Mastering the Art of Tantric for the Lonely and Confused


 art by mike shinoda

Happy autumn daze, my precious kittens, fleeting fuckboys, and annoying mosquitoes! I will miss scratching all of your bites when I’m holed inside hibernating in the winter. Last night was a lovely porch night with the neighbours on the eve of the Blood Moon which is very exciting for those of us whose serotonin levels are lunar activated, definite mojo overload for this old prowling wolfmilf.  I have de-activated the Tinder app from my phone, so I have no immediate tangible outlet for my howling ways, but that’s okay, I can wait. It turns out I AM too old for the pell-mell, willy-nillyness that is modern day hook up culture. I am a woman of substance so I’m sticking old fashioned courtship techniques like social media cyber stalking and prolonged sexting. And sending photos of fragmented body parts using the classic filters from iOS7.

Last night’s porch life activity included the neighbours making me try some vegan cheese. I’m all cool and even sometimes interested with their lifestyle choice of replacing  hunks of juicy deliciousness (meat!)  with dried up flakes of ever-so-slight saltiness (nutritional yeast LOL!) but please don’t call coconut bacon “bacon” when it’s just dehydrated coconut dipped in liquid smoke. That is not simply a misnomer, it’s an insult to pork and no, carnivores do not feel “more comfortable” sitting around a picnic table while you call your processed GMO manipulated-man titty inducing soy product patty imposter a “burger.” Call it what it is: Dust.

Anyhoo, I didn’t really want to try the “cheese” because I knew it would be, at best, meh and these days if I want to fill my holes, what I put in better be more than just good, it better be amazing. But Colleen was all like “Try the cheese, Peterson” and had it spread on a bagel and waved it in my face and so I did, I ate it,  and I was right,  it was “okay,” I declared diplomatically but thinking: What is wrong with their taste palates? “You’ll get used to it!” she said sensing my disdain only because she was masking hers. I think those were the exact words Diana heard when she married Prince Charles. I don’t want to “get used to” anything. I want to be blown away by the beauty and wonder of the world and allow the splendour to flow through me and bestow on me enlightenment beyond my expectations and send me to another stratosphere that gets me closer to that higher place where the fear of death is placated by the divinity of stuffing  fondue or buttermilk brined fried chicken into my pie hole, is that too much to ask?

Last week I ate a triple cream brie ACTUAL fucking cheese made by monks in Burgundy, France.  Their repressed sexual energy is most probably hard-core pumped into everything they make like all that wine and bread and cheese they’re famous for, which is basically my own personal 3 food groups. Try playing the game of “Fuck, Marry, Kill” with wine, bread, and cheese. I just can’t do it. Every time I try, I get confused and I feel bad that if I married wine, I would cheat with beer sometimes, like every day probably, who’s kidding who. I’d probably be okay with killing bread because carbs but still really want to fuck a baguette on most days in a threesome with the cheese, obviously. What a quagmire. Anyway, eating this triple cream brie was like sucking on the teat of a benevolent deity whose multitude of arms coddled me, stroked my forehead, soothed inner child, made everything okay, and even fiddled with my ears (you know I like that)  while whispering “I love you.”  It was, indeed, a splendorous experience. Eating that “vegan cheese” was like eating a bagel that was moistened with something to make it go down easier. Do not call it cheese, it is merely “emotionally distant non-committal white spread for bread.”  But! The moon was almost full so I could forget what I ate and focus on the other holes.

So when the wine ran out and we all went inside to our respective digs, engulfing ourselves with the blue haze of the tv screens for cold comfort. Peeps, I need a new show to obsess over, fire me some suggestions, winter is coming, but don’t say “Game of Thrones” unless you’re willing to come over and pin me down because I get all antsy watching that shit, I’ve tried.

Lately I like to lay in the quiet dark and “meditate” or whatever euphemism makes you vegans comfortable. Carnivores tho, psssst: I’m tenderizing veal cutlets;). So yes, I was in the dark and I got a text from a friend whose meat and cheese would most probably make a mighty fine sandwich and I’m  thinking…long…. and hard about it.  Anyway, his message was non-sensical to moi, something random about “meditating” which was weirdly serendipitous because that is what exactly I was doing, and then he wrote back immediately before I could change hands, “oh sorry that wasn’t for you” and then he explained he was talking to some “friend” about tantric sexual practises. Whoa, what? Is it 1998?  His misfired text got my attention though. What exactly is this tantric practise anyway? I kind of missed the boat on that trend when I was busy breastfeeding babies and wiping toddler butts. I was way too lazy to google it but he said some kind of thing couples did instead of boning without touching each other. I know right? SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING VEGANS WOULD DO TO AVOID GETTING GREASY. I fell asleep just thinking about it.

So this morning I woke up all refreshed and ready to start a new day of same old repressed sexual energy coursing through all my chakras and busting at the seams as per usual, I decided to google this tantric tomfoolery. I got to the wiki page which defines tantra as “an Asian tradition of beliefs and meditation and ritual practices that seeks to channel the divine energy of the macrocosm or godhead into the human microcosm in order to attain siddhis and moksha.” Yeah, okay, so where does Sting and his 7-hour boner come into it?

Well, scrolling further down the pages of Google I found out that  apparently channelling all your sexual energy and letting it simmer and steep rather than explode in the normal 3 minutes or less, let’s not kid ourselves, actually heightens intimacy! Longer is better, yo!  Of course, this is only useful if you have a partner but between you and me, show me a couple practising the tantra and I will show you an exercise in full blown mind numbing boredom. All that staring and breathing and intertwining without penetration is unsustainable. Dollars for donuts one of you is thinking about renovating the kitchen and the other is contemplating murder. You know I’m right.

Anyway, you actually don’t really need a partner to practice tantric energy. It turns out I’ve been doing this all along in every day situations, I just did not know what it was.  I liked this 4 easy steps guide and modified it for every day people who are single or enjoy vegan cheese:

1. Design and “Intimacy Space.” I think this is super important. In my opinion, your whole home should be a place that is a haven from the rest of the world, whether you bone in it or not. Once in a while I will go to a friend’s house with whom  drinking shots out of each other’s belly buttons turned into an invitation for wine and cheese and bread and I walk into their crib and I think: “Who the fuck lives here, your grandma?” And yes, once this guy actually did live with his grandma but what I mean is don’t decorate your house like you think it should be like, all pristine and with a couch that looks like it’s wearing a back brace accessorized with cushions that have decorative beadwork and feathers that you can’t drool on. You should be able to fuck recklessly on every piece of furniture in your space or at least practice twerking on every piece of furniture in your space. Otherwise what is the point of “home?” Or intimacy, especially, if you have a piece of furniture called a hutch or curiosity cabinet filled with Royal Doulton figurines. Boner killer. Tantric panic button.

