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

Friday, March 30, 2007

Five words to describe yourself

Years ago, when my sister and I were shooting the shit at a local McDonald’s, I asked her what words she would use to describe herself (to someone new). To keep things simple, I narrowed the selection to three and told her which three words I would use to describe her. She agreed on two of them, but not on the third.

Of course, I didn’t ask her what words she would use to describe me. I’m not that stupid.

If I had to use a series of words (this time, five) to describe myself, I’m sure they’d remain the same in the following years. Maybe the order would shift around, but after 25+ years of living, I’d say consistency isn’t only a virtue, but a cliché by now. In no particular order, my five words are:

1. contradictory
2. pensive
3. evasive
4. irreverent
5. shy

Of course, I can use hot, sexy, well-hung, insatiable, and pornolicious as words to describe myself, but this is a list of five words, not ten.

Note: What words would you use to describe yourself to someone new? Tag it along.

Thursday, March 29, 2007


While I’m on the phone with E, I joke that he's not good at multitasking when he tells me he’s not able to do more than one thing at once, especially when it comes to walking and scoping out the latest hottie on the street.

A few moments later - while I’m dodging people left and right on the busy sidewalks of Yonge Street - my foot slips and I wobble into the street. Jumping back onto the sidewalk, a transit bus whooshes by, making my coat open and my hair fly to the side, missing my head by mere inches.

“Oh. My. God.” I interrupt E mid-sentence.

E stops talking. “What?” he asks.

“I almost got killed by a transit bus.”

“You what?”

“Killed. I just slipped off the sidewalk, and two seconds after I got back on it, the bus just zipped by my head, missing it by inches.”

“Are you ok?” he asks, worried.

“Yeah. More in shock than anything else.” I run my fingers through my hair. “Which reminds me, if you ever hear a crash, followed by a series of crunches, it’ll probably be me, being squished by a bus.”

As I carry on down the street, I can't help that I just cheated death by transit. Even though I made a comment on how E can’t walk and scope at the same time, turns out I can’t walk without getting killed.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Shit at the table

While growing up, my parents mandated that everyone in the family would eat dinner together, every night. It was their way of catching up on what was going on in the lives of each member of the family.

We talked about what we did in school and at work, what was going on in the news and around the world, the weather, what we have planned for the week and beyond.

In those days, we shot the shit.

Now, we just talk about shit. Literally.

Who went today? How many times this week? Was it soft? Hard? Runny? Was it a couple of turds? Was it a long circle? Thickness? Consistency? Colour? Corn? And, how are those ‘roids? Still a little itchy? Do those suckers burn each and every time? Do you need any Prep H?

Strangely, no one finds talking about shit at the table to be disgusting. Just like sleeping and breathing, everyone does it, so why be ashamed? It’s the one thing we all have in common… except for the consistency thing.

In my family, a day without shit is like a day without crazy.

Note: Sorry for grossing y'all out, but now you know my life can be pretty shitty.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Eating a bag of potato chips

You have to give credit to those who work out and eat a controlled diet in order to achieve a semblance of perfection when it comes to their bodies.

They make the right choices when eating, and refrain from unhealthy foods. They exercise several days of the week for at least an hour at a time - warming up, cardio, lifting weights, and cooling down. They take additional supplements required for to heal and repair their bodies.

That's not me. I’m not that dedicated.

True, I’m not overweight in any sense of the word. For those who have met me, know my body is lean and that of a runner: taut and toned, but not muscular. You’ll find more fat on a chicken cutlet then on my thighs.

Even if I wanted to look better by eating right and working out, I don’t think I’d want to. After a long day at the office, I would rather get home, change clothes, have a light dinner, and crash in front of the couch for a ½ hour while eating a bag of potato chips.

An extra hour of my day to work out would mean an extra hour lost in bed (and I don't get to sleep much, so that ain’t happenin’). And, I wouldn't go to an extreme to change my body to please someone else. If you don't like me the way I am, then somebody else will.

Then again, if I was overweight and no one gave me a passing glance, my fat ass would be on a treadmill before you could say gastric bypass.

Note: To those who do what you do to look the way you do (you know who you are), keep up the good work. I’m not the only one who appreciates it. Wanna potato chip?

Monday, March 26, 2007

The brass pole

Some of my friends have mentioned (on more than once occasion) that the brass pole is the only thing that separates my dancing from that of a stripper. Maybe they’re right, maybe they’re wrong. But, I don't care since I'm getting my freak on.


