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Mastering the Art of Being Ugly

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I have an apartment for rent in my house and while I am so very, very sad to see my current tenants leave, I love them so and their 420 baker buddy who looks like Dick Van Dyke but! I am always excited at the prospect of new ones. “The Landlady” is the memoir that I hope to write when I’m accidentally living in Costa Rica during my old batdom. By the way, I’ve given up on planning my next chapter or more precisely, freaking out about having to plan my old age, I’m going with the flow and going to let shit happen day by day, it will unfurl spectacularly as long as you promise to stick by me. Anyway, for the time being, in my middle age, aka, adolescence 2.0,  I’ve had 5 sets of tenants here in this old house so I’m a veteran at this landlady gig. I put ads out on the free advertising sites known as Craigslist and Kijiji and hope for the best because fuck knows who will move in, I’ve seen Pacific Heights. 1990 Michael Keaton was cute, I would totally let him move in and destroy my house while he wrecked my upstairs if you know what I mean. The people from Craigslist are especially dodgy and yes, the site may as well be called Cannibals ‘R’ Us. But I like it because you make your needs be known and even in the darkest hour of despair you can get shit transpiring IRL way faster than a pizza delivery from The Hut. But! There’s always that danger of getting murdered.

Kijiji is more pedestrian apparently. Everyone in the ladies’ locker room at the gym tells me it’s better than CL and those hoes seem to be getting a whole lot of lawn furniture on the cheap. On Craigslist if you were selling and/or buying “lawn furniture,” you would have to be tested for STD’s afterward. That’s just basic modern day social mores and people should just stop questioning the kinks of others. From my experience tho, Kijiji  is a fucked up junky site full of ads and false ALL CAPS promises and they are always trying to get money out of you for the sake of urgency. URGENT! $49,95 YOUR AD WILL APPEAR ON THE FRONT PAGE! ALSO HERE ARE SOME UGGS AND DESIGNER SUNGLASSES! IN! CASE! YOU! WANTED! ALSO! WITH! YOUR! NEED! FOR! A! ROOF! OVER! YOUR! HEAD! Oh my god, Kijiji, here is what urgency is: Urgency is a liver transplant thatI’m going to need sometime soon (don’t ask). If some asshole who’s looking for a place to live can’t fill out a criteria search and scroll through a few listings, then the same dumbfuck prolly can’t scroll through his wallet and pay the rent on time. Team Craigslist, just saying.

Okay, so the other day a dude answered my Craigslist ad via email and asked if he could come and see the place. Yes, of course you may, my potential serf,  I fired back promptly and we set up a time. I immediately googled up his ass because that is what a savvy landlady does and easily found him on Facebook. No, it’s not “stalking” or “creeping,” it’s just smart hockey to check people out before you meet them. Personally, I don’t trust people who have no social media outlets or web presence whatsoever. At least have a burnt out campfire on LinkedIn. I do kind of get shunning Facebook because it triggers anxiety but do try and maintain a Pinterest board of some bogus vegan quinoa recipes. I can tell a lot about you by the what you think you should be wanting to eat but aren’t really. And also what is up with people who put privacy settings on Instagram? Get off the internet,  you have no idea how it’s supposed to work.

Anyway this dude had a kind of strange name and there was only one in Toronto so I clicked on his profile and no word of a lie, I actually gasped when I saw his profile pic. I literally lost my breath, clutched my heart and made the sign of a cross. He was that ugly. So ugly! Fugly ugly was a fug!  Ugly wugly had a mug! Ugly wugly was so ugly he made somebody blog about his fugly.

Now before you get all in my face about how ugly is how ugly does and who do you think you are, bitch, Charlize Theron? I will say no, I am not Charlize Theron and yes, I am ugly as fuck too. I just got my new driver’s license in the mail and I am one passport portrait away from morphing into a bewildered walrus suffering from climate change asking you to sign a petition to save the icy rock I’m melting on. I’m gross. My downfall is my main chin is a golf ball and my other chin is a loaf of sourdough. The plus however: My eyebrow game is on point, my eyes are kind of good but the rest is just garbage that passes off as cute depending how many drinks you have had.

Anyway, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being slightly ugly rocks because you can move through a crowd incognito. Save some lives maybe. I saw Charlize Theron in person once at a party and it was like looking straight at the sun. People were passing out at her beauty, just like dropping their jaws and falling down all over each other. Everyone had to be defibrillated back to life. It was a shit show. Also apparently bitch can’t get any acting jobs because of her beauty, and that must totally suck. So being dealt some ugly cards is not such a bad thing. Bad hair day? No problem, who cares, there’s clusterfuck of lady whiskers on my golf ball right now taking priority.

But this dude who answered my ad was fantasy ugly, off the charts, he actually looked photoshopped. And! His profile pic was a straight-on headshot. Never do this! Know your angles, Quasimodo. Even Grace Kelly had the wherewithal to know how to tilt down 10 degrees, shift right every so slightly and look to the sky to the west as though it was cocktail hour in Monte Carlo. This fucker’s eyes were on all wrong, pinned to the sides of his head on different planes, and you could see up his nostrils, two dark portals like double garage doors into a retrofit Cro-Magnon skull. His face was craggy and crevassed in such a way a topographer would tell you it was Utah. I don’t want to talk about his hair at all or think about it ever again.

