Out for coffee with a friend last week, her phone rang. They hardly ever ring anymore; often there's a text to set up a call, or a string of intermittent texts over days that replace phone calls entirely. This time though, it rang, doing what phones were meant to do, and, crazy as it may sound, she picked up.

While discussing attachment styles is all the rage, there's always the flip side. In this case, it's the concept of detachment, but as this one doesn't have any memes about different styles, detachment can get muddy fast.

As much as tribalism is comforting, it's also a destructive limitation, one that implies we're always one thing, always part of the same group. I prefer an analogy of us all being in this human hotel together, moving between rooms.

Growing up, we believe the world we will come of age in is the world we see before us. As a child in the 80s, I couldn't wait to grow up and have big hair and bright colours. Cyndi Lauper was my style icon. I wanted a Swatch watch, a crop top, skin tight acid wash jeans.

I know, I know, everyone's against gatekeeping, and everything is supposed to be on demand, open to all, 24/7, and we should be able to manifest our desires as fast as we can conjure them. But realistically, no.

Regular readers will know that I've recently moved to the South Shore (I refuse to turn in my Montrealer card though). What you probably don't know is that I work in the West Island. Oh, and I don't drive; as in can't…as in, never even had a learner's permit.

Friday morning, I woke up and thought well, it's a beautiful day for a funeral. Mother Nature had turned up the heat, and the sun was out, loud and proud. While it's true that no one wants to go to a funeral, going on a beautiful day sure beats mourning in a snowstorm.

We love to sort people into boxes. You have your party friend, your movie buddy, the astrology girl, the friend who can help you move; we don't do it on purpose. It seems natural that when a potluck comes up, we know to invite the foodies, the social butterflies who will keep the party flowing,…

While that's true, evidence has long pointed to the contrary. In fact, I'm on record for shit talking the suburbs – the most family oriented of all locales – consistently. I stand by everything I've said about the sleepy little contrived spaces where dreams go to die, especially about the West Island, but I am willing to admit that not all suburbs are created equal.

This past week, someone said something so heinous that the room fell silent around them. People stopped mid chew, and cutlery clattered to plates. A couple clicked photos to post the incident later. Word spread like wildfire.