Freeze

Tonight’s industry party is so exclusive that I’m grateful my friend C put my name on the guest list. While the purpose of the event is to introduce a new line of cell phones to a selection of celebrities, “it” people and media, in all realities, the guests want to be there to see and be seen.

After the collection is shown in a multi-part stage/fashion show, the runway is removed and people begin to dance to the music of the live band.

As I’m talking to a few of my other friends, C comes up to me and wants to introduce me to a few of her friends.

Oh fuck, no.

I hate being introduced to new people. It’s bad enough that I am the worst person with names (even two seconds after the words come out of their mouth), but I am incredibly shy and socially awkward around new people.

Wanting to run out of the place screaming is my first plan of action, but it wouldn’t be appropriate in a room full of industry people. Instead, I compose myself and try to make the best of an unpleasant situation.

“Steven, this is J,” says C.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I smile as I extend my hand.

“Nice to meet you, Steven,” says J as she shakes it.

Now, I am up shit creek without a paddle. I freeze. I can’t think of anything else to say. The show? The drinks? The music? The weather? Nothing comes to mind, and my mind is a total blank.

J notices and she tries to push this conversation a little further. After a few mumbles, we look at each other and C notices how awkward everyone is.

“I really hope you don’t mind, but I have to make sure how my friend S is doing over there.” I point to a random spot behind me. “She doesn’t know anyone and I don’t want to feel as if I ditched her. Nice to meet you.” I turn around and make a run towards my friend, S.

As the night continues, people begin to leave, and the crowd thins out. I don’t see J again.

The next day, C asks me what I thought of the event and I told her it was pretty cool. She asks whether something was wrong and I tell her about my shyness.

“That makes sense,” is her reply. She doesn’t push it any further because she has me in social situations before.

What a lot of people don’t realize is there is a difference between being shy, a snob, and anti-social.

A shy person is timid or uneasy in company. They draw back from contact or familiarity with others, appearing reserved.

A snob tends to patronize, rebuff, or ignore people regarded as social or intellectual inferiors and imitate, admire, or seek association with people regarded as social or intellectual superiors.

An anti-social person shuns the society of others, and is unfriendly towards others. They’re opposed or contrary to normal social instincts or practices.

They sound similar to one another, but the differentiating circumstance between the three is one of intent.

I don’t mean to freeze, but I can’t help it. Practice doesn’t make perfect, no matter how many people I associate with on a daily basis.

Maybe I should tell people I meet about my social graces when being introduced, hand out a pamphlet that explains the differences between the three terms, or have them printed on a t-shirt.

Maybe then people would understand and stop calling me a snob or anti-social… and just start calling me stupid, instead.

I'm sorry

There are so many things that I am sorry about. Day by day, the list grows, by one or a few items. Their importance and relevance range from the tiny to the titanic.

Some people carry the hurt with them while others carry on. With forgiveness come apologies. The cycle continues and the mea culpas never end.

**

I’m sorry for being a dick.
I’m sorry for snapping at you.
I’m sorry I didn’t scream at you and slap you really hard when I had the chance, even if it’s unprofessional.
I’m sorry I disappoint (and disappointed) you.
I’m sorry for not giving you a hand when you need help.
I’m sorry for not always being there for you.
I’m sorry I don’t pick up the phone when I know it’s you.
I’m sorry for leading you on.
I’m sorry that I like you even though you don’t like me.
I’m sorry I never told you I liked you when I had the chance.
I’m sorry for believing (if) you ever liked me.
I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable when you’re around me.
I’m sorry for not telling you how bad I want it (and will do anything for it).
I’m sorry for not doing anything for it.
I’m sorry for not telling you the truth.
I’m sorry you have nothing better to do than spread lies.
I’m sorry you’re a two-faced, hypocrite.
I’m sorry that you’re short-sighted.
I’m sorry that you think education is equated to automatic intelligence.
I'm sorry that you think you're better than me (you're not even close).
I’m sorry for wasting your time.

I'm sorry for wasting mine...

You don't know me

While hanging around the kitchen, my friend N and I shoot the shit about the latest adventures in our ever-interesting lives. We exchange a few horror stories, and when I tell her about a recent exploit, it elicits a quick reaction.

“You always surprise me,” N says, taken aback.

“Why would you say that?” I casually ask.