He had other profile pics but they were obscured with the overlay of the French flag and a rainbow, which means he is socially conscious. This is a plus for me! Feel the Bern! He also has friends who commented on his profile picture!  This is the internet juice I live for: 27 “Likes” and here’s what some of them had to say: “So handsome!” “Dude! Looking good!” “George Clooney 2.0!”

So cute! Everyone loves this ugly mofo. His whole Facebook scroll down was filled with sweetness and good times. His girlfriend was smoking hot, too, but her Facebook was on the private settings and so was her Instagram. If she is thinking she is hiding her love of her ugly boyfriend from the rest of the world, she is sorely mistaken. Her Pinterest was filled with wedding boards consisting of Vera Wang dresses and Tiffany engagements rings and cakes with intricately sculpted fondant icing of snowflakes and shit. What a piece work. Why do men go along with that? I guess being ugly is a state of desperation? But even handsome men marry those types of women! It’s head scratcher, we’ll have to analyze that later. Let’s just think about ugly for now.

Ugly is a a subjective thing and there’s all kinds of categories. Like this guy is unfortunate ugly. Tragically ugly. Not a whole lot he could do about it but fix his hair and maybe wear a hat with a brim and a scarf and stick a cigar in his mouth and hide behind the billows of smoke.

Then there is ugly by design, like hipsters 2.0 or the cat lady, Jocelyn Wildenstein, with all the plastic surgery. There’s also ugly by proxy. You can actually get contact ugly if you are related to Donald Trump.

The worst kind of ugly is the ugly that comes from within and leaks out. Like Ted Cruz. Remember when he first came on to the scene, he looked like bumbling comedic actor Kevin Malone or Grandpa Munster? Hilarious memes, right? Like months ago  @youngvulgarian on Twitter said: “How does Cruz always look both happy and sad? ‘I like lasagne but it’s not what I ordered,” his face says.'” Now every time Ted Cruz opens his mouth, he gets uglier and uglier by the syllable. He’s even uglier than Trump if that’s even possible. He is pure evil. He IS the Zodiac Killer. How can he possibly live ever that down?

And conversely but related, please someone make a Bernie Sanders Beanie Baby because every time I see that man, I feel like I’m looking at a basket full of Pomsky puppies. I just want to hug and kiss him and eat Ben & Jerry ice cream with him all day long. I love him so.

Anyway, so yes, ugly Craigslist guy came to see the apartment and lo and behold, he was not nearly so fug in person. He had gotten a haircut! Also he was tall, lanky and wearing slim jeans and a cute Penguin polo shirt AND he had swagger. He possessed that male version of the thing the French call “jolie-laide.” Ugly-beautiful. And he was confident in his ugliness. He had mojo. Women probably want to date him just to have an ugly boyfriend they think no one else wants to bone. The joke is on them. This guy is a true pussy magnet. He has charm and I can assess he probably some tongue game by the way he whistled and trilled while he walked around the backyard. His whack-doodle eyes that flew off on different planes in his photo were actually kind of bright and sparkly and when he smiled his Utah-landscaped face made these  charming dimples and crinkles. Also he laughed at my jokes! Which is a bonus. Men hardly ever laugh at my jokes as they are always so busy assessing my sexual prowess. Prolly wondering what a walrus vagina looks like and how do they get to have a go.

His girlfriend didn’t come with him as he was checking out places that she might like based on her criteria. Ugly has to do all the work. Usually when I get the couples come see the place, it’s the woman I deal with. And statistically, everybody, one hundred percent, like all 5 of my tenants, who rents this fucking apartment ends up getting married! I told him that, not letting on I had already stalked his girlfriend’s Pinterest boards, he said lol yes, he and his girlfriend were planning a wedding but no date yet. Worth noting: He never referred to her as his “fiancee.” Is that a man thing or an ugly thing? Is it not a deal unless there is a date?

Things were going good between me and Ugly Guy, he loved the kitchen.  Apparently the girlfriend likes to cook and the kitchen is chef-friendly with a gas stove and butcher block. Really cool tin ceiling. Hardwood floors throughout, washer and dryer, basement storage, parking! You should come see it. At one point near the end though, Betty barked upstairs and his craggy face corrugated into his Facebook mugshot  and he told me in his current place the dog upstairs made click-click-click sounds with his nails on the floor which was why they want to move. Seriously. Click-click.

“Oh I love dogs,” he explained, “but my girlfriend hates them.” Ugly Guy’s Pinterest princess hate dogs. You know how they say in New York City you’re never more than two feet away from a rat or something like that? Well that’s what it’s like here with dogs. There’s dogs on the roofs here! You cannot possibly live in my house if you are not canine friendly. In fact, I don’t even want a tenant who doesn’t have a pet, be it furry or scaly or plastic or blow up.

So Ugly Guy left but his ugliness wafted and stayed with me for a few days. A lingering longing, like a zit to be popped. I prolly need to add his ugly mug on my Pinterest board for jokes: “Men I Want to Bone.”  Maybe one day in his click-click free apartment, he’ll google himself and find it there and then wonder about the walrus that could have been his landlady. Ugly Guy, call me! Goo Goo G’Joob.

 

 

 

 

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Mastering the Art of Shopping for the Perfect Couch

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Sweet Jesus, I saw this photo taken in Portland, Oregon because of course it was, while I was laying on my couch because naturally, that’s where you can find me between the hours of 5pm and the end of of the second episode of Seinfeld on Peachtree, surfing the Reddit dot com as I am hourly, and thought: “Yes, I totally want to fuck my couch.” I love my couch so much it hurts. It’s a masterpiece of form and function. I can move its pieces and it’s a regular “Chesterfield” (as per my mom)  and matching ottoman (what, why? wiki here) then I can get up off my ass and turn it into an L-shape settee thing, or better yet shove it all together and make a giant bed, yes. Which is what it is most of the time. It’s sturdy and dark brown and hard and firm and big and hard but! Its skin is soft and plush like a teddy bear. It’s definitely a man couch and totally fuckable. If it were to manifest in human form, it would be my tv boyfriend, Michael Strahan. You know how he has the super cute adorable perfectly nipple-sized gap in his front teeth? Well that’s the cushions that split open and swallow all the couch accoutrements like the tv wand, cellphones, and chopsticks. I think of it as more playful than annoying on most days. Like the innards of my couch are scrapbooking, archiving all my antics. Oh, look, there’s a Swedish condom wrapper from that time when ginger beards were my thing.

Also I took a lot of time looking for my couch which had to be my soul mate. It’s my part of my marital separation collection of furniture. I swear to God it took my ex-husband less time to find a new wife than it took me to find this fucking couch. And please don’t get me wrong, he did well in his search, she’s awesome and I love her, but me finding the perfect couch would have to be matching my criteria precisely from tits to tail.  My inspirational couch belongs to my brother and his wife which lives in their “tv room.” Tv room, lol, right? Every room is a tv room in my house, greasy laptop + Netfix = Toilet hour. The couch they have is so the embodiment of comfort that it’s virtually non-descript and metaphysical in its form. What it does is it turns into a bed and there’s all these pillows and the softest blankie and it truly is the best place ever that you want to be, not even an ocean front coconut shaped pod in Bali could compete. It’s more like a  womb, not a room. So I had to find one like it but somewhat bigger because of scale and math and it had to fit the room just so. I finally found it at Philz on Queen Street, one of those mid-century junk places in Riverside that also sells modern furniture that costs zillions of dollars. I don’t even know if it’s still there anymore, it’s a scary place to visit because it had all this great stuff and you want everything but don’t have space to put it. Same reason I have to avoid puppy adoption fairs and certain internet websites.

But! I remember the first time I laid eyes on the floor model which was the same one I chose. It came in custom colours and fabric and I could have had it in leather but got talked out of it by someone (who shall remain nameless) giving me a visual of what it’s like to lay on a leather couch naked. Just no. And aside from that, it was smart to go in furry bear fabric because the wretched dog I ended up adopting later is one of those primal beasts that must violently dig out a spot before she twirls around and lies on it like a sweet little angel baby croissant. Don’t worry,  it’s okay, the couch is strong and can take her paw gouging, in fact her scratching kind of rakes up the upholstery and makes it fluffier.  Can you imagine scratching Michael Strahan while he is watching his favourite tv show? Oy. Betty has it right.

Anyway, I saw the couch, I fell in lust! Which of course, I mistook for love because that has been a recurring problem in my life. I ordered the couch in furry dark brown, paid a zillion dollars because I had a line of credit back then, and waited them to make it and deliver it three weeks later. Well, well, wouldn’t you know, when it arrived, it didn’t fit up the stairs, even with the legs taken off. It had to come in from the back balcony by hoisting it up to the second floor with rope and manpower and some yelling and beers and more yelling and regret. And then I had to get some rubber placemats for his soles so he wouldn’t keep slipping all over the floor like a sloppy mess, defence men who play for the NFL need to stay put. But yeah, that was almost eleven years ago and couch and I are still banging, so it must be love. Or long lived lust. What is the difference again?

The other day, one of my best buds called me and asked me to come with her over March Break to buy a new couch. I was floored, pardon the pun, because I was with her when she got her current couch which was around the same time I got mine….like a decade ago….oh my…. times flies, kids, so go forth and fuck your bunk beds and keep moving, that’s my best advice at this point. Also: Don’t fucking worry about feng shui either, just let energy flow where it wants to go, it will find a way in and out whether or not you put a mirror at the north east corner in front of a rock soaking in a bowl of water or not. DO NOT SPEND $500 FOR A SAGE CLEANSE! Spend it on weed instead.

Anyway, I had shopped so long and hard for my couch, I was known as the couch whisperer so I was the perfect person to go hunting with. Plus I wasn’t going to talk her out of spending money she wanted to spend but was afraid to, because in my mind, couches are an investment. She found hers at Biltmore, so fucking fancy there that they call their feather-stuffed couches “sofas.” Also a zillion dollars required but we were living large back then and felt we deserved a place to park our lady arses on to drink wine on, fart our lady farts into with impunity, and watch Gilmore Girls. No Ikea for weary old broads.

Her couch is so beautiful that if it were to come to life in human form it would be Nigella Lawson but before she lost so much weight after she dumped that fucking Saatchi prick. Her couch was and still is gorgeous! It’s plump and full and bodacious and thick and curly and juicy and soft and lush. When you walk into her apartment and see her sofa, all you want to do is dive on top of it and stick your fingers in it, lick it and then ask how she does her eyebrows with such an exquisite arch. And then let her make you whipped creamy pea mash and tell her all your secrets while you wiggle your toes in her butt crack.

So when she told me she wanted a new couch, I was like WHAT?

