A long, long time ago, approximately 8 years, Shayne and I were drinking over at our friend Krissy’s house. We had driven together and decided to just crash on her couches instead of attempting the drive home. The room is engulfed in darkness, the house is quiet and the gentle lull of traffic drifts me off to sleep. Slowly, nonchalantly, the silence is broken and I am pulled back into wakefullness by a looonnnggg, sssllllooooowww zzzzzzzzzzzziip.
“That better not have been your pants.”
From that moment, our lives were consumed by dontworryaboutit. It applied to everything! What did you have for lunch? Dontworryaboutit. Are you going to pay for that? Dontworryaboutit. Is this your weed? Dontworryaboutit. But, like any great fad, it faded away and we moved on to our next great line. Fast forward to the spring of 2010 and my friendship with Joey is begun, through our mutual friend, and his roommate, Shayne. We tell Joey the story of dontworryaboutit and it is suddenly reborn! Like a forgotten toy, tucked away in a musty attic and discovered by a child, the toy is dusted off and it’s joy spreads anew! Let’s tell everyone, we say. Let’s write a book, we say. Spread the word of dontworryaboutit. And spread it I did.
A mere week or two later, I was off to the Sasquatch music festival with my friend, Maria. Due to a series of awesomely unfortunate events, we ended up spending a night in Seattle. We met some wonderful people, whom we still keep in touch with today. I spread the word of dontworryaboutit to all of them.
But it didn’t stop there. I used it with our neighbours on the gorge “terrace”. I used it with strangers. I used it with new friends. On the last night, we danced to Vampire Weekend while we drank a bottle of water laced with mdma. Back at our campsite, we decided to go slumming in the general camping area and look for a party. We found one. A rickety old van with speakers strapped to the top of it. I started a conversation with a young man who had dropped acid. I don’t know how long we talked for, but the more we talked, the bigger the sky got. The romance overtook us and we decided to venture back to his tent. Naked, mid-thrust, an idea occurs to me.
“What’s your name again?”
He says, “Christopher. What’s yours?”