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

Monday, December 31, 2007

Looking back

As I look back in the year that was 2007, I see that the past 364 days contains a lot of memories – some to be remembered and others to be forgotten. There were highs and lows, good times and bad times. And, every highlight has one thing in common: me.

Ate too much on NYD at the buffet.
Celebrated my birthday and hardly no one remembered (again).
Started work with an international organization.

Got a nasty rejection that will haunt me for years to come.
Had Valentine’s Day dinner with a friend for the umpteenth year.
Spent several days with a walking hard-on.

Went to a – disappointing – Versace fashion show during LFW.
Bought my first digital camera.
Had something published without my knowledge (and consent).
Met someone (who disappeared in a fog of dancing and drugs).

Did nothing.

Had shocking and devastating news (and was in a funk).
Went on a trip to NYC, had fun, and met some great people.
Got published.

Got ditched three times in three weeks.
Became even more bitter and angry.
Met someone (who disappeared in a fog of ditziness and despair).

Became an uncle for the second time - woo hoo, diaper duty!
Went on a series of meetings that did nothing for me.
Had a 0.8 blood-alcohol rating for most of the month.

Was the host of my long-time friend’s wedding.
Went on a series of meetings that did nothing for me... again.
Fell asleep at the most inopportune time.

Interviewed for a national newspaper.

Purchased 12 pounds of Hallowe’en candy and ate most of it.

Had my first (of several) MTV appearances.
Went to a VIP party for Karim Rashid.

Became a contributing editor.
Celebrated Christmas/New Years with family.

What will 2008 bring? I don’t know. But, I am sure that it will be a variation of 2007, which is unfortunate because 2007 wasn't really that great a year. Thankfully, it wasn't 2006. Now, that one was 365 days of crap.

Note: Hope everyone has an amazing new years. Please, don't drink and drive - just pick one and stick with it.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Miss you like crazy

Now that I look back on Christmas day I realize something was missing. It wasn’t the family, the food, the decorations, the tree, or the presents. All of the basics were there. But, as I spent the day at my sister’s home, I noticed we were living in a Canuck version of a Norman Rockwell painting.

That's what was missing: the crazy.

Every year, something always goes wrong. Sometimes it’s the food, sometimes it’s a back-handed compliment (or forward-handed insult), but whatever it is, there’s always a touch of crazy lingering in the air like a Glade Plug-In of Strawberry Fields.

Somehow I think I'm the only one who experienced this this year. As I scan through my list of blogs, and listen to some of the stories of my friends, I hear versions of Christmases that sound normal: the drinking, the fighting, the friends/family members who dislike one another, the shouting from the rooftops, and the silent meals full of icy glares from across the table.

None of that happened with my family. Everything went smoothly. We even shot the shit during both meals, and that never happens (the poo talk is normally saved for one meal, unless someone has the runs, then we talk about poo for the rest of the day).

It’s not like I have to have a bit of crazy, but it would be nice, especially during the holidays. With the fuss and frustration, there has to be a bit of release. And, what better way to have a fit than in front of family and friends during a holiday?

Sadly, I miss the crazy. Not a lot, mind you. Crazy is good in small doses, like castor oil. It’s not like it isn’t around the other 364 days of the year. But, there's a small part of me that wanted someone to freak out over something.

Wait... my father did spaz when he wanted to make soup for lunch and didn't get to since there was enough food to feed the population of Guam, and then he freaked for about five minutes because he still thought there wasn't enough food for us and the possibility of starvation was (in his mind) inevitable.

Never mind. I guess I did get my touch of crazy for this holiday, after all.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Christmas through their eyes

The older I get, the more I don’t seem to care for Christmas. It’s not like I don’t like shopping for gifts, wrapping them up (I’m a fantastic wrapper), and giving them to family and friends; I like doing that. My problem is that I don’t feel the spirit of the holiday like I used to when I was a child.

Of course, having two nieces changes all that.


Not long after arriving at my sister’s home, I’m quickly rushed into the family room to play doctor with my older niece, B. She received a Fisher Price set with the stethoscope, thermometer, etc. and she wanted me to be her victim… um, patient.

