Leading me on

In the mindfield of mind games, there is always one that trips the bomb in a stop-motion delay – leading others on. It bothers me to a great effect because one person is essentially stringing another person, making them believe they’re wanted/needed.

I have never been one of those people who leads people on. I like to tell people what the situation is from early on. It’s not fair to them. I don’t like to play with the emotions of others. It’s cruel and mean-spirited, and I'd rather be cruel and mean-spirited to random people I see on the street.

Recently, I had to tell someone where we stood in our situation because I didn’t want it go the way it was headed. There were no hard feelings (sorta) and that was that.

Unfortunately, I get lead on all the time. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do because I don’t know I’m being lead on. Because I like to think there’s some good in everyone, it never crosses my mind someone is an asshole (especially since I don’t know them, or haven’t known them for a while).

And, let me tell you, I’ve come across plenty of assholes in a very short while. Sadly, they’re not the kind I’m interested in.

So, I have to carry on, be lead on until someone with an ounce of honesty and respect can tell me what’s going on because I sure as hell don’t.

Tolerance to booze

After a long week, I meet up with N for drinks. I feel like I really need one (or a couple) of glasses of alcohol in order to make me forget about the crap that has been going on. Hopefully, the booze will take the edge off. The company, of course, is an added benefit.

We go from one place to another, and by the second drink, N and I are having a good time. Him more than me. He tells me he’s a lightweight and that after his first drink, he’s already feeling the effects of the alcohol. I’m not feeling anything.

Time flies and more drinks pass through glasses and down our throats. The edge is disappearing, but I’m not feeling the buzz. Still, we’re having a good time. N and I begin to make comparisons between the girth of our wrists to the girth of another part of our body. I tell him it isn’t true and that I’m proof of it. Fortunately, I wasn’t drunk to prove him wrong while sitting at the table. I’m a gentleman, after all.

He tells me after one drink he feels lightheaded. The only time I feel a little woozy is when I have to walk down a long hallway to the loo. There must be a direct line from my throat to urethra, bypassing everything.

By the time we leave the bar, we’re playfully bumping off each other. I think he’s doing it because he’s losing his balance. I’m doing it because I’m trying to be cute. We keep on making a series of dirty jokes as we walk to his place and then he asks me if I’m drunk. I say I’m not (while smirking) and the jokes are totally sober. He wonders if I have a high tolerance level to alcohol. I don’t think I do, but maybe all of that wine at dinner has an effect. Whatever.

All I can say is the rest of the night goes well before I hit the sheets and black out.

Whistling Dixie

There are many unpleasant things in the world that people have to live with. Whether they’re violent criminals, environmental problems, or Elisabeth Hasselbeck, you hope you don’t come across it when you’re already having a bad day.

So, it should come to my horror when I come across something so sinister, it makes me never want to walk into a bathroom ever again.

Not too long ago, while sitting on the porcelain throne, I start to hear whistling. Short peeps that eventually became long stretches of musical mumblings. Where is that sound coming from? Is it outside? Is it inside? Is it in the loo?

When it happens again, I realize it’s coming from under me. The toilet is whistling. It’s bad enough I have a shower that squeals like Mariah Carey doing her bird calls while on Red Bull, but now the throne whistles while I’m sitting on it.

True, I could finish my business quickly, but I decide not to. I like to take my time in there. Normally, I bring some reading material because I never have more than 10 minutes to myself during the day (unless I’m asleep, but that doesn’t count). Well, that and the loo is the only room with a lock on the door. No one ever wants to come inside when the door is shut.

So, while I’m reading the paper, the loo is whistling Whistling Dixie. I can live with it for a minute, but it becomes unpleasant after 10 minutes (although not as irritating as Elisabeth Hasselbeck). Sadly, there’s nowhere else I can read the paper.

To the person with a one-track life

Hey.

You don’t know me, but I know you. In fact, I think I know you pretty well. Or, I think I know you pretty well, because you've been changing into a completely different person from the one you were before.