As I’m making my way through the mall, on my way to the train station, one store is hosting a series of special events on how to make women feel empowered by embracing their sexuality.

There are areas for make-up application, clothing makeovers, fashion shows, and one for dancing… with a brass pole.

The instructor is asking women to give it a try. Let their inner Nomi Malone come out. Be sexy. Be seductive. Be Gumby. None of them want to get up there.

In a split second, I feel like jumping on the platform and show them how it’s done.

Start off with a series of simple moves like grabbing, walking around, and sliding up and down the pole. Feeling a little naughty? Lick the pole. The more complex moves entail grabbing the pole, walking around, letting your legs free, and swinging your body around like a tether ball on a rope. Feeling adventurous? Do a little jump, wrap your legs around, and flip your body back.

Whatever you do, just work the pole, baby, work the pole.

But, I can’t show these women what to do. I’m running late and my train leaves in less than 10 minutes.

Eh. Maybe next time.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Milky-white substance

This morning, as I'm speaking with a couple of co-workers, I notice they’re making odd facial expressions – not too surprising since they are looking at me.

Later on, after finishing my business in the loo, I wash my hands and look into the full-size mirror to see whether there are any errant hairs that are out of place.

Hmmm… What’s that thing? I think as I brush my fingers by my nose.

Leaning forward, torso pressing against the sink, it looks like a whitehead, but it’s not. It’s an unusual shape. A milky-white substance. On closer inspection, it resembles semen, but it’s not. It’s snot.

That’s why people have been looking at me strangely. Yeah, that must be the reason. Why my co-workers never told me I have an imitation cum shot on my face is another topic of conversation.

With my index finger, I try to scratch it out. It doesn’t want to go. It’s as stubborn as dry jizz. I rub and rub and the sticky stuff doesn’t want to come off. Wetting my fingers has to do the trick. After a minute, or so, of rubbing the milky-white substance off my face, it comes off.

I'm elated.

When I’m back at my desk, I attempt to work on a few projects, but my mind is somewhere else. There’s a nasal twitch that needs tending to. I am constantly rubbing my nose because it still feels like I have something there.

Thankfully, I didn’t have anything on my clothes because that would bring up a whole other series of odd facial expressions by my co-workers.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

To the woman who humped me at the train station


You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you very well. Does my face ring a bell? No? I'm surprised, actually. If you don't recognize the face, then you must know me by my ass. I mean, you were humping it this morning.

You’re not a shy one, are you? You're really quite forward. I like that. There were no introductions. Just a few seconds after I got off the train, you were right on top of me. White on rice. Or should I say, white on ass.

I wanted to move faster, but the person ahead of me wasn't moving. What did you do? You kept on pushing. I could've fallen down the stairs, you crazy bitch. You know that? And you know what happens when people push me? I push back. It's too bad you thought this was foreplay, not a passive-aggressive ploy on my behalf.

You were so turned on by my "move" that your leg practically wrapped itself around my thigh. Jesus Mary Fucker. Lady, give it a rest. I was not in the mood for a shag... at least not before my morning coffee.

Couldn't you see I wasn't interested? I was on my way to work, and you were on my ass. Pressing further. Deeper. More and more into me. So much so that I felt your labia, rubbing against my right ass cheek.

Oh, and before I forget, you need to wipe yourself down - all of this excitement left you a little moist and you left a spot of dampness on my ass.


Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Judgy wudgy was a bear

Whenever you write an amusing e-mail or IM note to someone, there’s always the chance the other person won’t get your humour and end up thinking you’re being judgemental, pointing a finger at them.

There's a lack of context: a tone of voice, or facial expression to fill in the whole picture of a true intention.

Unfortunately, there are times when no matter how hard you try not to sound judgemental, you do, even when you think it’s for the best.

In all honesty, I do think a fuckbuddy who lives close by is convenient (Just think of the speedy service!), and healthy diet choices should include a selection of high-fat and zero-nutrition foods (Give me a bag of Doritos, and watch it disappear in seconds!).

But, there’s only one time where being judgemental - to hell with tone of voice, or facial expression - is really the only way to go…

That big, old, orange couch in your living room is unattractive (in fact, it’s pretty damn oogly) and no amount of fire will make it look any better. Don’t worry, I’ll light the match. It’s the least I can do. I mean, what are friends for?