“Well, when I think I know you, you say or do something that doesn’t sound anything like you.”

“Hmmm…” I raise an eyebrow, turn around and attend to the food on the stove.

Truth be known, no one ever knows anyone else. You never can.

How is this possible? Two reasons: you only divulge what you want, if you want divulge anything about yourself, and; you never really know yourself, since life is an ongoing journey of personal growth, which correlates with self-discovery.

I continually ask questions that make me think. With questions, comes thought, and with thought comes answers. They may never be the smartest of questions or the most brilliant of answers, but at least I'm making an effort to churn the wheels inside my head.

You don’t know me and you never will.

Fuck, I don’t even know myself. I will never know myself, and I abhor people who claim to know me. Even though I write about what goes on in my life, it's difficult to know what goes on inside my head.

And, if you think you know me better than I know myself, than please tell me ‘cause there are a few questions I'd like answered.

Trimming my bush

When the snow melts and the grass begins to grow beneath the layers of slush and mud, it’s time to get outside and take care of the landscaping.

This entails moving the lawn, doing and gathering clippings (grass, trees, deadheads), and watering the flowers.

Personally, I enjoy trimming my bush and I think it looks quite lovely when it's neat and tidy.

It's too bad I didn't promote my services this summer, taking advantage of the craze of hiring someone to pull the weeds, like John the gardener on Desperate Housewives.

In no way do I resemble Jesse Metcalfe in any way, shape, or form. I don’t have the looks, the body (with the overdeveloped chest and – shockingly pudgy – love-handles) and I don’t walk around half-naked while shovelling manure.

But, I do have an acting range that doesn’t require taking off my shirt to show off my considerable assets.

Anyway, who wants to deal with Mrs. Solis, a Chihuahua of a woman who incessantly barks and snaps at your heels like you’re the mailman?

Eh. Let him take care of Longoria.

Does anyone need me to plow their field?

Pot and pans

The days are long, the work is hard, and the responsibilities pile up by the second. These are stressful times, and nobody likes stress.

People are ready to pick apart something if given the chance. Even if nobody asks, they let it rip. Instead of praising the good, they pan it all. If I feel like shit, so should everybody else, they think.

If they’re always on edge, how can they resolve it?

Have a toke.

Pot smoothes out the edges and the world takes on a soft glow. There is nothing hard or harsh.

Recently, I met up with someone for coffee. It was a bad day for me and things weren't getting any better. Within a few minutes of me asking how they're doing, they said they had a toke earlier on in the day. Things were mildly rough, and due to some meds, they felt a little nauseous.

Interestingly, I usually have the same effect on people.

Maybe I should have a toke to make me forget about my shitty day. And, on top of that, I wouldn’t feel stressed or anxious about how sick I can make other people.

Nah, I enjoy making people feel sick.

What can I say? It’s a gift.

Shearing a sheep

Haircuts are traumatic experiences. One miscalculation of the scissors and there goes a perfectly good head of hair. The next two weeks are spent growing out a massive mistake while trying to convince people it’s supposed to look like that.

It takes a while for someone to get used to cutting my hair. I’ve had a lot of people try. Some have succeeded and many have failed.

For the past few years, I’ve been going to the same person. She knows what she’s doing and takes almost a full half-hour to cut my hair. Large clumps of luxurious curls fall to the floor, resembling sheep's wool.

But there’s one problem…

Recently, she’s been working on the nape of my neck with unnecessary detail. She uses the grooming tool to shave hair that’s not there.

The clipper keeps on going further down, passing the nape to my shoulders and down my back. It’s provoking more hair to grow, like shaving; the more you shave, the thicker the hair grows back.

She’s lucky she hasn’t caught me on a particularly cunty day. When that day comes, I’ll snap at her and say, “If you keep on going any lower, I’ll have to ask you to shave my ass, too.”

Until that day comes, I’ll keep on going to her, but if the hair on my back starts to grow, she’ll be paying for the waxing.

In the trash

As my mother pulls something from the china cabinet, she turns around and asks me the question I can’t stand responding to, for I always dread her reaction. The result is a fight that ends in both of us not talking to one another – a bonus for me.

“When I die, what are you going to do with all of this?” She points to the contents inside the hutch.

She knows what I’m going to say, so I don’t know why she ever bothers.

“I dunno.”