When I first met you, you were interesting and had a lot to say. Your opinions were your own and not influenced by others. People liked to be around you because of the person that you were. You were a fully-functioning individual.

Then, something happened. You changed, and it wasn’t gradual.

You latched onto one thing and never stop talking about it. If you don't prattle incessantly about your incredibly hot boyfriend/girlfriend, then it's about your brilliant children, or your high-paying and amazing job, or the six-figure renovation you’re undergoing, or something else that makes everyone else secretly groan in their heads and roll their eyes behind your back.

It’s as if there is nothing else going on in your one-track life. Out of all of the things that make you one person, you end up being one-dimensional. And, if that isn’t enough, you’re rubbing your one-track life in the face of everyone else – you’re fabulous and they’re not.

You’re not fabulous, but annoying the fuck out of everyone.

Even if your one-track life is as good as you make it out to be, there is something left to be said about the person that you’ve become, and that is the person you were before you changed.

I’m not saying you should give up your newfound happiness, but to remember there are a lot of people who knew you when you were just as happy and a fully-functioning individual who wasn’t dependant on the validation of another. We liked you for the person that you are… or were, to be correct.

Best,
Steven.

In the park

In the park there are two people. They hold their hot drinks in their hands while sitting on the bench. Sometimes they talk, while other times they sit in silence. A few things are said that need to be analyzed in one’s head. People glance at them sitting on the bench, resembling a couple, but they don’t notice them.

It’s time for them to get back to their lives. They stand up and walk towards the centre of the park, throwing away their cups in the trash. People are walking by and around them, but they don’t notice them.

When it’s time to say goodbye, they lean in close. They kiss, their eyes open and looking into one another. Arms around waists. The sun is high and bright while a brisk wind blows around them and their hair flutters. People walk around them because they’re standing in the middle of the pathway, but they don’t notice them.

They let go, their arms lingering just a bit longer than they should. One walks in one direction and the other walks in another. They turn around to see the other vanish around the corner. They’ll see each other again, but they’re not sure when. They’re not sure how. They’re not sure.

And all of this happens in the park.

My other twin

It seems like forever, but after a series of e-mails, I’m finally going to meet up with S. We’ve been doing a dance, of sorts, trying to find a date and time to meet. Since I work later than he does, he agrees to meet me.

Even though it’s rainy, S is standing at the door of Starbucks with his umbrella. We greet each other, go inside, order our coffees, and wait to find a seat. It takes longer than normal because some people are sitting at tables even though they’re not patrons of the establishment.

For the next while, our conversation runs smoothly. We talk about a little of everything. But, at around the 20-minute mark, it hits me: he’s my other twin.

True, he’s taller than me, his hair and eyes are a different colour, and he's a couple years younger than I am.

Beside that, he’s like me. We have similar opinions, and ask a lot of questions (many of which we are sure we have the answer to, but are inevitably afraid of wanting to know the actual truth because it’s not what we want to know).

Then again, this could be a lot of wishful thinking on my behalf. Maybe he’s nothing like me, and I see myself in him as a way of projection. Or, maybe he thinks the same thing, and finds a lot of similarities between us.

When I write S an e-mail the next day, I tell him about our talk the day before.

In his response, he tells me he found me interesting. That’s the kiss of death. It’s almost as bad as having someone call me nice.

Maybe we’re not identical, after all.

Well, that and I'm smarter and cuter than he is.

Ass-partame

Recently, I came across a new product that is supposed to simulate the effect of a cappuccino all while adding boiling water to a powder. Sounds easy, right? In fact, it is. To top it off, the frothy concoction has little fat and very few calories.

But, there’s a problem: It’s made with aspartame.

The aspartame allows the drink to be low in fat and calories, but since it’s an artificial substance, it’s not particularly healthy for your system. And, I found that out the hard way.