When I walk into the room, I’m astonished. Almost half the room is filled with presents. Thankfully, my sister doesn’t have another child because these presents would multiply two-fold.

B is surprisingly tame for a child who has a roomful of presents, waiting to be unwrapped. She pokes at the occasional box, but leaves it alone. She’d rather play with me (and use me as her pee pee person of choice), instead.

For the next hour, or so, we play with one another. Keeping her busy alleviates the pressure that my sister, BIL, mother and father would have to entertain her while they’re prepping the meal and taking care of my younger niece, S.

The family sits for lunch and there aren't any arguements over anything (not even if the turkey is dry, or not). After feeling my ass grow as I continuously eat, it’s time to open the presents. And, we do that, for over two hours.

While B opens her gifts, I sit down with S on my lap. She looks around, enjoying all of the movement of flying paper and colourful boxes. When she gets fussy, I feed her. She looks at me with dread in her eyes as if I'm going to take her bottle away. I don't, and she sucks it all in as if she hasn’t eaten in two hours (which is true).

B tends to put aside the presents that contain clothes (which makes sense) and goes after the toys. Her eyes light up whenever she opens another box that has something she can play with instead of something that will outgrow her in six months. Sadly, she doesn't pay much attention to the matching knit sweater/toque/scarf combo that took me countless hours of driving around several cities trying to buy.

By the middle of the second hour, I notice something interesting: both nieces are enthused with the gifts that (probably) cost the least in comparison with some of the more extravagant presents. S is enthralled with a musical toy that lights up, and B is making “pancakes” on the parquet floor using a Styrofoam/Play Doh concoction.

It takes me two seconds to open my gifts since there aren’t many of them. I didn’t ask for anything, so it makes perfect sense that I don’t get much. But, it doesn’t matter. If I want something, I buy it - I don’t need the 25th of December to do that.

This is a holiday for children and for those who enjoy getting caught up in the festivities of Christmas. For them, it’s like being a kid again, opening the presents in the morning while wearing pyjamas, and wanting to play with all of their new toys the second the wrapping comes off the box.

Of course, that doesn't mean I'm going to have children any time soon. I'd rather just buy a tree and give presents to me because that would be a lot less stressful than raising kids who are bound to throw a temper tantrum and hate me when I don't get them what they want.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Merry Christmas

It's time to unwrap the package.

I hope you like it because I don't have the receipt.

Monday, December 24, 2007

To the jolly fat man in the red suit


You don't know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. You've listened to me ramble on about my wishes for years and have done nothing about it. And, don't you tell me you were the one who got me all my presents - my parents never bothered with the charade. I know the difference between shit and shinola.

Anyway, let's get back to the point of this letter...

If you're reading this right now, it means two things:

1. You're pretty tech savvy.
2. I still have time to stop a yearly catastrophe.

You see, Santa, since I was small, I used to get the presents I wanted. They were relatively inexpensive, with the occasional extravagance (like a ghetto blaster, or a Nintendo gaming system). But, even as the years passed, there were always some people who never "got it" and kept on giving me presents that were not suitable for me.

Before I start sounding like a spoiled and petulant child, hear me out.

They were never bad gifts, per se. They were ideas fermented in feeble minds that never fully came to fruition. They would've been fine for some, but if these people knew anything about me, they would've known that I never shop in certain stores and never cared for any of their merchandise. It's wasteful, plain and simple.

In fact, it would've been better if I received nothing to begin with. At least no one would've spent a cent. I would've even been happy with a donation to a charity of my choice, than a itchy pair of wool pants that was four sizes too large.

So, if you're still reading, please don't make anyone get me an ugly sweater, more socks, underwear that I'll never slip on, toys of any kind (even naughty ones), stank ass cologne that makes me sneeze, electronic/digital devices that will be irrelevant in six months, and crap. No crap of any kind. None, whatsoever.

And, if you know anyone who got me anything from the aforementioned list, please burn it. Burn it all. And, while you're at it, punish those who thought those presents would be a good idea. Seriously. Punish the fuck out of them. You know, so they'll learn their lesson for next year.

