Lights, camera, action?

A thread of light streams in through the crack in the drapes, but I notice there’s something wrong in the room: it’s already lit, with a series of lamps and candles, giving off a soft and even illumination. The two Oscars glimmer on the side table.

This doesn’t seem right.

Where am I? I know this isn't the room I stayed in the night before. And, who is this person next to me, in bed. Oh fuck, I didn’t do what I think I did. Did I? I think so. Bloody hell, I think so. Jesus, why does every Oscar ceremony end up with me in bed with another winner? From Charlize to George, I seem to lose all inhibitions on this night.

When I roll over, I see golden locks of hair. Soft, smooth, and slightly smooshed by the pillow. They roll over. It’s Helen Mirren. It’s beginning to make sense; the eye contact, the brushes against my leg, the whisperings of her hotel room and number, and the night that I’ll never forget.

The woman is insatiable. She has the stamina of a woman half her age. The things she can do to her tongue can make my eyes roll so far back in my head, I can see behind me. There were hands, fingers, lips, and the occasional toy. The dirty Dame knows what she’s doing. And she does it well.

But we aren’t alone in the room.

When I open my eyes a bit more, I see her husband, director Taylor Hackford. Why was he there? Why was he in the room? Is he some sick perv, watching his wife and me getting it on, like a real-life Kama Sutra?

Oh fuck. He wasn’t there to watch us, he was there to film us. The lighting, the decor... and Vilmos Zsigmond doing the cinematography. Why didn't I remember all the grips and gaffers? Why didn't I remember signing the contract? Even though I was drunk last night, I should've expected this. Ok, so it's happened twice before, but this time is different. I hope Vilmos got my good side and shot me from high, using a diffused filter on the camera.

The morning after the awards, I made a porn flick with Helen Mirren, directed by her husband, being released on Paramount Classics.

It already has a lot of Oscar buzz behind it… but then, that could be Helen’s vibrator.

Booze schmooze

The champagne is poured, the canapés are on trays, and the coke is being Hoovered up the noses of more than one agent. It’s the Governor’s Ball and it’s dreadful.

The décor of the ballroom beside the Kodak Theatre resembles a tent, and I didn’t dress up and to go camping. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? Even with my fifth award, you’d think I’d be happy by now, but these decorators have no bloody taste.

God, I need a drink; my flask of Scotch is empty.

While air kissing a series of actors, directors and producers (they’re the only ones with power, unlike writers), I move my way through the ballroom to my table. At least they placed me with A-listers this time, and not Ben Affleck.

The dinner is hardly touched by many of the women because their dresses may split if they eat anything more than two bites of caviar. I eat both my dinner and Nicole’s. Keith is just sitting there, eyeing the bottles of alcohol on the table. He needs a bath.

Helen Mirren comes by and whispers her hotel name and room number in my ear. She winks at me. I swallow hard. God, I want to push all the plates off the table, throw her on it, and fuck her right now.

Next, my handler wakes me from my stupor and reminds me that I have to “make appearances” at the other parties. Am I ever allowed to rest? Is that what an Oscar winner has to go through? These people, I swear.

Off to the Vanity Fair party at Morton’s, where everyone who is everyone is there. There is the walk up to the entrance and the only thing that is seen is a series of flashes. I’m temporarily blinded and am considering suing Getty Images and Corbis.

Madonna looks amazing and shows me how to hold a glass while standing on her head. Oprah sings out of sync when a Mary J. song comes on. Jodie continually says she wants to get out of her dress and into some flannel. They don’t care what they’re doing or saying because the media isn’t allowed inside.

Tom Cruise jumps on a chair and declares his love for me. He’s such a freak. I’ve told him time and time again that I am not going to fuck him or his beard. Doesn’t anyone in his cult speak English? I am going to sell the photos to Star and Us Weekly and make a mint.

God, I need another drink. These booze schmooze fests are dehydrating.