And she: “I’m sick of it. It’s old and so dirty now, the cushions spread open and there’s crumbs stuck in there, ugh.” She is dissing Nigella’s vagina basically. I will not have it.

So I, channeling my inner Martha because she is in there, farming her own weed an making popsicles out of vodka:  “Jesus Christie Brinkley! Sprinkle that baking soda stuff on it, leave it on for 2 hours, and then vacuum it up! It just needs a spa treatment.”

This conversation went on with me championing her sofa and her slowly changing her mind that she could salvage it, perhaps get it re-upolstered (dumb) or put a blanket on it (smart) and then through all the flippy-floppy I started getting excited to shop for a couch again. Is there is sofa out there that looks like that glassy eyed dude from The Vikings? I love him! I bet if he was a couch he could pull out into a bed. And have a wet spot that you’re cool with. And have a rough patch that you can exfoliate on. I think that’s key anyway. Your couch is your raft in the sea of life that you should be able to surf the internet and watch your dumb ass shows on perfect peace and don’t let anyone, least of all some judgmental graffiti tweeter in Portland, tell you what to do. Yes, fuck your couch, and then make it breakfast in the morning.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Embracing Your Inner Zombie

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Happy New Year, my interweb angels! Hope you are enjoying your righteous January resolutions as I am mine. Drink more whisk(e)y, is my top one. Apparently brown drinks are the answer. To what question, I’m not entirely sure.  It was on my Facebook newsfeed that whisky prevents cancer and has less sugar than wine so it must be true. I’m over that whole Juiceless January cleansing ritual, it’s for amateurs.  You end up with too many lucid waking hours with more time to feel guilty about being alive and not doing the things you said you would do when you were drunk, ie. a 4 hour Zumba class for Syrian refugees at the local rec centre on a Saturday afternoon (there is no way).

Also, for Christmas I got a cast iron pan which is a first for me believe it or not, so I can make a proper steak and these taters I am very excited about. Fuck you and your kale smoothies, your lazy ass colon frightens me, do you know that whisky makes you poop? THIS gives me a starchy lady boner:

And speaking of fear, why am I zombied up, you ask?  Evangeline did this to me because she’s been bingeing on The Walking Dead for the past few weeks which I just can’t with. I tried the first episode but it did not grab moi but because she watches it in the living room (to be close to mama because she’s too scared to watch it in her room) I have the soundtrack in my head constantly. There’s hardly any dialogue on the show, a bit of hillbilly babble and the rest is all just low level guttural monster groaning/snarling/gurgling interspersed with silent bits and then bam! some really loud growl and screaming (Evangeline). You could set your watch by the ebb and flow of zombie moaning. Freddy, when he wasn’t downstairs engulfed in his own rattle and hum cocoon of PlayStation, we would huddle in my room and laugh at the predictability of it all. Then when she was done watching it on Netflix, she watched it again! AMC actually aired a 24/7 marathon of it on natural television after Christmas, and Jesus and Jose in the manger, there was nowhere to hide. Also! the hot dude with the cue cards from Love Actually is now her tv boyfriend which means there will be more zombie groaning in the future.

Normally I would rather talk about stupid vampires than entertain the mythology of  the ridiculous zombie apocalypse but I softened after seeing how pretty a zombie I am. Dem eyebrows tho! I should change up my eyeliner game and wear darker lipstick, no? According to the girl, the modern obsession with zombies is a tabula rasa for us to project our collective and individual fears upon. Zombie Apocalypse can be representative of a number of paranoias and dystopian disturbances aside from the obvious disease and death, let’s randomly list:

  • global warming
  • terrorism
  • Isis
  • people in general
  • North Korea
  • Labradoodles
  • aliens!
  • guns
  • ‘Murca
  • Tinder
  • Internet cookie trails
  • LinkedIn
  • Donald Trump
  • butt plugs
  • Zumba *shudder*

It turns out all my zombie fears are within my own skeletal base, I discovered this by accident. Aside from the frying pan, I also got a massage certificate for Christmas which I was so excited about since I no longer get these things covered by insurance. I know I can just bite the bullet and pay for them but I’m not wired that way. So I booked an appointment last week with a burly Mexican dude name Juan, and since it’s been awhile I thought I would opt for some deep tissue. I figure man hands are clumsy but they can dig mightily and it never occurs to them they might be hurting you when they prod into your organs. I don’t like to be a wuss so I always take the pain and let them have their way. It’s usually beneficial in the end because when it’s done, you feel so much looser. This time I should have maybe cried uncle at some point because Juan was a fearless deep sea diver of a massage artist and he probably should have left some knots stay clenched tight.

It started out fine, he let me lay face down and he poked over the blanket me like I was an interesting beached mermaid with legs. He pummelled his fists down my spine up and down and then he got the point of his elbow and jammed it into my right ribcage and exclaimed, “Oh you’ve got quite a knot in here!” It isn’t a fucking knot, I wanted to say, it’s emotional scar tissue, but I let him keep digging while the rest of me snap, crackled and popped. This spot in the middle of my right ribs is my trigger area for a repressed memory that I once buried and would have completely forgotten about if my mother hadn’t asked twenty years after the fact: “What really happened that night you came home covered in sand?”

