Unless the cottage is made of candy.

On Sunday, while waiting for the rest of our Call of Cthulhu group to show up, I was talking to my friend Chris about us moving. He generously offered to help out by driving the rental truck, and I thanked him, adding that I was doubly pleased because that meant I wouldn't have to ask my stepfather for help.

"What, is he a jerk or something?"

"No, not generally, but he is SO annoying." I went on to explain that every time we've moved my stepfather has looked over our apartments and bitched about something: the ceilings are too low, you don't have a lot of counter space, and HOW much are you paying for rent? It's that last one especially that he picks on.

Chris asked how much we'd be paying for our new places. I told him. And he looked at me and said, "uh, yeah. City prices. What does he expect?"

My stepfather has lived his entire life in Chilliwack. While today you can in fact call it a suburban city, it still contains many farms and long expanses of sweet fuck all. It's the country.

I hate the country.

Last month my sister and I went to the 'Wack for a few days. I think we were there five in total, and by the end we were both about to go batshit crazy. I mean, yes, I got to go on nice little nature walks through what forested area still remains up on the mountain but... damn, man, there's nothing there.

I think there still exists a weird expectation that witches all yearn to live in a cottage deep in the woods. Which sounds great on paper, but if there's no WiFi out in those woods I'm not fucking going for anything but a visit. It's not even that I hate nature, I just love modern convenience.

My new apartment is in the West End, which means it's much closer to the ocean and to Stanley Park. Stanley Park is huge - it's a little over 400 hectares, and most of it is just forest. Walking through the park is actually one of the things I love to do and rarely get to, right up there with wandering around the Museum of Anthropology. And the ocean... that remains the one thing I missed about Kistilano when we moved to East Van. And although even here you can see the water, it's not remotely the same.

(Yes, I hate the beach in summer, but I love the water. I also don't swim. Go figure.)

I understand, Spider.

I think that our environment plays a part in our magic, but no one place is inherently better than another. I'd die in the desert, but the scorching sun and dry winds might inspire someone else. Some people really do want that cottage in the woods, and more power to them! I'll mail-order shit from you, how about that?

Me? I like the city. I like being able to walk down the street and eat food from countries I'll most likely never visit. I like having the luxury of purchasing supplies and not having to make them all by hand. (Jesus, if I had to make a knife or something? I'd land my dumb ass in emergency.) I like being able to walk through the woods, and smell the ocean breeze and then catch the bus home and turn on the heat. I like light-up signs and bustling crowds, even if I do sometimes want to stab people in the eye. (But, honestly, I need a little bit of rage to keep me going. Sad, but true.)

All these things are what stimulates my magic. And I'm cool with that.