It is hard to be a fan. I’m in a Habs bar; Habs memorabilia on the walls next to postcards of Krishna. In an hour some free blugrass music will be played. Lots of bad glasses from the eighties, plaid shirts, bad shoes, and good attitudes will pack into this dive. It smells like hippies (you know the smell). Two students, one with a bad flame tattoo, the other wearing a tanktop that promotes unsupported breasts, are drinking pints and doing mathematics calculations and Psychology papers next to me. And the intermission highlights have only shown all of our ex-Habs league wide that are actually doing something for their teams. Everyone vocally protests their hatred for Carey Price, but if he put on Halak’s sweater, no one would even know. It’s hard to be a fan in Montreal, I can’t imagine being a player.

It’s hard being an anglophone, unilingually. Many see it as a privilege, blessing, but it is truly a curse. There is less opportunity unilingually, rather than a life of opportunity like they say. And even though I’m in classes and my accent is good because of the hours of French hockey I watch, I am in no way anywhere near bilingual. But if I put on a beret and some unneccesarily huge boots and a black and white striped shirt, no one would notice. It is hard to he unilingual in Montreal, I can’t imagine being someone who wouldn’t feel bad.

It’s hard being negative at the end of the day, even though I’m so good at it. Skateboarding to the bar wearing a hoody in the month of March. The Habs come back in playoff style fashion. I talked to the old man in the sweater vest in the corner of the bar about music. It is hard to be negative at the end of it all, when things overall are not bad at all. I can’t imagine being a cynic.