Dick

Looking back on a couple of posts, I can't help but wonder where my mindset rests. Musings on snapping at psycho bitches, wanting to push people off escalators, wishing my white trash neighbours all the best in their future trailer park... make me sound like a dick.

True, I may sound like a dick, but there's more to being a dick than being a dick.

Normally, my writing gives the impression that I hate everyone and everything. Again, true. But, for those who know me (somewhat), know there's another side to me.

They know I'm intelligent, insightful, introspective, and a bunch of other touchy-feely crap that makes my friends cringe whenever I bring up those topics in conversations.

But, no one really wants to hear about the goodness in others, the spiritual journey of religion, or the ongoing path to enlightenment.

People want to hear sarcastic and bitchy rants. Give them what they want. That's fine.

So, to you, I give you dick.

Flippin' Farrah

Money is worthless if it isn't well spent. The same can be said for time. Hours are wasted when people do nothing - whether it be staring at the wall, or at a computer screen. Once it's gone, it's gone.

However, some people hold onto time as if it's going out of style.

After a long week at work, I wait in line for too long - swaying with impatience. I look at those who are doing the same: only a few indiscriminate people that wouldn't arouse anyone's attention. But, standing directly ahead of me is a woman who catches my eye.

She's a creature of the times - the 70's, to be exact.

My eyes run up and down her body, which is in pretty good shape for someone in their late 40's. Toned arms and not a touch of fat on those thighs. The body ain't bad. What is bad are her styling choices.

She's wearing a tight, black tank top and equally tight, black jeans. Tapered, naturally. Her hair is long, cut in several layers and feathered. The shallacking of Aqua Net doesn't allow it to move. It's a living reincarnation of Farrah, circa Charlie's Angels.

Fortunately, I didn't get a look at her shoes. If she was wearing a pair of high-tops, swear to God, there would be an style intervention.

Why do I have to stand behind her, silently performing a drastic makeover in my mind? Why did she leave the house looking like that?

There are a few reasons, many of which involve cheap booze, but only one psychological one.

Those who get stuck in a style groove, are recalling a happier time in their lives. They were young, carefree and probably in love... or when they thought they were a hot piece of ass. Sure, her ass looks pretty good, but the rest of the package should've been returned to the store - with, or without a receipt.

It's not fashionable to be stuck in stylin' rut. It's time to let go and move on. Don't hold onto the past, especially when it was so fuckin' ugly.

I cut you, bitch

Gangs exist from one part of the world to the other. They're formed on the streets, or inside skyscrapers. A collective of individuals, who bring some special talent to the group. Money doesn't matter, but status reigns supreme. The dominant survive, while the weak and meek don't.

Imagine when I get caught in the crossfire of a fight. Immediately, it becomes a survival of the fittest.

The glass zooms past me and it breaks into multiple shards around me. If I move, my skin will be slashed. Blood pouring out of gaping wounds. There is no escape.

He comes closer, walks up to me, bends down and picks up a sharp piece of glass from the floor.

"I cut you, bitch," he says as he swings it in my face.

I accept his challange.

"Bring it on jefe, bring it oooonnnnn!!" I reply, my hands signalling the "give me" movements, posing in the fight-or-flight stance.

My voice travels like the Concorde in a transatlantic flight. People congregate around us.

"What was that noise? Did I hear something crash?" asks one of them.

"Oh, R got mad at me, so he was all like, I cut you, bitch, and I was all like, Bring it on..." I say as seriously as I can without breaking out in a fit of giggles.

They think I'm serious.

"That's a joke. Ha ha?" I look at the growing crowd. Their faces passive. "R knocked the glass, it flew my way and it broke into a million pieces. That's it."

"Oh..." they say as they stare at the broken glass around me.

They don't get it. They don't understand it's a joke.

Maybe they need to cut themselves to register a feeling. Hurt. Sadness. Laughter.

Maybe R should've thrown the glass their way.

Don't get too close, I'm Catholic

As someone who is around large groups of people on a daily basis, I welcome any opportunity to enjoy some personal space.

Today is no different.

While I'm the last person in this crowded queue, waiting to be serviced, there is always the chance that some obnoxious person will come up out of nowhere, take advantage of this vacancy, and close in on me.

Chance takes two seconds to show up.

Out of nowhere, Bubba sidles up to me. He resembles an overweight lumberjack who has come from the lodge, drunk on a six-pack of cheap beer, and smelling of three kinds of game. He leans forward and breathes deeply. He's smelling the air between us. It's making me uncomfortable.

The line moves and I take one step. He takes two. He continues to breathe deeply. I shudder. In 15 seconds, the line moves again. I take one step, he takes three.

