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

Monday, April 30, 2007

Practice makes perfect

Quite often, people exalt their skills in a variety of things. Whether they’re good with numbers, at sports, or in the arts, they never stop talking about how good they are.

But, there is one skill I’ve never understood why people talk about: kissing.

How can a subjective skill be rated on by the individual doing the deed? Last time I rememer, kissing is dependant on the POV of others.

Even if it is true, how does it happen? Not everyone is naturally talented (no matter what their over-inflated egos think). When dealing with kissing, could it be a matter of practice makes perfect: The more people you kiss, the better you are at it?

It’s not the same as people who talk about their sexual prowess. People can have lots of sex, but that means they’re whores, and nothing more. Insert A into B. Remove A from B. Repeat. Kissing is much more complicated, with more calculations than a quadratic equation.

Of course, no one would ever admit to being a bad kisser. That’s lunacy.

So, whatever the answer (natural born talent, or macking machine), all I have is one question: Can I get in on some practice?

Friday, April 27, 2007

Wax paper

Even though you have no choice when having to respond to your GI system, you can still choose the bathroom you’ll be requiring to answer your, um… call.

But, there’s a problem when the loo isn’t up to par with poo.


Since I have to use the facilities, there is no other choice but to take care of the situation ASAP. The loo is in a fancy-schmancy office tower in downtown, supervised by one of the top building mangers in the country.

When I’m finished, I look over to the TP dispenser and am shocked. Not because there’s no TP, but because the TP they use is the same stuff my primary school used: wax paper.

Have you ever tried to wipe your ass with a 2x2 piece of wax paper? You know what happens when you try to do it? That’s right! Your shit gets smeared. All over your ass crack.

Thankfully, I’m a self-cleaning version, so there wasn’t much to smear. I just have to remember that next time, I'll put my GI system call straight to voicemail.

Note: Have a non-shitty weekend!

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Freaky shit

When checking my stat counter, I want to see how many people are clicking onto my site on a daily basis, where they come from and how long they linger.

The answers are normally: 8, from nowhere in particular, and not long enough.

But, the most interesting part is checking out the search queries that lead them to my site. And from what I can tell, these people are looking for some freaky shit.

Although there are PG-rated searches like What is human nature? What happened to Kenny Rogers? Is Brian Gluckstein married? What happens in the pottery scene of Ghost? some of them have been dipping their toes in bad taste; others dive right in.

There have been people looking for men loving trannies (uh, ok), round cashmere nipples (huh?), moobs hurting when they bounce, mother masturbating in nature (ew), sucking on my meat backstage (was it a hot dog?), and a bunch of other kinky stuff I wouldn’t describe to a horny hooker willing to do anything for a ten spot.

The sad thing is I haven’t written anything freaky. Well, nothing I consider freaky. That is, unless you count the rantings and ravings of a sardonic and salty, bitter and embattled, crusty Canadian.

But, that lies under the subject of freakish, not freaky.

Note: Congrats on your new job, J.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

A second chance to make a first impression

It is common knowledge that you only get one chance to make a first impression. The main reason is time: no one has any extra left on their schedules to make an appointment for the second one.

When it comes to interviews, my patter is practiced to perfection. I know what to say, when to say it, and how to say it, and I know what to talk about what I did, what I am doing, and what I plan to do with my life, career-wise.

When it comes to meeting people for the first time, it doesn't happen that way. Being someone who is very shy, I take a step back and watch the interaction between others so I can get a feeling of what to say and when to say it.

Unfortunately, due to my pas de parler, it comes across as a form of judgement - which is false. I don't judge people. If I have something to say, I tell them to their faces. It's that simple.

So, the question is this: Should I just make the most of the first impression and see what happens, or see what happens if I get a second one, allowing me to let "the real me" come through? What the hell should I do?

Because, when you think about it, shouldn't everyone get a second chance at a first impression?

Note: Your family and friends are in my thoughts, C.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007


While perusing blogland, I can’t help but wonder how many people put their lives out there for everyone to read and see (if there’s a photo). Part of me is intrigued, wanting to know more, and part of me is repulsed because I think I read too much already.

True, it makes me sound like a hypocrite because I, too, am an Editor-in-Chief of my own site. But, like any good editor, I know what stays in and what needs to be taken out to achieve an interesting and entertaining balance.