Elton John’s fundraiser is over-the-top glam. I’m told that Jennifer Hudson wants to sing with me on stage. We sing a I Am Changing/One Night Only melody and try to out-church each other with our vocal runs. The crowd gets up and cheers us on. Beyoncé cries under the table, and her creepy father gives me the evil eye.

The studio parties are boring. The Warner Brothers one was filled with the cast and crew of their best picture winner. Other studio parties are dead since they didn’t win anything big. Better luck next time bribing those voters, Paramount. Take a tip from Weinstein and use bullying tactics for 2007.

It’s getting late and my head is swimming in champagne. What time is it? I don’t know. All I can remember is a hotel name and room number. I tell the driver where to go and he obliges. I pass out.

The next thing I remember is waking up and seeing another Oscar on the bedside table, right next to mine.

Wait a minute. This isn’t my room…

And the Oscar goes to...

It’s not everyday that you’re nominated for an Academy Award. Technically, it’s once a year, but after you’ve won a few of them, it becomes as painless as a series of Botox shots. This year is no different. The pricks are painless by now.

With Orlando Pita and Pat McGrath doing my hair and makeup (those hi-def TVs are evil), I know that I’ll photograph well from the neck up. From the neck down, I have my tuxedo, just flown in from Italy. After a series of fittings, it should fit me like an extra large Trojan.

The suit looks amazing: lightweight, Italian wool in black. Beautiful cut and exceptional finishing. White shirt and black bowtie. Classic.

A stretch limo takes me to the Kodak Theatre. No hybrid shit. This is the fuckin’ Oscars. If I want to pollute the earth one day of the year, it’s going to be today. I’ll drive a Toyota when I need to go to the grocery store, or my drug dealer in the Valley.

As it stops at the entrance, I exit the car and am escorted towards the tent where my pockets are verified for bombs (unless you count the last John Travolta movie, you’re not going to find any on me). I’m through the curtains and onto the red carpet.

At the start of the carpet, there are photographers with telescopic lenses, calling out my name. I pose for a few, with a smouldering look. George Pimentel, a Canadian photographer, yells, “Yo, T!” I go up to him and give him a hug, much to the chagrin of the other photographers and my handler.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her, the one who made Clint Eastwood cry: Joan Rivers. She’s probably going to say something terrible to me behind my back tomorrow when she disses the way I’m dressed. Fuck, she’s such a cun-.

“Joan!” I say as I extend my arm towards her.

“Steven! Steven, come here,” she says, her clawlike hand reaching out. One more facelift, and the woman can see through the side of her head. “So, you’re nominated for The Departed Letters of the Sunshine Queen of Babel,” she looks down at her papers. “What? What was that? Melissa, Melissa, can you hear me? MELISSA!”

Before allowing this trainwreck to go any further, I tell her what she really wants to hear: “Valentino for the suit, Chopard for the diamonds.” I point to the knuckle-duster, bracelet and watch worth almost $2 million so I don’t have to look at her face.

After escaping her death-grip (probably trying to capture the essence of my youth), I catch up with a few friends. There’s Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett, two women who I’m currently working with. George Clooney tells me he’s jealous that I’m almost 20 years younger than him and I tell him not to worry, I’ve still got my four Oscars to compensate for the fact that I’ve been People’s Sexiest Man Alive once, to his two times. We’re meeting for brunch with Brad, Angie and the kids on the weekend.

As I move along the carpet, I answer the same series of questions from ET, AH, Extra, and every foreign correspondent for international news agencies. You can practically cut-and-paste them by the time I get to the end.

By the time I’m inside, I’m quickly seated since the show is about to begin. I’m seated behind Nicole Kidman and her country singer husband. Part of me wants to run my fingers through her hair, and the other part of me wants to wash Keith Urban’s oily locks.

Ooh, there’s Helen Mirren. She’s so hot. I want to fuck her. Not with her husband around, though. He looks like he keeps a series of shotguns in the house. I wave from a distance and mouth the words, I want you. She's a dirty, dirty girl.

On with the show...