So this happened, and I did forget about it until my mom reminded me, and it’s not a huge deal in the scheme of things but it goes to show you about how times have changed somewhat, maybe, in that if it happened today I probably would have said something instead of kept it a secret. Anyway, I was 16, my parents took me to Florida for a vacation in February. I got a sunburn at one point during the week and I slathered on baby oil that night to ease the pain, which is stupid because I think it fries you some more, but we did dumb things back then. At night on the hotel strip which was on the beach, there was a 7-Eleven and a small playground. That greasy night I went out on my own and sat on the swings and a group of young dudes were hanging out trying to score beer from the store. I don’t know what the age limit was but I had been buying beer at the bodegas in Quebec since I squeezed my first zit. So I volunteered to buy it even though I was younger than all of them and sure enough I didn’t get ID’d. It’s all in the attitude and maybe my sunburn made me look 40.

So I made a bunch of friends that night, we drank the beer in the playground for a couple of hours. One dude seemed to like me. He was one of those strapping cornfed first generation of ‘Super Size” American boys with a baseball hat over a mullet. I told him I was Canadian and he said his favourite band was Rush. Ugh. In my personal opinion, Rush was the original Nickelback, that trilling Geddy Lee voice over those synthesizers was enough to me lunge for the radio dial and kill it, blechhh, ear rape. I might be wrong, so sue me, but I was into punk and was obsessed with Blondie, Bowie, and the Stranglers back then. This dude did not interest me at all but when it was time to go home, he opted to walk with me along the beach, which I think I thought was  gentlemanly.

We got to a dark spot on the beach and he asked me if I would give him a blow job, but without a question mark. “Give me a blow job,” he said.  I’m like,” WHAT? No…what are you even thinking? I don’t even like you!” And he got all weird and he tackled me.  I was face down in the the sand and he knelt on top of me, his knee pinning me down in THAT VERY SPOT merry massage therapist Juan was gleefully untangling some thirty years later. I was winded, I remember panicking because I couldn’t breathe and I was sure he broke a rib. He managed to get his pants down, and thinking back now, was he not afraid I was going to bite? Oh, I’m going to just take one look at his fructose fatty chode and want to tenderly place it in my mouth? My dad always said if I got myself in such a predicament to grab and squeeze and twist the balls, which I did, he squealed like Geddy Lee and I managed to slither away, all slippery from the baby oil still, and run home.

My mom asked me then why I was covered in sand and out of breath and I said I just tripped on the beach. And I really forgot all about it until she asked me again a few years back. Anyway, flash forward to last week and fucking Juan and his grind happy elbow and me face down on a massage table, my face smushed in the cradle, trying to breathe through the intense pain. I started coughing, which is the worst when you’re getting a massage, but he finally eased up I got to flip over which is the best part anyway. But no, he jostled something out of me, like my growling inner zombie child, and I started hacking up a lung. That was an entire week ago! I haven’t stopped coughing for fuck sake. And my fucking ribs are killing me.

I can’t tell if the experience was cathartic or what. “You prolly have pneumonia,” my ex-husband just said.  Great, and me without a drug plan. All I know is the next massage I get will be from a lady with sweet soothing fingers. I’ll leave those man hands for other things.

 

 

Mastering the Art of Regret

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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?

***HAPPY 21st BIRTHDAY TO MY SPECIAL OKC FRIEND, IT’LL BE WORTH THE WAIT FOR THE RIGHT ONE!

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Misandry

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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 Fan Fiction: Fifty Shades of Grey Edition

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Valentine’s Day countdown, kittens! You know I love this day even if you think it’s just an excuse for the charlatans that run the diamond industry to peddle its lies. Whatevs, me likey shiny things, even the fake shit. I just went through my giant fishing tackle box filled with bling memories, all tarnished and busted up. Why does conventional society insist that earrings have to come in pairs?  Hardly any of mine match and if they do, one of them is missing a rhinestone or an essential dangly bit, that makes me so fucking sad. I found a pristine pair of gold Playboy bunny earrings, I bought them them for myself, ironically style-wise even though I am actually a cheap whore (no, I’m not). But! I can’t shove them in my ears because MY HOLES HAVE CLOSED, is this some sort of natural metaphor that has the gods of fertility laughing at me? I shall show them, later on today I will slam down a bunch of vodka and thrust them into my ears whatever it takes. There will be blood. By the way, you know that the original Valentine’s Day was to honour ancient Christian martyrs but that whole dance got tiresome so that in the High Middle Ages, Chaucer and his poet hos decided to make it all about boning, although they called something else back then, like “bownyng.” These were simpler times, when the one you wanted to betroth your boneage into was the one that had your heart in a romantic way. Now all our modern feelings are repressed by constant communication punctuated by those diabolical emoji emoticons and everyone is so fappingly confused. And afraid. And there’s no boning, not even for the wicked. SIGH.

I like chocolate, too, even if I have to buy my own Toblerone bar. The giant one, the size of a quonset hut. Fuck and ouch.

This Valentine’s Day, my fantasy would be to take some olde tymey ecstasy and go see “Fifty Shades of Grey” with an audience full of bitches also on chemical drugs.  I think it would be epic, let’s make it happen. This has got to be one of those times when you can honestly say the movie is better than the book, but judging by the trailers, that’s not saying much. I’m not sure even that awesome Beyonce song can save this mess. But drugs can!

