Waking up in Moncton

9 AM, November 2, 2012

Tongue feels like it’s been shag car­pet­ed by uncer­ti­fied car­pen­ters. Head pound­ing. Colour­ful obscen­i­ty shaved into my beard.

What hap­pened last night? Why did I wake up on a park bench?

It’s com­ing back to me. After the bar brawl/book sign­ing (thanks to Ellen of Tide­wa­ter Books, you were great, and I’m sor­ry you had to take that bul­let in the arm for me, send me the clean­ing bill), I was sep­a­rat­ed from the group as we fled into the rain. Scared and slight­ly damp, I took refuge in a near­by park­ing garage on Main Street. There, I was set upon by a roam­ing gang of fer­al chil­dren, and after an arm wrestling chal­lenge and triv­ia con­test, I was named King of the Wee Monc­tonee­nies.

They then robbed me and left me bereft and bedrag­gled on this bench, with only the heat from my lap­top to keep me warm. I man­aged to snap a pic­ture of them before they melt­ed into the night:

My bat­tery is run­ning dry. I must go and find the oth­er authors, I can only pray they sur­vived the cru­el Monc­ton night. My spir­it is already begin­ning to weak­en. If peo­ple only knew the unspeak­able hor­rors of the Cana­di­an lit­er­a­ture tour scene, they would nev­er stop scream­ing.

Still, going to Saint John today, so spir­its up, Corey! You’ve got tales to tell, books to sell, and emo­tion­al scars to hide!