Even with Ellen Degeneres hosting, it begins to bore me after the first hour. There are too many awards, and too much clapping. I should’ve brought hand cream instead of a power bar and a flask filled with 20-year-old Scotch, strapped to my leg.

If it wasn’t for the possibility of seeing Jennifer Hudson clobber Beyoncé with her Oscar, I would’ve fallen asleep long ago.

Finally, it’s time for my award. It’s the second last one of the night and my leg is numb. Note to self: Scotch and power bars don’t mix well.

Meryl Streep walks up to the centre of the stage. She looks like she came from an Amish funeral. She follows the script, but it falls flat. She must’ve had a couple of drinks backstage, and I think I see her wobble a bit from behind Nicole’s enormous, red bow.

My name is announced amongst the four other nominated individuals. Meryl takes forever. I want to shoot her on the spot for making me wait all this time in my seat without taking a pee break.

“And the Oscar for best direction of a foreign scripted, photographed, sound- mixed, art directed, costumed and scored film goes to…”

A working hard-on

With all of the horrible situations you can encounter while at work, there is nothing worse than having a raging hard-on while surrounded by fellow employees.

The way it rubs and pokes the side of my leg isn’t what I need right now. The occasional bit of friction turns me on even more.

It’s resembles a salami that I’m hiding down the leg of my trousers. It’s socially awkward and cumbersome, mostly because I don’t want to bring any attention to the fact that I can knock objects off the shelf with my dick when I walk by them.

Getting up from my desk is not an option. Walking around entails carrying a file folder or a binder in front of my thighs. Going to the photocopier becomes a chore. Meetings become hell on earth (or is it hell in the office?).

Although my mind should be concentrated at the task at hand, sometimes the mind wanders from spreadsheets to between the sheets.

And, thinking of dead kittens and little old ladies doesn't help. At all.

Hopefully, things will settle down before they get out of hand. The last thing I need is to get up from my chair... unless someone needs me to take the place of the office's laser pointer.

Magnetic personalites

Magnets need a positive and a negative side to attract one another. When there are two like sides (either positive, or negative), they repel one another. Oddly, the repulsion is stronger than the attraction.

In a way, magnets can be similar to people.

For example, take two people with the same wants, needs and desires. But, they're too similar, and in turn, end up repulsing each other. What was once attraction, is now repulsion. A relationship is fractured. While they can get close, their like “charges” force them to stay apart.

There are two bodies with one shared motherfucker of a conflict. They know you too well because they're - another version of - you. You can't win a fight because they know every move, and even I want to have something hidden away just in case I'll need it for the divorce proceedings.

If one could only flip one person around for the laws of attraction to work effectively. Maybe opposites do attract. It's just too bad people aren't magnets.

Hello, whoa, Vienna calling (pt. 3)

While sitting down in the library, reading the latest edition of Vanity Fair, I see two women turning the corner of the music section. One of them is unknown, while the other is R, my friend who called me a few days ago.

“Why hello, the former Ms. F,” I say – forgetting her married name – as she walks towards me.

“Oh my God,” she says as she puts her hand in front of her mouth.

“How are you doing?” I ask, coolly lounging in the chair.

“Fine. Fine,” she says.

After our pleasantries and some idol chit-chat, I bring up the phone call.

“It wasn’t me,” she says.

“Really?” I pull out my cell phone and look for the call history. “This is the number that called me? Ring a bell?” I turn the phone towards her.

“No, that’s not my number. That’s not even my area code.” In a snap, I think about calling the number, just to see if her phone rings. How I'd love to watch her sweat as I press "send" on the dialpad and hear her purse chime. That would be sweet.

“Well, you know, it was weird." I twitch my mouth. "It was someone who sounded like you, asking for K – who, by the way, isn’t even in the province – and then hung up after saying bye.” I pucker my lips. “Just too strange.”

Later on in the day, I am in the kitchen with my parents while they’re preparing some food.

“Guess who I saw at the library?” I ask my father, both of us standing in the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” says my mother by the stove.

“Come on, guess. It’s not hard at all,” I goad them.