If it wasn't for his protruding stomach, we'd be the same person - two heads, four arms, four legs, one torso.

He's. Just. Too. Close. Should I ask him if he wants a cigarette when he's finished?

What is it about people and lineups? Do they not like to wait? Do they not enjoy having several people ahead of them? Do they enjoy passive-aggressive bullying tactics to speed up the process? Either way, it's not very comforting for the rest of the people in line.

I want to turn around and ask him not to stand too close. But, how can I phrase the question without insulting him and having him take out his anger on me?

Should I tell him to respect the personal space of others? Should I tell him the line won't move any quicker even if he continues to intimidate me? Should I tell him that Catholicism doesn't permit any sort of touching?

The last one could work. Guilt him into doing what I say. Unless he isn't Catholic, then I'm screwed either way.

The line moves again and I'm being served. I stand as far away as I can from Bubba.

Catholic, or no Catholic, either way, he's going to hell.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, drop dead

Knowing that someone has it better than you do makes you jealous of what they have. The jealousy becomes hate, turns into rage, which ultimately, develops into violence.

Currently, I'm going through the motions of one extreme to the next - in rapid fire succession.

Finding out a co-worker - who has been with the company for a few weeks, has zero work experience, and hasn't even graduated from college - gets my promotion, is making me want to go postal. Badly.

Since I found out about her promotion before she did, the pot has been simmering for a while. In a few days, her promotion will be raised at the general meeting and she'll pretend to act surprised.

"Oh, I didn't expect this," she'll say in her soft voice, with mock surprise.

Didn't expect this, my ass, bitch. You were out for this job since the first day you wore your push-up bra, short skirts, and fuck-me heels. Yeah, right. Didn't expect this, my ass.

Now, the time with my co-workers will be tense and awkward. I have to walk the hallways, have strained conversations, and act like nothing is wrong.

"Well, they went with somone who they thought was the better fit," I'll say when someone asks me how I feel, although I'll be thinking, Yeah, the management is bunch of dumb fucks who wouldn't know talent if it teabagged them.

Hmmm... Maybe my anger issues has something to do with the fact I didn't get the promotion.

Nah.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

I'll continue to be respectful of others, without showing any sign of hate towards those who glide by on life with their tits, blonde hair, and the ability to fuck people over without ever having sex with them.

And, I'll continue repeating a phrase in my head to qualm the violent thoughts and keep the pot from boiling over: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, drop dead.

The platinum ring

When setting sights on a goal, many people aim either very low or very high.

Cover your bases. Save your ass.

With a low goal, little effort is wasted and the outcome is beneficial, if achieved.

With a higher goal, more effort is taken into effect, but the result is much sweeter.

True, both don't guarentee anything. You can aim low and get nothing. You can aim high and get nothing. Fuck, you can aim for the middle and still get nothing.

But, you'll never know the worth of your goals unless you set a price.

Forget the brass ring and go for platinum. Of course, it doesn't have to be gaudy or tasteless. A simple, polished band, with an ice rink for a diamond.

Don't you think you're worth the best?

Save up all your tears

There are times in one's life when something devestating happens and the most appropriate reaction is to cry. Letting all the fear and frustration out of your body is a godsend. The salty water flowing from tear ducts relieves the pain and numbs the brain.

Yet, sometimes, no matter how sad the situation, I can't cry. I don't know if I've forgotten how to cry, or if I ever knew how to cry. The point is, when I should, I don't - even in the most dire of times...

As I sit down in the office, the door is closed and I feel something in the air. Tension. The news isn't good. The news is very, very bad. The worst possible outcome next to death - and death sounds better the more details I hear from this professional's checklist.

My head tilts to the side and my lips make a small part in order to take deep breaths. My first reaction is to scream, but it's too obvious. My second reaction is to vomit, but it isn't considered to be polite (not to mention gross).

Come to think of it, I think I should've been permitted to vomit since I need a distraction from all the listening.

But, I don't. I sit there and take my medicine like a good patient.

After leaving the office, I pull out my phone, and dial my sister's home number. I have no idea if she's there. After four rings, she picks up and I tell her what happened.

She's angry. She can't believe it. Her attempts to console me are varied, yet I can't register an appropriate reaction. Should I be angry, like her? Should I take a different route?

When I'm done speaking with my sister, I call my parents. Their reaction is one of bafflement. They don't want to hear any of it - there is no rational reason this should and would be happening to me.

Yet, for all their emotions, I feel nothing. True, there is some register of anger in my system, but not enough to show on a richter scale.

