Everything always sucks at Walpurgisnacht.
In theory, it’s the biggest celebration sabbat/holiday for Satanists, deemed second only to your own birthday in the Church of Satan calendar, and miles ahead of Hallowe’en.
Of course, I’m not a Satanist anymore, not really even some sort of Crowleyite, and I don’t celebrate my own birthday either, really.
And over the last decade, Walpurgisnacht always comes with a sense of impending doom, waiting for the inevitable crisis or catastrophe.
Shattered hearts, backstabbings, terminal diagnoses (not mine, obviously, but some day 60 years when I get mine I already know what day the doctor will call on)… I’d have to check but I suspect the time that lunatic stalker type decided to move across the continent trying to be my special friend was around this time of year too.
The last couple Walpurgisnachts have passed without serious incidents, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief once a week had gone by, but I suppose the gods have noticed they haven’t been fucking my shit up the last couple Walpurgisnachts and are Hellbent on making up for it.
Not the place to air private dirty laundry, but suffice to say it appears I need to start looking into getting the fuck out of Vancouver. I have a destination in mind, somewhere cheap and sunny where one of my friends is also wanting to move to, albeit for different reasons.
Might take me until next Walpurgisnacht to actually make it happen, but I think the last tie holding me to Vancouver has finally snapped. From here it’s all planning, preparation, and execution.