“R. It’s R, right?” asks my father.

“Uh huh.”

“Did you ask her about the phone call?” He looks at me.

“Yup.”

“And, what did she say?” Now, my mother has turned her attention towards me.

“She said it wasn’t her.”

My father guffaws. “Do you believe her?”

“Well, I guess I have to. What was I going to do? Tell her, You’re lying! You’re a liar! LIAR!!” I say, pointing my finger outwards, as if I was directing it to R.

“Well, those Jehovah's Witnesses are just a strange group of people.” Disinterested in discussing religion, my father turns around and my mother goes back to the food. "She probably just didn't have the balls to call you because she thought her husband would be jealous that she was talking to another man."

"Yeah." Even if that other man is me.

It’s interesting how a phone call can make you relive memories (and grudges). Two years without a phone call, a hello. Was it marriage, or religion that changed the dynamics of a long-term friendship? Are these forces so powerful to eradicate 25+ years of history?

Who knows?

Maybe this mess will be forgotten… unless she calls me in two years asking for the whereabouts of K. Only this time, I won't be waiting by the phone.

Hello, whoa, Vienna calling (pt. 2)

When checking my e-mail, I notice the inbox contains an message from my friend, K. In it, she apologizes for not being able to visit me because she’s still in Vancouver, but will try to see me as soon as her work schedule allows for a break.

Interesting, I think as I raise my eyebrow. So, she wasn’t in town when R called looking for her.

When I e-mail her, I write her to say that it’s fine that she couldn’t come visit because work comes first. Also, I throw in a snarky line about R: "By the way, R called my house looking for you. Just so you know..."

When I talk to K on the phone, I mention R's phone call.

“Weird,” says K.

“I know, isn’t it?” I say. “First I thought you were in town and were meeting up with her, which of course I got pissed because you didn't say anything, but then I was like whatever, she probably just wants to spend time with her." I get riled up. "Then, I get your e-mail saying you’re sorry you couldn’t visit because you’re still in Vancouver…”

“I haven’t even spoken with her since the wedding,” she says.

“Oh my God! Me, too!” I am shocked. “And, that was two friggin’ years ago!”

“Uh huh, right?”

“It’s either marriage that got her busy, or religion that got her brainwashed,” I say. “Either, or. Same thing.”

“Marriage can do that to you,” says K on the other line.

"Yeah. Marriage..." I let the word linger in the air, thinking there's probably another reason why R called in the first place.

Note: To be continued…

Hello, whoa, Vienna calling (pt. 1)

From the kitchen, the distinct ring of a cell phone is heard in the distance. It can either be mine or my sister’s, since we have the same phone.

“I’ll go see whose phone it is,” I say out loud as I walk towards the stairs.

“I think it may be mine,” says my sister, brushing her teeth in the bathroom.

As I dig inside my mitchel, I see the display on my phone is illuminated. “It’s mine,” I say to no one in particular, my voice echoing in the hallway. The phone number isn’t recognizable, but it’s coming from Toronto. I pick it up.

“Hello?”

“… Steven?” says the other, semi-recognizable voice.

“Yeah.”

“… it’s R.” Really? I haven’t spoken with her since her wedding two years ago. She practically fell off the face of the earth since she entered that institution.

“Hi.”

“… is K with you?” This is the first thing she asks me after two years of silence?

“Uh, no.” Why does she want to know where our friend, K, is? Do I look like her keeper?

“… Oh.” R sounds disappointed.

“Ok, then.” I say, slightly pissed.

“… Bye.”

“Bye.” I hang up.

What the fuck was that? I think as I walk back towards the kitchen.

“Who was it?” asks my mother.

“You’re never going to believe it.” I pause for dramatic effect. “It was R.”

“R?” says my mother, incredulous.

“Yeah, I know. I don’t hear from her for two years, and she’s calling me to know where K is. I don’t care if she’s doing something with K and not me, but why the hell is she calling me to know where our friend is?” I huff. “And, don’t get me started over the fact that K is in town and didn’t call me to go out...”