The checklist of what stays and what goes is a simple one. Although I am a proponent of never using the word “never” for anything, there are some things that my eight readers will never find on this site…

- Names of any family members and friends (it's their initials - always)
- Stories of any family members and friends (it's their stories to tell)
- Tales of romantic exploits (there's nothing romantic to talk about)
- Me wearing nothing, or next-to-nothing (there are better bodies out there)

If I wanted fame, the numbers on my stat counter to grow exponentially, or people to compliment me about how [insert comment] I am, I’d surely take the four points (above) into consideration. But, that’s not my style. I am not seeking attention, or the approval of others. This site is about writing, not T&P/D&A.

Of course, there will still be plenty of stories about my exploits in the world, because that’s what Human Nature is all about.

Note: Sorry about that. I had an itch to scratch.

Monday, April 23, 2007


Recently, I came across the contact information of an artist that I admire. He’s very good at what he does, and is from Toronto. Being the sort of person of person who is semi-proficient in the occasional ass-kissing, I send a message saying that I’m a fan of his work.

When he writes back, he thanks me for my message.

By chance, he also says he read Human Nature.

And, to quote him: “Your blog is interesting...”

Part of me is thinking, "Oh my God! He visited my site." The other part of me is thinking, "Oh my God! He visited my site."

Even though I don’t know him personally, I know what he means by interesting. I use the same word when I’m trying to be diplomatic and not say crazy. So, in one fell swoop, I screwed up any chance of meeting him because he thought my site was interesting (and in turn, found me interesting, as well).

Now, I wonder whether I should delete Human Nature if/when someone who I admire (and wants to like me) reads my ramblings. Can it help my chances if it isn’t around, or can it hinder them if it exists?

Let me just say that I hope he doesn’t recognize me if we cross paths in the city. That would be too embarrassing.

Note: I sent him another note saying I loved his work with a particular model... only to find out it was the wrong model. I'm such a fucking idiot.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Get it out me

It’s true, it’s you
It’s something that you do
Ain’t nobody has been able to
Get it out me, get it out me

On her 20 Y.O. album, Janet Jackson sings Get it out me over a simple synth bass and 808 drum machine as a proclamation of what other people can do to get inside of her and make her do the things she does.

Being someone with a fairly stable demeanour, I find that my mood and behaviour doesn’t have extreme highs and lows. That bothers others because I’m always cognizant of the reasons why I do things and the reasons why I don’t.

But, sometimes, depending on who I’m with, that way of thinking is irrelevant and I become a different person.

There are some people who get something out of me. Like a spastic finger on a trigger, there's a reaction - a certain behaviour, that's deeply hidden in the mind, comes to life. These people make me do things that I normally wouldn’t do: I’m lewder, cruder, sexier, flirtier, meaner, and greener.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure if I have the same effect on other people. While it takes something for them to get it out me, maybe it takes something else for me to get it out them.

Note: Is this just me, or does this happen to everyone?

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Touchy, touchy

Being someone who has carefully crafted and cultivated a defensive personality from being misunderstood by others over the years, I have mastered the art of the pot of bubbling water: it’s always simmering and hardly ever boils over.

Until you misinterpret my words and misuse them against me. Then, watch the lid fall to the floor and the water flow out in waves.

One time, when I wrote about being surrounded by three fat people during a train ride, some readers thought I was insulting approximately ¼ of the world’s population.

But, that post was about people - irrelevant of size - impeding on my personal space. Being someone who suffers from respiratory issues (and mild claustrophobia), I begin to panic if there isn’t enough breathing room. It’s like people are sucking the air from around me.

It has nothing to do against the size of people. I’d rather be in a room with two plus-sized individuals, than 20 skinny ones.

Some people have issues with their weight and I shouldn’t make light of the situation. If I wanted to make fun of the man who was spilling over into my seat, I would’ve mentioned him eating junk food for an entire hour (which he did) while sitting beside me. But, I didn't.

I’m not a heartless person, and to prove it, here is where I stand on a few other issues…

I don’t hate old people. Almost everyone that I associate with is older than I am. They’re wiser, their experiences can be used as guidelines for life, and it's always easier to shift the blame on them when you fart.

