I'm not your bitch, don't hang your shit on me.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Hypocritical hooker

I'm on a coffee date with K and it's going well.  There aren't fireworks but there's the occasional spark between us.  We talk back and forth about nothing in particular then I ask him about his dating experiences over the past little while.

The response is surprising.  I get this rant about how everyone always wants to have sex with him because he's so desirable (his description, not mine).  He's attractive, but no supermodel.  In fact, for a personal trainer, he needs to hit the weights a little harder while running on the treadmill to burn off those excess carb calories.

After the date, I'm scanning the local weekly paper (I read them from back to front) and notice some sex/adult ads.  One of them is a "men's spa" that offers relaxation and... release.  Below the name of the business are a series of headless torsos and one looks very familiar.  It's K.  How do I know this?  Not only does he have this photo online, but the "stage name" used is his last name.

Interesting.  The guy who complains about people wanting him for his sex is actually a sex worker.  He gets paid to be intimate with men, yet he has an issue when guys (on the street, for example) treat him as if he's an object of desire.  Hypocrite.  And idiot.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Nine frickin' years old

Cannot believe it's been nine (nine!) years since I started writing on this site.  It feels like only yesterday (at least, to me - damn this dementia) that I needed a creative outlet for my writing that would catapult me into worldwide fame, funding my delusions of glitz and grandeur, all the while being able to connect to (future) friends and faceless commenters.

And, like always, I was right.  The web is a world-wide thing, I'm waiting for the cheque to clear, and people are still writing nasty things without knowing hardly anything about me (although many think they know it all).

Here's to another eight?  At least another two.  What do you get for a 10 year anniversary, anyhow?

Monday, January 27, 2014

And the easter bunny isn't real, either

There are some people who are so sensitive to the truth, it's boggles the mind. Tell them one thing they don't want to know (even as a joke) and they will react negatively.

On more than one occasion, I've said something to another person that wasn't considered to be mean-spirited in the least. It's all about the tone, and mine is sarcastic (especially after one or two drinks). Usually, the truth entails me saying something along the lines of "You do know they're not interested in you because they're dating someone else."

What I'd think would be common knowledge comes across as a shocking revelation. "WHAT?! How you could you say that! Of course he's madly in love with meeee! You're a monster! Everyone knows he's just waiting for the right time to be with meeee." And, the rant continues until they're in a sobbing mess, lying on the ground, heaving from hyperventilating.

It's like telling a little child the easter bunny isn't real. The only thing that's different is this particular child is an adult (at least in age). You're bursting their bubble without knowing it, but for chrissake, someone has to.


Monday, January 13, 2014

Lint trap

At the beginning of the year, a maintenance man came into my home and cleaned/replaced some tubing that connected my clothes dryer to the outdoors.  He told me that I should clean them regularly so my machine can be more efficient.  That's all fine, only I don't have a vacuum with an extendable arm to reach inside of the tube.

"Whatever," I think.  "I'll just let them clean it twice a year.  That's why I pay maintenance fees."

A few months later, I'm about to put a wet load of laundry in the dryer and see a small piece of dark lint stuck to the filter.  I pull out the lint trap/filter and see how it comes apart (it's a two-piece mesh contraption).  And what I saw next shocked me.  The lint resembled cotton padding, used to make pillows.  Layers upon layers of dark blue dust and fluff had accumulated.  It was so thick (almost one inch) and compressed, I was able to pull it out in one piece.

After cleaning it up and reinstalling it, I place my wet clothing back inside the clothes dryer and turn it on.  Maybe the maintenance guy was right and I should clean it out more regularly.  I'm not in the mood to use my old lint as pillow stuffing any time soon.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Cancelling two hours late

It's morning and I'm drinking my coffee while checking messages online.  Seconds after logging on, I get one of those 'hey whatchu doing' kind of notes from L.  I say I'm having breakfast and will be going to work in a little bit.  From there, L starts to berate me for "putting unimportant things ahead of living life" kind of rants.  In short, L was horny.  I was irritated.

After a series of back-and-forths, we decide to meet on Sunday afternoon at 2 pm.  It wasn't easy, but I thought, I might as well see if going out with L is worth all of this head scratching.