“You know people change after they get married,” says my father while at the kitchen sink.

“Yeah, I know.” I scratch my head. “Ever since she became a Jehovah’s Witness and got married, she became a totally different person.” It’s not like I stopped communicating with her. I called and e-mailed several times throughout the years, to no response.

“That religion does strange things to people,” says my father.

Either religion, or marriage.

Note: To be continued...

Pass the penicillin

As another VD passes, another round of antibiotics must be taken to heal the burning and itching that has been bothering me for the past few days.

Being a firm believer of sharing my pain and suffering with others, I've concocted a simple way to do so: a test, made up of a series of true/false statements of occurrances that happened on February 14th, where each correct answer is one point (and a one-point bonus question).

So, sharpen your pencil, and pass the penicillin... it’s going to be a hard one.

**

The questions:

Got flowers and chocolates (two possible points).

Received two text-messages, wishing me a big ol’ honkin' VD.

Had a note from my sister telling me my niece made me something special “and it’s not poo.”

Was asked by someone if I actually work after I called them at work to wish them a happy Valentine’s Day.

Had an nice lunch with a special someone (they paid for the meal, which meant I had to pay for "dessert").

Treated myself to a cosmetic treatment at a luxurious spa, away from the cold.

Went to dinner where my date fell promptly fell asleep after scarfing down their meal in 10 minutes.

Took advantage of my date while they were asleep (the date didn’t notice).

Bonus question: What did I do to my date?

**

The answers:

False. No flowers (duh) and one chocolate from a corporate client.

True. Both received before 8:30 a.m.

True. And, the quote is real.

True. They weren't being mean (I swear), but joking with me.

False. I didn't eat lunch on Valentine's Day. No "dessert," either.

False. Spent a large chunk of the day outside, in the freezing cold (frostbite is the new Botox!).

False. This date was on the 13th, not the 14th.

True.

Bonus: I said idiotic things to them, and/or spoke like Charlie Brown's teacher (wouah, wouah, wouah), then pretended to get offended by saying, "I can't believe you'd say that," and "What sort of person are you to think that?"

I paid for dinner, they were asleep, so this was my form of entertainment.

Will you be my valentine?

To all of those who are single and haven’t had anyone give you a valentine this year, I give you kiss. Just remember that somebody loves you, whether it be now, or sometime in the near future.


To all of those who are living a happy, coupled existence, full of love, respect and devotion… well, y’all can just suck it.

Don't break my valentine's heart

When I was a young boy in school, I gave valentines to other people I liked. Quite often, I got what I gave in equal amounts. But, even in the spirit of giving, there was always someone who was left empty-handed. My heart broke a little for them.

No one deserves to feel unloved on Valentine's Day.

Years later, I still give out valentines to those I like (whether they like me is another story). When I am acknowledged, my mouth forms a tiny, gleeful smile. But, last year I didn't get one and my heart broke a little for me.

Why does this form of acknowledgement mean so much, and why does it mean so much to me? True, I am single, but that shouldn't be a factor. You don't need to be coupled to be loved. There must be someone out there who cares, but where are they?

Too many questions, too many headaches and heartaches.

All I know is I don't want to hurt, and I don't want to be reminded that no one cared enough to send me a valentine.

Two years ago

Saturday marked two years since Human Nature began it's relationship with Blogger.

After a certain period of time, things become familial: we love each other, we drive each other crazy, we can't live without one another, we have to hide the guns for fear we'll use them in a fiery blaze of glory.

Oh, and there's also the farting issue, but I'll save that for another time. Maybe I'll talk about it on our third anniversary, if we last that long. Goddamnit, you haven't touched me in such a long time that I'm considering having an affair with Wordpress...

That's right, I said it. Wordpress. Take that as a passive-aggressive warning, Blogger. Treat me right, or else I'm out the door.

It takes a lot of effort to look average

While some people are born beautiful, others get beauty thrust upon them in the way of hair, makeup, lighting, and a good photographer. Then, there’s me. No amount of good genes, thrusting, hair/makeup/lighting/photographer combo can make me into a cover model.