I don’t hate people who drink. Some people treat life like happy hour, and I say good for them. You can also screw with their heads the next day because they won't remember anything they did with the really gross guy at the bar.

I don’t hate people who do drugs. Let them do what they want to their bodies. They can be more entertaining then non-high people because their inhibitions are gone.

I don’t hate people who whore around. They’ve got an itch to scratch, so let them scratch it. If they’re responsible adults, they can scratch all they want until they require antibiotics.

Why do I always have to defend myself?

I don’t hate anyone!

Wait, that’s not true…

I hate teenagers. Smug bastards. I couldn’t stand them when I was their age and I sure as hell can’t stand them now. So self-righteous and full of shit. Argh. I can’t stand ‘em.

Note: Not too long ago, I was also a fat person. So, for those people who say I was being critical of them, I was also being critical of myself.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Morning serenade

This morning marks the first time I am awaken by the sound of someone serenading me. It's quite nice. Very melodic.

“La la la, Uncle… La la la, Uncle…” sings my niece from the hallway.

"Uncle will up soon," I hear my sister saying. "When he comes out of his room, then you can play with him."

After going through my morning routine, my sister tells my niece up in the night and called out for me. She didn't see me before she went to sleep (I got home late from work) and wanted to know where I was. Poor thing, she misses her uncle, even when she's unconscious.

“I don’t understand why she likes him," says my mother at lunchtime, while the entire family is seated at the table. "Look at her, she’s practically hanging off of him.” On that cue, my niece jumps off her chair, walks around the table and sits on my lap - watching TV - for the rest of the meal.

The rest of the day is spent with the both of us goofing around and playing with each other. It's fun. She looks like a living doll. Only she poops a lot more.

But, why does she like me? There are other people who spend more time with her, give her more gifts, and love and attention. They should be on the receiving end of her affection, not me.

Could it be because I let her watch TV (much to the dismay of my sister)? Could it be because I do different voices when I read stories to her? Could it be because I play with her and her toys? Could it be because I like to play dress up? Could it be because I let her do anything she wants?

It could be one, all, or none of the above. But, whatever the reason, it doesn't matter; just as long she keeps serenading me in the morning.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

A wrinkle in fine

Cosmetic surgery is a part of a multi-billion dollar industry that feeds on the insecurities and fears of those not wanting to be unattractive, or grow older as the pages on the calendar flip, one by one.

About a decade ago, more than 90% of cosmetic surgery patients were women. The most popular and prevalent procedures included breast implants, tummy tucks and liposuction.

Now, the tides have changed and there’s a new face in the industry: men. They make up almost 30% of all patients waiting to be sliced and diced by the sharp instruments of qualified doctors.

Typically, those who get a nip-and-tuck are businessmen who want to appear more youthful, next to younger employees. These procedures can be expensed since it's deemed important in the cutthroat world of dollars and sense, where the next generation are nipping at the heels of their more established counterparts.

But, for some reason, younger men are also getting work done.

It's understandable if they require surgery for something they’re been uncomfortable/unhappy with for years (noses, ears, etc.). But when you hear (or see) men getting Botox and Restylene injections, it makes me wonder how many wrinkles can a 30-year-old have?

The only wrinkle I have is the one that goes down the crack of my ass.

I know people in their mid-to-late 30s who don’t have a line on their face, so I know - to these younger men - it's all a matter of vanity. Do they even realize they're immobilizing their faces while inflating them up to appear younger?

True, when I’m older (and hopefully, wealthier), I’d like to get a few alterations because even the finest of suits can get out of shape with constant use.

Until then, I’ll just grow older gracefully... and hang out with people who look a hell of a lot older than I do.

Note: Happy birthday, Superman. From, Boy Wonder.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Out of tune

During the meeting with my boss, music reverberates through the walls and filters its way under the crack of the door. The song is Buttons by The Pussycat Dolls - a favourite amongst the brass pole set.

While we’re sitting in our respective chairs (she behind her desk and me in front of it), I can’t fight the feeling to want to start to sing and dance. The beat, the lyrics, the video, all of it inspires me to shake my ass.

