Trick or treat!

Hallowe’en is the time of the year where children (and adults) dress up in costumes, go out and have a good time. For the children, it’s mostly PG-rated, and for the adults, depending on the amount of tricks, verges on NC-17.

Personally, I’ve never gone trick or treating. Never, ever. Not even once. And, I see that as a good thing.

I never had to worry about catching a cold on those nippy October nights. I never had to worry about getting suspicious-looking candy from that creepy man who lived down the street. I never had to worry if someone was wearing the same thing as me – always the fastest way to get me riled up.

Every Hallowe’en, my mother bought a bag of good candy for us and gave out lollypops and other miscellaneous sweets to kids in the neighbourhood. While other people were freezing outside, I sat at home, on my ass, chowing down on the good shit.

That tradition continues into my adulthood.

Even though I still don’t dress up and go out for the festivities, I still enjoy buying candy. Two bags of Twix, a bag of Kit Kat bars, one of Snickers and one of Mars. All. For. Me. And, I only had to go to Wal-Mart to get my chocolate fix.

My mouth drools just knowing they’re in my house, within snacking reach…

Trick or treat!

It's so rainy... well, how rainy is it?

There is a point in love where it quickly escalates into hatred. The paramount pinnacle. It doesn't matter what it is, be it person, place, or thing. Even one Kit Kat can turn a raging chocoholic into a diabetic with a few good chews.

For years, my “chocolate” is the rain. I love the rain. I love listening to it beat down on the roof while I lie in bed. I love to watch the beads on the windowpane and scroll its way down the glass. I love to see the drops fall in puddles, and the ripples push towards the outer edges.

But, as much as I love the rain, sometimes too much is too much.

For some strange reason, this autumn has met with days upon days of rain. Non-stop. Never ending. It makes me wonder if I’m living in London, England, instead of London, Ontario.

It’s so rainy that...

I don't feel like dancing in the middle of the street, like Gene Kelly in that ironically-titled movie, Xanadu.

I carry an umbrella everywhere I go... even indoors.

I think galoshes are particularly attractive for sploshing around in the water, and not only for 6 year olds.

I’ve grown accustomed to the squish.

I’ve grown accustomed to the extra 20 pounds I carry on my body due to eternal dampness.

I don’t want to wear anything made of wool because I’ll smell like a wet sheep.

I know my ‘fro hair needs a pick.

I think SAD is making me MAD.

I’m wishing it will snow ASAP, so the fucking rain will stop.

I can’t wait for the spring, when the weather becomes more… rainy.

Ugh.

Update: It's now sunny, with clear skies. God, you suck.

Sit down and make yourself uncomfortable

The sofa cushions are straightened, the dust has been cleaned, and the floors swiped with the vacuum. For an additional touch of ooh la la, I spritz some room spray in the air to make the place smell like a citrus grove.

Why all this fluffing? Company is coming over and I want the place to resemble a House & Home magazine layout. My mother always says you never know who'll show up unannounced, like an insistant Jehovah's Witness who doesn't understand the the meaning of the word no.

When they walk through the door, one of my friends says, “Your place always looks so nice, Steven.”

“Well, I try to keep it clean in case people come over," I say as I take their coats. "Go, go and sit down on the couch.” I wave and point to the living room. “I’ll get you something to drink. What do you want?”

They walk into the living room and stand.

“Are we allowed to sit on the couch?”

What an odd question.

“Of course, that’s what they’re there for,” I respond.

“But, we don’t want to mess things up.”

Ah, so that’s the reason why they’re still standing.

“Don’t worry, after you leave, I’ll rearrange everything,” I say from the kitchen.

They’re taken aback by this statement. I can see the shock on their face when I walk into the living room.

What did they expect from me? I have always kept everything clean and tidy, not to mention stylish. But, I am not one of those people who freak out if someone leaves a crumb on the floor... ok, sometimes I do.

If you drop a glass of red wine on the cream upholstery, then you’re not invited back until you pay the bill for the steam cleaning and possible reupholstery of the sofa with a soft, low-pile, creamy velvet chenille from Brunschwig & Fils.

Is being clean a crime?

It’s like having someone say, “Why should I take a bath if I’m only going to get dirty again?”

Ew. Gross.