Oh, and I know I've been a bad boy this year, so I really don't care if I'm not on the list. If I wanted to be brainwashed into being a good boy, I'd just go to church and follow Catholicism (even though with all that pedophelia, it's all a wash).


Friday, December 21, 2007

Unnnatural high

It’s something you dread doing. No amount of reasoning or excuses will stop it from happening. Using the “I have a headache” line won’t do you any good. You’d rather scrub the toilet instead of doing this chore. But, you don’t.

Inevitably, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do – scrub the tub.

Since I’m the sort of person who doesn’t particularly enjoy sitting in grime, I know every once in a while I’ll have to pull out a panoply of cleaning products to remove the curvy line of dead skin cells and soap scum that surrounds the inside of the tub.

There are so many products that I wonder why Proctor and Gamble doesn’t make one liquid that tackles everything and calls it ‘Easy Clean,’ or something. In my cleaning bucket alone, there’s Scrub Free, Vim, Pine Sol, Lysol, and bleach. Too much for too little. I end up pulling out the bottle of Scrub Free, spray the perimeter of the tub, and watch the foam roll down the sides.

When I come back a few minutes later, the tub looks worse. There are streaks of clean interspersed with streaks of crap. Fuck. I pull out the Vim from cleaning bucket and place some on a sponge and start scrubbing. It’s not working. There’s still a ring around the tub. Then, I grab an SOS abrasive pad and rub it along the side, not knowing whether it will ruin the paint finish. Nothing. As a last resort, I find a large scrubbing brush – used to remove caked-on stains on clothing – and give it a try.

For the next few minutes, I’m giving myself an upper body workout that I didn’t sign up for. With every movement, each one of my muscles is flexing and contracting at an alarming rate. My arms, chest, shoulders, abs, and back are burning.

Unfortunately, my eyes are also burning due to the fumes. Even though I’m wearing a mask, the smell of several bleach-based cleansers make my head spin. Around and around. If I get up too quickly, I like my blood pressure is dropping and I lose my balance. Instead, I lean backwards, away from the tub, and inhale. I do this a few times until I have to sit on the floor with my head against the cool feeling of the wall tile.

Who the hell needs psychotropic drugs when you’ve got household cleaning products?

After 10 minutes of scrubbing – and in-between breathing breaks – the tub sparkles. The layer of grime is gone and it’s now spotless enough to eat off it (although I’d rather use a plate). I don’t want to get it dirty again because I don’t want to go through that ordeal one more time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to lie down. I have a headache.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

You're a big boy now

As my mother and I are talking about something or other, I begin to tug on my pants, pulling them up. I’m not wearing a belt, so they’re sagging and almost falling off.

“Look at you,” she says with a look of disgust, with a hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side. “The older you are, the worse you get.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, mimicking her every move.

“You should be getting bigger, not smaller. What are you a boy, or a man?”

“I’m neither. I’m me.” I respond, indignantly. I hate defending myself, feeling like a little kid even though I'm a big boy.

My mother comes from the school where you’re supposed to get bigger (a.k.a. fatter) the older you are, not the other way around. Being an anomaly to this way of thinking, I have gotten smaller with age. It's like that incredible Lily Tomlin movie about something shrinking that I can't remember the title of.

Is it my fault, or is it due to genetics? A little of both. Even though I eat a balanced diet, I try to stay away from unhealthy foods (try being the operative word). And, if you look at my grandfather, I have a similar body-type.

If I wanted to, I could pack on 20 pounds to make everyone happy, only I wouldn’t be happy. This is the way I look, and I like my body in an afterschool special sort of way. If they don’t like it, that’s too bad.

Sadly, I think after eating for two weeks straight during the holidays, my mother might get her wish. Fuck.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Having it all and wanting more

After listening to someone talk about his quarter-life crisis, I felt like groaning out loud in displeasure simply because he doesn’t know how well off he is.

He’s young, cute, has money, a good job, friends, a nice place to live, and a bright future ahead. But, for some reason, he doesn’t think it’s enough. He can't put his finger on it, but he senses something is missing, and he wants more out of life.