As she’s going over a document I prepared on her computer, I let out a little snippet, here and there…

“I’m telling you loosen up my buttons, babe. Ah ha…” I say softly. “But you keep frontin’. Ah.”

She continues to look at the monitor.

“Saying what you goin’ do to me. Ah ha…” I say a little louder. “But I ain’t seen nothin’.”

She continues to look at the monitor.

“I’m telling you loosen up my buttons, babe.” I do a hair flip. “But you keep frontin’.” I put my hand up to my face, and gently pull on my bottom lip.

She continues to look at her monitor.

“Say what you will do to me. Ah ha…” Another hair flip to the side. “But I ain’t seen nothin’.”

While the song continues, I sing it – softly – in my chair, occasionally moving around, as if I was in the Francis Lawrence-directed music video.

After the meeting is over, she says the report just needs a few subtle changes. I don’t think she noticed if I was singing in her office, or not. If she did, then she does a pretty good job of keeping her Simon Cowell-like comments to herself.

At least it’s not like the time where I was belting Vision of Love and sang the long vocal run at the end of the song in the middle of the office.

Hopefully, everyone had left for the day.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Brain fart

Being the kind of person who has no problem talking in front of large groups of people, I never choke when it comes to doing large presentations. It doesn't matter if I'm teaching/lecturing a classroom of a couple of hundred to - give, or take - a thousand people.

Except this time.

As I’m standing in front of a large audience, their attention focused on me, I turn towards the projected screen, then the monitor, then the audience, then the monitor, then the projected screen, then… nothing. Blank.

I can’t think of what I am going to say next. True, I have only done this presentation a couple of times, but I should know my material. Unfortunately, the reference desk is now closed.

“Brain fart. Braaaaaiiiiin faaaaart…” I whisper into the microphone, unconsciously. The sound amplifies and echoes in the room.

Did I just say brain fart? I think. Oh, fuck, I hope no one heard that. The last thing I need is for these people to think I have no idea what I’m talking about… which I currently don’t.

I look back at the audience, and they look back at me. There's a brief, uncomfortable pause. They stare at me with a What the fuck is wrong with you? intensity. Suddenly, something clicks inside and the switch is turned back on; my mind is working again and the rest of the presentation goes smoothly.

Next time I have to remember two things just in case my mind blanks out: stick to the script; and never, ever say “brain fart” into the microphone.

Thursday, April 12, 2007


When you pull a book off a shelf, crack open its spine, and begin to flip through the pages, you expect the story to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Only sometimes, there’s the final chapter is missing and you don’t know how the damn thing ends.

Unresolved relationships can be like those missing pages, and I am someone who needs to know what happens.

I need closure.

Instead of wallowing in doubt (Was it me? What did I do?), I whip up a satisfactory denouement to tie up any loose ends.

It’s a cop-out to think of yourself as the hero, and the other party as the villain. There is no good and bad. Everyone is equally complicated. There are no extenuating circumstances (although they help with melodramas – An Affair to Remember, anyone?), and the basic story is kept simple.

Hopefully, it all ends well, even if there are no happy endings.

Sometimes closure must be created on the page, read and accepted to help shut the book close, and placed back on the shelf.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Working on a construction site with a bunch of burly guys (and a gaggle of girls) gets the testosterone flowing through your veins. You feel like a man.

There’s nothing quite like strapping a leather tool belt to your waist. A hammer, two screwdrivers (flat head and Phillips), a measuring tape, and a pencil are all you need to make believe you can build anything with your two, bare hands.

When I arrive, a few people make some back-handed comments because of what I’m wearing: a black pea coat, dark blue jeans, a black sweater, and sunglasses. Although there is some snickering, they don’t realize I don’t do “construction clothes” because the foreman never has to wear them.

After the basic safety training, I throw on a pair of steel-toe work boots, strap on my tool belt, and get paired up with another worker.

The day entails door installation, trim work, patching, sanding, and painting. There’s an elation that comes with the physical exertion of pushing your body to do things that it doesn’t feel like doing, but wants to do over and over again.

It’s as if I’m Bob Vila on This Old House, only younger and better looking.

Time flies by as I busy myself with the intricacies of semi-gloss and egg shell finishes for six shades of white. Lunchtime is a well-deserved break where we act like testy-less teamsters.