“Yes you do,” she says. “You’re going to throw it in the trash, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I reply. She doesn’t believe me. She still thinks I’ll chuck everything into a cardboard box the minute she’s gone and leave it at the curb, like so many times in the past.

“You wouldn’t keep it, though.” She pushes me.

“No, none of your stuff is my style.”

As much as I liked watching Dynasty and Dallas, even Alexis, Blake, Krystle, J.R., Bobby and Sue Ellen have moved on.

It’s not that the pieces are ugly, but they’re dated. Crystal d’Arques glassware? Only if I was living in the 80’s. White bone china with silver filigreed accents and a Happy 25th Anniversary scripture on every piece? Uh, I’d rather pass. Pine tree-shaped platters with pictures of chubby, little snowmen? Not unless I’m paid to keep them.

“Well, I’d have to see what your daughter would want. Whatever she doesn’t want, I’d probably go to a pawn shop, or something, and see if I could get any money for the rest. Why would I throw it out when I can make money off of it?”

It's a perfectly logical and rational answer.

Looking at my mother, she pursing her lips, like she's sucked on one too many lemons.

The stove timer rings and I’m saved from any further questions. We sit down for our meal and eat our food on a set of old plates.

These, for sure, will be going in the trash.

Too hot, too cold, just right

When Goldilocks went traipsing through the woods, she happened on a charming little cottage, inhabited by three bears. Upon entering, the smell of porridge welcomed her like a long lost - and hungry - relative. As she sat at the table, she passed the first two bowls, citing them as too hot and too cold, but the third one was just right.

So, she worked it like a double-jointed lap dancer.

But, Goldilocks was fortunate enough to choose between three bowls of porridge. Many of us aren’t that lucky. Sometimes there are only two bowls, and other times, only one. Instead of sitting down, many people would rather skip the meal because it’s not exactly what they ordered.

In a way, the aforementioned fairy tale is a lot like life.

You leave a mate because they have an annoying habit. Your friend isn't approved of in your social circles, so you pretend they don't exist. Your job isn’t the one you planned for, so you do it half-assed. You spend hours in the gym because you never feel buff enough. Your walls are painted several times because you can’t find the right shade of beige.

And on and on…

It seems like no one is ever satisfied with good enough on the road to perfection.

But, consider the alternative.

What would’ve happened if Goldilocks never had that third bowl of porridge? Would she have passed the first two? Who knows? She never gave the other bowls a chance. Too hot? Wait for it to cool down, or throw it in the fridge for a few seconds. Too cold? Nuke it in the microwave. And, if those two fail, add the two bowls together, mix the contents et voila, the perfect porridge!

You miss out on so much by passing on potential. If you don’t like something the way it is, try to change it. No one is born perfect. No one dies perfect. Be happy for what you have. You have so much more than you know.

Lord knows I’m a big ol’ bag of misery, but at least I can adapt to those other happy fuckers who are around me without having to resort to homicide.

Eh, maybe I just need to take a walk through the woods…

Note: Anyway, that bitch, Goldilocks, deserved what she got when those bears mauled her ass.

Ich spreche nicht Deutsch

It’s the end of the day, and I’m playing with my niece before her bedtime. We’re both on the floor and she’s “reading” a book, sitting in the crook between my legs.

On a large bookcase beside the change table, there are toys on the bottom, books in the middle, trinkets on the top shelf. As my eyes wonder, I find something that catches my eye.

“What does mellok mean?” I ask my sister who crouches down beside me. “Are these German blocks?” I point to a set of foam blocks in the bookcase.

“Uh, Steven, it says yellow. You’re reading it upside down.” She has a look of concern on her face, fearful that I may have to ride the shortbus from now on.

“Oh Jesus…” I lower my head in embarrassment.

“Dude, your IQ just went way down right now.” She laughs.

“I know.”

What’s sad isn’t that I said a really stupid thing out loud without thinking, it’s that I’ve just turned into my father.

Cute

Feeling unattractive? Feeling unwanted? Feeling unloved? Self-esteem takes a hit on so many occasions, there is no sure fire way to pick yourself up from the doldrums of depression.

Recently, I’ve discovered one way.

Actually, it’s one word: Cute.

What makes this word particularly effective is when someone thinks you are, and this person is way hotter than you ever could or will be.