How much more do you need, you greedy bastard?

Personally, my quarter-life crisis happened because I was behind in the race, not because I was ahead of everyone else.

Since I’ve never had a lot, I’ve always treasured what I had because I didn’t know if it would be gone the next day. But, it seems like some people never got the hint.

For someone who doesn’t have any of those things, I’d think he’s being incredibly selfish. I wouldn’t mind even one (or maybe two) of those things listed.

Anyway, I tune out of the conversation and hope finds religion so that he’ll really have something to complain about.

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

I say whoa when I crack my toe

Out of habit, I crack my fingers when they feel tight. Usually, it’s because I’ve been sitting at the computer, fingers by the keyboard, and clicking away on the keys. After a while, they begin to hurt and I need to flex them in the opposite direction just to relieve the tension.

Strangely enough, I can also crack my toes. They may not be typing away at a keyboard, but they can get stiff.

Recently, while sitting at the dinner table, with the food in front of me, I crack the toes on my right foot. When I crack the ones on my left foot, a sharp pain goes through my foot, up the back of my calf, and up my thigh. The pain is so sharp, I yelp.

When I try to flex my big toe, the sharp pain shoots through my leg, again. I can bare move it. Even touching it with my finger is painful. Putting any pressure on it from walking is worse.

From my deductions, I’m assuming it’s sprained. I sprained my toe from cracking it one too many times. It was bound to happen, with the ferocity and frequency that I do it. Fuck.

For the next few days, I’m walking around with my heel on the ground, and my toes in the air. I can’t go for a run since walking is barely tolerable. It’s like I’m being punished for not succumbing to early onset arthritis, which isn’t fair because I’ll probably suffer from it when I hit my 30’s (and that will never happen because I plan on staying 25 for the rest of my life).

Monday, December 17, 2007

White out workout

As I flip through the channels on the television, the only thing I see is the tickertape on the bottom of the screen, telling me of all the school closures in the United States. Apparently, this storm is pretty strong and has been wreaking havoc below the 49th parallel.

Of course, above the border, we call it winter.

While the snow falls, inch by inch, people carry on with their lives. Before I wake up, my next door neighbours would have been to the liquor store to get their weekend stash, the hookers are already waiting for their perps on the corner, and the guy who parked his car across the street gave up digging it out and left it behind.

Even though there are many who complain about the weather, I think I have to make the best of it since it will be around for the next six months.

When you have snow, make sexually inappropriate snowmen, oui?

Anyway, because of the (almost) white out conditions, I know I have to get my ass outside and shovel some snow. Because snow doesn’t shovel itself, I take it as an incentive to think of shovelling as a workout of sorts since I don’t belong to a gym (or work out).

For 45 minutes, my body stretches, flexes, lunges, pumps and pushes its way to a feasible representation of what I think it should look like in my head, even though it's not reflective in the mirror. In a way, I feel exhilarated and energized. My muscles are tingling, proving that you have to exert yourself in order to exercise.

After all of that, I make my way inside, treat myself to several Pillsbury desserts, fresh from the oven, and watch all that exercise go to waste as I sit down and feel my ass get bigger while I lick the delicious white frosting from my fingertips.

It doesn't matter how much I eat, because in a few hours, I go back outside and perform my white out workout again. And, this procedural will last for the next six months.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Kids say the darnest things

It’s 8 p.m. and the television is on in the family room. It’s giving The Flinstones, and my father, niece and I are watching the program with rapt attention. My niece has her legs on top of my lap and my father is sitting in the recliner.

But, for some reason, my niece isn’t still and keeps on turning herself over on the sofa. The reason for this physical activity is due to her bedtime – she needs to go to bed and is restless because she’s tired. It’s annoying. She’s not watching the show, and because I’m under her, neither am I.

As she begins to crawl over me, one of her feet lands in my crotch and squishes one of my balls. It hurts like fuck.

Damnit!” I swear in another language.

“Damnit, Uncle?” my niece flips over and mimics me as my eyes open wide, realizing what I just did.