I’m trying to read the book right now. I am actually charmed by how badly written it is. It reminds me of the sardonic stories based on Harlequins I used to write as a hobby when I was a teenager. I used to give them to my English teacher, who looooved them, but I always wondered if she got the joke or she got swept away by my jacked-up romance bullshit. Anyway, I think even in grade 9, I was a better writer than E.L. James and that’s not saying much. If you made a pie chart out of the content of this book, 75% would be descriptions of breathing. I get so bored, I can only flip through it, trying to find the juicy bits. I can’t fucking find them, SO MUCH BREATHING. And eating, which I am pro.

I don’t think I respond to contrived erotica, it’s kind of like watching professional porn, it’s just too slick to feel real. Even trying to make Barbie and Ken hump (when you were a kid because no, you did not do this as a grown-ass mom when you were cleaning up your daughter’s room while she was in kindergarten) is more titillating cuz Ken doesn’t actually have a weenie much less a boner and Barbie is so rigid, she can’t even starfish. The thrill is in frustration. GRIND DAT PLASTIC! Remember?

Anyway, I personally have never had a fantasy where “my breath hitched” when a man said “Let me make love to you, Anastasia,” while stroking his beautiful cock in one hand and holding a cat o-nine tails in the other. Every word that last sentence closed every hole in my body, even the ones I didn’t now I had. And my eyes bled.

Okay, there’s no way I’m going to read this book but I will write the fan fiction! Isn’t that how it started, as X-rated Twihard prose? Mine goes in another direction, it’s  middle-aged milquetoast erotica, set in where else? The Home Depot, hold on to your moobs, middle pudge,and mudflaps, here goes:

Beverly Shipman walks into the Home Depot, the giant doors automatically opening for her. She is disheveled, her hair, still smooth from her Tuesday blowout is in need of a root touch-up and is in a high ponytail. Underneath her black parka, the one with what looks like a pair of metal scissors on the left upper arm, she is still wearing her flannel pyjamas pants, boldly coloured and emblazoned with cartoon monkey faces. And stuffed into a pair of Uggs. If this wasn’t a sight you see every day, and you came here from a time machine, just by the outfit, you would think this woman was  50 shades of cray. But she barely registers and she slips through the doors like a ghost.

Furnace filters? She wonders where and looks around the big box warehouse. The smell of freshly cut pressurized lumber fills her nostrils and goes straight to her temporal lobe which triggers a memory response that sends a rush of blood straight down to her blowfish. WTF. She tries to ignore this sensation as she looks up at the signage and makes her way down the giant aisle.

Even though the store is cavernous and confusing, the colour orange whets her appetite. There’s a Harvey’s inside this one, beyond the self-serve cash registers. Maybe when she finds her filters, she will pick up an order of fries. Too bad there’s not a Swiss Chalet, she could really go for a quarter chicken with extra gravy, yes, bitches, EXTRA gravy, it turns out it’s all just liquid and cornstarch, not fat, she can drink it if  she wants, fuck the sodium content and fuck her nutritionist. She salivates. Breathes, more lumber smell, blowfish gets bigger, tingles now. Focus! Snap out of it! Find the filters!

Finally someone in an orange apron is standing in front her. On his bib, written in a black Sharpie is “Al” which could be short for Albert? Or is he being tongue-in-cheek and he is A-1? He smiles in a kind peepaw way, he has sparkling blue eyes surrounded by crowfeet and liver spots. His generic darkish hair is white at the temples and pulled back in a tiny wispy ponytail.  He must be one of those Freedom 55-type retired baby hippie boomer dudes with nothing to do but hobbies and Home Depot. (ed note: if that’s a type then sign me up) His shoulders are sloped, and some giant ass white hairs are sneaking out like tentacles out over the top of his collared polo shirt, but he has muscly forearms, and this does not go unnoticed. Beverly smiles. Probably for the first time since her husband left her last month for his mistress of 11 years. Who says it doesn’t happen? It happens! They leave and you are left alone!

“Can I help you find something, Miss?” He asks. MISS! Not Ma’am! Like the young hipster clerk at the liquor store who barely even looks at her, calls her Ma’am when she buys her bottle Belvedere and has the audacity to ask her if she’d like a bag. Yes, of course a bag! Jesus Christ, I want a bag! What am I, a hobo? I don’t deserve a bag? Is that what you think of me? Oh, wait, never mind, I can fit it in my Kate Spade tote. Okay.

 Al smiles at her again. A warmth rushes goes through her core and her blowfish blows a sweet, tiny bubble of hope.

“Yes, please, where would your furnace filters be?” She asks, flushing blood all throughout her veins, she feels alive.

“Oh, they’re over in Aisle 8. let me walk with you,” he points in the direction and they move forward. His hand grazes her left arm, the one with the metal moose knuckle on it, and even through the layers of fabric and goose down, she feels an electric charge. Her legs feel light suddenly, although her Uggs are covered in slush and weigh as much as a bag of hammers. And look like two bags of gross medical waste.

Suddenly she has a hot flash. It’s not because it’s hot in the Home Depot in the deep freeze of February. It is precisely two fold, the vodka hangover and hormones. This is the basic schedule of what happens to old bitches all the live long day: Hangover, hot flash, drink, lather, rinse, repeat. She unzips her parka, but of course that ridiculous decorative ball of fox fur gets caught in the spokes and she lets it go halfway. She forgot that she was wearing only her pyjamas bottoms as most of the time she sleeps naked because of the motherfucking hot flashes so there’s actually nothing else on underneath. Hungover, menopausal bitches are that absent minded. So her zipper is stuck and her boobs are basically flying out of her parka in the middle of the Home Depot on a Tuesday morning. She holds her coat shut but in doing so, her Kate Spade tote swings and hits Al, or A-1, upside the head, and he turns around. Like a magpie, older men have the sharp shooting instincts down pat, his eyes go straight to her tittage before she has a chance to cover them up.

There are two of them, one slightly bigger than the other and therefore droopier, the vein configuration resembles a muddled map toward two erect cherry cola coloured nipples, approximately 2.75 centimetres in diameter…holy shit, one of them has a piercing, so he thinks, but it’s not actually, it’s part of the inside zipper tab grazing the nipple as she clutches her coat shut. Wow, he thinks, and that’s basically all he thinks for a moment that seems to stretch out longer than the beginning of time. Al, and that is his name, short for Alonso, hasn’t seen real life flesh boobs since Christ was a cowboy. His wife has long since abandoned him, not physically, but spiritually and sexually, and yes, they still share a bungalow where they raised their two children, who are now grown. but he sleeps in his man cave, in the basement. The humming of the furnace soothes him to sleep after his nightly fap, to reruns of “Hot in Cleveland.” Valerie Bertinelli. Nothing wrong with that.

When he finally finds his words, he says, “I know all about furnaces, can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a mid-efficency furnace and it’s so cold in my house these days, ” she bites her lower lip coquettishly, “I was googling on the internet and maybe I need to change my furnace filter? The pilot light is still on, so I know the furnace is okay…” Her voice trails off, a look of barely anything goes over her face, or at least that is his perception, he’s still staring at her tits with that part of his eyes that aren’t his actual pupils which are still looking at her in the eyes, but is the tip of his dick, it’s one of the mysteries of science, yo. Dicks have eyes. I.t says so in a Chaucer poem, trust.

“Oh, well if you have a mid-efficency furnace, you should actually be using the cheaper furnace filters, let’s the air go through easier,’ he pulls out a pack of filters, 3 for $5.99, seemingly made of popsicle stick wood and blue plastic silly string.

“What?” She is incredulous, “I have been buying the $35 furnace filters for over twenty years! Are you sure? Also I have a pet dog. With fur, not hypo-allegenic breeds with “poo” at the end of it name. Do those filters work for my dander situation?”

“Yes,” he says with manly manliness and actual real-life know-how, not the fake kind that you can spot a mile away from someone who is full of fucking shit that he mis-read in a manual,”The looseness in the cheap shitty plastic not only lets the air go through, the dander and fur that you speak of will get caught in the nettle, the only caveat is that you have to change the filters every 3 months instead of once a year. Still cheaper and your heating bills will go down expediently.”

“Oh!I wish I had known this sooner!” She exclaims. Her breath hitches. Her parka swings open, her tits fall out, one by one. Kind of, one gets caught in the zipper again, the floppier one, but that’s okay. He leans over and hands her the filters, 3 for $5.99.

“Is there anything else, I can help you with?” He asks, his apron is now a tent, kind of pointed south, but still.

Her blowfish explodes.

Fin.

Okay, Happy Valentine’s Day all, spread the love cuz that’s all we have! ❤

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mastering the Art of Self-Preservation

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This is my daughter’s creative writing homework assignment:

In the first person, write a relationship sketch between two characters.

I’m going to do this now as I’m inspired by some internet hate I got last week. I wish I were in university again because the real world sucks tiny insignificant proverbial cocks, it’s one squirt-it-in-your-eye woody hurdle after another. She doesn’t think so though, she can’t wait to finish this spring and sling beers for tips in the summer and then in the fall, backpack in Europe. She will see the sights, drink all the jaunty craft beers, eat all the crust-made-with-actual-lard covered things that don’t contain nuts or sesame (don’t forget your EpiPen, my darling!) and meet all the foreign peens and fall in love with the lot of them. There will be tall, pale, hilarious British boys, pompous French dudes with oddly enticing body odour, freaky aggro German ones, sexy to-die-for Italian motherfuckers with all bark no bite, and maybe a random hot Scandinavian-type girl with some refreshing scissor game. Oh, to be young again. The last time I went to Europe, I was the old bat I am today minus two years, I met nobody. But! The elevator in the hotello I was staying at was so fucking small and squishy, I got to brush my boobs against the back of the concierge dude as he was carrying a stack of carta igencia (toilet paper! There’s hardly any toilet paper in Europe, you have to beg for it so there’s two words you’re going to need to know, my angel baby). The elevator ride was so painfully slow that at one point, I just kind of rested them against his back, smooshing them against his ribs. I could see the tips of his ears turn purple with mammary awareness as he stood still, his back to me, watching the dial go from one to two to three to four longer than it takes to load Adult Friend Finder Live Webcams on Sunday morning, you know what I’m talking about. His hair was black and curly with silver shards, which makes me crazy, and I wanted to run my fingers through it like it was a must-do tourist attraction, way more exciting than Vatican City, right?  The sexual tension was so palpable you could bottle it and call it “Emergency Stop Button” by Dolce & Gabanna. It truly was one of those moments of time that could have turned into something worthy of a blog post you would actually want to read, what a chicken shit I have become, so it may seem. I should be ashamed at my lack of behaviour, but believe me, exercising my control was actually a small feat of self-preservation. Even though in this case, I shoulda-woulda-coulda, it was symbolic of something else, a  personal triumph of sorts.