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Drunk walk

As part of a recent work assignment, a co-worker and I were supposed to walk down a hallway while being filmed. We were directed to strut, as they do in the opening sequence of CSI. There were several takes because we kept on laughing while trying to act serious.

Watching the footage, something struck me: I have the most ridiculous walk in the world. One foot barely makes it past the other. My legs cross, making it difficult to walk a straight line. It's as if I had six G&Ts and I'm stumbling home for another six.

I always thought I walked fine - not too fast, not too slow, to a regular beat. My strut entails a stomp where the muscle in the back of my thigh tenses and makes the bottom of my ass cheek jiggle just a tiny bit with the impact of my foot hitting the ground.

Apparently, what I think and what I do are two different things.

And because of that video, I am never going to walk again.

Note: Do you walk the way you think you do? Have someone film you while walking to prove you otherwise.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Sashay chanté

It’s Toronto Fashion Week, and the fashionistas race from show to show, like a group of turbo-powered dolls. Their hard-soled shoes click on the floor as they take their seats in the front row, watching - and critiquing - the latest offerings from the City’s creative couturiers.

The Versace show, which closes off the week, is the event of the season. The invites are VIP only. If your name isn’t on the list, then you won’t be making across the velvet rope.

My name is on the list.

Arriving at the site, my date and I enter and take a seat on the lounges. Bottled service if offered, but we decline. In the centre of the room, there’s an elevated aisle, covered in black lacquer, surrounded by two rows of upholstered chairs.

While the club is filling up with the stylish set, my date and I talk and gawk while slim shadys glide past us. After a while, everyone blends into the same person due to the omnipresence of the colour black and the mood lighting.

When the show starts, a series of 10 female and 2 male models strut down the catwalk in the latest Versace designs. The cameras flash multiple times. There are the occasional oohs and ahhs in the crowd as swaths of fabric fly by the faces of the audience.

Everything is fabulous: the clothes, the hair, the makeup, and the both of us.

Soon after the show ends, my date and I decide to go home. It’s getting late and both of us have to get up early the next day.

On our ride home, a steady snowfall covers the City and it surrounds us in a blanket of white.


Below is an alternate take on the same night.


After getting the wrong directions for the venue, my date and I quickly leave the Bustle show ($9 for 9 minutes of parking) to make way to the Versace event. As we drive through on the slippery streets, we’re lost for a few seconds, but find the location in the City’s hip, west end.

The car is parked, but the parking meter doesn’t accept my credit cards. Into my wallet I go to find loose change. There’s just enough for a couple of hours and to avoid a hefty ticket.

While resembling two people who were caught in a Columbian cocaine storm, both of us enter the venue and I walk up to the sign-in desk. My name isn’t found on the list. I find it and stab the page with my fingernail, despite the fact that I’m reading the paper upside down and backwards.

Since my date isn’t “registered” (even though I have a plus one), she has to pay to get in. This is not amusing to me or her. I can try and bitch my way around it, but I’m too tired. Being the gentleman that I am, I pay for her ticket.

Even though the doors opened at 9 p.m., I think we’re late when we enter at 9:15. We’re not. The place is empty. Vacant. We look around and find a place to sit. There’s a lounge area upstairs but it’s all reserved, so we sit on a sofa-cum-extended-ottoman.

For a while, things are fine. We entertain ourselves with stories about our lives, but we stop when we have nothing else to say.

Around 11:30, the club gets crowded, the music gets louder, and the fashion parade doesn’t stop with most people wearing the editorial uniform of tits and ass.

The people sitting next to us sample the bottle service, making my date and I wonder how much money people in retail must make to afford approximately $500 worth of Moët. We must be in the wrong business.

The show starts at 12:15 - three hours after we arrive. The clothes are not from the latest Spring/Summer ’07 collection, but from the resort collection. There is only one bathing suit (on a misshapen girl), no Oscar dresses, and an endless supply of black leather jackets on the two male models (who the fuck wears black leather jackets in the summer?).

After 15 minutes, it’s over. Both of us want to go home. We're tired since we’ve had busy weeks at work. Her fatigue is compounded by the fact that she has an hour’s worth of driving to do.

On the way home, the snow doesn't stop and other drivers have a penchant for braking at inopportune times. It freaks out the both of us. I try to make my fate feel better by telling her that I should come with her to a club so she can watch me dance to calypso music (it works and I can move my body like no other white boy).