That word hasn’t been used to describe any part of me since I was six. Every once in a while I get a “handsome” but it comes from a little old lady with a case of dimentia, who thinks I'm her brother, Jimmy, that died in the War.

Typicallly, compliments are thrown my way like table scraps to a starving dog (and this bitch will eat every bit of them up). They’re usually about my work, my style, or my ability to find the most expensive item in any store, catalogue, or Web site.

But, I find that compliments are used when someone wants something. This time, there was no pretense. None. It was all about me.

Although you shouldn’t have someone else justify your existence (or appearance), sometimes that’s all it takes. A little assurance goes a long way.

And, to top it off, someone thinks you’re cute.

A tale of two innies

The recent cold snap has affected everyone. No one was expecting the month of September to bring a drastic transition in the weather. The temperatures can drop by 5-10 degrees from one day to the next, while falling 10 degrees from day to night.

It’s nippy in the worst possible way.

You can almost hear the “you know it’s cold when…” stories popping up in conversations, although my physical observations are of a more engrossing – human – nature.

My body knows it’s cold when…

I wear a t-shirt and pyjama pants instead of almost nothing to bed.
I sleep in a fetal position under the blankets instead of spread-eagle on top of them.
I wear a sweater instead of going shirtless, and pants instead of ratty shorts.
I have nipples that can cut glass.
I wear underwear to keep it warm.

The last one is probably the worst of all. In no way do I walk around without any testicular support on a regular basis, but it’s so comfortable (and it’s another layer of clothing that doesn’t need to be worn and washed).

Unfortunately, with a cold snap, you don't want to have something break off due to a nasty case of frostbite, or have two innies instead of one.

Always imitated, never duplicated

It has been said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So, what happens when the copycats are inferior to the original?

Recently, as I was conversing with a non-Canadian, he brought up the state of Canadian television and one show in particular, DaVinci’s Inquest. I had to tell him that it was cancelled, along with almost every other prime time television program that wasn’t the news, or a comedy satire.

Karaoke, uh, Canadian Idol and Canada’s Next Top Model are exceptions to the rule, but they don’t count since they’re crappy copies of U.S. shows.

Why is it that the only kind of successful programming on Canadian television is that of loosely-scripted shows? Why can’t they create shows that people will watch?

If they want “reality” shows, what about…

Survivor: Tim Hortons – grouchy people must make their chocolate dipped donuts and double-double coffee using only asbestos and dirty well water during the morning rush hour.

So You Think You Can Figure Skate – aspiring skaters from ice-deprived lands fulfill their dream of dancing on ice while participating in challenges like creating a performance outfit from fur pelts and glitter.

If the networks require original, scripted programming, take a gander at…

Oot of the Closet – the Olsen twins are stylish sleuths that solve mysteries of parliament, each week featuring one of their super-skeletal friends (Lindsay, Nicole) that sniff around for clues.

Bitch Slap Shot – hockey players must settle for a life of domesticity (due to contract negotiations) by sharpening up their domestic skills without ice skates and making the kids outfits from their old team jerseys (no shoulder pads!), while their wives earn the $$.

Nah. Won’t ever happen.

Even though Canada has incredible talent (both in front and behind the camera), these shows would never make it to air for one reason: money.

Maybe they should just make CSI: Canada, shut up, be polite and let the ratings go through the roof.

Pop

Pop music is sweet, bubbly, low in calories and fills you up, only to make you want more when you’re done with it.

Just like soft drinks.

Ever since I was cognizant of melodies and lyrics, I have always liked pop music. It makes me want to sing and dance, and it puts a smile on my face whenever there’s a particular song I like comes on the radio.

But, not everyone shares this opinion.

Some people get bitter taste in their mouth when they hear the term “pop music.” They claim it to be made my talentless hacks and created for the mass consumption. Instead, they whip out names of artists and performers you’ve never heard of, and the ones you know, you know you don’t like because there aren’t any discernible qualities of melodies and lyrics that you find particularly enjoyable.

They think because their austere taste in music is more eccentric and esoteric, they’re better than you are.

Ok. That’s fine.

But, they should remember this…

Not everyone’s tastes run along the same lines, but they’re not supposed to. Just as I don’t malign others' preferences, they shouldn’t mock mine.

Not all non-pop music is good, just as not all pop music is shite.