As the night passes, I notice they’re loosening up, even curling up their feet underneath their bums while sitting on the sofa. I don’t mind. Go right ahead. Sit down and make yourself uncomfortable.

I'll be fluffing the pillows after you leave.

Isn't it ironic?

It’s like rain on your wedding day
It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid
It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take
And who would’ve thought, it figures…

When the song Ironic came out over a decade ago, a critic mentioned that the lyrics were statements of coincidence, not of irony since coincidence is a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent casual connection, while irony is the discrepancy between the expected and actual state of affairs.

He was right.

Coincidence is forgetting to fill a spare tire and getting a flat.

Irony is being the most cautious person in the world who forgets to fill their spare tire after helping a burning schoolbus full of children that was about to fall off a cliff, then gets a flat tire, has the same schoolbus purposely hit the car and the car goes flying off the same cliff, exploding in a ball of flames, throwing all caution to death's door.

Or, something like that.

Strangely enough, I’m on a first-name basis with irony – coincidence, or not.

**

Recently, something ludicrous happened to me (which makes me look back in laughter) that I thought would go smoothly since there was no way I could fuck it up. At the time, I casually mentioned how ironic it would be if it came out all wrong in the end, after wanting to be right in the first place.

What happens? Not coincidence, let me tell you. Irony is always there, mocking me, pointing its finger and laughing like a deranged hyena, high on a mixture of E and Tina. Sometimes I wish I could forget it, but I'm too smart to let that happen.

Fuck the ironies of irony.

I want coincidental life.

Picture processing

Humans are visual beings. They use their eyes to supplement other senses to process a full picture about a person, place, or thing. Descriptions are useful, but they don't always produce an image.

One week ago, I changed my profile photo from a set of eyes to a head shot. It was time for a change, and I didn’t feel like I could answer the What the hell do you look like? question without popping a vein first.

But, for some reason, there were more profile views than normal – like, over 300 per cent more. All for a little head.


And, I had to wonder why. Does the photo make a difference in the person that I am? Have I changed in any way? Did I get more interesting? Smarter? Funnier? Popular?

No, I think it was because my head filled in a part of me that was missing. Literally.

God forbid if I had put a shot of my ass up there, 'cause that would start a whole other round of questions.

Thumper

The leaves from the trees that line the path that curls its way around the back of the apartment filters a soft green light through the windows of the living room. Occasionally, a subtle crunch is heard when people walk by, and a slight breeze flows through the open screens, fluttering the drapes.

While I’m lying on the couch, watching some TV, l hear a noise outside. First there are scratching sounds, like fingernails running across a rough, plastic surface. After a few seconds, there’s a thump, like a small drum being hit. It doesn’t sound as if it’s made by humans.

A minute later, it happens again. Then again. There’s a definite pattern.

As I rise from the couch, I pull half of the drapes back and look out the window. Nothing. No one is walking around, no one is playing a joke or looking into the apartment.

Lying back down on the couch, I hear the same noises again. It happens two more times before I get up to look.

Nothing. No one is there. It’s making me feel a little unsettled.

When I hear the noises one more time, I pull back the drapes while lying on the couch.

From my perspective, I can see a head of a squirrel, but two seconds later, it disappears.

Now kneeling on top of the sofa, I wait to see whether it comes back. It does. It comes running along the aluminium flashing of the window sill, stops, looks inside the apartment, whacks its head against the glass, bounces off, and falls to the ground.

Thumper must be looking for Bambi.

The mystery of the sounds is solved.

The squirrel thought since the wooded area behind the apartment reflected so perfectly in my spotless windows, the wooded area continued past the glass. Unfortunately, the squirrel was wrong.

That’s the bad thing about being on the ground floor of an apartment complex: there’s bound to be a nutty stranger looking inside your place.

Passive-aggressive bitch

The packages of chocolates and picture hooks are almost falling out of my hands, since I didn’t pick up a basket on the way in. I need to find the checkout now. While I’m walking towards the sounds of ringing cash registers, I notice there are a few queues open.

Before I get to the queue that appears the shortest, a woman approaches the checkout, pulling her daughter behind her by her arm and talks aloud about what she’s going to do next.

As she’s looking up at the ceiling, with her back turned towards the main shopping aisle, I move my way past behind her padded jacket and place my items on the conveyer belt.