When dealing with my appearance, it takes a lot of effort just to look average.

There’s the washing, scrubbing, shaving, exfoliating, moisturizing, tweezing, squeezing, brushing, combing, and smoothing. And, that’s just a couple of things I do to my head. I won’t even describe what happens below the neck (although you can imagine).

There is so much work to be done and so little time to do it all.

Lord knows I'll never be smokin' hot. Fuck, I’ll take lukewarm if it’s on the menu. Throw me in the microwave for a minute and see what comes out.

But, if that isn’t feasible, maybe someone will come up with a surgery that can transplant my brain into their heads. And, if there is, I’ll be the first one on that waiting list.

In the mail

Getting the mail is a menial task that has to be done on a daily basis, or else the box would be so stuffed, the mail carrier wouldn’t be able to put any more crap inside of it.

Every day, I get the same thing.

Bill. Bill. Bill. Oh, what’s this? Can it possibly be… no, wait, another bill.

But, today is different. As I’m going through the pile, there’s a magazine rolled up inside the papers.

Ooh, a magazine! I’ve seen it on the stands. Must be a promotion. And, it’s free. FREE!! I practically squeal in my head.

I tear apart the plastic wrapper and begin to read it. Fairly thin on content. Half-decent articles. Nice photos. Not bad. I’ve read better. Wouldn’t pay $4.50 plus tax for it, but since it’s free…

Before I throw the sheath into the trash, I see there’s a small label on the back. Turns out, it isn’t for me. The carrier dropped it off at the wrong address. It isn’t even next door. Not even close. It’s in the other part of town.

I should stick it in the mail again, but I want to keep it. But, I shouldn’t. I wouldn’t want anyone to be taking my mail and keeping it for themselves. I know someone out there has a few of my Car and Driver magazines and I wouldn't want that to happen to someone else.

So, I do what any rational person would do: I place it back in its plastic sheath and drop it in the mailbox… after I’ve finished reading it.

Note: All bills I send back ASAP.

Light switch

Personalities are like light switches: they can be turned on and turned off with the flick of a finger. It’s akin to a performer putting on a show for an audience, then retreating to a “normal” state when the curtains go down.

Like many performers, I flick my switch on and off depending on my mood. If I find things to be boring, it’s up to me to get off my ass and shake it for everyone. If the party has already started, then I pull back and let someone else do their thing.

Strangely enough, I don’t control my own switch, even though I think it lies between the “on” and “off” position at all times.

When people are attracted to me, the switch flicks one way. Click. And, then they're repelled just as quickly. Click. It goes back on, again. Click. Then, off. Click. They get closer, closer, until you’re not able to breathe and there’s little space to exhale. Click. Then, they push you away, saying they don't want to be anywhere near you. Click. Click. Click.

The end result is akin to a strobe light - flash, flash, flash - and my head (not to mention my cold, black heart) ends up feeling the effects.

That is such a turn on. Or is it a turn off? On, or off? I’m not sure.

I think my switch is broken.

Nobody listens to dirty talk

It's a sad fact that people are so busy living their lives, they don’t even realize what’s going on around them. You could be lying on the ground, in the middle of the sidewalk, going through the stages of cardiac arrest, and they’ll just walk over you.

But, it can also be a blessing, since they’re not paying attention to my phone conversation.

As W and I are talking, the patter quickly turns naughty. Stories about sitting on faces, standing on milk crates, and people who could pass out from too much blood rushing to their private parts are discussed. It goes from PG to R in less than few minutes.

“Where are you,” asks W.

“I’m in the middle of a shopping mall,” I say as I bypass a few people. “Eaton’s Centre. You know it? It’s this huge mall in the middle of the city.”

“And you were saying all those things? What are those people thinking?”

“Please,” I roll my eyes as I walk inside Indigo books. It’s crowded for a Friday night. “I can tell you how badly I want to fuck you and no one will bat an eye.” This is said loud enough to garner attention and no one gives me any, proving my point.