2. Breathe Each Other’s Breath. What? I don’t want to do this with anybody either. One person breathes out, the other breathes it in? Ugh. No. I breathe really fast and shallow cuz my heart is like hummingbird and I don’t want to know what someone else had for lunch, breakfast, or how many creams in their coffee, this is a mess. I modified this tantric energy exercise though for normal people with boundaries. I like to spin with my one of my best buddies, JHo. We park ourselves on bikes side by side and she’ll all dressed to go, full of piss and Balsamic vinaigrette and ready hit the 20 mark, and I’m like, slow mo, no, Ho,  I don’t go 20 but she is YES, BITCH! Put it on 20! So I put it on 21  just to be the top in our symbiotic energy flow system. I also match my pedal stroke to hers and we to ride stupid songs like “Shut Up and Dance,” we both feel the hatred together which binds us as one sweaty unit. I breathe, and I’m pretty sure she is breathing.  We’re 2 feet apart,with the fan blowing, sucking on each other’s oxygen waste, but not on purpose. Good enough, tantric task master!  Xoxoxoxoxox, JHo!

3. Keep Your Eyes Open.  This means you need to gaze into each other’s eyes and let the energy flow through one another. Again, no. Last time I locked eyes with a dude in an intimate moment, he took it as a signal to put his hands around my throat and throttle away just enough for me to stop that shit and knuckle punch him in his Lumberjerkoff beard. Who knew this was a commonplace hipster sex move? I did not! And! as a consequence I’m still apprehensive about venturing west of the Don Valley. If ever I had a proper dude for staring all soulfully and tantra-like eyes to eyes, I would probably make sure we were both wearing those Bioré pores strips across the bridge of our noses so we wouldn’t get distracted counting each other’s blackheads. Until this happens, I sometimes lay on my back with Betty the dog on my chest and she and I gaze into each other’s souls while I pet her soft furry head. Her big black eyes are so attentive and she looks at me like she thinks I’m pretty, it’s as though we are connected with tantric energy in the purest form. This is what we are thinking:

Me: “Oh, Betty, you are such and exquisite little animal. I love you so much, I want to squeeze you until all the cute comes out, you are so scrumptious, I want to eat you up!”(I am such a carnivore)

Betty: “Cheese, bitch.”

4. Take It Slow.  Tinder fuckboys, take note, this makes sense. Tantric is all about foreplay even if it means grossing each other out and boring each other senseless with the breathing and staring but! there is definitely something to be said about taking your time and letting it all build up when there is mutual attraction. Like going on an actual date for dinner and drinks, then another date some other time where you do something “fun” like indoor rock climbing or mini golf, all devised to check out how the ass moves so you can decide whether or not book a third date, which is the crucial one.  Unless of course, on that first date, you’re both so hot for each other, you lock eyes, growl or snort, and you can barely make it to the bathroom where you mash it out in there. Fuck that tantric bullshit, that’s the stuff that’s makes for real cheese. Just wait for it.

Enjoy the full moon, y’all!






Mastering the Art of the Olds


I loved the article last week in the NYTimes by Dominique Browning about being too old for certain shit and not even caring if you are too old for it. And definitely giving zero fucks if some slightly younger bitch who is still bothering to pull out her rogue grey pubes gets all haughty and says: “Don’t say “old,” say “wise,” BECAUSE OLD IS A BAD WORD AND MAKES US ALL UNCOMFORTABLE.

It shouldn’t though. Old is an empowering word. Young is for amateurs. Old  is the new black, trust. Everyone is rocking it. I just got a solid case of the olds recently and I don’t completely hate it and neither should you. Stick with me, I’ll take you under my soft downy wing and show you the way, don’t be scared.

Last week at Loblaws,  I ran into this woman I know from the gym. We haven’t seen each other since the heyday of Lululemon active wear, right before Chip Wilson  opened his big douchey mouth and made those of us who want to take a stand against  the Donald Trump of yoga turn elsewhere for our camel toe game. So yeah, we haven’t seen each other in 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 years, who knows, as you know, time flies whatever your age is….however long ago it was, she looked amaaaazing. She’s about 5 years younger than me in her mid-to-late forties and her hair was all blown out and her face all smooth and Botoxed. Okay, relax, I’m not being mean, I’m saying this because I know the injectables and my bae Botox just makes you look rested and not like you’re up all night playing on-line Scrabble with an internet troll in a different time zone, drinking vodka, and bouncing off the walls, trying to find a flattering angle for your titties to Snapchat. She looked super fit, like in her prime hotness. AND LIKE SHE’S BEEN GOING TO THE GYM EVERYDAY.  Shit. So this was the conversation:

Me: “Hi!!! How are you?”

She: “Great! How are you? Are you still going to the gym?”

Me: “Yes! Well…. no…actually. Yes, I do go and walk in the door  but since they started moving things around for the renovations, I can’t figure it out, so I just flail around the hallway and then go drink beer.”

She (nodding): “Yeah, that spinning room in the squash court is kind of brutal.”

OBVIOUSLY SHE KNOWS THIS BECAUSE SHE ACTUALLY DOES THE CLASSES. I have only heard about this makeshift spinning room in a squash court but I’m waiting for it to come back when they’re done with this reno. I hate change and I’m too old for bright lights.

Me (upper body collapsing on my glutenous white carb laden grocery cart):  “I just let the menopause hit, I didn’t bother reading that Suzanne Somers book. Estogen Shmestrogen. I don’t care anymore….”

She looked at me incredulously like I was a frog on a highway and she and her pert antioxidant-filled shopping cart scuttled away before we could talk about how our kids were doing. I had a case of the olds and she was not going to catch it. No, she’s going to run from it. And probably train for a Tough Mudder along the way. Ha ha, the joke’s on her, there’s nothing more ageing than doing some archaic strenuous shit squinting in the sun. “You choose the face or the body,” said the grand old bitch Catherine Deneuve, who wisely chose the face, knowing that the thickened middle pudge is practical for holding Netflix on the laptop and trays of snacks and cans of beers or whatever.

YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE, THE OLDS ARE COMING FOR YOU, TOO! I wanted to warn her but best let her find out for herself. Cue the theme song from Jaws.

So yeah, she will get the olds in due time and there’s not much she can do about it. But like all of life’s curve balls, it’s how you flail your bat at them that counts. I’m not even sure that’t the right metaphor but you know what I mean. At some point she will tire of fighting with her glorious hair and  it will start looking all fantastically witchy when the silvers start winning. She will also finally get that postal feeling of irascible rage over the song “Footloose” and stop spinning all together like I did. Then finally, by the light of the giant harvest moon in 2019 she will burn all her Lululemons in a giant bonfire and she will yell; “I’M OLD AS FUCK AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE!” And we will embrace her in our old-as-fuck community by getting our Botox on because we are never to old for botulism injectables.