Clearly, she’s offended as she snaps around with the velocity of a pithy comeback.

“Well," she begins saying out loud, "it’s a good thing mommy didn’t stand in line, because this man walked in behind her and took her place…”

Bitch, please. I roll my eyes so far back, I can see her behind me without turning around.

“Well, if mommy hadn’t been walking around in concentric circles, looking up in the air instead of standing in line, this man wouldn’t have taken her supposed place,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for the people in line to hear.

Just who does she think she is? If she wants to stand in line, stand in the line. If not, move the fuck out of the way. And, don't play the victim, you passive-aggressive bitch.

After my chocolates are rung through, I see the same woman pulling her daughter around the aisles near the checkout lines. She’s still walking around in circles.

I, on the other hand, am leaving with my purchases.

Wry and Coke

While strolling through any supermarket, inevitably there will be an aisle with beverages, stacked from floor to ceiling with countless visions of liquid dreams.

Flavoured drinks taste good on their own, but sometimes they can taste better when blended with another.

Years ago, my sister and I would mix cola and ginger ale to form some sort of amber-coloured drink. It didn’t taste like anything in particular, except for sugar and bubbles.

Now that I’m older, I’ve moved onto harder stuff; disinfecting deep cuts and cauterizing them with a quick splash of the bottle.

Being a traditionalist, I’ve always favoured old-fashioned liquor like scotch/whiskey, rum, etc. instead of beer, or any beverage made of hops (it reminds me of cows chewing on cud in the middle of a pasture).

A little whiskey in a crystal tumbler with a lot of ice is ideal. The ice waters down the liquor, but it's still strong. To help cut down on the alcohol, I pour some Coke from an already open can into the tumbler.

And the rest is history… well, it was history since I blank out after having two of them.

Before anyone begins to think this is a horrible combination, consider this...

The bitter sweetness of Coke is a perfect match for the bitter sweetness of whisky. Both flavours balance each other out. A slice of sour lemon is the final touch to enhance the drink.

Of course, it’s not for everyone, but the sensation of drinking it is similar to my personality: the initial, prickly coldness warms its way until it burns as it flows down your throat.

Which reminds me, I need a drink.

Note: Have a great birthday, this weekend, N.

I wish

Searching for shooting stars on nights where the sky was clear and inky black became the only way for an impressionable boy to make a wish when the power of prayer failed him.

If I wish hard enough, it has to come true, I’d think. The stubborn thought process of a child made me want it to come true because I believed it could.

Not being a child, anymore, I still wonder if the skies hold any promise.

In dreams.

In hope…

**

I wish people were empathetic.
I wish people were reflective of themselves.
I wish people were accepting of tolerance, instead of tolerant of acceptance.
I wish people would grasp the concept of honesty and sincerity.
I wish people would take a step back and exhale.
I wish people would listen.
I wish people would understand.
I wish people would open their eyes and see the world.
I wish people would realize death and disease doesn't discriminate.
I wish people would give into the possibility of living.
I wish you cared enough to ask.
I wish you would understand me.
I wish you would leave me alone.
I wish you would stop pissing me off.
I wish I had longer legs.
I wish I didn't have to shave.
I wish I only had hair on my head.
I wish I had a smaller head, but the same size brain.
I wish I knew what was on your mind.
I wish I knew why you turned around and walked away.
I wish I knew why my life is the way it is.
I wish I knew why I disappoint so many people.
I wish I could make you proud.
I wish you peace.
I wish you love.

**

No amount of wishing will result in realizing whether my wishes will ever come true.

Until then, I’ll keep on looking up to the skies.

Note: Happy Birthday, A.

Take a picture, it'll last longer

Some people take great photos and stand behind the scenes. Some people take great photos and stand in front of the camera.

Unfortunately, I fall into neither category.

In order to get a reasonable image of me captured on celluloid, it takes a lot of research, time and patience. Also, a team of hair and makeup people, lighting technicians and a stylist that can find me clothes that fit are required.

And a photographer.

From Steven Meisel and Steven Klein to Patrick Demarchelier and Alexi Hay, countless portfolios were pored over and scrutinized. Who could make me look good – or even presentable – on film?

In the end, Annie Leibovitz came to my home in Telluride, Colorado, where she spent five days taking photos of me, my fiancée and our four-month-old Japanese baby with blue contacts, a Ringo Starr wig…

Oh wait, that wasn’t me.