After opening the package, pouring it into a cup, and adding the boiling water, the product did what it claimed to do and produce a frothy, coffee-like beverage. But, there was an aftertaste... while drinking it. It wasn’t bad, mind you, but unsettling.

What was even more unsettling was the following morning.

Since the body purges anything artificial out after a short period of time, that’s exactly what it did. And, it wasn’t pretty. There’s a reason why aspartame starts with ass because that’s the way that the story ends.

Fucking you out of house and home

As much as I don’t mind commuting to and from work every day, after a while it gets tiring. Sitting on the train isn’t a pain. In fact, I’d rather take the GO than drive my car and get stuck on the highway during rush hour. The problem I’m having is the hourly departure schedule.

Waiting an hour wouldn’t be an issue if I leave work at 6 p.m. to get home by 7 p.m., but that never happens. Normally, I get home at 8:30 p.m. because of the train schedule. It gets frustrating because I have to sit in an uncomfortable chair for an inordinate amount of time until my ass falls asleep while looking at barf-yellow concrete walls. If I remember, I carry a book/magazine with me to read. Sadly, my memory can fail me once in a while.

I’m getting desperate to bring this to an end that I’m willing to marry someone in the city just to move into their place. I have said before the only reason I’ll ever marry someone is for money, but I’ll change that; I’ll also marry them for real estate.

The closer to downtown, the better. It doesn’t have to be a huge place, just enough for me to sleep overnight. I can sleep on the floor because I don’t like squishy mattresses. Cable with PVR-capabilities would be a plus. A parking space wouldn’t be bad, either. If a shower with good water pressure is thrown into the mix, then it’s all good.

When it comes to the matter of sex, I’ll comply. In fact, I’ll fuck them so hard, I’ll render then incapacitated. That way, while they’re recuperating in the hospital, I get the place to myself. And, I don’t have to pay for anything since I don’t own it.

Are there any offers out there? If worse comes to worse, I also do toilets, just as long as they’re not the ones on the train.

Newly discovered talent

I just found out I can make someone come just by kissing them. Who knew? I should've discovered this years ago.

Suck my finger

There are periods where I don’t get to see my nieces as often as I want. Because of that, the youngest one can forget who I am (the older one had the same problem when she was a baby, too) and doesn’t want to go near me.

Due to the fact that both of my nieces aren’t picky eaters and are always hungry, I take that to my advantage and use food as a bribing tool for them to like me.

It’s easy to give the older one something to eat between meals because I’m not the one who has to deal with her lack of appetite when lunch or dinner come along – that’s her parents’ problem.

When the younger one is bordering on a cranky mood, I find something sweet and place it on my (always clean) finger. When I bring my finger near her mouth, she opens it, sticks her tongue out and starts lashing at the digit like Gene Simmons. She then grabs it, sticks it in her mouth and starts gnawing at it. Lucky for me, she doesn’t have any teeth... yet.

From here on out, I am going to carry a container of frosting with me whereever I go. Not only for my niece, but in case there’s anyone else who wants to suck my finger.

Note: Happy birthday, C. Your cake is coming soon.

Stuffing my face

After some form of disappointment, many people reach for something to comfort them. Whether it’s the bottle, the credit card, or another body, the crutches vary.

Me, I’m the sort of person who lunges at food.

Unlike a lot of people who quell their pangs by eating, I do it for another reason altogether. It’s not because I need the chemical reaction it produces in my brain – that of satiation – but that of revenge.

And, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

The only thought that goes through my mind is: If you treat me like shit, then I’ll make you feel even worse when you see I’m fat.

Again, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

For some reason, I believe the reason why people like me is because I’m thin and if I pack on the pounds, they’ll have to like me for something else beside my appearance (unless they get turned on by fat).

Once more, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

Even though I have a psychology degree, I can’t understand the reason why I eat when I’m disappointed. Then again, it’s probably due to the fact that I need to chemically-alter my brain into thinking everything is ok when it’s not.

Or, maybe I’m just hungry.

