I know, Rob Ford…it’s not exactly fresh hell, more like “what else is new” kind of hell, but something has got to give with this spectacular fat fuck of a hot mess, like a coronary artery bursting firework display, you would think. But no, he keeps going, wheezing, sweating, snorting, squealing, urinating, text-messing, fake apologizing…. tralalala, he goes on and on, and gets to keep his job for smoking crack AND WHATNOT, but little old me gets fired from a dusty box store for writing a salty blog that my Polish mother reads, by the way, and laughs. And well, well, well, look what happened to me: a blood vessel burst in my left eye. Okay yes, I enhanced it a wee bit using a crude photoshop technique because a lady needs a filter for the baggy eyes and ruddy tear ducts but I assure you, I look like prize-fighter, holy stress balls.

And don’t get in my grill about me picking on fat people. Ford’s fatness is not the satiated corpulence of a man who enjoys mama’s good eats, I hope to marry a dude like that some day. Ford’s fatness is not jolly, his inflamed physique is the manifestation of his giant assed ego ready to explode its venom. At least that is what we judgey-wudgey citizens of Toronto project upon him.

I don’t spend as much time thinking about Rob Ford the way y’all do. I am thoroughly enjoying the pageantry of buffoonery. Nary a “tsk tsk” has crossed my lips. In all of it, I see his humanity AND! believe it or not, I think his blatant display of fuckery is healthy. At least you can see it! Most of these types in high places keep it more under control but they are equally as guilty of everything he does, if not more. Trust me, I’ve seen an underbelly far worse than Rob Ford’s and insidious evil is the most despicable in my opinion. Is he a sociopath? Or is his fatness the indicator that he eats his feelings, ergo he is human after all? Aren’t we all human? Or are some more human than others? One thing I will say: Rob Ford, crackass, jackass, drunkard, is still a better mayor than David Miller, just saying. Suck on that.

Will Toronto survive this? Yes,definitely. (That was me shaking the 8-Ball app from my i-Phone, I am an addict, that is a post for later) I wish you’d all just come to the dark side with me, kittens, and enjoy the spectacle.

Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala

So it’s been a full week since I got fired from the dust bin. I’ve had the weirdest cocktail of emotions over it. Not what I expected. I am most profoundly sad, but not the kind of sad that makes you want to crawl under covers and eat ice cream. I’m having a hard time eating at all, although me and Rob Ford would make great drinking buddies. The dank air of mirthlessness that hangs in my house (some other stuff of sadz going on) makes me want to get out and shake shit up. So I’ve been going to my gym like twice a day. Get this, I pretend I’m back at work and I go on the stairs that don’t end (I’m up to 20 minutes which is brutal)  and then I go in the iron room and pretend the dudes in there aren’t gay and I smile at them (gotta keep the mojo up) and then I lift 45 pound dumbbells from one side of the room to the next to simulate the haul of 5-gallon pails of paint. I slap my legs with 20 pound weights so that I maintain the bruise pattern on my outer thighs from walking down an aisle with two gallons in each hand. Then I throw little pieces of paper along the ballet barre and I bend over and pick them like they are paint chips that savage customers throw around willy nilly. This is a genius work out, you should try it instead of that elliptical you are so crazy about but is dumber than a side salad with a bacon cheeseburger. The whole thing is under an hour but simulates an 8 hour work day minus all the Fishermen’s Friend I used to suck on, I now think that was a metabolic booster so I’m going to take that up again. This morning I took a restorative yoga class, though, because everyone needs some gentleness and tonight is Dance Party! where a gay man will teach me to finally twerk proper.