Anyway, the photo is grungy and grainy, not due to photoshop, but because I'm just plain ol' dirty.

Spot

It’s break time, and V and I are walking the hallways of the USC building before class restarts. These precious minutes help us escape education, stretch our legs and breathe some fresh air.

While we’re making our way towards the classroom, V steps behind me and says something.

“Steven, you have a spot on your pants.”

“What?” I look down past my cream-and-navy-striped shirt towards the floor.

“A spot. A spot on your pants.”

“Where?” I look down at my cream pants. They better not be dirty. I hate getting light-coloured clothes dirty. It’s such a pain to get them clean.

“Here,” I hear her say.

“Where?” I turn twice like a dog chasing its tail.

“Here,” she points to a place on my left butt cheek.

I don’t see any spot on my pants. I pull away the fabric from my butt and the spot disappears. I let the fabric drop, and a dark spot appears. I do this several times until it clicks in.

Now, I know about the mystery of the spot.

Before coming to class, I was wearing a different t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. Underneath the shorts, I had on dark underwear. When changing clothes, I didn’t change underwear (they were clean). But, I never realized these pants were sheer enough that you could see through them.

“They’re my underwear,” I sheepishly tell V.

“What?” she asks.

“My underwear,” I say loudly and wave my hands to the side. A few people turn around. “I forgot to change to a light-coloured pair.”

“Oh.” She looks down.

“I’ll just pull my shirt out and stretch it over my backside so no one can notice,” I say as I pull down the shirt over the pants. “And if anyone mentions the spot again, then I’ll know they’ve been checking out my ass…”

To sleep, perchance to clean

Four-star hotels are known for their impeccable service, famous in-house restaurants, and the ability to bend over backwards for any guest’s eccentric whims.

They’re also known for well-made beds, crisp sheets with hospital corners, fluffy pillows, and mattresses that induce non-medicinal comas.

But, unlike Eloise, I don’t live at the Park Plaza.

At home, I try to create a semblance of a four-star experience, even though no one makes my bed in the morning and puts a mint on my pillow.

This morning, while making the bed, I notice something before the sheets are smoothed and the corners are re-tucked.

Only today I notice something out of the ordinary. There are a lot flecks of stuff on my top sheet, which is strange since I don't eat in bed. What is this crap? Before sweeping it off the bed, I lean in and see what the flecks really are and this - nocturnal oddity - makes my mind wander about two things:

a) Do I lose that much hair while I sleep?
b) Do I pick my nose that much while I sleep?

Can the Four Seasons do anything about this? Do they have someone that collects your hair as it falls from your head? Do they have someone smack your hand away the second your hand reaches for your nose?

They probably do, for the right price.

Hmmm... I'm sure I could do it for next to nothing and start sleeping while wearing a ski-mask.

Note: This post is dedicated to those wondering about last week's mental state. To alleviate any feeling of doubt about my "depression," I wrote about balding and boogers. Enjoy!

Parking lottery

Whenever I have to find a parking spot in a busy lot, inevitably, the car is placed either in the boondocks, or beside two old, gas-guzzling clunkers that were made in the Nixon administration.

Not this time, I think. This time will be different.

It’s midday in the middle of the week, and mostly everyone is still at work. While the parking lot of the supermarket I go to isn’t very large, most of the shoppers – not surprisingly – tend to place their cars as close to the door as possible. Sometimes I think they’d park them inside if it was possible.

As I look for a spot, I notice all the mommy cars are out today: minivans and SUVs. These big and clumsy vehicles are always driven by over-stressed people who would gladly throw their ADD-riddled kids out the window if it means they can get some peace and quiet on the ride home.

And they can easily squish my car in half if they wish.

Near the back, there’s a row that has few vehicles. It’s best to leave my car there. There’s no one on either side, which relaxes me since - knowing my bad luck with other cars doing unmentionable things to mine - I know a careless kid can hit it by widely opening a huge door.

Unfortunately, I’m never there when they do it to jot down their licence plate info.

After I’m done my grocery shopping, I head to the cashier and when in line, I look out the large expanse of windows that line a wall at the front of the store.