By the time she drops me off at the station, I have to clean a few layers of snow and ice off my car before I can drive it. When I get home, I strip my clothes off on the way to the bedroom, don't bother to take a shower (even though I smell of smoke) and climb into bed feeling dirty.

Friday, March 16, 2007

Walking the dog

When e-mailing from work, it's always best to refrain from using R-rated words in order to bypass certain "flags" that arise in the system's server. Type a word like penis or vagina, and a mainframe flashes a red signal, then a group of little men show up at your desk, take a hold of your computer, and remove you from the premises.

Hence, a code is developed.

Although there are many terms that can mean one two different things (ex: stuffing a turkey does make you sound like Martha Stewart), one of the best ones is this: walking the dog.

It's the multi-purpose, be and and end all of code terms for work e-mails.

Think about it...

Your dog stays inside all day, in a small and cramped space. It's frustrated. It wants to get out. It needs air, some exercise to stretch its legs and flex its muscles. The animal wants to release some tension, over and over and over again, if possible.

Isn't it a crime to be cruel to your pets? If you take care of them, they'll give you so much happiness in return.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take my big ol' dog for a nice long walk. The longer, the better. Of course, he also likes it when someone - besides its owner - does the walking for him. Any takers?

Thursday, March 15, 2007

High school abusical

The high school I went to was known for the quality of people who made an impact in society: Ed Broadbent was a leader of the NDP, Alan Pilkey was an esteemed member of Parliament, and of course, me.

Unfortunately, there was also a lot of crap that littered those hallways.

Case in point…

Mike X raped a girl, took a rock to her head, crushed her skull and left her for dead on the train tracks. He got 12 years in prison, eligible for parole in six. He also made a threat on my life, but that’s another story for another time…

Anthony Y shot and killed a man after an argument gone sour. Manslaughter. He got three years probation because he was a “good boy” (and he was, despite never being able to shut the fuck up) while serving time on another sentence.

Jamie Z had been incarcerated due to being a child predator, with a predilection for young boys (when he was in Student’s Council, he just liked to steal cash from the accounts – being the treasurer, and all).

Did I mention these three gentlemen were also within two years (plus or minus) of my grade? In fact, I associated with them all at one point, or another. One was a boyfriend of an acquaintance, one was a classmate, and one was a member of my cabinet.

It’s too bad they didn’t take advantage of what the school offered in classes and extracurricular activities.

Now they’re stuck doing bad revivals of Gypsy for the guys in cell block H.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007


The TV is on in the living room, the channel on Bob the Builder. My sister is sitting in my father’s recliner, reading a magazine. I, on the other hand, am lying on the floor with my niece, both of us watching the show.

From the kitchen, my mother asks, “Steven, is this juice yours?”

“Yes, I didn’t finish it at lunch.”

“Here,” she walks into the living with the glass and passes it to me. “Drink it, and I can finish washing the rest of the dishes.”

I grab the glass, take a large mouthful and pass the glass back to my mother. She disappears around the corner.

With my mouth full of OJ, my cheeks expand like that of a chipmunk and my niece notices the anomaly of my face. She comes close, puts her hands on either side of my mouth and begins to push my cheeks inwards.

“Chew, Uncle.” She puckers her lips. “Chew.”

I nod my head and grunt.

“Chew. Cheeeeeewwwwww,” she repeats as she presses my cheeks further inwards.

By now, I have one of two options: a) swallow about a gallon of OJ at once and choke, or b) spit out a gallon of OJ in my niece’s face. Since my sister is in the room, I’m going with the first one.

I swallow. Hard. Tears fill my eyes. She smiles. “Good, Uncle,” she says as she pats my cheeks.

When she turns towards the TV, I let out a large, hacking cough. I wonder if I left a lung somewhere on the floor.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

I need to write a new dictionary

When having conversations with someone you like, it’s always a good idea to listen. Unfortunately, you don’t always understand what they’re really saying because you like them and you want them to like you back.

So you hear one thing when they're saying another...

They say they’re obsessed with certain movie stars, you hear they love Hollywood glamour. What you should’ve heard is they’re stalkers without the telephoto lens.

They say they don’t have any relationships with adults, you hear they’re shy and misunderstood. What you should’ve heard is they have no social skills and there’s a reason why others don’t like them.

They say most of their friends are of the virtual kind, you hear they're electronically-connected to the world. What you should've heard is they remain behind the screen because their real-life persona isn't as perfect as their falsely-fabricated online profile.