In the end, I want to cry. God, how I want to cry. But, I can't. I don't know how or when I should, even though this is the perfect time to let tears stream down my face. My body doesn't let me.

And, that is what makes me so sad.

The throne (pt. 2)

“Oh yeah. He’s doing something in the bathroom that he can’t do in the other rooms of the house.”

“Oh. My. GAAAWWWWWWD!” I squeeze my eyes shut and scream into my hands, while hunching over. Mortifying! Did he just say that? Why did he…? Oh God, why did he…?

“Yeah, he’ll call you back,” my father says before he hangs up the phone.

The sound of his footsteps becomes louder as he approaches the bathroom.

“Steven? Someone called for you. They said it was about a job. Call them back.” I hear him walk away.

After finishing my business, I exit the bathroom to look for my father. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper in front of him. Must be calm, I think.

“Uh, pa, why did you tell them that I was in the bathroom? Do you know who these people were?” My left hand rests on my hip, with my arm at a sharp angle, and my right hand scratches my head. My expression is one of confusion and intense rage.

“What did you want me to do? Lie?” he says with no noticeable change of tone. Touché. He is nothing if not truthful.

“Well, you didn’t have to lie, but you could’ve said something else, like I was busy and would call them back. The last thing they want to hear is I was taking a crap,” I reply.

His eyes don’t move from the paper. Conversation over.

Turning on my heel, I run back to the confines of my bedroom. With the door closed, I pick up the phone. Luckily, I have their number memorized.

How will I explain this to them when I call? What the hell am I going to say? Doesn’t my father have the funniest sense of humour? He is such a gas! Uh, wrong choice of words. Maybe I should just stick with the basics. Lie though my teeth.

The rings on the other end are making me nervous again. What if she does pick up? What if she doesn’t want to answer the phone…?

“Hi, this is Coco.”

Shit.

“Oh, hi. This is Steven. You phoned a couple of minutes ago. I was a little busy.” My forehead is sweating and I am verging on hyperventilating.

“Uh, yeah. I kinda guessed that from your dad’s response.”

Dad, you fucker.

“Yeah,” I feign a laugh. Not very convincingly. My throat is sore and I muffle a cough with my hand. “So, what’s the news?”

She tells me. It’s not good. We say our goodbyes. Our conversation ends the way it began: awkward and rather abruptly.

Great. So, I know I didn’t get the dream position with the prestigious, internationally-recognized, cultural organization in North America.

My mind begins to wonder why I didn’t get the position. Was it because I was overconfident in my second interview? Was it because I dressed more casually, yet snappily, than usual? Was it because there was someone better than me?

No.

Ultimately, I believe the reason why I didn’t get the job was because my father told them I was taking a crap. Maybe they believe I’m too special to get my ass off the throne to pick up the phone. Not even a king can be in two places at once.

The throne (pt. 1)

Scientists have been able to create many concoctions throughout the years. With every experiment, comes a new conclusion. Without them, there would be no penicillin and polyester.

Yet, even with the barrage of trails and tribulations, one of the things they haven’t been able to manipulate is the space-time continuum. Even with all of the technology around, no one can be in two places at the same time.

And, the manipulation of the space-time continuum is especially important when waiting for a phone call.

Here I am in my bedroom, lying on my bed, with a magazine open to some indeterminate page. I can’t concentrate. The waiting for this particular phone call is excruciating. A few lines of communication can change my future. A few lines of communication can have me employed at the most prestigious, internationally-recognized, cultural organization in North America.

But, this waiting almost didn’t happen.

The first interview was dreadful. Totally unimpressive. Shockingly enough, I was called back for a second interview with the director of the department. This time, I was literate and lively, cultured and cunning. In other words, amazing.

Being told to wait until Friday for the results, I spend most of the day freaking out. Butterflies in my stomach. Hour after hour passes. No phone call. I make sure to walk around with my house phone and my cell phone with me at all times.

There is no phone call on Friday. Fuck.

Attempting to maintain a sense of composure over the weekend, I keep myself busy. But, when Monday rolls around, I take matters into my own hands: I call them.

Picking up the phone, I dial the numbers, ask for the correct extension, and get voicemail.

“Hi, this message is for Coco. This is Steven. Just giving you a call about the job. You were probably really busy on Friday, and couldn’t get back to me. I understand. Well, if you could give me a call back when you can, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

Now, I wait.

Unfortunately, I can’t wait for much longer, because the butterflies in my stomach have returned and I they need to be taken care of pronto. When nature calls, you can’t put it on hold.

Hopefully, they won’t call in the next few minutes. God willing…

While in the process of finishing my duties, I hear the phone ring. Please don’t let it be them, please don’t let it be them, I chant in my mind.