Where’s my car, I wonder. Ten minutes ago, I left it in a sea of asphalt. It was all alone in the parking Pakistan, with nothing around.

Taking another good look around, I see there are a minivan on one side and an SUV on the other.

Fuck. Those mother-driving-SUV fuckers. Couldn’t they find anywhere else to go? Fuckity fuck fuck. Fuck.

What’s odd is there aren’t other cars around my car; just the minivan and the SUV. The colour combination looks like an automotive Oreo, with my car as the filling. It’s like the other drivers purposely parked their vehicles beside mine.

What’s really odd is there are dozens of spots, even a few close to the door of the market.

When I get back to my car, I place my bags in the back seat and walk around the car, making sure these bitches didn’t “accidentally” open a door too far and make an unnecessary crease in the swoopy styling of my car.

Thankfully, they didn’t.

Before I go inside my car, I kick one of the alloy wheels of the SUV.

Just in case… for next time.

I miss

Reminiscing on the past allows one to recall memories, both good and bad. Most of those thoughts are ones that make you smile, make you sad, make you want to relive them.

You miss them and want to bring them back.

But, you can’t.

They’re memories.

I miss the history that was made between us.
I miss our talks about everything and nothing.
I miss the sound of your voice, even though I can still hear it in my head.
I miss seeing your number on the display of my phone when you called.
I miss our e-mail exchanges that could fill pages.
I miss reading your words and deciphering what you really meant.
I miss the strange combination of feelings when I thought of you.
I miss being around you, alone or in a crowd.
I miss how things were between us.
I miss us.

I miss you.

Cutting criticism

My parents are coming back from their vacation and I have to get the house ready for their arrival. The house isn’t dirty, but everything is covered with a thin layer of dust that has to be wiped clean.

In order to speed up this process, I ask my sister for a little assistance in the matter, since two neat-freaks are better than one.

For the next couple of days, my sister and I use every available cleaning product to eliminate any stain and odour we come across. When we’re done, you can hear the ding and the flash of light associated with a spotless house. There is no dirt and grime to be found, and you can eat off the floor (although you don’t have to since there are plenty of clean plates in the kitchen cabinets).

After picking up my parents at the airport, we take them home and wait for their surprise upon entering the squeaky-clean abode.

Unfortunately, someone has a different opinion the moment we open the door.

“You were here for how long and the least you could’ve done was pick up a broom…” are the first words my mother says the minute she walks through the vestibule. No, The house smells nice, or, It’s so good to be home. Nothing. Just a tongue lashing.

I look over at my sister with daggers in my eyes. She grabs my arm, opens her eyes wide and mouths, Don’t say anything.

“Look at this place. It’s a mess,” my mother continues. “Now, I have to spend the next week cleaning...”

And that she does.

In the following days I have to endure the senseless babbling of my mother, while she points out every hair on the floor and every speck of dust that has fallen from the sky.

“If you had bothered to clean anything in the past month, I wouldn’t be doing this right now,” she repeats ad nauseum.

What I really think she means to say is, “If I wasn’t shitting up the house with my subpar attention to detail and the inability to use clean water to rinse off any crap that I left over when I was using a crusty rag to wash the floor, I’d be living vicariously through the gossip of my friends because I have nothing else better to do with my time like learn how to be a total nag of a mother.”

But then, I’m not one for cutting criticism.

Eye contact

Ever since I was young, I was taught it wasn’t nice to stare. It’s rude and disrespectful, especially to elders and those of higher social and economic stature.

Unfortunately, my lidded eyes and high levels of concentration appears as if I'm burning a hole through someone. I can’t help it. It’s part of my face. If you don’t like it, blame Jesus and genetics.

People sometimes believe I’m participating in a staring match, and that’s not the case. A staring match demonstrates domination over others, and I’d rather demonstrate domination with my scathing words.

Recently, when talking to someone, I wanted to look up into their eyes, but couldn’t. At least, not initially.

When I’d look up, the other set of eyes were focused on mine. They made me feel uncomfortable because they wanted to scratch the surface, and I wasn’t ready to let anyone get near the polished veneer.

This was about forming a connection. Unfortunately, the signs that were leading me the right way, I read as roadblocks because of what I was taught.

When do you look up? When do you look down? Should you look to the side? What about their forehead, their mouths, their hair, their ears?

I don’t know.