“Watch what you say,” says my father, pointing at me from his perch. “You know she hears everything you say.”

Great. The last thing I need is to be blamed for the series of curse words that I’ll inadvertently teach my older niece; all without my conscious knowledge. I pat my niece’s blonde curls and smile as she turns around to watch the television.

“Shit,” I mumble under my breath.

I hope she didn’t hear me say that.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

The other person

On more than one occasion, I have been asked to participate in the act of adultery. Why? I have no clue. For some reason, I believe it's due to my laissez-faire demeanour when dealing with the lives of others.

The reasons why I declined were many, but most of them focused around the aspect that the other person doesn’t get any respect.

When things are going well, the other person gets all of the perks of being in a relationship without all of the strings and personal messiness that comes with being ‘together’ with someone else. Of course, when emotion comes into play (like love), then it’s the beginning of the end.

An affair is a situation where someone asks you to be part of a dailliance where lying and deceit is common practice, yet when the truth comes to the surface, the other person is the one who gets most – if not all – of the blame. Last time I checked, the main responsibility of the other person is to be just that, the other person; no strings attached.

Maybe I just want to be part of something meaningful. Maybe I just want to be respected, instead of treated like a physical being. Maybe I just want to avoid looking over my shoulder, holding a big stick, waiting to whack off the husband when he finds out about the affair.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Ain't comin' over, ain't gonna happen

Even though I don’t mind meeting up with people, there are some times where I don’t want to leave home. These times are those when I’m about to fall asleep because it’s late and I have to get up early the next morning.

Of course, it should come as no surprise to me that there’s always one person who has no concern for my best interests, or the need for a clock.

C wants me to come over at 11:30 p.m. - right before I’m about to turn in for the night. Even if the invite was two hours earlier, C still lives over an hour away. The last thing I want to do at half-to-midnight is drive an hour there, stay for 30 seconds, drive an hour back, and drop face-first into bed where I will sleep for approximately six hours (or before the alarm scares the shit out of me).

For some reason, C doesn’t understand that I need to sleep. I’m not staying over. If I did, I’d be kicked out before 6 a.m., then I’d have to drive back home, get changed, and drive back.

And, I don’t care if C is pissed. I’m tired at that hour. I should’ve been asked if I wanted to come over at 7:30 p.m., not four hours later. At least I would’ve been offered something to eat at that hour.

So, if anyone ever asks me to come over at that hour, don’t bother. I don’t care who you are. If you’re smart, you should know better. I ain’t comin’ over, and it ain’t gonna happen.

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The defence rests

After having dinner with B, we both walk over to the living room and sit down in our respective spots. It isn’t too long before we’re continuing the conversation, this time without having to stop between bites.

As we talk, inevitably the interplay of career and relationships comes to centre stage. The more I begin to discuss my positions on the matter, my patter becomes clipped. Suddenly, I'm Sam Waterson without the bushy eyebrows and off-the-rack suit. It sounds like I’m standing in front of a court of my peers, defending my position – guilty, or innocent.

When B asks me whether I would give up on some of my aspirations if someone came into my life, I answer almost too quickly.

“If there was someone who came into my life, would I change? No, I don’t think I would,” is what I say.

The reason for my answer is both long and complicated.

For years, I lived my life according to the dictum of my parents. What I did, I did for them. Of course, when you live your life for someone else, you can never please them, no matter how hard you try.

After realizing I would never make them happy, I took it upon myself to be selfish and live my life for me. If I can’t be happy, then I have no one to blame but myself. I’m an adult and I should take full responsibility for my actions.

And, as I grew older, my dreams and aspirations changed. No longer did I want the marriage with its accoutrements, white picket fence, lush lawn, and four bedroom house located at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. I wanted something that didn’t depend on others; I wanted to depend on me. Being married with children isn’t a goal since it only – technically – requires a paper to be signed, and nine months of gestation.

For the past decade, I’ve been focusing on accomplishments that were tangible - not physical - in nature. They’re both concrete and abstract. They can range from a fulfilling career and a corner office with a view, to a sense of accomplishment and respect from my family, friends and peers.

