Tag Archives: kanye west

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

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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.

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A Burning Ring of Fire

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I can’t stop staring at this photo. I want badly to be that lion.

I’m in limbo. I hate it. It’s my least favourite state of being, it’s so frustrating. I have angst in my pants and chewing my nails again. I’d rather be chased by a herd of weird looking horned beasts than be waiting for something that will almost happen, but maybe never, but hopefully will, eventually in bittersweet time, come into fruition. Fuck Zen Buddhism, I am gaping hole of wants.

It snowed today and it stayed all day, bring it on, I say, freeze all the things solid. Then my state of limbo might seem normal.

My gaping hole is frozen open, but with some kind of force field preventing anything from getting inside. You know, money and bones, I don’t even ask for a lot of either.

I fucking hate job hunting. Hey kids, here is a career path you might want to consider that isn’t medicine and you have a particularly cunty urge to play god with people’s lives: Go into the field of “Human Resources.” Apparently it is an actual thing you take at school then get a job at a big company where you can be the first orifice in the human centipede. The caveat is that you have to suck corporate dick so you can’t really breathe through your mouth either but at least it isn’t sewn flush on somebody else’s asshole. Good times.

Last week, I had the worst phone interview by a “human” resource dude from Company X who asked me the regular stock questions that I’m normally really good at answering like, for example, he asked this old chestnut: “What would your co-workers say about you?”  my stock answer reply: “I think they would say I am a team player” to which he replied, get this; “YOU THINK? OR YOU KNOW?”  I’ve been through a few of these phone interviews that they ask 5-6 standard questions to gage whether or not you’re drunk in the middle of the afternoon and coherent enough for a second interview. THEY ASK A QUESTION, YOU ANSWER IT, AND THEY MOVE TO THE NEXT. But this bozo was no corporate cocksucker, he marched to the beat of his own drummer. For each one of my answers, he would bombard me with questions like a toddler does when you’re trying to explain the most basic rudimentary life skill and they get all annoyingly inquisitive and they keep asking “BUT WHY?” when you tell them to brush their teeth with a toothbrush, not a tampon, and sit on the toilet, not in the bathtub, and wipe their bums with toilet paper, not a crayon, and wash their hands in the sink, not the dog bowl. That’s why we made up stuff like tooth fairies and Santa Claus and God’s doctrine so that there would be some invisible head of centipede of humanity and we wouldn’t have to answer so many fucking inane questions and just go on drinking more wine. Anyway, good job, Company X, for hiring a man with the mental capacity of a 3 year-old to weed out your potential employees, how very “Diversity Now!” of you, high five.

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When I feel like this, all mangled up inside, but with a voracious appetite for flesh and blood, I need to talk to Jesus. He’ll usually calm me down as long as he isn’t in his self-absorbed mode and going on about how he has incorporated his ab workout into a leg day, I’m not kidding, this is the type of shit he needs to keep to himself or no one will ever love him. He has some serious issues (he lives in his mama’s basement!) but he is good for a couple of cleansing ales and a fresh perspective on life. He lives in the far west, and I live in the far east, so I hardly ever see him and he is not on the Facebook or Instagram, nor does he text because he has a really old Nokia, like from 10 years ago, without a keyboard, seriously. I don’t really trust an adult who does not have a Facebook account even if they don’t go on it, like what are they trying to hide? This lack modern social convention makes him a bit of an enigma but also really annoying because he never answers his phone, so he calls me when he feels like it. But somehow it’s always like he knows when I need him. He is a finely tuned machine when it comes to intuition. Yes, I will get to spew out my problems, he will nod his head and say something wise that will give me some little jizz nugget for thought but then it always ends up being the Jesus Show. who is he banging now and much more fish and foliage should he add to his sleeve tattoo.

We meet at the Court Jester Pub on Monday, he’s there early, and I haven’t seen him since early in the summer. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m attracted to him sexually because he often wears plaid shirts which I am crazy about along with that beard fetish, as you know from last week’s pussy post, but! he has shaved off his strange little goatee completely and! he is wearing what appears to be 3 plaid shirts, layered. Like Kanye West in his ridiculous new video!

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Wtf is that all about? Multiple plaid shirts cancels out the appeal of the one plaid shirt, am I right? Freak.

As for Jesus on Monday, definitely would not hit it, and haven’t, so let’s just keep your thoughts of sexual tension in your own pants.

It’s like he reads my mind and first thing he says is, “I know, I know, I’m wearing clashing plaid, but it’s freezing outside and this top one has bullet proof pockets.”

“Whatever you say, Kanye. I guess you need the protection since you live in dodgy Junction where there’s only two Starbucks per block.”

So we ordered wings…not suicide not but a step above called, with a warning, “Jestercide.” he is a Latin-based beast and I am a Nordic low taster so I think we can handle it…. wait, I don’t “think,” I *know* we can. I don’t get who these people are who find things so intricately flavoured like biryani spice “too hot” but I mysteriously gave birth to two of them.

It turns out there is not enough beer in the world to put out the fire of Jestercide, it’s a sauce made out of ghost peppers. Those are those tiny, seemingly innocuous peppers that if you eat one you can lay on the ground and blow a hole through the ozone layer through any given orifice. You totally have to wear gloves after handling these satanic little fuckers, and speaking of orifices, do not attempt to touch one without washing your hands with paint thinner afterwards, trust. I normally suck the bone dry off a wing, but I am barely hanging on to my life, these little meat infernos are killing me, and I’m hiding some of them under a napkin. Tears are rolling down my eyes, they are intolerably piquant. EVEN JESUS WEPT. Lol. Oh, Kanye.

It was impossible to talk about anything else but how hot the wings were so when I told him, through my tears of physical pain, about my invisible force field of repellent energy that is causing me such angst, he just said, wiping sweat off his forehead with 3 layers of plaid sleeve, “You need a Mexican inside you,” then downed a whole pint of icy cold Keiths. That’s his stock answer for everything by the way. SIGH.

In the meantime, four days later, I have a ghost pepper radiating like an A-bomb inside me, and it’s still searing its way through my innards, A BURNING RING OF FIRE, and it hurts like a motherfucker, but at least it’s something, and maybe if it makes its way out my ass once and for all, it will get around to burning a hole through my force field.

And speaking of breaking the force field, here’s my girl, Katniss: