all my old blog crap and deleting it. I’ve resolved to handling my writing more slowly and carefully. I tend to just spew words out on paper since I’m always pressed for time, but I have to work on that.

 

I’m also mad hating on this blog, and I’m super anxious to get the new site up and running so I can have a more professional (hah!) environment to work with, and I’m really looking forward to adding dozens more of you people to my blogroll. But my website designer seems to be MIA for whatever reason, and That’s Tangly was supposed to launch two weeks ago. He’s a friend of mine, so I trust him, I just hope everything’s okay. I’ve also decided to launch a separate travel website in addition to my blog, so I can have a place to reflect on just travel-related topics. Like starting a Global Pubcrawl.

 

There you have it! I really hope I can do a good job with this, and I’m going to try super hard. And if that means having to cut out some of my gym time…well, perhaps I’ll just cut out sleep instead.

Consider the one thing you could change about yourself – the one source of self-consciousness that has made you feel unattractive for years. Think about a trait which, despite the opinions of others, has made it difficult for you to feel pretty, desirable, or sexy in public.

Then imagine if you could undo that flaw in a quick, efficient manner, and never have to deal with it again.

You know how that feels? Pretty fucking nice.

Less than 20 minutes to undo 15 years of blindness…over half my lifetime.  I’m a little blown over by how surreal the experience is. I’ll never need to change my contacts, clean my glasses, or fumble around in the morning. I keep feeling short bursts of panic, thinking that I’ve been wearing my contacts for too long. These are my real eyes!

So I’m sure you want to hear about the procedure. Hold onto your frilly panties, I’m about to turn some stomachs.

**

I wasn’t the least bit nervous. I was excited. I called my cousin at 8:45 a.m., she informed me she was awake and available to take me to my surgery.  I waited until 9:45 a.m., 15 minutes before my appointment, and called her again. She had slept through her alarm clock.

PANIC MODE.
(Don’t worry; she made it up to me by taking me to my check-up appointment this morning.)

Anyway, I got there on time, filled out the paperwork, etc. A bunch of people were already waiting for surgery, sitting around chatting, having a support group from which I was excluded because I’m a redhead with a scowl. Weird mechanical noises emitted from the OR.

One after another, the patients filed out wearing dark sunglasses. None of them looked particularly happy or excited. For me, the sedative was kicking in big-time and the eye-numbing drops were forcing my eyes to close. When the nurse finally called me into the room, I was starting to go cross-eyed.

My doctor was an attractive, middle-aged man who sat me on the surgical table and discussed the procedure with me. He gave me squeeze balls for stress, and laid me underneath the giant laser.

Alright, so the procedure is entirely painless, but it’s still a little fucking surreal sitting underneath a giant laser, wide awake, knowing that a flap of your eye is being peeled off by a mechanical object.  I was essentially watching my own surgery.

I was told to look at a flashing red light, relax, don’t move. I follow instructions well. Crackling noises drowned out my thoughts, something was forced in my eye to keep it open, and tape was used to stick my eyelashes to my face. I felt a great pressure, my vision went black, and then it reappeared.
Did I mention that twice throughout the procedure I smelled something burning? MY EYEBALLS?

When it was all over, I was commended for a fantastic job and told to sit up. I felt like I was underwater – everything was clouded. I put on my super swanky sunglasses (which I have to wear outdoors for the next week, day or night) and sat in the lounge for an hour, until the doctor checked my eyeballs and I was free to go.

And oh my GOD that’s when the pain started.

Not so much pain as an overwhelming sensitivity to LIGHT. I left the office, picked up my prescription eye drops, and fought my way to the parking lot where K-Jax was waiting for me, bless her.

I feel bad ‘cos she was talking to me but I was in agony and I couldn’t look at ANYTHING. We pulled up next to MUN and I had to put my coat over my head to drown out the sunshine. When I got home, I stumbled upstairs, swept everything off my bed and tried to climb in. I couldn’t fucking read my post-op instructions, find my eye-drops, or think clearly.

I managed to organize my life into piles of “unimportant shit” and “important shit”, and climbed into bed. Every time I tried to pry open my eyes, water would pour out. My pillow was SOAKED in eye juice.

I slept on and off for six hours, waking up occasionally and trying to look at things again. Useless. Every now and then I managed to keep an eye open for two seconds, and catch a glimpse of CLEAR vision. I was excited, but in pain. So I drifted in and out of consciousness, waiting for my moment of revelation.
Then, six hours later, just as my post-op instructions suggested (and I would have realized if I had fucking read them), I awoke feeling amazing…relatively. I stumbled out into the bathroom, and peered hazily at my reflection. I could see me, and then I started crying. Because I realized, holy shit, that’s what I really look like?!