They say every romantic relationship they’ve had ended up being with “psychos” (danger, Will Robinson!) you hear they have bad luck. What you should’ve heard is they’re the ones who are psychos and every romantic dalliance has been sane.

Eventually, dictionaries become useless in deciphering what others are trying to say.

Eh, fuck it. I’m going to have to write a new one.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Man, he feels like a woman

There he stands in front of me. A Ford model. His body is lean and lanky. Long face with a perfectly-proportioned nose and thin lips. There are blonde highlights in his sandy-coloured hair. His clothes are mostly black, from his pea coat to his tailored trousers.

As I glance down towards the square-toe shoes, I quickly move my eyes back up and notice something odd, something off. Gripped in his hand is a rather large, black object. Not a man bag. Not a shoulder bag. Not a gym bag. None of those. It’s a purse. An honest-to-God woman’s purse.

Being someone who keeps up with the latest fashion trends, I can spot an “It” bag from a mile away. This one is similar to a status bag from Marc Jacobs, shaped like a half-football, with a large zipper on the bottom that conceals any additional objects.

In the past, I have held a purse for a friend, but I’ve never used one. True, I carry my mitchel everywhere I go, but it resembles a mini-satchel, not a full-on lipstick, mascara, compact, wallet, and a couple of tampons-carrying purse.

The Ford model with the long and lanky body, perfectly-proportioned features, and photogenic qualities is just in touch with his feminine side than a lot of women I know.

Note: Too bad I didn't ask if he had an extra Tampax in his purse. That would've made my week.

Friday, March 09, 2007

Name withheld

Every so often, I pass by a selection of magazines and flip through them to kill the time between scheduled appointments. From the ads to the articles, there is usually something that grabs my attention.

This time isn’t any different.

The first few pages typically contain letters to the editor, and the one which holds particular significance is usually bolded and in a larger font size. The one I'm reading is quite good. It’s literate, has a great flow and is snappy. It’s signed “name withheld.”

And, it’s also mine.

I can’t believe the editor of the magazine would use my letter and not even acknowledge me. The nerve. Haven’t they ever heard of the journalistic code of ethics?

So what do I do? I write a letter to the editor, like every passive-aggressive bitch does.

Hi, D.
Hope all is well.
Just wanted to say that I picked up the latest issue of the magazine and in the first few pages saw a pleasant surprise: my letter to you... which was signed "name withheld."
Not to put you on the spot, but is there a reason for protecting my privacy? I'm not Tom Cruise, or George Clooney.
I thought it would've been cool to see my name on the bottom of the letter.
Again, I'm not pointing a finger at you (or the mag), but it has left me scratching my head.

About a day, or so, after my e-mail, I receive a response from the editor:

Hi, Steven.
The decision to use the letter was last minute and we didn't have a full name available. We only put full names or name withheld.

Well, that makes perfect sense. The magazine didn’t have anyone submit anything complimentary, so they used my letter. Why they never contacted me to know my full name is beyond me (they had my e-mail). Then again, I don't work in publishing.

As a token of my gratitude, I write him something back:

Hi, D.
Thanks again for using my letter.
It’s great to know you honour and respect the rights and talents of other writers. Unfortunately, you have a habit of using the works of others and not giving them credit.
But, what do you know about respecting the rights of writers? You’re a hack editor of a magazine. You shouldn’t know any better, even if my letter was the best thing you published in the past two years.

Don't worry. I forgive you for your moral-less ineptitude.
Oh, and by the way, fuck you.

Thursday, March 08, 2007


Jugglers are the greatest multi-taskers because they can keep a series of balls in the air without letting them drop. When they feel one slipping, they improvise a manoeuvre and maintain the rhythm.

In a way, jugglers don’t only deal with balls; they also deal with people.

For example, there is someone who is currently juggling a series of (four? five?) relationships, each one different in its own way. With great physical and psychological dexterity, he manages to keep all of them up in the air, not wanting to let any of them fall because they all mean something different to him.

Recently, something happened. Unbeknownst to him, he found out that these relationships cross over with each other. They’re casual friendships, but relationships, for sure. Most of them talk with at least someone else in the group. But, he’s afraid that word gets out about his juggling.

So, what is he to do?

Should he go on, keeping his concentration, throwing ball after ball in the air? Should he let one of the balls drop, making it easier for him to juggle? Should he let them all drop, effectively ending each relationship?

Too many balls, too little time?