It’s all good. Here’s a random list of things I’m too old for, let me know yours:

  • Snapchat
  • Grown ass adults having birthday parties. Unless the booze is free.
  • Having to continuously re-download the annoying Kik app for a D pic because a certain type of Tinder dude is too paranoid about his precious package to send by old-fashioned text message. Having said that, the last one was worth it.
  • Winged eyeliner…reluctantly :( but it’s just too much work.
  • Yelling at customer service phone representatives like a toddler as though the world owes me HBO and faster internet for free. I am NOT going to become one of those cantankerous cane-tapping old bats who get their way only because they are about to die on an ice floe unbeknownst to them. Instead I will always use my freakishly girlish phone sex voice in order to get free stuff.
  • Thongs

And like the NY Times article says, just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you can’t embrace new things and make new friends. Also things you shouldn’t have to apologize for because you’re old as fuck, here’s my list:

  • Lipstick, especially those bold colours from the 80s that only Gwen Stefani gets away with. I know the olds come with those vertical lines that can make a mess of things but! Fuck it. Also I have discovered those 8-hour BJ-proof-stay-on formulas like Kat Von D’s Everlasting from Sephora, caveat: You have to paint it on carefully with a super steady hand so get rid of last night’s martini shakes by having good morning Caesar BUT! Once you get it on and let it dry, you can eat a gooey delicious croque madame sandwich and your lips will stay intact. Oh, also: I put this shit on in public because I’m too old to care.
  • Cheetos
  • Long Island iced tea, let’s bring these back in style, mama needs to howl at the moon again.
  • Tinder. Where has this app been all my life? This is the dating app for those who don’t have time or the life skills for meaningful relationships and base their attraction solely on a few photos and a couple of sentences. Me: Boobs, Soft downy wings, Sandwich maker, OCD hair twirler, Boobs…Looking for  a D for my V. How concise is that? The boys in the photos are all flying through the air on bungees, parachutes, and trampolines. Catch me if you can, bitches, they seem to be saying. Swipe left and it’s nope, you can fly off the cliff and die, dude; Swipe right, and yes, we can totally bone if you can hold still for a second. Of course, nothing has come of this for old as fuck moi because everyone on this has severe ADD and they expect you to stop what you’re doing RIGHT NOW and come over PRONTO. I need witty banter for lubrication and Tinder boys can’t take light repartee, unless you’re asking them what their favourite boneage position is, they’re like, “you’re wasting my time, lady” and off into they go into ether on their roller blades or pogo sticks. Whatevs, like I care. Maybe I am too old for this, but I’m waiting patiently to catch the great white whale.  Also I get a cheap little thrill when there is a match which means both of us swiped right! This is destiny at work! Then I plan the mock wedding:
  • Dumb bridal shows, like “Say Yes to the Dress.” This is my Friday night guilty pleasure slash porn. Back cleavage makes me gleeful. I don’t know why.
  • Your dad, please have him call me.



Mastering the Art of Procrastination


Happy summer daze, kittens! I’ve missed you more than you know but I’ve been busy with some other interweb activity for a group of cute dudes who asked me to write things for their website about Toronto neighbourhoods. They asked me nicely so I couldn’t so say no but it’s a lot of work. It’s research intensive and then I have to digest and  ruminate before I spew things out to sound less Wikipedia-ish and more like that Drunk History You-Tube channel. I love it but it’s a brain workout and it’s going slower than I would like. People assume my stream of consciousness style comes out easily like a prolapse after Pride weekend but it doesn’t. It puckers up and gets shy. Sometimes I just have to take a break from reading about John Simcoe’s pissing contests in the 1700s and stop and stare at the wall. For about two seconds. And check out OkCupid. Pretend I don’t notice my OkC crush in on-line and not responding to my message. Freak out a tiny bit. I don’t need a dude to complete me. Especially one who drinks wheat beer. Deal breaker. I need a snack. Then go on Twitter and stalk the food truck situation within a 5 kilometre distance. Too much effort to collect rogue toonies and loonies around the house for $12 order of mad-fried chicken. Play with my bean instead, get temporary carpal tunnel, wash my hands (not really), repeat.

The worst is I’ve been neglecting y’all, and when I neglect you, I neglect myself. So I’m taking a break from procrastination to sit down and gab for awhile to get my fingering motor skills back in order. I’ve been thinking about procrastination a lot lately and maybe it’s not such a time waster as it is a way to recharge the old battery, maybe people need to put things off because everything is so chicken-with-head-cut-off-rush-rush sense of urgency bullshit. Although, I bet John Simcoe, during his 58 years on the planet, didn’t have to procrastinate all the live long day while introducing institutions such as the courtstrial by juryEnglish common lawfreehold land tenure, and the abolition of slavery …why? Because he wasn’t on Facebook, let alone OkCupid or Tinder. He got ‘er done AND founded a little town called York, now  known as Toronto btw…and he probably never abbreviated anything either because there was nothing but time back then. And vast swamp land to create a massive village of future finger-fapping, screen-addicted, orally-fixated, anal-probing (not me! you know who you are), citizens with ADD, ADHD, OCD and insomnia. Well done, sir.

I feel like most of us should live slower in order to disguise the fact that we’re actually procrastinating. I am sure this is how most people with 9 to 5 jobs actually function. I know this for a fact because they always have their green lights on during work hours. Busy bees checking out cat videos all the live long day, pretending to be productive.

My thoughts on time management: I have a real problem with dismissive people who say things like “You’re wasting my time” for being slow or asking questions when their time is as useless as anyone else’s. Time isn’t ALL THAT. My fucking crazy pregnant neighbour down the street probably spends the better part two hours every morning stuffing a bump-it in her hair and creating a cascade of blond tomfoolery so spectacular, it would take your breath away if you saw it IRL. This is precious time she can’t get back but she does it for whatever reason floats her boat. You can just tell her husband is dying of embarrassment when he walks her lumpy bumpy, sausage-encased self over to Starbucks every morning, waiting impatiently for that baby to come out and scream WTF? right along with him.

Anyway, here are some procrastination activities I’ve come up for yourself that I deem worthwhile and can maybe help get the creative juices flowing, but probably not. Go waste some time:

1. Watch the movie “Chef” on Netflix.  Jon Favreau as a hairy fat man has finally got my full attention. I am in love. Hot, hot, hot, but! Also: this movie inspires me to cook. Especially that Cuban sandwich he makes on his food truck. I need to have that NOW, the way he fiddles with pulled pork, help me Jesus. I do like cooking kind of, but I take too many short cuts which always leads to something too crunchy or not caramelized enough. The other day I watched my friend Lo make a quiche. Not only does she NOT multi-task, she makes fucking Caesars in between each chopping activity, tells a story, then moves on to the next step. THIS IS HOW WE NEED TO LIVE OUR LIVES.  Slow your pie hole down, and make the entire day a slow eating and yap-doodle day.

