A leap, a fractured ankle, and a whole new perspective. One university exchange to rule them all.

"When I was in my final year of University, I signed up for an exchange. I mostly applied to feel like I’d done something other than get drunk on homemade wine and call-in orders of family-sized poutine. Having never left the continent, I put my preferred destinations as either Ireland or England—clearly, placing little emphasis on cuisine (or dental).

Like most volunteer opportunities, I was in it for the boost of talking about doing something. I lacked the foresight to grasp that moving somewhere was a likely requirement. I also had yet to learn that time is not an almighty buffer.

A few weeks later, I got the email that I’d been accepted into the exchange program. I also received my placement country. Would it be boiled potatoes or crisps? Guinness or Newcastle? Red-haireds or other pale people?

As I opened the attachment, my hands turned clammy.

It looked like I’d be spending my winter semester in….*drum roll, please*…

Denmark!?

Where the fuck is Denmark?"

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"It looked like shit, but I knew I had to stand by it."

When we moved into our first house, I threw out our frat boy futon. The time had come to invest in an “I’m a mortgaged adult” sofa. Skipping over Ikea’s middle ground, I set my sights on a down-filled velvet sectional with a price to match.

For weeks, I loitered on Article’s website with Royal Velvet propped in my shopping cart.

However, even after red wine and indulgent Real Housewive’s marathons, I’d get close but then panic and abandon. As a Dollarami-Mami (in recovery), without a promo code or flash sale, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

As luck would have it, after some deep web sleuthing, I found Lady Velvet on Facebook Marketplace. The couch was in good condition, nearby, and most importantly, less than half off.

And hey, a little stranger dander never hurt anybody.

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Generosity comes in all shapes and sizes (but none are found in the discount bin).

As someone in recovery, I can sniff out a fellow cheap person from a mile away. I get a shiver when I watch a stranger perform their best “purse dig looking for a credit card” at bill time.

While I’ve learned to override being cheap, I still have my eye on the prize. A restaurant menu with a $2 cost-savings gap? I’ll find the combination. A utility turkey with a wing missing for Thanksgiving dinner? Who needs two? A discount bin at checkout filled with expired formula and stale nuts? Ima be sifting.

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(I know—it's not what we want to hear.)

In the summer, I wrote about going for a run, jogging for three minutes then walking to get gelato instead.

Sometimes doing the wrong thing is the right thing. We can only work our day jobs, take on the side hustles, and be “good” for so long.

Then, we must rebel.

This could be getting the ice cream.

Uncorking the magnum of wine.

Or spending the day on the couch.

Acting out is proof that we are still in control. It reminds us of the choice we pretend to have surrendered.

But unless we’re on a drug-fuelled, Tara Reid-style bender, the pendulum swings back. The Netflix series finishes, the family nacho platter disappears, and our vacation ends. We must endure cardio, attend meetings, and mop up the sticky patch on the floor once more.

Emptying our exhaust may last for a few days—or even weeks. And during this time, we’re just excited to not feel bloated.

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Will the real procrastinators please stand up?

After being lost in a sea of nothingness, you come up for air. A swell of disorientation washes over you.

How long were you out for?

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You stare at the Google Doc on your laptop. The cursor pulsates against the blank screen.

You blink a few times, then pick your eye corner. A small crusty crumbles. It’s a momentary reprieve.

You settle deeper into your chair, wriggling your cheeks back and forth.

To demonstrate discipline, you slide your phone behind your laptop.

“Out of sight out of mind,” you mumble.

Have you become someone who talks aloud? You’re closer to being a victim of elder abuse than you care to imagine.

You snap back. To honour your shoulder’s angel, you close every open tab:

Realtor.

Facebook Marketplace.

WebMD.

Kayak.

A “How old was Bobby Christina when she died?” Google search.

To read in full, head to Back to Shameless: https://www.backtoshameless.com/

Your annual—nay, half-decade—reminder to make friends with fear.

"Whenever someone turns 35, I impulsively think, “35, still alive!”.

It’s odd. It’s spectrumy. And yes, I have slogans for most ages.

Exhibit:

“32, chu brand new!”

“33, lots to see!”.

“34, so much more!”.

Without surprise, little thought goes into these. I just open my enamelled trap and whatever comes out is it.

Then, while mowing manchego at the birthday girl’s kitchen island, I drop “35, still alive”, the room goes cold, and we all move on.

Admittedly, blurting out “35, still alive” felt a lot more carefree when I was 34 (with so much more).

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Buying. Selling. Losing. Winning.

"This year, we accidentally sold two houses on the same day.

Originally, we tried to sell just our cottage with a realtor who dedicated herself to a long con. For weeks, she pretended to hire a drone photographer who continuously cancelled due to “high winds”.

Needless to say, like the lack of aerial footage, no deals materialized.

Eventually, we took it off the market and listed our Toronto house instead.

Selling would offer more breathing room and reverse the inroads we’d made towards becoming “storage locker” people.

Note: As of July 24, 2025, we’ve terminated our Storage Access contract. We sold all items en masse to a pair of Christian newlyweds. Our junk now lives in God’s grace."

To read in full, head to: https://www.backtoshameless.com/

A story of grit.

"Five years ago, I chipped my tooth on a Twizzler.

It was Halloween, and like Valentine’s and Easter, I was on an all-you-can-eat bender.

Putting in late-night reps on a pack of licorice, I stretch each piece between my front teeth, gnawing off chunk after chunk. Everything is routine until I feel something inside my strawberry paste. It’s grainy. It’s rough. It doesn’t belong.

With wild, sugared eyes, I make the exec decision to swallow the pearly grit.

Out of an abundance of caution, I perform an oral safety check. Slowly, I run my tongue along my upper deck. That’s when I encounter a disturbance.

My front tooth feels like a crumpled piece of aluminum."

For the full read, head to: https://www.backtoshameless.com/