If I could bestow a life lesson on my girl, like a method of self-preservation, whereby she is spared pain and heartbreak, I would do that, but I think somehow by osmosis or some other mysterious natural phenomenon, she is inherently smarter and wiser than me. I want to save her from having a broken spirit like mine, which has been shattered, manacled, and beaten  like every other middle-aged sad sack on the dating circuit. We were never supposed to live this long, bitches! Childbirth was designed to kill us, then the farmer would marry our much younger sister who hopefully had the wherewithal to make gooseberry wine with yeast and honey and get him drunk before they would ever get to “churn the butter,”  cuz he be old and so very, very gross.

But now we’re supposed to spawn, move on, and  swim elegantly in each other’s wholesome shit AND toxic chicken shit like farmed talapia, it’s such a mess, this pond.

I am the type of person that would see a body of water and no matter how many signs that boldly said: BEWARE OF POISONOUS SNAKES, I will go skinny dipping and swim, get bit, go back again nekkid, get bit again, then more because “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” is just the kind of inspiration I need for a challenging game change, THEN!  I’d get bit some more and wonder what I did wrong. Seriously, even with a SIGNPOST TO TERROR thrust in my face, I would boldly dive in. I peaked with this kind of self-destructive behaviour at 40, then it took me years of therapy to figure out what was wrong and even then, I slip up, hence The Cornfield Incident 2014. Your girl needs a life raft.

Here’s what I learned about self-preservation because telling me to not swim at all is like telling Justin Bieber not to douche, it’s in my nature :

When diving in snake infested waters, wear a wetsuit. An impenetrable one if such a thing exists, or make your own out of raw cookie dough and that hard as fuck gel shit they use in nail salons that makes you never want to masturbate. When you start to feel the feels of a set of fangs sinking heartily into your mighty upper thigh, say, swim your motherfucking sorry ass to shore, because it might feel good now, all hot and tingly, but trust, the venom is on its way.  If he hangs on, divert his attention by squeezing his tail, this seems to work with all kinds of snakes, and even puppies, and let him sliiiiide back in the water while you dry off in the sand. Oh look, there’s an ice cream truck parked over yonder. Go there and get something coated in chocolate. I know, I know, I’m more confused than you are. But at least I have a method and I am good.

So on to the internet trollage and the homework assignment I promised.

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Apparently,unbeknownst to me, my world wide web in-box was hosting a Haters-Gonna-Hate Festival because last week I got barraged with a whole whack of messages, including:

“Ur a narcissucks (sic: clever tho, right?)”  And true, I DO suck. Call me.

“You are a whiney, vapid cunt”  Vapid? Really? That actually hurts: ICE CREAM!

“I hope you die and rot like an upstream trout”…what?  Is that what the trouts do? If I’m going to die upstream, isn’t that any worse than dying and rotting downstream? That’s a fucked up metaphor, right? I think I’d way rather upstream (closer to heaven!) than downstream (cig butts! tampon applicators! those plastic things that hold a six pack together that strangle birds and turtles! humanity’s blight on nature! all downstream, why would I want to rot there?).

Your (sic: lol!) too old and fat to fuck…”  Meh. You’re dad doesn’t think so.

Can you imagine the kind of person that would be bothered messaging such rude things to a lady whose only M.O. is to love and be loved? I can!

Here’s my homework assignment, dedicated to the all internet trolls out there, a relationship between two characters described in first person:

I hate this, and I’m bored. I wish for his sake, he’d get off the computer. I’m tired, but not the good tired like when we used to play basketball or build that fence, even when he was using that sandpaper that scratched my skin like a motherfucker. Still, it was better than all this tap-tap-tap, then stroke-stroke-stroke. Ugh, I feel like my talents are wasted. Remember when he used to draw those cartoons in grade school, all about super heroes rescuing damsels? His power was unbridled back then, I felt so much hope. Then came the real girls, and then that one girl in particular who we both liked, her skin was so soft on all her parts. The tits, especially, were like the joyous days of Play-dough, until the baby came and the whoa, they got huge and rock hard, and she wouldn’t let Dude’s lips or me and my twin touch them. Yes, I get it, I was pissed off too. The disinterest hurts, but those other times, the little pleasures, for example, when I enjoyed my index finger dipping into peanut butter and then getting licked by the Bichon Frise owned by the downstairs neighbour and because he got so drunk, I can’t remember what else happened but something felt different. And smelled fishy. There were more good times, let’s not kid ourselves. With all that diversion, couldn’t Dude have waited longer? But no, he had to make a fist out of me and pound me through the drywall, what the fuck? And then when he shoved her, with both me and my feckless twin, who seems to be only good for stabilizing the bagel when I hold the knife and cut it. Dude is mean to my twin because he likes to shock him and slice through his skin between his thumb and his forefinger cuz he’s impatient. I admit, I’m also fed up with Leftie these days, some things we can do in such harmony (remember waterskiing? rock climbing? Saxophone lessons?) but I need him especially now to pick up some slack with that wretched Dick when I’m too tired for this fucker’s nonsense. I very much need help to sweep the dark times under the rug. I’m a hand, not a conscience, but it’s too much for me.  And like I said, I wish he’d stop tapping me on that keyboard and spewing out his venom, and maybe do something like shovel and old lady’s walk way, or something for the good of society. What an asshole. Speaking of which, I think tonight, while he’s sleeping I’ll shove my fist up there and see who’s boss. 

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