2. Drink beer with the neighbours.  My neighbours and current tenants are the best and I’m very lucky and grateful to have them so it makes good common sense to maintain these friendships. Especially in the summer when you can walk outside and drink some beers with them whenever procrastination hits fever pitch. The neighbours are always busy hand picking out rogue clovers or other non-conforming spritely weirdlings in their garden and perfectly trimming the sides of the grass against the entire walkway so the blades don’t stick out willy nilly. Can they cut hair? No, no they can’t, or at least they won’t. But they will help me pull out that pernicious weed that has taken deep root around my Rose of Sharon and imitating its foliage so it strangles it like an ugly jealous step-sister. They will proceed to yank out more weeds because the OCD sets in. This is thirsty work that requires refreshments during and afterward. The tenants also make delightful Pimm’s cocktails from the mint grown in the backyard garden, so it would be rude not to except an offer of one.  Also I feel like John Simcoe would approve of this procrastination activity as he gave all east end land in olden day York, including the lot I’ve parked my arse on, to the gardeners of yore.

3. Clean something, anything. My daughter wrote a list of what to clean and she was very generous in saying that we can do one area once a week. I cannot possibly go on a cleaning frenzy that lasts more than 2 hours. I always say I gave birth to my own mother but my mother would never write a list like that, she would just do it all and you would come home and take it all for granted, all the sorted socks and ironed underwear, and yes she read my diary but whatevs. Anyway, my daughter has been moving from the back end of the house to the front “doing ALL the work, FFS” except that I cleaned out the fridge and freezer the other day. It wasn’t that hard, I don’t why she makes such a fuss. So much forgotten ice cream though which is tragic because it gets gummy with those hard crystals on the top. DNR and toss but not before scooping out the bottom inch and zapping in the microwave for 10 seconds and a have break while watching “The View.”

4. Shop. I’ve been in an anti-shop mode for the last couple of years. I’m pretending to make a stand against excessive consumerism but it’s really because I’m broke as fuck.  But! I have found that rifling through the endless racks of a department store so serenely contemplative that I don’t know why I stopped doing it just for the sport. I guess I was afraid I’d be tempted to buy something stupid except that I realize now I don’t have to, I have the power to say no! I think your nan called it “window shopping.” Possibly all that OkCupid scrolling has trained me to thinking you don’t have to bone everything you send your veiny boob pics to. This is a very liberating thought.

5. Have a nap.  It’s so cute, I wish you could see what I’m looking down at now. I’m on my upstairs balcony writing this on a lawn chair under a shade tree, my backyard is like a camping spot, it’s really very nice and peaceful.. My tenants are on their deck laying eyes closed and tits up in reclining lawn chairs with their dog flaked out at their feet and they’re all having an afternoon siesta. Yes, they are probably in a Pimm’s induced coma but they spent the whole morning clearing out all the beer cans from the night before. I need to Instagram this before some little asshole Pomeranian-cross bitch with a smoker’s bark wakes them up. Goddamn, too late…oh, Betty.






Mastering the Art of Regret


Last week was my birthday. Which I regret having, even though it’s out of my control. Birthdays are a time of reflection and drunken ruminations. Regret comes along for the ride. I really regret leaving the womb entirely, it was a smooth ride, I think, my mom only ate bland food and I got out over 8 pounds with a cone head. That must have been good times. Also if I’m going to regret anything at all, I regret my XX chromosome arrangement, I’m sure I could have worked harder or used a different swim stroke to get the XY thing happening and I could have been born penuted (word of the day: meaning born with a penis or strapped on with a Shinjo) . If I was a boy, my parents told me would have named me Thor. True story. Do you think a boy named Thor would have made it alive through school in Quebec in the 1970s? I used to cringe thinking about it when I was young but now of course, I think it would have been bad ass. Through the taunts and the giggles, I would have grown emotionally like most awesome people who were tormented in school.  I’d be hot in mind, body, and spirit. I’d probably be like my brother, handsome nordic type, but I’d grow a giant ginger beard which would make the girls wet, the boys stare, and  my mother crazy, yelling at me about being a fecal dust trap. Oh, Thor. I’d work out at the gym every day and have sleeve tattoos and be a magnificent sexy beast who nobody would ever know if I was straight or gay, but I’d be focussing on deadlifts, so that might allude to something. I am Thor the Pansexual Gym God, and I regret nothing. That would be the slogan of my line of top-selling products, organic soap, tequila, pasta sauce, whatevs. Thor is just all that and a bag of chips. With his face on it, rakin’ in the royalties.

Anyway, this whole ageing process is not what it’s cracked up to be. It’s a constant fight and flight to the bitter end, to make it through somewhat intact.  Also I  notice that most people as they get older, become more set in their ways. And their ways are total bullshit. Like for example,they need to eat the same thing everyday. I dated an “age appropriate” dude last year in his midfifties going on half rotted corpse. 55 is young-ish (yes, it is, just wait, it’ll happen to you before you finish Games of Thrones final episode)  but he was one of those wilting oldsters, slowly curling up and hunching over, morphing into an armadillo. He had to use every pharmaceutical available to make every top to tip bodily function happen from blinking in eyedrops every 30 minutes to a nightly toe fungus spray (btw, the Rogaine wasn’t working). He would eat only fructose corn syrup laden “power bars” all day then a frozen prepackaged sodium overloaded microwaveable something or other at night and he walked around all baggy eyed and scuffing the carpet with his dragging feet like they were too hard to lift since he was missing 8 bazillion nutrients…which he then attempted to  replenish by gumming down handfuls of vitamins that he bought for dirt cheap on Amazon. Like that works, don’t get me started. “I don’t have enough salt in my diet,” he panicked one day when he ran out of iodine tablets. How do you fucking know that? “I’m so tiiiiired…” he said in his Droopy dog voice, popping a stool softener. This was only going to get worse. I definitely dodged a bullet there after he dumped me. Do you think people should dump you without giving you a reason? Neither do I. Jesus. At least I will go through life trying strange foods homemade from different lands (or from the walls, not the frozen aisle, of the grocery store every day) and gleefully pooping the rainbow with the greatest of ease, naturally, maybe regretting the occasional ghost pepper. I see him and his favourite fleshlight, Hello Dolly, living alone a one bedroom retirement suite with his power bars, pills, and ONLY his bitter regrets keeping him warm at night. He is the cautionary tale.

When you regret things, you imagine what would have been if you hadn’t have made that boneheaded left turn when you should have gone right or straight ahead. “Oh but you wouldn’t have had your children!” you say, which is true and something to say to yourself to shake you into reality when you are in deep regret mode. All stupid things, including that tequila shot, led you to the births of your children, now go take an Ativan and shut up. But I wouldn’t have known that and I could have had other children, with different noses. And one named Thor, maybe.