Sunday afternoon comes around and I send L a text at 1 pm.  "Hey.  I'm going to pick up my coffee in the St. Lawrence Mkt area so let me know when you're around."  This would give L plenty of time to come down via subway (it would take about 10 minutes).

Times passes.  I know L flaked out.  No surprise since L's mental instability can seep through Skype with a few keystrokes.  It's more than two hours later and I get a text from L.

"LOL... Is that how you confirm a coffee date?  No thanks"

I could reply, but don't.  It's not worth my time.  L is insane and is already forgotten.  I send a text to a friend about what happened.

"You need to find a new outlet to meet [people]."

"Church?  There's lots of normals there."

"Perfect!  The Catholic Church is full of repressed perverts!"

"Too bad I can't meet them via work.  My industry is full of people I don't like or are so not my type."

"You and me both."

For some reason, I have a feeling that I'll be getting another Skype message from L asking what I'm doing (in the morning while I'm at work) asking if I want to hang out.  Only I won't bother to respond.

Wednesday, December 04, 2013

The stupidest fucking sales associate ever

There are some people who work in retail that are good at their jobs.  Then there are others who aren't.  This story falls in the second category.


After visiting D at work, I walk towards the subway and take the underground walkway.  It's under construction and shops are being renovated.  There's one I don't recognize; an accessory store.  It's not a mass market chain.  Peaking my interest, I take a chance and go inside.

There are things in silver that sparkle under the HD spotlights; a lot of jewellery as well as a trove of Pandora charms.  I'm not a fan of the brand, but I know a few people who are.  I walk towards the back of the store where there's a counter.  There's a tall girl standing behind it; young, dark hair pulled in a ponytail, wearing all black.

"Hi.  Do you have a card with your contact info on it?"

She looks at me and takes a second to reply.  "No."  She sounded like the guidance counselor, Mr. Ummm, drugs are bad, mmm-k? Mackey, from South Park.

"Ok, do you have a website or Facebook page or something...?"

Another pause.  "No, we don't have any of those."

"Um, ok.  Can you write down your number down, please?"


"Just on on a post-it, or piece of paper?" I mime writing something on the palm of my hand with my fingers acting as if they're holding a pen.

"Why do you want that?"

"So I can give it to a friend who should visit the store."

"Are you going to buy something?"

"Why would I want to buy something?"  Was I not clear?  Am I speaking gibberish?

"Why are you asking for our info?"

"So I can give it to my friend."

"Is your friend buying something?"  Is this bitch for real?

"My friend hasn't been in the store.  That's why I need the store info, like the address and phone number."  Pause.  "So, she can come to the store."  I say the second part slower.

"Oh," she looks down at the keyboard.  "We have this," she shows me a laminated piece of paper with the store's name, address and phone number.

"Yes, yes!" I'm elated.  She's finally understanding.  "That's all I need."

"Do I do a 400?" she asks the associate who's standing behind the other counter.

"Yeah, a 400," the other girl says.

She begins to click away at the keyboard.

"Can I have your name?"


"For the hold."  Her voice is flat.

"I'm not buying anything."

With her mouth slightly agape, she asks again.  "Ummm, can I have your name?"  Same monotone voice.

I'm a little flabbergasted by this point.  "Why do you need my name to give me your store's phone number?  I'm not giving you my name."

She looks at me as if she was trying to inhale every ounce of intelligence out of the room (and patience out of me).  She succeeded.

"You know what?"  I wave my right hand in the air while my voice raises an octave, "forget it."

I turn around on my heel, storm out of the store.  "Merry Christmas and have a nice day."  I raise my right arm and wave my hand in the air in a goodbye motion.

She was probably the stupidest fucking sales associate I've ever dealt with.

Monday, November 25, 2013

I can see you're not busy online

There are two kinds of busy people:  those who are truly busy, and those who are not.  The first kind have legitimate excuses (usually work or family), the second don't have any.

What the second kind doesn't realize is they don't cover their tracks online.  While they're being "busy" and can't go out with you, they're on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Foursquare, Vine, etc.  And everything is timestamped.  Do they not know about this feature?

For those people in the second category, I'm not stalking you, I'm just cussing you out.