My spirit comes alive when I'm constructing something out of a few basic components. It’s no wonder why the renovation boom hasn't stopped; billions of dollars are spent each year on making the home a better place to live. You’re not doing this for yourself, but for someone's family and future.

At the end of the day, I take a step back and admire my work. It isn’t bad for someone who isn’t a trade professional. Then again, with the hours of HGTV programmed into my brain, I wouldn’t be too surprised if I could build my own home using a couple of two-by-fours, some nails… and a contractor with a lot of patience.

On my drive home, with the testosterone still in coursing through my body, I want to pound something with my hammer and screw something with my power drill. Maybe a trip to Home Depot will satisfy those cravings. And if I can't have that, then I want a big, fuckin' steak 'cause a man's gotta eat after a hard day at work.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

It’s not what you say, but how you say it

Stephen Fry has said that British actors are not necessarily better than non-Brits when it comes to the profession - it’s their accent that makes it sound like they are.

Personally, I find that accents are like a cherry on top of a sundae; that extra sweetness that tastes great when it’s in your mouth. But, sometimes too much sugar can lead to diabetic shock.

I love listening to clipped sounds of the British, the rolling cadence of American southern, the high-and-low speak of Australian, and the (almost) musical tones of South African accents.

But, I never understood the appeal of Latin accents. I hear them all the time (because of my background) and don’t find them in the least bit sexy. Part of me wants to say, “Hey, Maria, you’ve lived in the country long enough, don’t you think it’s time to lessen up on your rolled r’s?” and the other part of me wants to enrol them in an ESL course.

Then again, I am probably a minority on this. I’ve seen people get weak in the knees when hearing a Latin accent. Not every Latin person falls under the stereotype of a lover, not a fighter. I don’t get it. Why do they physically melt? Maybe their sundae needs to be refrigerated.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Please leave a message after the tone

Whenever I call someone and get their voicemail, I try to act like I am someone else and make up an elaborate story to confuse them.

In the past, I have…

- Informed someone they were being tracked by the morality police and told them to watch their back.
- Acted like I was a clueless student, asking about a registration question for a college course in dog grooming.
- Said I was a CSR from Singular Wireless and the person's phone was to be picked up because of a series of salacious text messages that were ruining the concentration of other workers in the store.
- Made like I was from an employment agency, offering my services to be a pool/house boy (taking over Pepe, who is wanted by Immigration).
- Pretended I was from a heavy-breathing phone service ($3.99 first minute, 99 cents each additional minute) and said if they don’t pick up, they’ll be charged for a full hour.
- Said I was the RCMP and was hunting down that person (somewhere in there I said something involving handcuffs and having a Mountie have his way with the perp).

Thankfully, these people all have senses of humour, and they brushed it off (and had a few laughs) when I finally spoke with them.

Of course, they’ll just block my number from now on, just in case the morality police/clueless student/CSR/pool boy/phone sex operator/RCMP calls again.

Friday, April 06, 2007

What do you do?

There is one question that arises in every party or dinner conversation when meeting a new group of people that doesn’t result in debate or discussion, but makes a lot of people uncomfortable or defensive:

What do you do?

My reply usually produces a look of confusion, followed by an explanation by me (which leads to even more looks of confusion), or a series of questions by the person who doesn’t understand the concept of my work (resulting in the same stupefying expression).

So, instead of going through the job description in detail, I've decided to eliminate that process and select from a list of jobs that will fuck around with their heads instead…

- I’m a drug counsellor and P/T coke dealer.
- I'm a stunt dick and condom tester.
- I'm a professional stalker/hitman.

There are other professions that would elicit shocking reactions – whether positive, or negative – which I wouldn’t mind using, but they're not appropriate for inane cocktail chatter.

Note: Does anyone have an occupation I can use for next time? And, they can't all be sex-related, 'cause that's way too easy.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Mental state of attraction

From a young age, my parents told me how I acted towards others affected the way they acted towards me. If I was a good and honest person, then others would be good and honest. If I was a bad and dishonest person, then others would act like conservative politicians.

But, there's a problem with this way of thinking, especially when it comes to people you're attracted to. Even if you're the greatest catch, it doesn't mean there will be a bunch of fish you'll have to throw back into the water.

If I take a closer look, it appears that I'm attracted to a variety of types: alcoholics, druggies, criminals, adulterers, sex workers/addicts, the sexually/emotionally/physically abused, psychos, patholigical liars, racists, bigots, idiots, the insane, etc.

Apparantly, I'm all of these things because that's what I outwardly project. I always thought I was kinda normal. Turns out, I'm not.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

The middle man

Like in every corporation, there lies a middle man: the guy who is the go-between between the person on the lowest rung on the ladder and the person on the highest one.

Even though I’m not a cog in a large, faceless corporation, I feel like society's middle man. In fact, I am the middle man.

Externally, I’m not good looking or unattractive, not too tall or short, the body isn’t super-ripped or flabby. Internally, my brain works well (which, in turn, makes me quite naïve), I'm well-read even if the literature sometimes verges on trashy novel territory, my talents are far-ranging (not a master in any of them, though), I know several languages and feel like I could/should know more, the job doesn’t make me loads of cash but I’m not poor, and on and on.

Nobody wants me, or wants to deal with me. I'm continually passed over for someone else - smarter, richer, younger, buffer, etc.

Everything is right down the centre, with no deviations to the left or the right. The middle. Me.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Train wracking

As I’m waiting for my train, I fold up the pages of my magazine and look to the side to the other people waiting on the platform. There, standing a few feet away from me is a face I recognize. It’s like looking at a desexualized version of me: whiter, flabbier, with flatter hair, and thinner lips.

Where have I seen him before? He’s not a member of my family. A long-time friend or acquaintance? No, not that. Think, Steven, think. I'm wracking my brain. Oh, now I remember: He’s a former co-worker. That’s who he is.

Why the fuck I never see people I like is beyond my advanced comprehension of irony and situational humour.

When I enter the train, I find a window seat and within a few seconds, he takes the seat beside me. Great. I begin to simmer. For the next while, I have to pretend not to know him while holding back every temptation to grab my bag and whack his head several times to the point of rendering him unconscious.

As the train begins its journey eastward, I pick up my phone and return a call that was made a few hours before. He also picks up his phone and talks with the same wispy David Beckham-like voice that drove me insane while he was within listening distance. I feel like dragging my nails down a chalkboard.

If only I could remember his name. But, I can’t. There must be some memory block against the travesties of former co-workers. It’s driving me crazy. Through my head, I’m going through a list of names: Nathan, Tristan, Cameron… Bill. That’s right, it’s Bill.

Bill, the fucker who dirtied everything he touched and left me to deal with the cleanup. Bill, the fucker who behind his simple exterior was more manipulative and scrupulous than I ever imagined. Bill, the fucker who swiped my job from under me. Bill, the fucker.

After he gets off the train, I slouch down in my seat and look out the window, staring into nothingness.

It’s times like these where I wish I never had to take the train. In order to go home, you have to relive your past, no matter how much you want to move forward.

Note: Why do I never run into people I like?

Monday, April 02, 2007

Coff-ee, not cock-y

In one scene of a vintage Simpsons episode, the family travels to Australia (after an altercation involving a long-distance phone call and a baby eating a dingo), and is in a bar. Marge, being thirsty, asks the bartender for something to drink.

"Can I have a cup of coffee?" she says in her raspy voice.

"Be-ah?" asks the bartender, in a heavy accent.

"Coff-ee," she repeats.

"Beee-ah." So does he.

"C. O..." She emphasizes.

"B. E..." So does he.

Even though the scene was dealing with the complexities of customs of differing societies, it was mostly about one thing: coffee, and when does it mean something else.


Being someone who needs a daily caffeine fix, I drink coffee like I breathe air. Whenever there’s an itch, I go find a way to scratch it; sometimes alone, sometimes with others.

Recently, someone said I was going to get lucky because I asked someone out for coffee. I said it was coffee, he thought otherwise. Was I missing something? Since when did coff-ee turn into cock-y?

To me, coffee is a nice middle ground - no expectations, and if things turn out really bad, at least you had something to drink (that was cheap) and maybe even a sugary sweet.

I don't think coffee should mean anything more than that because if coff-ee meant cock-y, then I'd be a whore, cheating on people left, right and centre. And, that kind of itch needs a totally different scratch.