I’m only mentioning the nose part because on my birthday weekend, I had a visitor from my past who lives in another city and was in town for business and looked me up via the google and this here blog…cut to the chase: He was my very first boyfriend, the one I fell in love with first, and the one who got away or I sent back into the sea, heart shattered and broken like my hymen, yo. But! It was a long time ago, and all water under the bridge. But talk about the fork in the road. If somehow I went in another direction, I may have ended up living in another city, in another country, and have children with his nose, it’s the kind you can’t genetically escape, because it  is so majestic. But! After the roads he took, he has his own children (yes, with his nose, it even works Asian-style) and therefore pleased with his prowess. Men love to spawn la wherever and they probably don’t spend much time playing woulda-shoulda-coulda game. So it’s just me all reflective and trying not to regret anything which is pointless because I am an insomniac ruminator…. SIGH! I would have liked to live in another city, anywhere but this stodgy-ass town where no one gets me…but, yes, I wouldn’t have my awesome kids, or my sweet angelic dog, or my crazy friends and those great lovers (not the jackass ones, although they make for good cautionary tales), or experienced #porchlife, holy shit, that will be next blog post, stay tuned. No regrets drinking all that wine, beer and bourbon, so there’s no reason to ruminate over it all. Maybe just enjoy the ride wherever it goes, I’m sure it will all work out just fine.

Besides, what would Thor do? I don’t think he would bother to ruminate about what could have been, he’d be too busy posting pictures on Pinterest of all his hopes and dreams, isn’t that what men do when they’re not masturbating?





Mastering the Art of Misandry

I am not a strident misandrist, just a mild-mannered one….and this is interesting and something you can’t see but my misogynistic spell check puts a squiggly red line under this word that means MAN-HATER as though it shouldn’t exist even after I checked the spelling. WTF? Yes, I am going to go there and point it out, with my gnarly witch’s finger in yo face, Mr. Man: There’s a few eloquent and sexy words in the thesaurus for a misogynist, like retro 70s Norman Lear sitcom term “chauvinist” and “chauvinistic pig” (sounds delicious, like a French-fusion luau!)  and the definition in the dictionary is  “a woman hater, prolly because she deserves it .” I had to google up the word “misandrist” because I had always thought man-hater was “misanthrope” which does means “the hatred of men” but specifically in the collective sense of the word “men” (Sweet motherfucking Sowpods, why is our language so impoverished?), as in ALL the peeps; peen, vag, peen/vag combo, double peen, vag with a side of peen, gender fluidity united!  But! The word that would be to hate men exclusively barely even exists! You have to find it on Yahoo Answers and even then you get a bunch of confused answers. So the word ‘misandrist” was suggested by the only the very few scholarly non-fapping interwebbers and it means, according to the dictionary from my beloved MacBook launchpad: “a man hater, by a woman, as in her brand of feminism is just poorly disguised misandry.”  Really.  So, simply put, a misandrist is a dumb bitch man-hater with a skewed belief system and a misogynist is the man who rightfully gets to hate her.

I’m definitely not a misanthrope, you know this to be a true fact if you follow this blog, I enjoy the foibles and follies of modern hoi poloi, but, as you also know, I don’t suffer a fool, particularly with one with a peen. However, most of my depredation of humankind has been that I am mean about other women (her eyes are too close together! I don’t think she can make scalloped potatoes as good as mine!) because I’m biologically competitive, for what? Sperm, apparently. I didn’t make this up, there are studies about this “catty” behaviour, women have to put each other down for some survival of the fittest to see who gets their eggs fertilized by Dirk Diggler for the greater good of keeping humanity bumbling along on the assembly line. Women are our own worst enemies, with each other and ourselves, which this is why, by the way, photoshop exists. We, the bitches of market research, made it happen as consumers of both dick and cellulite cream. We pointed out our perceived flaws out to the men and by doing so, gave them the power to judge. Whereas if we played our cards right, and said nothing while we ate everything, they wouldn’t give shit what we looked like at we’d all be happy, laughing and hanging out at the Dairy Queen. Misogyny is rampant amongst us all, not just men. That’s a hard pill to swallow, especially if you’re like me and you have a daughter you need to guide into the world so she doesn’t get dick- swatted by the wayside. Thank the goddesses of yonic power (surprise, spellcheck hates that one too!) she is smarter than me. She is the new generation of feminism who doesn’t do duck-face selfies and best of all, they stick together and don’t let dudes get away with anything.

I’m ashamed about all that fellow female-bashing skulduggery in my past now that I am enlightened by modern girl power (and all my eggs are spent and fried so it’s not my place to snark). Presently, I have zero ovum to give, so this sperm fishing is just a sport for me, for what? Trophy, apparently. And a side order of sausage, just for snacks. I can swallow that, quite easily. It’s actually empowering to be an old bat who gives herself permission not to care, nobody really tells that the world is your oyster when you stop giving a shit, especially not those Madison Avenue tricksters who put the fear in you that your natural aging process needs to be nipped in the bud. Oh,wait a minute, you say, what about the Dove Real Beauty campaign that celebrates women of all shapes, sizes, cultures, and age? Sorry, sister, that’s just a bunch of men selling us soap, feeding the women what they told them in a focus group the crap they want to hear. Don’t kid yourself, the people who run Unilever are all largely a bunch of dudes blithely taking your money in typical white corpordick  fashion while bamboozling you to believe the guntification of your muffin top and your wretched, sun splotched face is “beautiful” because deep down you don’t buy at it all, ummm, which is why you’re still sucking it in with $49 Spanx and smoothing it out with $300 Botox.

And while I  don’t *hate* the menfolk, per se,  I do sometimes think: What a waste of space. They always get in the way and ruin everything. Their constant need to butt-in in traffic, just so they can get to the red light first, is a metaphor for how they navigate their way through life: Me first, move bitch, coming through. Then they die sooner. And reincarnate faster, and the cycle continues except the next life, they come back as women and make fools of us all. Again. It’s amazing.

Scene: An indoor pool in a gym, roped into 4 individual lanes for lap swimming. Each of these lanes are occupied by 4 women doing the breast stroke or crawl in a civilized manner, one just had her hair did so she’s floating on a pool noodle, kicking her elegant legs like a mermaid, calming gentle waves soothe like a haiku poem. Then, out of nowhere, a big ugly hairy dude with goggles and fins on his feet jumps in one of the lanes, giving no consideration to the woman already occupying the lane and certainly giving zero fucks when he is “swimming” or whatever hirsute manatees do in the water, that he creates tsunami/undertow disaster combo over the entire pool, ruining the whole natural zen of the adult lane swim experience.  One lady gets water up her nose and chokes, the mermaid gets her hair ruined, and another gets flustered and loses her lap count and disappears into the drain, never to be heard from again. And the woman “sharing” a  lane with Fatfuck McNeptune writes a complaint letter to the management of said gym, stating that the lanes need to be reserved, only to fall on deaf ears because “that’s too complicated to enforce blahblahblah”  so she writes a drunken blog post rant instead, like the righteous misandrist that she is but spellcheck won’t validate. Fuckers. True story.  It might be  #firstworldproblems to you but again, a metaphor: Men ruin everything.