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

Cradle robber

How old do you have to be in order to have the title of cradle robber? Is it ten years? Is it 20 years? Does it matter? Or is it the difference in ages? Would that change things?

And why do I feel grossed out when I see an old man with some hot piece on his arm, but feel fine if it was me?

Yes, I realize that would make me a cradle robber and a hypocrite (which I despise with a passion), but I wouldn't care because the hot piece would be with me.

I'm not talking about you, unless I am

One of the negatives of writing about your life is the other people who inevitably begin to filter their way into your stories. It’s difficult to refrain from talking about them, since you do associate with members of the human race and don’t reside in a cave situated in the Andes.

On more than one occasion, I’ve had people ask me if I was the person they were talking about in a certain story. Quite often, they’re not. They’re just being paranoid.

Whatever their reason is for paranoia is what makes me smirk. Are they really so egocentric to think everything is about them? Probably. Probably, not. I’m not their therapist.

If I ever write about a specific situation or conversation, I tell that person what I’m doing. If I’m feeling generous, I’ll send them an early draft of the story just to see their reaction. It’s usually positive, but if it isn’t, then I know to generalize some elements because I don’t want to tread on dangerous territory.

But, most of the time, I’m not writing about anyone in specific. The people I talk about are composites of several people I know - that’s what happens when your social circle is comprised of several hundred people.

Then again, there are times where I throw caution to the wind and write about someone I know without telling them. But when all else fails, remember this: I’m not talking about you, unless I am.

He's well aware of you

That's one of the worst lines you'll ever want to hear.

Emotional rollercoaster

They tell you how much they really like you...

Then follow it by saying they're not single...

But it's an open relationship...

Yet they don't want to stop seeing you...

And you let it roll inside your head...

And although it's an emotional rollercoaster...

Your face never changes the whole time.

Searching for treasure

For the past hour, or so, my niece has been sniffling. She inhales deeply, trying to retain the mucus. It doesn't work. She's congested. She's also miffed, judging by her face. After the hundredth sniffle, I walk over to the box of tissues my sister has beside the fireplace and pull one out.

"Here, come to Uncle," I wave my arm towards my niece. "Come over here and blow your nose."

Like a dutiful child, she takes a few steps over and blows into the tissue. "Again," I command. She blows her nose. "Once more." She repeats the same action. "Feeling better?" I ask and she nods her head up and down.

Not long after, in between a few more sniffles, I see her with her finger up her nose. She's concentrating. It's as if she's scratching her brain by way of her nostril. It's bothering me.

"B, what are you doing?"

Without skipping a beat, my newly three-year-old niece replies, "Searching for treasure," while digging her finger further up her nose.

I guffaw loudly. If I had anything in my mouth, it would've been a spit take. Then, the laughter begins. Where did she get that? I think. True, I have taught her several things that my sister and BIL wouldn't have wanted me to, but this isn't one of them. I describe body functions in PG-13 terms, suitable for impressionable children, if not their disapproving parents.

When she picks her nose in front of her parents, later on in the night, they tell her to stop. Her response is the same: She's searching for treasure. They lose it.

"Where does she get those things?" asks my sister in between laughs. She looks my way.

"Don't look at me." I wave my hands in protest. "That's one I didn't teach her."

Don't die, just disappear

There are some people who are always in the picture even after you've taken it out of the frame and thrown it away. They get under your skin, and not in the good way. They're a part of your past and it's difficult to forget about them - labotomy included.

Sometimes, when you think they're gone for good, they pop up at the most inopportune time: right before the last synaptic memory has re-programmed itself in your brain. Then, they're back.

It's at this moment where you want them to be gone. Forever. It's not that you want them dead, per se, you just don't want them to be alive. Or, at least, alive in your head. You want them to disappear. Vanish. Into the ether. And, you never want to think about them, again.

Just when you think they're gone for the umpteeth time, they reappear. And, the cycle starts all over again.