My father picks up the phone. Silence. While sitting on the throne, I lean towards the door. My fingers press against the porcelain until they turn the same shade of white. I hear my father’s voice beyond the door.

“Yes… No…”

Ok, it’s probably not them. The muscles in my fingers relax.

“Steven?”

Shit, it’s them. Every muscle in my body clenches...

Different beat, different drummer

Since today is Thanksgiving in Canada, there will be no real posting.

Being Canadians, we celebrate certain holidays on different dates - it's our nature.

We march to a different beat of a different drummer.

But, we look pretty stupid on the dancefloor.

So...

For those who came to visit, stay awhile and enjoy the surroundings.

For those who wanted to see something new, wait a friggin' day, or two.

Good things come to those who wait... unless you're impatient, then I have no time for you.

Psycho bitch

Sometimes even the most simplest of jobs can be the most difficult to accomplish successfully. Ever heard of the perfect cup of coffee? That’s right, it doesn’t exist. For one person, the taste is bitter. For another person, the foam should be frothier. Etc. Etc. Etc.

You can’t please some of the people half of the time, and you can’t please all of the people half of the time. And, some people are never pleased with anything.

Those people are strange creatures. And, I always end up working for them.

**

While I’m organizing my pile of duties on my desk, I hear C’s voice from across the room, beckoning me to come over to her. She must have something for me to do. Like a good employee, I do as I’m told.

“Steven, I want you do to something for me,” she says as I approach her desk. I knew it. The woman can never leave good enough alone. “You’re not busy, are you?” Of course, I’m never busy.

“We need to know the publisher’s calendar year for 2005. Do you know what that is?” she asks.

“No. But, I assume it’s a calendar of some sort.” She’s not impressed with my answer, and doesn’t consider sardonic retorts amusing.

“A publisher’s calendar is the template publisher’s use to determine which issues cover what throughout the year,” she huffs.

“Like December is the Christmas issue, right?”

“Right,” she exhales. “So, what I want you to do is go through the filing cabinet, find the old ones and see which ones we don’t have. Then, if you can’t find them, go on the database, or the net, and contact them. We need to have all of these by the end of the week. Do you understand? Can you do this?” She pronounces the words understand and this like I’m an ESL student.

“Sure. Will get right on it.” I turn on my heel and go back to my desk.

For the next few hours, I’m flicking through files in her disorganized file cabinet, looking for the right calendars. Some are way out of date, and some publications don’t exist any more. When that is done, I make my pile and start researching publications – both ones we already have and need to update, and ones that we don’t and would want to include in our roster.

Some are easy to find since they place a link on their sites, others require an e-mail or a phone call (which can be difficult since several people have to use the same line for the phone and fax machine) after finding the correct contact information.

When my initial research is finished, the phone calls done and e-mails sent, I organize the folder according to what we have, what we don’t, what is coming and what needs to be found. Very simple and straightforward.

In the folder is a 2004 tearsheet of a Toronto-based magazine that has been published for several years. They are so set in their ways, their publisher’s calendar has remained the same for the past decade. If it ain’t broke, why fix it?

When the folder is passed along, C takes a look inside, flicks a few pages, and her face registers disgust. Boss lady isn’t too impressed. She calls me over.

“Steven? What is this?” she barks as her fingers dangle the paper in front of her like it’s laced with arsenic. “Why is there a 2004 tearsheet in the folder?”

“They’re going to use the same format in 2005. They haven’t changed it in ten years.” Presumptuous, yes, but also correct.

“But, how do I know if they’re using the same one?”

“Because they are.” I have a feeling this is going to take a long time to resolve.

“I need you to contact them again, and make sure they’re going to use the same format.”

“But, they are.” My head tilts to the side and my mouth forms a pout of disapproval.

“But, how can you know? Go and call them.”

“I don’t have to call them again, because I know they’re using the same format in 2005.”

“But are you sure?”

”Yes”

“But are you sure?”

“Yes. I. Am.” Are you deaf, or just a fucking idiot, lady?

“Really? How sure are you?”

What is she trying to prove? That’s she’s right once? Ever since I’ve been here, I have never given her a reason to question my work. Yet, she’s persistent in trying to prove me wrong, time and time again. She’s like a professional pitbull – vicious and terrifying.

This goes on for another few minutes, until I tire of the exercise. Fine, I give up. Let the bitch win a hollow victory.

“Ok. I am not that sure.”

The expression on her face indicates a smug happiness.

“Well, then you must go back and make sure and get the right 2005 calendar. We can’t make any mistakes…”

I go back to my desk and pretend to be studiously working on the completion of this asinine assignment. In all realities, I’m just tapping away at the keyboard, hoping that my day will fly by like a gale force wind.