And they don’t even care, they just take what they want because they think they are entitled to it. Last week, I went on an OkCupid date with a seemingly innocuous forty-something dude, prolly his name was Craig, I don’t even remember. I decided to test out a theory that you shouldn’t get too wrapped up in endless text messages and that it’s best just meet right away and see if things click BECAUSE DATING IS SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. He stated he wasn’t into anything “serious” which is code for easy boning. I have weird inexplicable and magical criteria for such things but when he suggested to meet for beer first, I thought, I CAN DO THIS FOR THE SAKE OF BLOG FODDER. You’re welcome.

He was perfectly generic looking, which means it’s all about the conversation skills to tip the scale:  If he had a great personality, he would be fuckable, but if he didn’t, he’d be sent back to the ether where the buzzards fly…guess which?  YO HO! FRIEND OR FOE?

If there was a conversation, I was not part of it, he talked about 9/11 conspiracy theories, GMOs versus organic farming, metric volume versus imperial, how vaccinations work with the herd, all these hot topics WHILE RUBBING MY LEG WITH HIS FOOT. Sexy. At one point, just to make personal banter, I asked him where he grew up. You’d think I asked him if he ever fantasized about having sex with his mother; WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW THAT? He shot me down like that navy seal did to Bin Laden (which actually did happen, please stop watching stoner documentaries already). He quickly changed the topic back to his own mind-numbing arse-burger Ted Talks, where he blathered on while I couldn’t get a word in even if I wanted. While he was explaining the difference between a pint and half-pint of beer, he kept reaching over to stroke my hand.  Oh by the way, the real answer will surprise you! Hang on to your titties for this: Because it isn’t actually another half-pint, it’s 330 mls which is metric for who the fuck cares plus he’s wrong AND stupid as any dumb dick could ever be who was desperately trying to lose his virginity at the age of 44.

Anyway, by the end of the night I was sitting on my left hand, clutching my beer glass in my right hand, pretending it was a hand grenade, and my legs impenetrably knotted and crossed like day-old challah bread, but do you think he read the body signals? Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t but it sure as fuck didn’t stop him from sticking his tongue in my mouth while we walked to the car.

Sadly, this is the typical mentality of a man on an on-line dating site. They seem to think they are picking and choosing out of a catalogue. If you say you’re into casual sex, or being tied up, or having your butt licked, then they think they can get it, like they are ordering Grocery Gateway. One dude once told me that I needed to “own” my profile as though it was a terms of agreement contract where there is no right to change minds clause.

It bugs me that women had to endure the movie “He’s Just Not That Into You” (don’t get me wrong, I lap this rom-com shit up, it is a footnote of my imaginary thesis) and we have take all that shit to heart, because some man did us a favour and told the best kept secret ever, as if it was such a revelation that if they don’t call, they don’t care, duh. But after that dude tongue bombed me, I puckered up my face like I had just licked a butthole (sorry, I just can’t with that, who put that on the menu?  WHY? That’s what handheld showerheads are for) and he actually asked me if I wanted to fool around some more, ignoring my vomitface response entirely. I said nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo while whistling in the wind on my broomstick. Even after I hightailed it back home, but not before stopping by the licker store for some vodka to swirl and gargle on, he kept texting me for a second date! Was I sending a mixed message? I don’t think so.  But he doesn’t care. I’m just a vessel of beauty for him to stick his dick into, but thanks Dove, for the validation! I shall self-love myself with your products, I’m pretty sure Unilever owns Ben & Jerry’s, how convenient. And this fucker, he’s just postponing the ultimate shame of the inevitable fleshlight purchase from Amazon, why don’t you start manufacturing some lube to go with that?

Still,I don’t hate men entirely. I love them with my soft, downy wings and my milky breassessts and I hate them only sometimes with my vomitface, and I always hold hope for that one particular motherfucking gentleman-type sex pig with some tongue game who delivers pizza and doesn’t yell at me when I drive slow because really, what’s the rush? That red light is ominous.    *washes face with Dove and puts on $180 Elizabeth Arden face cream while dreaming of a dewy jizz facial*

Mastering the Art of Self-Diagnosing: A Cautionary Tale


There’s always something going down in the body department. It’s  constant pain in the ass it is to be alive, that’s for sure. If you are lucky, there might be maybe a couple of days in any given year where nothing is noticed, all orifices are clear and everything is copacetic and in reasonable working order. Most of the time some kind of alarm is going off and for me, the list reads as such:

A motherfucking hangnail!

Annoying mouth canker, a crusty bitch of a cold sore in the corner of the lips

A stiff neck crick, a delicate tenderness underneath the wing part of the right shoulder-blade, hurts to back out of a parking spot

Throbbing headache, double vision, halo vision…hallucinations of a faerie-type-being or ghostly apparition coming from behind as if out of nowhere, whispers sweetly in my ear “don’t sweat it,” but sweat it anyway

Peripheral-only vision, a stubborn floater that doesn’t actually “float” per se, but sits in the way in plain sight, right in front of everything important making it impossible to read anything on the Internet

Stiffness in previously broken big toe, shooting pain in the foot arch, comes and goes

Itchy vagina

Sore lower back, throbbing tailbone STILL from that drunken bike spill in 2003

Scratchy throat the morning after eating Krinkle-cut Kettlechips, hurts to swallow

Flaming butthole, churning stomach, cramps, bloating…

Super farts!

No bladder control whatsoever, I’m sure we’ve talked about this before, this is only going to get much, much worse

Creaky knees

Slippery grip

Night sweats, emotional distress, insomnia

Impromptu nosebleed!

Ass cheek chafing, strange butt rash

Tender titties,  achey ovaries, Aunt Flo left the building 6 months ago but left her pet fish, Mojo and Moodswing, and they fight in public

Tightness in the ribs due to inflammation of the organs (prolly)

Heartache, memory loss, ennui, no interest in socialization, huge interest in BBC when the moon is full, no appetite, voracious appetite, angry self-inflicted flesh wound

Gluteal muscle strain, HURTS TO SIT ON TOILET

Charlie horse in the middle of the fucking night!

The Fear first thing in the morning

Excessive sneezing second thing in the morning

OCD hair twirling (chews hair but won’t admit to it, shhh)

Poop smells “chemical”

Poop formed itself  “in a weirdly shaped ominous symbol of Satan”

Poop is Pantone’s Colour of the Year!