With the good, comes the bad. For every Diet Coke, there’s a Pepsi One. Sure, they may contain similar ingredients, but the combination of water, sugars, carbonated gases and colours, the end results are very distinct and different.

Just like music.

Whether it leaves a sweet smile on your face, or a bitter taste in your mouth, there is music for everyone.

Shouldn't music make the people come together?

Rachel Ray must fry

You don’t need four men, riding on four stallions to tell you the end is coming. The only thing you have to do is watch the television previews for the fall season.

And, you know it’s time to start counting the days for armageddon when Rachel Ray is about to debut her own talk show.

As a star on the Food Network, Rachel Ray is an insipid, little howler monkey who humps every food-related product because it gets her excited. She’s so irritating that you want to spike her meals with some Ativan so you won't be anxious.

If God has a twisted sense of humour (and he must because he made me), I’d be given the chance to knock her over the head with a tin of canned tomatoes, make her guzzle litres of her precious EVOO (short for extra virgin olive oil – yeah, you’re starting to hate her, too, right?), throwing her into a pot and inside a hot oven, and then season her with some sprigs of parsley when she’s ready to be served.

Ah, the calming power of prayer.

Let’s hope the show is cancelled as quickly as her 30-minute meals.

Spider web

With the day being sunny and warm (if not a little humid), it’s best to take advantage of the weather; pick up a book and go outside for some vitamin D.

Sitting on the concrete block of the porch, I lean back against the front door, spread my legs into a V-shape, open the book and begin to read.

After approximately 20 minutes of being in the same position, my back muscles between my shoulders begin to twitch and my bum is going numb. It’s time to readjust myself.

Before I change positions, I look up towards the street and I notice something shiny captures the light of the setting sun. It looks like a fine thread or a long piece of blonde hair caught in-between my legs.

When I lower the book a few inches, I see another thread, criss-crossing between my legs. As I place the book on my stomach, I realize, on closer inspection, that a spider spun a web between the V of my legs.

In the time I spent reading, a spider climbed up one of my legs and swung back and forth, spinning a web. There is a first time for everything, and this is definitely a first, I think.

I wave my hand through my legs to break up the web and the spider disappears. Fucking spider.

What can I do to alleviate this problem, if it ever happens again?

Ideally, there are two things:

1. Kill all the spiders in the world before I go outside, or
2. Shave my legs

Killing all the spiders is an insurmountable task since there are, literally, zillions of them. And, spiders are kinda gross and I wouldn’t want to clean up the mess afterwards. Ew.

Shaving my legs wouldn’t allow the spiders to spin webs off the leg hairs. Unfortunately, since my legs would be Nair smooth, I’d spend most of my time rubbing them together and moving my hands up and down my thighs for long periods of time.

Since neither of these sounds reasonable, I come to terms to do the easiest - and laziest - option: stay inside and wear long pants all year round.

Pull one out, two come back

No one said growing older is easy. Although the ravages of time can’t be stopped, they can be avoided with cosmetic surgery, creams, colouring, dimly lit rooms and nearsighted people.

One thing that I have been fortunate to have is a full head of lustrous hair that deserves a Pantene commercial. It’s thick and curly, with a lot of shine and bounce. With the wind-machine on, I whip my head side to side and let the breeze blow my hair around.

Lucky for me, baldness is not genetic, thanks to my mother’s side of the family.

Unlucky for me, there seems to be more and more white hairs are popping up.

It’s not bad and it could be worse. But, because my hair is almost jet black, it’s not very attractive. If my natural hair colour was lighter, it wouldn’t be as noticeable and I could say the white hairs are outrageously expensive highlights.

But, they’re not highlights, they’re white hairs.

They’re inevitable and unstoppable.

It’s the old wives tale coming true: pull out one and two grow in its place.

Stupid old wives.

Instead of yanking them, I trim them as short as possible. It's not easy, but then, beauty is pain, n'est-ce pas? If and when that fails, I use a colour rinse to hide them. For a more permanent solution, I’ll use a semi- or permanent colour.

Or, I could forego all the work and shave my head.

Maybe Kojak had it right all along.

Who loves ya baby?

Look closer

For the film American Beauty, the catch phrase look closer was used to describe a film that asked the question of what exists beyond the white picket fence, the manicured lawn, the pretty window boxes, and the cape-cod style home.

Sometimes what appears to be on the surface is only superficial. Not everything is beautiful. There is a lot of ugliness that lies beneath.