Wouldn’t it just be easier if I was blind? At least I wouldn’t have to worry about eye contact.

Thanks for nothing

This weekend, Canada celebrates Thanksgiving.

There will be food and fighting... at least in my house. For it is on this weekend where family congregates and is entertained with a barrage of common complaints from other family members.

When the insipid insults end, it means someone is chewing. After swallowing, it begins again.

In a way, it's like every holiday.

Fuck.

Can't wait for Christmas!

Picture imperfect

The Interior Design Show is an annual event that brings together the world’s best interior designers, decorators, architects and builders in one convention space, while showcasing the newest and most innovative ideas of residential, commercial and industrial design.

One of the highlights of the show is a living space, this time constructed by the Diamante Corporation and designed by Brian Gluckstein, Canada’s most famous interior designer.

The model suite is tailored and elegant – staples of the design firm. There are sumptuous furnishings and fabrics, glossy finishes on woods and cabinets, and slate flooring throughout, punctuated with wool carpets.

Upon entry, there is a living room, to the left is an office, further down is a compact kitchen and around the corner is an indoor water feature, with a functioning fireplace, floating in the centre.

With my camera in hand, I take the occasional photo of the space although it’s difficult with the scads of people walking in front of the viewing field.

As I turn around to get an alternate angle of the living room, my shoe gets caught on one of the rough edges of the slate floor and I fall forward. My body flies several feet and the camera slips out of my hand, hitting the wall and breaking into several pieces.

While my body lies splayed on the floor, a pair of picture perfect and polished brown shoes stops in front of my face. As I look up, I see Brian Gluckstein, immaculately tailored like his interiors.

“My camera… I broke my camera,” I say on the verge of tears, pointing to the wall.

He looks down at me, gives me a pitying look and walks away.

Slowly, I get up and brush myself off. I walk up to the camera, kneel down and pick it up off the floor. It’s in several pieces. As I’m trying to put it back together, I walk towards a woman who works as a representative for the builder.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but do you happen to have a rubber band?” I pinch my index finger and thumb of my right hand together, forming a small claw. “My camera just fell and broke and I need something to hold it together.”

She gives me a puzzled look, but after looking at sad eyed expression on my face, she turns around and dives into a display cabinet, pulls out a packet of business cards, rips off the rubber band and hands it to me.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me.”

“It’s no problem.” She’s disappointed because I didn’t ask her about financing on a 500 square-foot, $250,000 condo.

After packing up the camera, I turn around, once again, and take a look at the beautifully-designed model suite. Even though I can never get the image of a Canadian design icon seeing my body splayed across the floor, it was a picture imperfect day.

Note: To those north of the 49th parallel, have a great - Canadian - Thanksgiving. To those who live elsewhere, sorry about having to go to work on Monday.

I know

With the ever changing world morphing into something we never expected, there is a lack of stability in society that never finds an even equilibrium. Although for every black there is a white, sometimes there is a shade of grey that creates a feeling of uncertainty.

But, whatever happens, there are some things I know for sure…

I know life is hard because I'm alive.
I know there's a reason why I'm alive even if I'm not sure what it is.
I know people judge.
I know people assume the worst of me.
I know I have a polarizing effect on people and I don’t care.
I know I’ll never make everyone happy, so I won’t even bother to try anymore.
I know I think with my heart even though I’m a rational person.
I know I’d rather think with my head, but my heart always gets in the way.
I know you’re an idiot.
I know you’re not as smart as you think you are.
I know you confuse self-confidence with delusion.
I know the reason why you’re single, even if you don’t.
I know you’re not hot.
I know you’re not good looking.
I know I’ll never be beautiful.
I know I'll always be a fat kid on the inside.
I know I'll always be a little naïve.
I know there has to be a little good in everyone.
I know I like the wrong people.
I know I will continue to trust people without giving them a second thought.
I know you’re trying.
I know I love the sound of rain falling on the roof on a Sunday morning.
I know I get out of bed in the morning because there's a reason.
I know I’ve made stupid mistakes.
I know I don’t always learn from my stupid mistakes.
I know I’ll always have something to prove.
I know I’ll never know everything…

Unfortunately, there are quite a few things that I know and want to forget. It’s also unfortunate there are quite a few other things that I don’t know and need to remember.