Recurring dream of teeth falling out

Tiny white bumps on arms

Giant hives everywhere there is hair, including head, armpits, pubes, and eyebrows, tongue too big to fit in mouth, swollen cheeks, after touching a peach at the Farmer’s Market, would be scary if face didn’t look sooooo comically funny


I file these things in the back of my head so when I go for my annual checkup, I have something to tell the doctor. She enjoys my stories and in particular, my Yelp review of my colonoscopy. I will probably not tell her about my hangnails or my full moon activities (never mind, yes, I will) but! I will stress my insomnia and anxiety hope to gods of benevolent pharmaceuticals she finally gives me some drugs once and for all. Jesus Macauley Christ, I am the only adult I know who doesn’t have a prescription to some Xanax-type drug in order to cope, holy shit. A couple of weeks ago, Bob gave me one of his magic pellets, miraculazipam, and yes, please, I should have my own stash. I fell asleep easily, like I normally do, at around midnight, woke up at 3 a.m. like I normally do BUT! this time I didn’t toss and ruminate about sheep inventory for 3 sweaty, pillow-beating hours, I FELL RIGHT BACK ASLEEP IN A FIVE SECOND FINGER FAP OF A LAMB’S TAIL. And! This is the clincher: Woke up at 7 a.m. without The Fear. Sign me up, Dr. McC. Please.

I know what you’re going to say; “Xanax is addictive, blah blah, Big Pharma is evil, blah blah, unpronounceable chemicals, blah blah blah… try rosehip thistlewort and wild boar dingleberry dust from the Wiccan Farmer’s market or you can get it on-line for $400 USDs per gram plus shipping. Yes, holistic bitch, whatever you read from the Food Babe’s blarf must be true. Or! I can get Valium or one of its sexy cousins, and guess what, yo? There’s no chemical I can’t pronounce, I am that articulate.

But you know what? I am really bad at going to the doctor and probably will just let it all slide, like my inflamed organs that I am going to cure with tumeric tea, which I have yet to buy, much less brew. I am a lazy Wiccan like that. Yes, I really do wish dried herbs would trump chemo to cure cancer, but it just won’t. I will google but with circumspection. I have learned the hard way.

So here is the cautionary tale that I should share with you before you self-diagnose, like I do, and fail to read instructions, because who reads instructions:

Last year, during the Victoria Day holiday weekend, I had an ear infection. I’m a pro at these and you do not need to know what exactly caused it. I’ve had them a million times before, I know the drill. You don’t bother calling your actual doctor because you have to pay for parking. It’s Canada, land of socialized medicine, you go to a drop-in clinic, you get probed then you get a prescription for whatever putrid discharge is putting a damper on your day. For some reason, I was probably drunk like patriotic Canadian should be on May Two-Four, I thought: “Oh, no clinics will be open, but didn’t Dr. Oz have a show on home remedies, like onion and garlic are natural antibiotics?” Yes, I was really thinking this through thoroughly, I type sarcastically. I did not google for confirmation like a sensible Wiccan would. I just went into the kitchen and peeled out a sliver of garlic and gingerly placed it in my ear and went back to drunkytime holiday activities. Well, in no less than two minutes, there was a burning sensation that aggressively took over the pain sensation which in my mind means it’s working, like the way Vicks Vaporub clears out those petrified snot barnacles….dat smell, yaaaassss.

Stoically I kept it in a little longer until I was yowling in pain. I took the clove out. THEN I googled. It’s garlic-infused oil, not garlic that you are supposed to use. GARLIC INFUSED-OIL, AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT. Even had I read it first, I still would have stuck the clove in there to save time. What, really, am I going to marinate garlic in oil and not get to put it on lamb kebabs? Why would Dr. Oz not warn people: DO NOT STICK A CLOVE IN YOUR DUMB FUCKING EAR, YOU COULD POP OPEN YER EARDRUM. Btw, did you know you can remove a plantar’s wart with a clove of garlic? You know how salicylic acid (sound it out, Food Babe, take your time: sal-i-sil-ic) barely works, I’m not naming any brands, those fuckers stay around forever unless you go to a doctor and pay for parking and whatnot…trust me: garlic vapour will excavate a hole beyond your skeleton and down through your family roots find its way to the first amoeba that ever walked the earth. It’s that strong.

The next day, I went to a drop-in clinic. I did not say a word about what I did but , the doctor on duty gave me ear drops for 7 days. The whole thing went awry. The pain was gone but  I can’t even describe what was happening inside my ear….oh, yes I can, it was like stinky cheese fondue from another country where the cows eat cabbage. It was disgusting and amazing at the same time. Then some lady who I now actively hate at my gym overheard me talking to someone and she chimed in and said her son had the EXACT SAME issue (I don’t think so) and he went to such-and-such a clinic, I won’t point fingers (oh yes, I will), and he got his ear “pumped out” and it was fixed right away. I am such an idiot for not going to my actual real, beloved associated-with-a-reputable-hospital pay-for-parking (suck it up) doctor straight away, but I went to this other clinic instead. I looooove having my ears pumped out and the other doctor wouldn’t do it even though I begged her. For a good reason, it turned out. This doctor was insane, he wore blue shiny, silk suit and spoke no English. He irrigated my ear, old school-style, which cleared it out and confirmed that yes, there was a hole but now  it was probably even bigger, and some of the fondue went back inside my head. It was most wretched and the party lasted for days.

In July, after two months of garlic-induced, cheese-reeking deafness, I finally went to my real doctor and paid $4.50 for parking. I got referred to and ear specialist who never asked what actually happened but probably has her own juicy 50 Shades of Pus book to write. I fell in love with her during the time she spent probing my canal. She babied my ear like it was her own for months., monitoring the hole, vacuuming out the fondue (which was developed into more like a delicious poutine over time), making sure I was keeping it dry, so it would hopefully close on its own. It almost healed but never did entirely. The solution I chose, if I ever wanted to swim again, was to operate: Slice a skin graft from the back of the ear, and seal the hole with the flesh and hopefully everything will be restored, hearing-wise.

That was two weeks ago, I’m still kind of deaf but now my ear feels like it’s going to pop any minute, kind like being on an airplane, so I’m chewing gum, like my mama told me, long before the Internet and Dr. Oz fucked me over. And never stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear. That’s what she keeps saying. LOL. As if.


















Mastering the Art of Living IRL (In Real Life, duh)


It’s Springtime here in the Big Smoke, my pretties!  Except it’s still as cold and gross as the mysterious crusty smears on the sleeves of your parka that you need to get dry cleaned and thrown in the back of the closet. Like today. It’s your fault it’s still cold outside, you keep wearing that wretched thing and the weather complies. My friend from another village a five hour train-ride away came to visit last week and remarked, “Why is everyone here so fucking ugly?” That’s a good question and you can blame the wind and the baa-baaa black sheep wearing the same goddamned Canada Goose parkas but I think the ugly runs much deeper. It’s so metaphysical that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact root of the pustule but I’m sure it has something to do with mass sucking of The Man’s D (whoever that is) for the sake of obtaining granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Everybody in this sad town strives for the same thing while whistling the same tune, and it’s all so disparagingly mediocre.