Look closer.

**

X continually improves on the demands set-up by family and friends, yet secretly wants to live a life without a predetermined list of rules (although it will never happen).

Y is a successful businessperson, but feels like it is imperative to get married although being single is the best choice.

Z has it all, but chips away at the perceived flaws of others to feel better about not having anyone to share in a life of idealized perfection.

**

Some people don’t like to show what they really mean and feel. They’re not frauds, but fragile. Their smiles show traces of sadness. Their words have an undercurrent of bitterness. Their eyes say everything in between.

On the other hand, I keep my emotions close to the surface and wear my heart on my sleeve. Happy? You can tell. Sad? You can tell. Pissed? Pretty much always. If I ever have something I don’t want to talk about, I’ll tell you it’s none of your fuckin' business.

In the end, you don’t have a closer look with everyone, but sometimes you have to.

Doing drugs and getting pregnant

The day after Labour Day is an unofficial national holiday in North America - adults cheer in the streets because they finally have their lives back from 8:30 a.m. to 3:15 p.m.

That’s right. School is back in session.

Peace and quiet can now reign supreme during the day.

There’s no more playing in the street, no more hanging around in the park and no more loitering at the mall.

Of course, I’m not talking about children. I’m talking about teenagers.

Ugh. I couldn’t stand them when I was their age and sure as fuck can’t stand them now.

What is up with the attitude where they think they deserve everything they never worked for and why are these kids so fuckin’ moody when they don’t get what they want (and even when they get it)?

Of course, I was never like that.

I wasn’t full of angst, I was full of anger.

If it wasn’t for the fact that my parents didn’t give me some personal space, never let me go out with my friends and practically wanted to control everything about my life because they didn’t understand me, I wouldn’t have gone through a goth period where I wrote morbid poetry, played guitar in a band and cut myself to feel a semblance of the physical...

Nothing like the teenagers of today.

Anyway, I couldn’t care less.

They’re back in school, where they belong, doing drugs and getting pregnant like they should be.

Broken

Even though I am in my 20’s, there are days that my body doesn’t agree with me. There are days when my bones audibly crack. It’s as if I need to carry an oil can with me for to lubricate the occasional eee-aw eee-aw sound of my rusty joints.

Apparently, 20 is the new 80.

Recently, I woke up one morning with an excruciating pain in my torso. For some reason, I pulled muscle in my chest and the pain went from my left pectoral muscle to my back, including under my arm and parts of my abdominals.

It hurt to move that I yelped a few times like a dog when I mistakenly tried. So, I didn’t move… for two days.

Rather arrogantly, I didn’t take any pain medication. I thought, I’ll be a man and not a pussy. What a stupid decision. I should’ve just drunk myself into submission.

A few days later, I woke up with a crink in my neck. The pain was between my shoulder blades. I couldn’t move my shoulders up or down, which is difficult when you have to reach for anything.

Again, I made like stupid and didn’t take any pain medication.

Could age be the culprit behind these recent issues? What about genetics? Or am I mental and imagining these ailments?

The only health problem I have is a respiratory one, and when I mentioned this to someone, they laughably joked I was broken.

Lovely. Broken in my 20's, yet I lost the receipt for an exchange.

The last thing I want is to preserve myself by taking copious amounts of pills while slathering my body with creams that are supposed to help with numbing the muscles.

Fuck.

I am not looking forward to my 30’s.

Call me crazy

When meeting new people, general talks about the weather, travel, and if Jessica Simpson really is a trashy whore with buck teeth and a hawk nose, manipulated by her creepy father are the norm.

But, with time, deeper discussions on politics, religion, and whether you should wear white after Labour Day become par for the course.

When it comes to me, I talk about family.

And, when I talk about family, I talk about crazy.

For example, there is betrayal, murder, schizophrenia and delusions… and that’s just one person.

But I’m sure there are plenty of others who have a little crazy in their tree. If you shake one hard enough, there are bound to be a couple of nuts that fall. And, usually these nuts are cracked.

Call me crazy, but I think that there’s so much crazy out there, it’s practically normal.

At least, that’s what the voices in my head tell me.

What…? Who said that…?

Note: For those celebrating a four day, long weekend, enjoy! I'll be back on Tuesday because even I have better things to do... well, not really, but who the fuck cares.