It is only then when I achieve them is when I’ll be happy. I didn’t need anyone to make my happiness come to fruition except myself. If they happen to come along, then it’s just the cherry on top of the sundae. If they’re running late, then I won’t wait for them (I can’t stand tardiness). And since I’ve been alone for years, it’s not like I’ll be ill adapted to singledom in the future.

This is my choice in life, and I stand by it.

The defence rests.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Twenty dollars in an envelope

When I was young, I’d always get the same gift from the other kids (or specifically, their parents) when it was my birthday: $20 in an envelope. It became old hat because, after a while, it was as if it was the same $20 that went around from kid to kid, birthday to birthday.

Can you imagine the hygienic issues associated with that piece of paper? Come to think of it, I’d rather not.

Anyway, since my birthday is in exactly one month, I thought it would be a good idea to ask for no presents… except for $20 in an envelope. If you think about it, it’s the price for two drinks at any bar/lounge, or for a quick lunch (with coffee, but without dessert).

If you ten people are gracious enough to pay it forward, that’s $200. That way, I can buy what I want, when I want it. Hell, I can even go to NYC again for a couple of days to stop hearing the gripes of “Why don’t you come to NYC?” Granted, I’d only have enough money for ½ my plane fare and I’d have to sleep on the street and stop eating for the entirety of the trip, but I could live with that.

Or, if I get a lot of monetary gifts, I can finally afford the mail-order bride I've had my eye on.

And, don’t worry if you don’t know where to send the envelope; e-mail me and I’ll pass it along because that's what a generous person (like me) does.

Friday, December 07, 2007

To the guy who can't stop talking about himself


You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. I know you so well because you never stop talking about yourself.

You are probably the only person I know who can stretch a 90-minute conversation about themselves and compress it into 60 minutes. You talk and talk, and all about yourself. When I try to get a word in, you manage to cut me off. When I try to add a personal comment, you turn it around to make it about you.

I’m sure a lot of it is related to your high self-esteem and high regard of yourself, but after a while, you sound conceited. Yes, you’re accomplished in what you do, but so what? You’re not the only person who has done what you’ve done. If you would’ve let me talk, you would’ve known I did the same thing you do.

And, it's not just that. When you say that Angelina Jolie's father was in Dirty Dancing after I correct you several times by saying it's Jerry Orbach from Law & Order, your arrogance keeps you rambling on about Angelina Jolie's dad whose name you don't even know (it's Jon Voight, you bloody twit).

But, all of that I can let go if it wasn’t for one comment you made about me. Namely, you tell me you feel like you can't trust me. How in the hell can you deduce something like that when I’m not allowed to talk? You don’t even know me!


Even if you read this, you’d still make it about yourself. That’s the sort of person you are. You can’t help it. You just don’t know it. Ego-driven narcissists like yourself don’t care about anyone else.

Oh, and by the way, you’re not as interesting as you think you are, you prick.


Thursday, December 06, 2007

Part-time actress

Recently, after interviewing for a position in my industry, I received an e-mail message from the owner of the agency telling me they were going with another candidate. Even though I was their number one pick, they passed on me.

So, I do what every other person does: secretly wish them failure on their future endeavours.

Not long after the interview, I see a posting for an intern at the same agency. They were going to have an intern from a local college work with them for several months to get experience. But, I guess that intern – wisely – dropped out because they knew what they were in for.

With the posting is a name; the name of the person who was hired.

After doing a bit of searching, I find that this person doesn’t have a background in my industry. No qualifications. No certification. No degree. In fact, their most recent accomplishments entail being an entertainer. To cut to the quick, she’s an actress.

They hired a fucking actress over me.

She must’ve been damn good in her interview to have influenced the agency’s owner. Oscar caliber. Sadly, I guess I’m only Emmy material... or Golden Globe, which is even more pathetic.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Why do I even bother to ask?

Being someone who likes to interact with his readers, I sometimes ask them the reasons why they come to Human Nature. It isn’t the sex talk, eye candy, or anything to make people hot under the collar. At its core is writing... and hopefully, a liking of the author.