Spring smells like pee

Spring is finally here in the northern hemisphere and I couldn't be happier. The days are longer, the sun is coming out and melting the remnants of snow, the weather is - marginally - warmer, and you want to be outside because you want to be, not because you have to be.

When I open my window on a sunny, Sunday morning, I let a small breeze flow through the crack and flutter my sheers in the air. The air is still a little crisp, but it feels like the change of the season.

After a few minutes of sitting in my room, it hits me: the smell. What the hell is that smell? Where is that smell coming from? It's not me, because I showered last night before going to bed and I know I didn't mess myself in the meantime. It's pungent and I make the Renee Zellweger face.

Now, I know where it's coming from: outside.

With the defrosting of the ice and melting of the snow, all that was left below is starting to bake in the sun. All the shit that was hard is now soft, and with shit comes piss. Thankfully, it's from animals and not my neighbours.

Still, I have to shut the window because I don't want my bedroom to smell like spring. And pee.

Proof is in the pudding

To prove to those who think my "losing weight while sleeping" diet is a scam, I've decided to comply with the - very few - requests of last week's pictureless post.

The proof is in the pudding... just as long as I don't have to eat it.

Ella puede asiprarlo

At the end of our department meeting, my (now former) boss starts to talk about her vacation to South America and how much fun she had. She turns her computer monitor around to show us a few of the photographs she was sent from her trip.

After a few minutes, she mentions an e-mail that one of her newfound friends wrote. She doesn’t understand Spanish and has no idea what the e-mails says. I mention Google Translation. The beauty of this online tool is that all she has to do is cut and paste the e-mail onto the translation page and wait for the Spanish-to-English conversion.

She looks confused, so I ask her to turn her monitor around a bit more so I could read the e-mail.

“It says he had a great time…” I begin to read. “He had fun… He hopes you enjoyed your time there…” My finger scrolls down the glass. “And, he also…,” I pause for a second. “I think he made a mistake there with his conjugation. What I think he means to say is he hopes you come back and visit, not he hopes to visit you when he comes back.”

The expression on my co-worker is one of surprise, while my boss doesn’t look impressed, probably thinking I’m showing off my linguistic skills.

“Oh, you didn’t know que yo hablo español? No hablo siempre, pero no necesito hablar español en el trabajo.” She should know I know how to speak Spanish since it is on my résumé.

Their faces are blank. They had no idea what I just said.

“I said that I don’t always need to speak Spanish because I don’t need to at work.”

“Oh,” says my boss as she quickly grabs the monitor and turns it around. Clearly, she’s not impressed that I can do another thing she can’t. She has a chip on her shoulder the size of Gibraltar because she decided not to go to University while all of her high school friends did. It still bothers her even after all these years when someone demonstrates knowledge of something she knows nothing about.

Why is she unimpressed that I can speak more than one language when she can barely speak English? I thought that was a plus, but as it turns out, it’s a minus at my work.

Ella puede asiprarlo for all I care, because I’m not going to start acting like I don’t know what I’m talking about so she can feel better about her stupidity.

I'm a threat to your relationship

For years, I have always been a threat to those who are coupled. For some reason, one partner (the one that I am not closer to) latches onto the other one (the one I am closer to – usually a close friend) and doesn’t let go, as if I am going to steal him/her away.

Do I really give the impression I’m going to take him/her away from you? Believe me, I won’t; I’m not that kind of guy.

But, why is that? Why do they act that way when I’m around?

To put it in its simplest form: insecurity.

Place one singleton in a room full of couples and there will inevitably be one person who will feel like I’ll come in and swipe their partner from them. Throw in a history (like that of long-term friendship), and it gets worse. It’s as if an imagined competition forms in the head of the insecure partner and me.

It’s true that for some, it’s a challenge, a game. I couldn’t be bothered with a challenge like that. As for games, I’d rather stick to Monopoly or Solitaire.

And, there’s nothing I can do about it but pretend there’s nothing going on with me and my friend.

So, go home to your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever. I’ll try not to steal them away from you.