The scales are always out of balance.

Pick up

Walking towards the kitchen, I see my mother by the stove, stirring the pot. She looks agitated. I pick up a glass, walk to the fridge and pour some orange juice from the jug. When I close the fridge door, I walk to the counter and jump on top.

“Your father called several times. He doesn’t stop calling,” says my mother, her back to me.

“Why did he call several times? What did he want?” He's on vacation. Did he leave something behind, like sunscreen or common sense?

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You just said he called several times.”

“Argh," she huffs, "you don’t understand anything I say.” She turns towards me and back to the stove. “Anyway,” she continues, “he was having lunch with your grandfather and his third wife and he wanted to know how you’re doing.” She pauses for effect and turns around. “If cared anything about him, you would ask how he’s doing.”

“How would I know how he’s doing if I never know when he calls?”

“Well, he called and he asked how you were doing and I told him you weren’t home.”

“Where was I?”

“Downstairs.”

What? He just called? That was him? It's bad enough he doesn't like to talk to me on the phone, but the one chance I have to talk to him, I can't.

“Ok, so you lie to him and tell him I’m not home and that I don’t want to talk to him. Then, you tell me that I don’t want to talk to him when I don’t even know when he calls? You’re crazy, you know that? You. Are. Crazy.”

“Don’t you say that to me!” she raises a hand at me, the other hand holding a wooden spoon.

“You’re retarded. You are so retarded. Do you hear yourself? Do you know what you actually say when you open your mouth? Do you?”

I’m not particularly angry, just astonished how she would warp words to her advantage to make others feel guilty and turn herself into the victim. Who would do such a twisted thing?

Next time, I’ll make sure to pick up the phone before she does.

Dude, you're so unfunny!

The primary reason why comedians exist is to make people laugh by telling jokes and making them pee in their pants when their bladder’s threshold of tolerance breaks loose… and so does their urine.

Then, there’s Dane Cook.

Don’t recognize the name? Here are a few details about him…

He’s the man who must coin a new term for comedian, since the root word - comedy - is supposed to mean amusing not irritating.

He’s the man who throws a lampshade on his head, thinking that he’s hilarious because he put a lampshade on his head. Uh, you’re not that drunk to be funny and we’re not that drunk to be stupid.

He’s the man that I want to put in the ring with Carrot Top and have both of them fight each other to the death. The loser dies. The winner also gets shot.

He’s the man who makes me want to get unnecessary surgery. Not because I want novocaine to numb the pain, but because the surgery is actually less painful than watching him crack a series of suck-ass jokes.

That's how unfunny this dude is.

Even NBC newsanchor, Brian Williams, outclasses him in a hilarious 90-second bit on Saturday Night Live; something he can't accomplish in 90 excruciating minutes of horrible sketches.

In the end, he’s the Jessica Simpson of comedy: sorta pretty to look at, with a deeply hidden talent, but basically exists to be put on celebrity magazine covers about who is hooking up, breaking up, making up, and throwing up.

Shit smears

In a public restroom, people do their most personal things in a stall. Whether it’s #1, #2, #3, changing clothes, or reading the paper, they want to do their business in private.

Personally I go there, sit down on the seat, pull out a small mirror from my bag, lay it down on my lap, take out the brown vial, jut out some powder, break up any clumps, and sniff.

It’s more discreet than doing it on the countertop.

Anyway…

As I’m walking into the restroom to do my (*sniff*) business, I walk into the stall and look into the bowl before deciding whether it’s clean. It’s not. Someone shit in it and didn’t flush twice. There are skid marks all over the bowl, and by the looks of it, baby had some corn for dinner last night.

So, I take a piece of TP, clean off the seat, throw it into the bowl and flush.

Before sitting down, I glance to the side and noticed some dark marks on the cream-coloured wall. My body leans over to get a closer look. With my eyes focused on the spots, I see what they are: shit smears.

I'm not sure what happened with the guy who used the stall before me.

Maybe he had an especially explosive shit, flying out of the bowl and hitting the wall. Maybe he went to grab a second piece of TP with his dirty fingers. Maybe he accidentally brushed against the previously soiled piece. Maybe he used his fingers to wipe his ass and needed some TP to clean them.

Whatever they did, it was just plain ol’ dirty (or was it shitty?).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to do #4.