Once, one of my (former) readers wrote several paragraphs on why they don’t like the site. They visited often, but didn't like what they saw/read. When I asked what they didn't like, the only thing not included in the critique was the kitchen sink.

Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t ask about my looks. Lord knows what would've been said then.

A direct, unedited quote:

As for your writing, I don't know that symbolism is the right word... I think I was specifically thinking of the "tennis" piece at the time I said that... which was just one big fat furry lump of symbolism... no, actually, scratch that... it is symbolism...

I don't know that it was necessarily a criticism, I keep reading your blog because it is so different to the way I write, and you have all that style going on. If I was going to give a real constructive criticism it would be this... I don't feel like I know anything about you. Your posts can be like these little self contained nuggets... where you don't have to have read the entire blog (which is a good thing, since I think I've done that once in all the blogs I've read, gone right back through all the archives... well, unless there's only a
couple of months)...

It's your style, and that's great if that's the direction you choose to go... but on the odd occasion it can feel like a writing exercise... especially when it seems to be something big and monumental... and then we find out it actually happened 3 or 7 or 10 years ago...

Even though there are some valid points, I never made any claims to them. Regarding my style, if you hear me speak (or read one of my e-mails), you'd know that I speak the same way I write because I'm a writer and public speaker - the showiness is as obvious as the luscious lips on my face. Also, I never said Human Nature was a current diary, but a series of stories about my life. And, I think I say way too much about my life, even though there are some subjects which are (and will be) personal because they are no one’s business but my own.

Then again, this person cited style and substance as critiques, yet they manage to end every friggin’ sentence with an ellipsis.

But, I’m not one to point out the faults of others.

Note: This post is brought to you by WTF Wednesdays...

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Bite my tongue

After reading the same paper in front of me, my head starts to feel heavy and my eyelids begin to droop. I know I’m about to fall asleep if I don’t do something about it. But, since there is no way to avoid the inevitable, I look at the clock and figure that a 15-minute nap will be a good idea.

I close my eyes, lay my head between hands, and conk out.

The next thing I remember is a flash of white light and a sharp pain, so extreme it feels like I just bit my tongue off. That’s because I actually bit a part of my tongue off.

For some reason, I must’ve been napping with my mouth open and my tongue between my teeth. When I moved (or shook myself awake), my head slipped from the perch of my hands, and with my mouth being open and my tongue placed between both sets of beautifully-straight teeth, I chomped down. Hard. So hard even the baby Jesus wept.

After that, the only thing I remember is the swearing, muffled by my hands, and the tears that blur my vision.

The part of the tongue that I bit off is currently MIA.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Force majeure

Force majeure is defined as an act of God. It is a term used in many contracts as a scapegoat to avoid any sort of culpability on the side of the service provider. If anything goes wrong, you can’t screw with them, because no one fucks with God.

But, what happens when you have to get somewhere by car, like work or an appointment, and the weather is stopping you from arriving on time? Who are you going to blame? Can you fuck with God then?


It is inevitable that with the first major snowfall of the season, there will be hundreds of accidents on the road. Cars are piled up, one on top of another, and people are pissed, even when it’s - technically - their fault.

For some reason, drivers continue to speed at 120 km/h even though there is poor visibility, and they can’t see the road or the car in front/beside/behind them. They also don’t realize that they shouldn’t be slamming on the brakes when the roads are icy and/or slippery because that causes the car to spin out of control.

And, don't get me started on freezing rain. Some people think nothing of it and continue to rip up the roads like the crazy motherfuckers they are.

So, as a result of force majeure, people are stuck in traffic, therefore arriving late to their destination. When they finally get to point B from point A, the ‘weather’ excuse is often heard (thereby blaming God).

Of course, you never hear anyone blame God when there’s an 18-car pileup on the highway when it's nice weather because that would be plain ol' stupid - blame the other people on the road.

But, just to make sure, if I’m ever late for anything in the future, I’ll fuck with God and blame him. I mean, it’s easier than blaming yourself because you're a shitty driver. Right?