Note: Thank you to About a boy and Silly Billy for the shout-outs yesterday.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Spanx you very much

Even with the threat of global warming, winter weather always entails a series of days with temperatures so cold that post nasal drip freezes the second it begins to run down your schnoz.

Worst of all, it can turn your outie (*cough*) into an innie. And no one wants that.

The simplest way to keep everything warm and toasty is to throw on a pair of thermal underwear; preferably long-johns. The technology manages to retain body heat without sweating.

But, the best thing is that they work like Spanx, the well-known collection of body-shapers. Long-johns make your clothes fit better (at least below the waist) by sucking it in, pushing it up, and - when required - lifting and separating.

They’re like a push up bra for your nether regions

Amazing. I’m considering wearing three at a time.

Note: And, yes, it is.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Foundation is only skin deep

There is a good-looking, hip-dressed guy who commutes on the same train as mine who grabs my attention every time I see him. Why? It’s because of his skin; specifically, it’s because of the appearance of his skin.

While most people have a white pallour during the cold months of winter, he manages to have a bit too much colour on his face. And, I know why. He uses foundation, and it’s not well applied. Whether he uses L’Oréal or Lancôme, it doesn’t matter. It looks awful.

The colour does not have the tone of someone who frequents the tanning salon, or of someone who knows his way around a self-tanner. It’s not orange, but a shade of dusty-rose.

In all honesty, I used a little bit of foundation to cover up a bad pimple in my early teens. But, it didn’t last for long. The foundation brought more attention to the bump on my face (because it was the wrong shade). So, instead of walking around with the perception of perfect skin, the only thing you’d see was a pinkish mark on my mug.

It’s going to be hard not to stare at him when we pass by each other, especially since I just found out he works in the same building as I do, just below me.


Update: Today, I almost stuck out my finger and dragged it down his cheek to see if it smudges.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Lost and found?

In the middle of my conversation with G, he mentions he received a package in the mail that day: a CD that he couldn’t find at home. Since he didn’t mention this to too many people, he assumed I sent him another one as a gesture of kindness.

If only he knew how “kind” I really am, he wouldn’t have ever asked me that question in the first place.

Not being someone who could easily (and selfishly) claim the token gesture as my own, I tell him that I didn’t send him the CD; it must’ve been someone else. After some sleuthing, he tells me it was one of his friends. Obviously.

But, it got me thinking… there are people out there who will graciously help another when something needs to be found - whether it’s a CD, or your mind.

So, if anyone is wondering, I’m looking for a black Mercedes S500 (preferably with the driver still included), a 2,000 sq. ft. condo, a summer home in the Hamptons, the fall/winter 06 and spring/summer 07 collections from Burberry, Dolce and Gabbana and Versace, a couple of thousands of stocks of Google.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Don't touch my computer

Judging from experience, you never want your co-workers to use your computer because they always end up screwing around with your files. If you think it's located in one place, chances are, it won’t be the next time you sit down in front of your monitor.

But, it’s worse when your IT guy checks your computer remotely and asks you if you have a folder open that’s filled with X-rated files and you tell him no while furiously trying to delete the files, but end up copying them a number of times, so the files increase (from 4 to 40) with each click of the mouse and you know he’s seeing all of this from his computer and you keep on telling him that you have no idea what he's talking about while stifling your laughter from the ludicrousness of the situation and end up telling him there is no folder open on your computer (even though he can see everthing you're doing), he must be making a mistake.

Not that that ever happened to me.

But if it does, I'll make sure to unplug the server cables first.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

Jealousy is like a cheap suit

Jealousy is a state of being envious or resentful of a person(s) advantages. It can be about money and success, family and friends, lovers and fuckers. It can happen to anyone and no one is immune.

Even me.


Upon hearing about the romantic exploits of a friend of mine, my mind slowly begins to go the ugly place where I don’t like to visit, or even pass by on occasion. As much as I wanted to hear more, I couldn't stomach it for much longer. Jealousy is not an attractive personality trait.

The feeling of That should’ve been me overwhelms me. My mind tells me a bunch of illogical thoughts: I deserved to be there. I wanted to be the one who was bold and made the first step. I wanted to have the touch, the kiss, the connection.

But, logistically, I couldn’t. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do anything about it. And, in the end, I felt foolish for feeling something that was beyond my control.

Jealousy is like a cheap suit, made of green polyester, hanging off a body like a poorly-fitted second skin. I'm wearing it, and it looks butt-ugly on me.