HI THERE. MY name is Zack Virtue. Yes, that’s my real name. It’s Scottish, I think. I’ve never really looked into it.
This isn’t going to work.
Okay, okay. Let’s at least give it a try.
My name is Zack Virtue.
The problems began earlier this year. I got out of a bad relationship. Bullets were involved. I met someone new. It was nice for a while. Then more bullets were involved. We both got better, but it was too much of a shock to our relationship, so she said goodbye, and I haven’t heard from her since.
The summer dragged on, and the art commissions were drying up. I was assembling some submissions when other problems came forward. The stress of it was affecting my personal and business relationships, and I needed to find something to distract me. I also needed some fast money, so Vijay tossed me a couple of jobs. One involved bailiff work. One involved working security. Both were a little annoying.
Bullets were involved.
I’m writing this from my balcony, overlooking Victoria Park in Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario. My neighbor across the street is out on his own balcony. Right now he’s looking at me suspiciously. I smiled and waved at him, but he gave me the finger. I wonder how long before he calls the cops. None of us need that kind of hassle. The cops, especially. Probably, they’d just send over Lacroix, and I’m getting sick of looking at him. He’ll want to come over and play video games, or something. Drink some Red Bull. Yeesh.
For reference, Lacroix is a buddy of mine. And a cop. I think. He doesn’t act much like a cop. He’s rude and childish, and … well, I don’t want to offend any cops who might be reading this, so I’ll just stop.
The park looks nice today. It’s sunny out, a little cool. The leaves on the trees are finally turning that yellow and orange that they do. I’ll bet it’s beautiful up north. If you’re ever in Canada, visit during the fall. Right around Thanksgiving. Canadian Thanksgiving. It’s in October.
I’m writing a blog. A seven-day intensive journal, she called it. My therapist said it might be a good way for me to visualize my inner monologue. That’s what she said. Like I’m some kind of narrator.
Oooh, four paragraphs in, and already I’m breaking the fourth wall.
Seriously though, it’s either write a few blog entries or go on some kind of mini-vacation at the local psych ward. Maybe I should get a new therapist.
I know, I know. Sounds ridiculous. Why can’t I just talk out my problems like everyone else? Apparently, I don’t enjoy talking about my problems in front of a shrink.
Well, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself.
I’m an artist. Sort of. I like to pretend I’m an artist, but I don’t make a lot of money at it. I did for a while, but the well dried up. Not many people buying paintings these days. And when I do sell a painting, something invariably goes wrong with the sale. Maybe the customer changes their mind before it gets delivered; maybe they don’t have enough money for the sale; or maybe they get murdered before they can take possession of the painting, and their children try to block the sale. You know how it is.
Keeping the rent paid means having a varied skill-set. I used to be a janitor … but that wasn’t a very sexy job, and I got laid off as soon as my boss sold the company … and then got murdered. I have some excellent computer skills, but everything seems too specialized now. Even in a city full of high-tech companies.
So, I do a lot of odd jobs to keep the money going until I can sell art full-time. I do the occasional security or investigation job for a buddy of mine who runs a private investigation firm. Sometimes, I work as a consultant for the local cops. Once, I helped the RCMP. That was kind of fun.
I could work for the government, but what have they done for me lately? See, I used to be in the Army. I applied right out of college, thinking it might be fun to see the world. Long story short … they sent me to the Middle East. I got shot, transferred, stabbed, and had to come home.
I get shot at a lot. A surprising amount, since I live in a place where handguns are restricted. Criminals always seem to find ways to get guns. That’s neither a criticism nor an endorsement of current gun laws in Canada. It’s just an observation I’ve made … while getting shot.
But enough of introductions. My therapist says I have to write this stuff down to quell the voice in my head. And maybe stop narrating while in public.
Note to self: Stop monologuing out loud. Especially in the therapist’s office. I think she’s beginning to suspect something.
It’s supposed to be helpful for my PTSD. I don’t really have PTSD, just a few bad dreams now and then. Once a week, maybe. Comes from my time in a war zone. It’s funny … other vets get prescribed medical marijuana for their stress. I have to write a blog. Sometimes, life is so unfair.