I guess I’m ugly, too, since I live here. But! At least I stopped with the black parka and now I’m layering it up with a charcoal grey hoodie. Baby steps. It’s not THAT cold, pussies, we can keep warm if we huddle and stop ignoring each other. I’m staaaaarved for the human contact. I’m ready to step out of the hermit-mode and fraternize with the real flesh beings, those who enjoy eating fried chicken and actually bleed real blood when you stab them. As opposed to the tricky internet motherfuckers, the ones you meet from OkCupid and Tinder, who scurry into The Cloud (wherever that is) like veiled chameleons because they spook easily. Although,there’s a certain appeal to that, I must say, because when they go silent farting into the ether, they simply cease to exist. Or they become fodder for your screenplay.

I’ve officially decided that I finally had too much Internet over the winter. Not because of my OkCupid addiction, I’m still working on my own personal Kinsey Report, and it’s a never ending scroll of fascination for moi. I have some more wild oats to sow before I settle down with my collection of Magic Wand attachments. It turns out In Real Life (IRL from now on) my heart more resilient than I originally thought, so this is good Internet usage for my research, otherwise known as vagine fieldwork. Let me have this one vice and I’ll cut back on the Facebook, I can’t handle it all the poop anymore (more on that later).

No, there are 3 distinct things have made me realize I need to reduce the hours of screen time and snap that MacBook shut and here they are:

1. I knew how to make “Truffle Butter” without having to google it. It was like the knowledge had been implanted in my brain by osmosis. The song came out and I’m like  “Oh yeah, truffle butter,” and thought nothing of it, where everyone else was all “Ewwww, I just googled “truffle butter” and it’s nasty.” Whatevs. Now, don’t get excited, I have never made truffle butter IRL but if I did, I would doctor the recipe and add some low-fat Cool Whip to lighten the flavour, it’s less sticky than the other brands. Still, it’s a bit disturbing that I am a walking urban dictionary, and I long for the days of innocence of when a bible study was just a bible study. And did not involve so much liquified solid waste.

2. I have komplicated and konfusing feelings toward Kanye West. A good chunk of my Internet time is spent on celebrity gossip sites even though I am proud to say I still could not pick Ariana Grande or Rita Ora out of a line-up. But! When I see the name, Kanye West, my heart rate goes up. And I feel I am discharging some potent hormones from various pores. When Kanye West does or says something douchey and the whole world is tweeting “Kanye needs to be banned from the Grammy’s 4evah,” I nod my head in agreement but deep inside, I am thinking: “Oh, Kanye” like the way a mom is pretend-mad but secretly tickled when their toddler does something charming and Instagram-worthy like putting lipstick on the dog. Sometimes when I’m not on the Internet and out IRL, like at the grocery store or hanging out in a yoga pose that doesn’t hurt, I find my mind happily wandering and my thought path always ends up at Kanye’s doorstep. SIGH. I wonder what he’s doing, what’s he wearing, is he keeping warm? What did he have for breakfast? Does he wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom and apply cocoa butter hand lotion? They get so dry. Is he flossing? Did he remember to pick Kim’s flesh-coloured sausage casing from the dry cleaners? Is he reading “Goodnight Moon” to Nori? I think if I ever saw Kanye IRL, I would spontaneously lactate. What is this unconditional love I feel? Am I his mother? See, what I mean, isn’t this krazy? And embarrassing?

3. Okay the third thing is the clincher, as if truffle butter and wanting to be Kanye’s mom wasn’t enough to send me to rehab. On the Facebook, I’m in a closed group that I don’t remember even joining. It’s all about my neighbourhood and the informative goings on that individual citizens post, like as examples: the Tim Hortons is closing down but a new one is opening up, a certain naturopathic doctor is a charlatan (umm, duh), lost dog, found dog, etc. Some people randomly post antiquated memes and that talking dog video from the middle ages. I figure these folks are lonely shut-ins and want to feel the gentle rush of “likes.” There’s nothing wrong with that, I can scroll by most of  those and enjoy that talking dog video for the billionth time because it never gets old. But then something happened on the page when the weather got (only somewhat) warmer and the snow started to melt/evaporate. The citizens began posting pictures of exposed dog shit that they found on the streets. Whoa.  One particularly righteous woman wrote about how she was walking down the street with her precious baby in a fucking stroller, and she saw countless dog turds as though she was the fecal police writing a report of the most heinous crime since Sandy Hook, she clearly needs to lock her stupid family up in a panic room until all the shit gets scooped up.  HELLO, BITCH,THIS IS HAS BEEN THE NATURAL PART OF THE FOULNESS OF SPRING SINCE WAAAAY BEFORE THE INTERNET, WE’VE ALL BEEN AROUND THIS BLOCK FOR GENERATIONS.  What kind of thought process makes someone go for a walk outside in the fresh air, get so incensed over some random dog poops that she comes home, gets her sleeping baby out of the stroller, goes in the house, shimmies the squirmy baby out of the snowsuit which takes approximately the better part of an hour, dumps the screaming baby in Neglecto-matic swing, stuffs a binky in its mouth, pours herself a glass of boxed Chardonnay, then hops on the Internet to express her outrage? Her outrage becomes my outrage, but for the opposite reason. The Internet is a sacred place for cute kittens and porn, and maybe some recipes, not a forum for a bitch’s whining over a few innocuous mounds of dog shit that will turn into green grassy splendour come May. It’s all biodegradable, you dumb twat, just shut the fuck up and stop complaining, I want to write on her post but I don’t, I shut my pie hole and blog about it instead. Which I realize is another big fat waste of interweb energy that I am foisting upon you and we are all a part of the never-ending circle of ridiculous Internet pettiness.. As an aside, just a quick life hack tip for dog owners: If your dog is on a raw food diet, and really why would you want to feed your beloved dog anything else? The turds are much more compact and dry up and then turn to innocuous white dust within days if you neglect to pick them up. Sweet. Anyway, I hate this neighbourhood mom with the same fucked up intensity and passion that I love Kanye West. And I know it’s crazy but the feelings are real. So yeah, that’s enough Internet for moi.

I think we all need to get outside and get lost in the wonder of living IRL. And look at each other straight in the face and stop letting our fingers do our communicating because things go awry so easily. Let’s use our actual voices. We should be like the girls on “Broad City” stand on top of the hill and yell out at the top of the lungs: “WANNA FOOOOOOOOOK?!” I double dog dare you. We can always run away.