Just kidding. It wasn’t until I made my way downstairs, sat on the futon, and read aloud the book titles on the bookshelf from across the room that I realized exactly how monumental the day was.

Incredible.

***I’m understandably very behind with reading, writing, and catching up on comments, so give me a day or two! And thank you all so much for your kind comments about my article, and for sending your wishes to my friend. Keep ‘em coming.

I keep getting work emails telling me that my inbox is over its size limit, so I went through everything and deleted about a bajillion files, and then checked my junkmail. There was this particular email that jumped out at me in such an accusatory fashion, that my heart started hammering and I immediately thought how’d they know?

 

LESBIAN

LESBIAN

Such a simple, one-lined subject with all the malice this spammer could muster. And then I realized, what a second, I love men! Men and their muscled pecs, chest hair, deep voices, large hands, suave son-of-a-bitch attitudes.

 

On the other hand, I’ve had enough. This past year I’ve been disrespected, used and puked on more than I ever have in my entire lifetime. Mostly it’s my fault for putting myself in these situations, but fuck everyone for taking advantage of my naivety. Nobody deserves that. And I know I’ve been equally an asshole in certain situations, but how is that men are entirely different species than women?  Wait ‘til I’m famous, bitches.

 

In other news, I’ve lost my wallet and my surgery is in less than a week. HOLY SHIT. 25 k hike this weekend, good opportunity to clear my head. And also, my parents are visiting. They sent me a lovely package filled with hand-picked blueberries and bottled moose meat. Yum. I also haven’t been able to shake the “bay talk” since they left, b’y the lard tunderin’ Jesus me ‘ol cock, ‘tis some fearful.

I really enjoy the fact that it takes TWELVE HOURS for me to travel home within the same province, while flying halfway across Canada takes just an hour.

I haven’t been home since Christmas, which is fairly monumental. Everything feels the same, except the lush, green vegetation seems to be crowding out society,  Mom has taken down all my posters and photographs in my room, the walls are painted bright colours, my dog is dead, my grandmother lives at a senior care home two hours away, none of my friends live here, AND OH YEAH DID I MENTION I HATE CHANGE????!!!!!!!!

And just when I thought I could escape the pressure to keep up with my social life, Dad hands me three beers, and I down them like they are the magical elixirs of LIFE. Because…well, they are. And suddenly, I’m not so dispirited. Mom’s arms aren’t shockingly skinny, Lil Bro is completely normal, and I am NOT having a mid-life crisis. Uhhh huh.

I renewed my driver’s license on the way home, and it was a catastrophic event. I blinked TWICE when the flash went off, and the picture had to be retaken. So on the third attempt, I could barely stop giggling long enough to squish my face into a purse-lipped, squinty-eyed mash. The photographer paused hesitantly and said, “Well, that’s a bit better.” Except not only does my new license make me look like a constipated fatty, but my glasses are lopsided on my face and have they been that way the whole time???!!!!!!!!!

Yeah, I’m just gonna go to bed.

This might be the most horribly offensive thing I have ever done in my life.

 

This might be the ONE defining action in my life that will send me directly to Hell, because surely I will not be allowed past the pearly gates with this on my shoulders.

 

Two years ago, I studied abroad in England for the summer. On one of my long weekends, a few friends and I decided to hop over to Holland and become acquainted with the infamous Amsterdam.
Live sex shows, posing with giant penises and smoking pot doesn’t even begin to describe my weekend.

 

I am not a pot smoker. I hate pot. HATE. And as a general rule, I frown upon it. Mostly because for some reason I can’t seem to handle ANYTHING with THC in it.

 

So the morning we arrived in the city, we discovered it was Gay Pride weekend and there would be a parade on the canals. We participated in a very informative, interesting walking tour that fortunately led us directly into the heat of the action. GAY MEN EVERYWHERE! Pink hats, feather boas, loud techno music. The whole city had turned out for the occasion. People were dancing on the roofs of their houseboats, and it didn’t take long for us to get in the spirit.

 

Queerer than a two-dollar bill

Queerer than a two-dollar bill

When the parade was over, we were exhilarated. Man, what a city! So we did what anybody would do in Amsterdam…we tracked down some spacecakes at a cafe called Dampkring.

