The Motorcycle Toy Run is happening today, where hundreds of riders kickstart the holiday giving season by collecting toys for children who may go without. It’s a tradition amongst the BC Motorcycle Community, and like every year, this display of selfless giving and generosity has moved me to seething, foaming, incoherent, incontinent rage.

I fucking hate the Toy Run – not because I am the child-hating monster most people assume I am, but because it’s a police-escorted parade of excessive noise pollution at 9am on a Sunday morning. It’s several hours of penis-compensating baffled pipes, non-stop honking, car alarms, yelling, and meowing (Lemon is not a fan of the noise and would like me to do something about it) at my doorstep, and I hate the noise so much I want to scream (which would just create more noise and perhaps make people think I am being murdered).

I would gladly purchase all the new toys I could possibly afford to give to kids at Christmas if the noise would just GO THE FUCK AWAY.

This is the 4th Toy Run we’ve had the misfortune of being in the path of, and I am fucking sick of it. I’ve actually made an effort here – it’s a motorcycle thing. Ed and I both ride. If you can’t beat ’em, why not join ’em? I’d be a lot less aware of HOW FUCKING LOUD the damn ride is if I was in the middle of it with a teddy bear strapped to Lola .. but all the money collected by the BC Motorcycle Club doesn’t go into their web presence. I can’t find any clear information on how to join the ride, so every year around this time I sit in my house and just seethe and hate everything ever.

December will mark 5 years at Sparta, and I think that’s long enough. I’ve been trying to get Ed to at least think about relocating, but that would require him to do things, so he’s not keen on the idea. The longer I stay here, the more I dislike it – all the little things that have bugged me over the years are adding up into one giant temper tantrum that is going to need to be Dealt With in very, very short order.

I’m a reasonable person (shut up, I am) – I don’t expect to live in a harmonious bubble of silence and rainbows. My list of things I require in a home are not outlandish by any means:

• Not at a major fucking intersection
• Not at a pedestrian controlled crosswalk
• Nowhere near a crosswalk that is patrolled by school children
• Near a source of groceries
• Not on a major street
• Not at an onramp to the only highway in the city
• Has a balcony I can actually use

See? Perfectly reasonable list. In fact, all the things that might bother a less-reasonable person have been quiet pleasant (or at least not any source of angst whatsoever):

• Living in a McDonald’s parking lot
• Living near the PNE
• Being across the street from a temporary housing shelter for the homeless (there’ve actually been fewer questionable going-ons than before the shelter opened – “think of the children”, indeed)
• Living above an actual rub n’ tug
• Living above an actual rub n’ tug that doesn’t have semi-truck parking
• Did I mention that men are paying to have their penises manipulated to ejaculation directly below my bedroom

I need a change. Before the end of 2014, I’ll have been in Vancouver for ten years, in this condo for 5 years, married for 12 years, and in a relationship for 17. I have an entire rainbow of fevers, from scarlet to cabin to jungle to bieber to yellow, purple, blue, and fucking plaid. Angst: I have it. Now, how do I get rid of it?

I am going to spend the rest of my Sunday in the blissful quiet of my own head, and also out in some fucking nature or something. Cheer me the fuck up, trees, or get the fuck off my lawn.