Laugher is heard on the other side of the line.

"Seriously. I just said that in a store full of people, and nothing. Nothing. Nobody cares what I say." The call continues, with me saying salacious things for another 10 minutes.

In the end, it's a good thing to be ignored while dirty talking in public. Unfortunately, I wouldn't want the same reaction if I was having a heart attack.

Red rover, red rover

In a busy city, sidewalks bustle with hundreds of thousands of people by the second, each one stomping on the pavement with their soles, getting from point A to point B.

Even though they are designed for pedestrians, it doesn’t mean people know how to use them effectively.

Although most people do walk at a brisk clip, some don’t. These people are typically seniors or teenagers who have the world on their shoulders because “no one understands” them. I walk around them and carry on.

The other sorts of people who don’t know how to use sidewalks are those who form a line, four to five people, side-by-side, linked in a human chain. No one can pass them without falling into traffic, almost getting hit by a Hyundai with faulty brakes.

Whenever I come near them, the first thing I do is think of red rover.

Red rover, red rover, we call Steven over!

This is a game made of two groups of children, linked by arms, forming a human chain. One group calls over one person from the other side to attempt and break the chain, and if they succeed they go back to their group. If they fail, they are now members of the other group. The game continues until one side has no one left (typically).

But, I’m not a child and neither are these people in front of me.

For some reason, I think they’re taunting me with that chant.

Red rover, red rover, we call Steven over!

Smug bastards. Like fuck I’m going to play their game.

Since they’re ignoring everyone around them, I take a few quick steps towards the chain, say excuse me, break the chain, walk forward and think: Red rover, red rover, you better move out of the fuckin’ my way next time before I pop a cap in yo ass, bitch.

Nipples

After sitting down in this uncomfortable chair for way too long, I decide it’s time that I take a break. My legs need to stretch and I have to use the loo.

When I finish with my business, I turn towards the sink and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. With the water running, I look up and see my reflection in the mirror. Awful. This fluorescent lighting makes even the most beautiful of people look like the living dead.

With my hands washed and dried, I take a few seconds to make sure I look alright. Strange. There seems to be something on my sweater. A little stain of some sort. Round. Off to the side of my chest. I poke at the spot and it becomes more apparent. Then I notice something horrifying: there are two spots, perfectly opposite of each other.

Oh, Jesus Fucking Christ.

They’re not stains, they’re my nipples.

Whether it's the lighting, or the sheerness of the fabric, my nipples are visible. Both of them. And, no one has ever said anything. Ever. Are they embarrassed, or ashamed? Do like the show? Should I start charging admission? Who the fuck cares! They’re there. Saluting the troops, hailing the flag. We stand on guard for thee.

That does it. From now on, I’m wearing undershirts with everything I own.

Fourteen days

The reason why many people hate Valentine’s Day is that it's a day for couples. Even though you can buy a card and chocolates for yourself, it's not reciprocally romantic (unless you have Disassociative Identity Disorder and are in love with one of your personalities).

And, every year it’s the same thing for millions of people around the world.

Being a romantic at heart, I was crushed when all I got last year was a text message. Even though I sent plenty of cards and made a few phone calls, no one did the same thing to me. No one sent me a card (e-, or otherwise), called me, or even met up with me. If it wasn’t for the fact that my hair was looking great, I would’ve wrapped myself up under a blanket, curled into a fetal position, and swallowed an entire bottle of Nyquil to knock me unconscious for the rest of the day.

But, that was last year. This year it will be different. It has to be different.

Although I’m not adverse to a candlelit dinner, a stay at a swanky hotel, and a weekend trip to Paris, I’ll be happy with any form of romance, as long as it’s done in good faith.

Fuck, I’ll even take a Wal-Mart kind of sentiment. If someone buys the right kind of soft toilet paper for 50 per cent off, I’m theirs.

All I want is to have someone make me feel good. Just once. For one day.

Is that too much to ask?