 

Everything was fine. In fact, the cakes were delicious, and I didn’t feel the least bit overwhelmed by highness. So a few of us split up and decided to meet at the Anne Frank House later, because I was dying to try some of the most famous curry fries in the city.

 

Shortly after I consumed said fries, the THC hit me like freight train.

 

I remember following two of my girlfriends around the city, boiling hot underneath the sun, while trying to read a map to figure out where we were. We passed canal after canal after canal, and everything looked exactly the same. I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

 

When we finally found the line-up (which felt like two years later, but turned out to be 15 minutes), we were forced to wait outside for an eternity. I spied a guy ahead of me who looked incredibly like my friend Pearson. Is that Pearson? That can’t be Pearson. What’s Pearson doing in Amsterdam? That must be Pearson. Should I say hi? Is that Pearson?

 

Never mind I was probably staring at the poor guy with drool dripping from my chin and my mouth hanging open and my armpits sweating.

 

Once I got inside and somehow paid the fee, I had to sit down. My body was made of lead. The girls sat with me but they were clearly impatient. I stood several times, trying to collect myself. And then it hit me. The curry fries had sought their revenge.

 

I lurched into the bathroom, dove past a Dutch woman (she screamed at me until she was blue in the face), then pushed some poor girl out of the stall, and emptied the contents of my stomach within two minutes. Let me remind you: CURRY FRIES.

 

I have never felt more terrible in my life. I stumbled through the rest of the house in a haze, and managed to get back out on the street. Somehow, I sobered up enough to find my way home, and met the other girls of my party already passed out in their beds. And then I curled up in my bed, at 9 p.m., and fell asleep until 7 a.m. the next day, while all the gay men and women and supporters danced in the streets and celebrated the weekend, which I was told later was a truly magnificent occasion.

 

I went back to pay my respects to Anne Frank the next morning, and pretty much cried my way through the house. When I was a little girl, I had an unhealthy fascination with the holocaust and devoured books on the subject. I thought the house was well put together and pulled all the right heart strings, even if I did have to hide my face at the toll booth for shame.

 

And needless to say, I will never, ever touch anything with THC again.

But the rest of the weekend was pretty stellar

But the rest of the weekend was pretty stellar

But I still love this city

And I still love this city

My mother sent me a letter not too long ago. When I flipped over the envelope, I saw that she had sealed it with a tiny, round rose sticker. For some reason it made me want to sob. Just because of a tiny sticker. Just because of that fleeting, added after-thought. And now I’m dying for my sand-coloured house at the end of Long Path, even though the familiarity is slowly becoming unfamiliar. My little doggies are no longer there. My grandmother is no longer there. They’ve even repainted my room.

 

On a lighter note, I turned down an incredibly handsome, tall, dark, athletic (potential) hook-up tonight, in favour of not feeling like a bag of crap at work tomorrow. I can’t say I don’t regret it, because I do. I am so sick to death of the opposite sex that I feel careless, dejected, rejected, injected with rage… But wtf is this? I’ve just stepped into the deep end of the LAME pool, and I’m floundering quickly.

What I wouldn’t give right now for simple summers past, nights on the beach sitting around a bonfire while someone plays the guitar and nothing obstructing our view of the starry sky except the smoke. Sometimes I think there’s no better place in the world to live but the bay, with a big piece of property overlooking the water. A patio to sit on during the evenings while all is quiet. The smell of freshly cut grass and clean air.

I’m sorry, home is on my mind and I regret not going there for the funeral. I hope Sean understands.

 

I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of California stars
I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of California stars

I’d love to feel
Your hand touching mine
And tell me why
I must keep working on

Yes I’d give my life
To lay my head tonight on a bed
Of California stars

I’d like to dream
My troubles all away
On a bed of California stars

Jump up from my starbed
Make another day
Underneath my California stars
They hang like grapes
On vines that shine
And warm the lovers’ glass
Like friendly wine

So I’d give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of California stars

I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of California stars
I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of California stars

I’d love to feel
Your hand touching mine
And tell me why
I must keep working on

Yes I’d give my life
To lay my head tonight on a bed
Of California stars

I’d like to dream
My troubles all away
On a bed of California stars

Jump up from my starbed
Make another day
Underneath my California stars

They hang like grapes
On vines that shine
And warm the lovers’ glass
Like friendly wine

So I’d give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of California stars

So I’d give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of California stars

(Dream a dream with you)

Wilco – California Stars

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