On the second day after being fired, and after crying randomly in the steam room, that blood vessel popped in my left eye. This happened to me before, the last time I was profoundly sad, when I was blubbering over a dude who dumped me a few years back. It actually happened when I was in real estate school, taking some crazy advanced math class and I was so engrossed in solving some loan to value ratio that a little pop-sound went off in my head, I thought it my brain having an aha! moment, because I had just come up with the correct solution. But no, it was just a popped vessel and I didn’t know that the white of my right eye that had just turned a sinister shade of crimson. I went up to the teacher, a cute Armenian man named Norair, to show him my genius but instead of giving me a gold star, he was all like :”WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” when he looked at my face. I was so scared, I started shaking, I thought I had done something really stupid. Even if I seem like a badass rebel, I am not. I was not raised by wolves, which might be what you have thought all this time if you have been reading this blog. I was actually taught to respect shit and at that moment I thought my teacher who I had a slight crush on because that is how I roll, was admonishing me. But he wasn’t, he thought I had an aneurysm or something serious and took me to the washroom where he showed me my eye. And I was like “oh wow, freaky! But I feel fine…” and his hands were resting on my shoulders and as I turned around and he kissed me, his lips at first softly grazing mine, tickling me with his Armenian five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning, and then he tongue plunged deep in my mouth, our tongues probing, our bodies pressed together like a tightly wrapped shwarma…okay I made the kiss part up. I AM A WRITER, FUCK YOU! He did insist I go to a walk-in clinic in a strip mall down the street where they were all like, it’s really nothing to worry about, go back to class.

Anyway, everyone has that one person that took your heart and broke it and then maybe shat on it a little bit before flushing it down the toilet. You have to claim responsibility of that toxic relationship also, like maybe you were hurling out some projectile vomit and not aiming for that proverbial toilet on purpose and maybe deliberately shooting poison shrapnel in their eyes or their mouth or some other vulnerable orifice. It happens, but it’s a growing experience, your  clean up your side of the street (I got that gem of a line from Gwyneth Paltrow when Brad Pitt dumped, can you even imagine those two rubbing fuck parts *shudders*) and you move forward and make decisions how to handle it when you run into that person again. Well that dude I was blubbering about years ago in what was, looking back, AN INFINITE SADNESS, goes to my gym and has been all this time. So we have run into each other regularly. Sometimes it has been superficially friendly, not without tension, but mostly it has been a forced ignore, like dogs on the street who won’t look at each other. You should see Betty pretend a Rottweiller tied up in front of Starbucks doesn’t exist, her head rolls sideways into her fat scruff like a sleeping pigeon. Hilarious bitch.

Because the gym is a soap opera, I knew through the grapevine that he was married and had a baby recently  which was fine, I HAVE A DATE WITH A SOLID DILDO EVERY NIGHT, so I am A-OK. (My mama hates when I talk about sex, lol). But I lived in fear and dread of running into the family unit because it is bound to happen sooner or later. And how do you act and what do you say?

So the day after my blood vessel burst, my sadness was carrying me around like a good buddy, enveloping me like those ubiquitous Snow Goose parkas that we are about to be plagued with, hello winter. My gym has a bar and a forlorn ho needs a beer(s). And there he was, sitting his usual spot at the bar. FIGHT OR FLIGHT???? My mind shrieked because it’s like a hysterical fishwife, always questioning, my body sometimes has to shut it down by pretending it’s a dude and scratching its phantom balls like it doesn’t care. But this time my sadness piped up in its little sweet voice said; “Fuck It Purple (that’s an inside paint expression meaning: Go Girl, Who Gives a Fuck) just go sit beside him and talk to him and just don’t forget to breathe. You’ve got this.”

And so I did, and guess what, kittens, it was like taking a two hour piss after holding it in for 8 years! It was the best thing ever, my sadness even took off for a while, we had a couple of beers and laughed at Rob Ford. Get this: He went to high school with the Ford brothers! How cool is that? So many stories he has. It was easy and breezy and when his wife and baby showed up later, it was actually really nice to meet them. And if they noticed the burst blood vessel in my eye, they were kind enough not freak out over it.

So that was one good thing that happened last week and other than the that my sadness has transformed from a warm fuzzy parka into a scratchy mohair scarf. It’s annoying me now. Fuck It Purple, I’m going to have to take it off soon *scratches balls* because crying so boring. Let’s get some anger on, maybe in the form a a clown suit, and turn it all into a screenplay.

Aaaaand here is the best sad clown of them all…you were right, Gary: