Say cheese

Every day for breakfast I make a sandwich with two slices of multigrain bread, two slices of cooked turkey, a slice of cheese, and some seasonings so it doesn't taste too bland. It's filling and the keeps me from having an energy crash too early in the morning due to its mixture of complex carbs, protein and fats.

But, this morning is different.

With my third sandwich bite I notice something I haven't noticed before. It's slightly rubbery and lacks flavour. When I take another bite, I realize I can't break through this membrane of sorts. Is it the meat? Has it gone bad? Is it the cheese? Is it old and too tough to bite?

Actually, it's neither. It's a piece of plastic.

In the rush of making my breakfast this morning, I removed a slice of cheese from the package and didn't peel off the plastic that separates the slices (or else they'd all stick to one another). And because I'm practically asleep when I make my breakfast, I have to be reminded of that fact whenever I'm munching on a slice of plastic instead of a slice of cheese for breakfast.

Stupid plastic.

Socks suck

Although my life contains regularly-scheduled moments of glitz and glamour, there are other aspects of it that people don't realize entails no shiny, happy people. I have to take care of a lot of things that entail trivialities no one wants/need to know about because they're excruciatingly boring.

For example, I mended socks on Saturday night. That's right. Socks. I sat on the floor of my living room with several pairs of socks on the floor, a needle and thread and some shitty television flickering in front of me.

There were no parties, no fashion, no friends and/or foes. Nothing. The only thing there was was a tumbler with Scotch on the floor, near the socks. That didn't help with the mending, though. Damn cross stitches.

After going out with regularity, I would rather stay at home on a Saturday and not do a thing, even if that thing entails doing something excruciatingly boring. But, mending socks suck.

You're your

Being somewhat of a grammar nut when it comes to writing, I find it hard to read someone else’s verbiage when it’s not correct. This isn’t about the proper usage of a semi-colon, but about the usage of the correct words.

Seeing the words “Your hot” in front of me bothers me.

Even though I know what they’re talking about, the sarcastic side of me wants to ask My hot what? Don’t leave me leave in suspense. What about my hot? Is it under my bed? Is it about to give me a present? What?

It’s almost as bad as the usage of to, too, and two. If you don’t know the difference by the time you’ve reached your 20’s, then either a) you never will, and b) ditto.

If you’ve graduated from some form of schooling, you would have to know the language by now. And if you don’t, then your in trouble.

Overheard near Macy's

"... And even if you have a woman, no mattah how much you wanna, yo' ain't nevah gonna stick yo' fingah up her ass."

Corner of College and Bathurst

“Hey.”

“Hey, where are you?”

“I’m at College and Bathurst.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve been waiting here for 20 minutes and you’re not here.”

“Yes, I am. I’m at the Scotiabank.”

“No, you’re not. I went there and it’s closed. You’re not outside and you’re not indoors, either.”

“Yeah, I’m waiting outside the bank; at the west side of College and Bathurst.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve even gone back and forth, crossed the street and I haven’t seen you.”

“Can’t you see me?”

“No. There’s no one there. One corner has a bank. The other has a restaurant. The other one has a church of some kind and the last has a parking lot. You’re not at either.”

“I’ve been waiting here for 15 minutes, ever since the streetcar dropped me off.”

“Look, if this is some sort of game, I’m not playing it. I don’t have time for games.”

“You’re mad.”

“Yeah, I’m a little.” Pause for composure. “Hold on. Hold on. Walk to the corner and tell me the name of the intersection.”

“Oh, ok.” Pause. “It’s Grace.”

“Grace isn’t Bathurst. Grace is, like, 10 blocks away from Bathurst.”

“Do you still want to meet?”

“Yeah. I do. I really need a drink right now.”

Four years old

Tomorrow marks the first time I ever wrote anything on Human Nature. Four years of me, my life, my world. Funnily enough, looking back I never expected it to last this long. It’s the longest project I’ve ever worked on.

Sometimes it’s been one of the most fulfilling and frustrating aspects of my life, and throughout that time, I’ve tried to remain consistently crotchety, cranky and crabby.

But, for me, Human Nature is the greatest source of a personal history. It’s all there, in the written word. Although it was initially for me, people have been taking part in my life, knowing about my trials and tribulations from a distance.

Will it last for another four years? Probably not. But, I’ll be around after Human Nature is long gone.

Passive-aggressive text messages

As I'm making my way up Yonge Street to meet N for drinks, I see a face that is familiar. He's walking towards me, and the closer her gets, the more I'm sure it is - it's A, a friend who I haven't seen or heard of in months.

Just before we pass one another, I nod my head, smile and mouth the words hey. There is no acknowledgement in return.

Hmmm... Maybe he didn't see me.

The next day, my phone beeps, telling me I have a new message. When I look down at the name, I see it’s from A.

Hey Steven. Hope your recovery is going well. Sorry I haven't had a chance to call you yet, do you want to meet up this week to talk things out?

Uh, what is he talking about? Recovery? Talk things out? What the fuck? Was he on drugs while writing this message?

For months, I tried to reach him. A series of emails and phone calls went unanswered. He didn’t want to talk to me. If he was a friend, I guess he would have. Now, he’s texting me with this? And, he’s one to talk about recovery. I’m not the one with a recreational narcotics addiction.

I don’t reply back. I don’t feel the need to write a passive-aggressive text message with another one.

Genetics, my ass

Whenever I hear a model-type person who has a great body explaining the method to the madness as a simple matter of good of genes, I want to yell out, Liar! because I know it's not the truth.

After further probing, I learn the girls don't eat and smoke copious amounts of cigarettes, while the guys eat a 1/2 dozen small meals a day, supplemented by workouts six times a week.

Christian Boeving, a popular fitness model, was discovered to have used steroids for years to achieve his muscled look while he was promoting health supplements. Sadly, Boeving couldn't look like himself without the use of steroids. So, if a model can't look like himself 'naturally' then where is the hope for the rest of us? There isn't.

True, genetics plays a small part of it, but it's only a short chapter in a rather thick book. Genes would play a larger role if these said people sat on their asses, ate foods high in fat, and managed to maintain a flat stomach with an ass that defies gravity.

Still, it makes me want to cuss out models. Non-models think those skinny bitches are that way naturally, and because of that, their self-esteem erodes when they look in the mirror or try on a new pair of jeans (made for a skinny person, natch). And, the thing is almost anyone can look like that if they don't eat, smoke, and hit the gym.

Then again, I don't exercise and eat non-stop, so...