A few days later, the mail is brought in and inside the pile is a publisher’s calendar I requested a few days before. Removing it from the envelope, I find the folder I was working on and place it inside.

On top of the pile lies a copy of the 2005 calendar of the argumentative clipping I brought in. Each month in 2005 is in identical correspondence to the 2004 edition.

It seems like my boss was wrong. Obviously and obliviously wrong. But, I can’t gloat in front of her, or she’ll escalate her histrionics to another level, and my ears can’t handle that kind of aural irritation.

Although my self-esteem has already taken a few too many knocks, I can always rest assured that, in the end, I am always right.

Doppelganger

The market vendors begin to close up shop as I run from one side of the street to the other. Bit by bit, fruit and vegetables are being brought inside to protect them from the cold and theft.

The brisk wind blows hard tonight. It hurts. It feels like a rubber band is continuously pulled and released against the skin. Snap. From the looks of it, it will be a long winter.

My black toque warms my head, while a long scarf wraps around my neck. The last thing I need is a head and chest cold. My black peacoat wraps around me like a cashmere-blend blanket that is fitted perfectly to my form. I think of warm thoughts to alleviate the pain of potential frostbite.

While walking on the sidewalk, I see a vision. A reflection. The closer I get to it, the bigger the image becomes. A moving and living mirror.

Coming towards me is a young man with a black toque, long scarf, wrapped around his neck, and a black peacoat. The same look and the same walk. It’s me, or is it?

When he approaches, we stop, brush shoulders, and look into each other’s eyes. We move in slow motion as our coats touch and our eyes see something out of normality. Awkward. There, in the moment, are two men, with the exact features, stopping to look at the mirror image of the other.

We’re looking at ourselves, into each other’s eyes and we know too much. We know what happened, what is happening, and what happens – the past, present and future. A sharp pain shoots up our spines, and our posture stiffens.

We do a half-turn, twist our heads to ensure this isn’t our minds playing a trick, then continue on own way. For what seems like hours, is actually seconds.

There, in the cold night, two people become one, yet are individuals.

And, we're not bad looking, either.

R.I.P.

Taking a few moments from our busy day, a friend of mine meets up with me at the cafeteria so we can have a little time to ourselves. No matter how long we’ve known each other, we never get to spend much time with one another. Let’s be selfish. Just the two of us. To hell with everyone else.

After ordering our coffee and finding a clean table, we sit down. Conversations about anything and everything normally accompany a steaming cup of coffee. We talk about school, homework, essays and exams. Too much of some, way too much of others. We talk about family, parents and siblings. Some drive us crazy, while others make us crazier. We enjoy each other’s company and want to savour the time we have together, like the sweetened, black java in our cups.

Then, my friend comes up with a question that surprises me; a question that comes out of nowhere. Although she’s an incredibly intelligent woman, she’s not known as being very introspective. It makes you edgy. It’s almost provocative.

“Steven, if you had the choice of dying and having everyone remember you as a bad person, or dying and not having anyone remember you, at all?”

Without a second thought, I answer her.

“I’d rather die and have everyone remember me as a bad person.”

“For some strange reason, I thought you were going to say that.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask.

“Well…” in her head, she’s trying to come up with a non-threatening response.

“Well," I interrupt her train of thought, "there are already so many people who don’t like me – without any logical reason, whatsoever – that I wouldn’t care, otherwise.” Flippant and concise, as usual.

“Really?” she’s surprised. “You’d want people to dislike you after you’re dead?”

“Why live an entire life, just so that people will forget you? What’s the point? Aren’t you supposed to make an impression in the world? Good. Bad. Whatever. Isn’t that the point of existing?”

“I guess I can see you point.”

Turning the tables, I want to know her response. She made an effort in conceptualizing a loaded question, now it’s up to her to construct a semblance of an answer.

“Well, then, what about you?” I look at her, and raise the cup to my lips.

She lowers her head. I don’t think she ever really expected to answer the question. After a few moments, she looks back at me.

“I don’t know,” she says. Her face is blank, a reflection of her mind. “I really don’t know.”

She’s not the only person who feels this way.

Whether you’re on this earth for eight or eighty years, you’re on this earth for a reason. You’re someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister, father or mother. You’re someone’s friend and foe, lover and loather. You’re someone and someone else.

We see our lives reflected in the lives of others. We see our actions reflected in the reactions of others. We live for them, just as they live for us. Without one, there is no other. Symbiosis. Relationships.

Why live a life that you can’t live for someone else? There is no other reason for living.