"At Least It's Not Raining", A Week in Six Parts.

Okay. Son of a bitch.
See? I told you I would begin to neglect this immediately.
However, undaunted, I'm going to try and surmise my entire week in this one wee post. It should be easy because my life is blindingly mundane. Can blindingly be used as an adjective? Damn right. That may have been an adverb. I'm tired
Alright. Let's get this riff raff over with. I hope you're ready for a real whirlwind of information. Because that's what you're getting. One sentence after another.
Saturday:
I'm due for an 8-hour shift at EB. Now, this is an establishment that makes me want to murder small children on a daily basis on, you know, a good day. Actually strangle. I find it funny how I can't wait to be a parent, and yet children make me want to occasionally put them in garbage cans, and leave them there for a while, wriggling around, unsure of how to get out. As if other people don't think the same thing.
Anyway, that's a good day. And this place, after essentially transforming me into the criminal I've always wanted to be for the sake of seducing easily impressionable 16-year-olds, made me cringe at the thought of its plush new carpet, which has bubble gum ground into it already due to the aforementioned children. So, I'm supposed to go into this place for eight hours of my Saturday when I know I'm leaving anyway. I called Marcus and told him that I wouldn't be coming in (an hour before my shift, asshole maneuver, I know), and that I wouldn't be in the following day either. I hope he deduced that I wouldn't be in anymore from that point on because otherwise he would've been really boned for Tuesday and Wednesday night. I can't believe I said "boned" either. Moving on.
Deciding, you know, fuck that, I tell Smallwood that "yes", I would like to finally see the gripping conclusion of this damned independant film which we were shafted out of a few days prior. Huge cliffhanger. Everyone left. Yes, you remember. Good.
The ending was pretty sweet. Turns out the butler did it. Smallwood and I bantered our best outside as we waited for her sometimes flighty mom to come and get us. It had been pissing rain before we went, as I waited for Smallwood to show at Coffee and Company while I tried to get the attention of some bikers that weren't parked outside because the weather was too precipitous. Now, it wasn't raining anymore, so, as we verbally fenced in the bleakness, one film patron (critic?) after another would step out and say, "Well, at least it's not raining." This happened several times. Smallwood and I scoffed everyone who mentioned it, once they were out of earshot. Her mom drove past us as we frantically waved at her. Smallwood dwelled upon all of her correct predictions to the film's ending as I was driven home. She invented many of these assessments of hers. Or so I claim.
That night (Saturday had the most going on of all of this week), I attended a birthday function of my associate Justin. Good guy. Skinny and eats a lot, like myself.
I've noticed that if I discover that people have similar shortcomings or eccentricities to my own, that I find it incredibly endearing and, in some cases, attractive. Smallwood had a toothpaste stain on her shirt, and that was mesmerizing for me because that's something I would go out into public wearing. Guess I really like myself. I'm not surprised. 
Anyway, Justin. Big appetite. You should see him with a pizza. So, I go. I'm apprehensive since I know this will be an EB thing, and that one of the included individuals would have been at work much longer than anticipated due to my defiant refusal to come into work earlier that day. I was worried it was Justin, and that he would be forced to be late to his own birthday party because of me. Thankfully, he was there, along with his cats. Cats have grown on me. Keeping four at once, however, has not. He's down to three now, apparently.
There were some proper fucking idiots there. One fellow in particular I choose to keep unnamed in case he decides to pursue politics, which he likely will. Young politicians, barring Scott Pickup and Mike Kennedy, generally irk the shit out of me. I'd like to stuff them into a garbage can and leave them there, wriggling around...
And this guy had his shirt tucked into his jeans. That sort of ridiculous fashion sense at such an age (however old he might be) always makes me nervous. So, this guy, once properly sauced, which was about ten minutes after my arrival, stands on a chair, and shouts that everyone has to pay attention to him.
"Huh? Who is this person?"
He then proceeds to point out a regular customer/Justin friend who was there, who had, allegedly, mentioned his newfound girlfriend's willingness to perform fellatio. Drunk politician shouts this at everyone, including the newfound girlfriend. Who, I'm sorry, was far more attractive than the customer was in the first place, which made things even more rickety. It was easily the most awkward situation I've been in in quite some time. I'm also high. I'm the only one who is, and I know it. No one else knows I'm high. I know this as well.
He didn't use the word 'fellatio'.
Anyway, fast forward.
A now ex-co-worker shows. She's 18. She had to stay at the store because I didn't come in to work. She's brought beer. She lets me have one. She's 18. She starts flirting with me rather quickly. Anyone who knows me knows that I can't tell when girls are flirting with me. But, I can when they're 18. Because (and I had forgotten this) 18-year-olds flirt far differently than older people (me) do. Sitting next to me on the couch, while facing me, lightly caressing my thigh with her finger. I'm not imagining this. She's 18. I'm high.
So, I left Justin's, and did whatever I did.
The politician is trying to add me to Facefuck. His profile picture is ridiculous. His shirt is tucked into his jeans.
Sunday:
I can't remember.
Monday:
Remembering that I'm not employed, and that I'm not choking on jobs in St. John's as I was in Banff, I hit the street. By sitting at my computer, browsing want ads. Probably while browsing porno at the same time, and we all know which it is that I'm paying more attention to. I find a job posting for a Ghost Writer. It says:
GHOST WRITER. Needed immediately. Interesting opportunities. Phone number.
That's it. And the number was international; likely the U.S. somewhere. I should've called it, but never did.
To shorten this, I score an interview with The Celtic Hearth downtown. I go. I wait. An owner shows. He looks like a somewhat modern version of Archie Bunker. He's in the construction biz. Which iis to say, a bunch of dudes build shit for him. I'm trying to figure out how to impress this man. He's asking me chit chat questions while reading the paper:
"How'd you like Banff? Did you ski while you were there?" As far as I can tell, this is my interview. I'm not sure how it's going at this point (I didn't ski while I was there).
We switch tables. He asks if I want something to drink. I ask for coffee. I think it's important to accept, rather than decline, while asked such a question while in such a scenario.
A manager joins the owner, and we hit phase two. Questions get more specific.
Owner asks (he's brought the paper with him. He's still thumbing through it) if I have a criminal record. He asks, and this is hardly legal, by the way, if I have trouble with drugs. No. He asks if I do drugs. How do I impress this man? After all, I weigh as much as his stools do. Gross. Sorry. So, I say 'yes'. Blatant honesty. It works out; he says it's a good answer before Going back to his paper. I swear this is how it went down. He asks questions, and as soon as I start responding, he like...holds the paper completely in front of his face. As if an ex-wife has just walked in, and he doesn't want her to notice him, and, panicking, this is how he hides.
Now I'm a cook. I'm to start the following day.
Tuesday:
I peel potatoes with a big machine that looks as though it's an Inca idol of some sort. It's rumbling. It's sputtering. It's shaking around. It's metal and huge. It peels potatoes. I slice many and carry many buckets. I exhaust quickly because I haven't performed real work in a while. I go on line to cook. I act like I know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm there an hour and a half longer than I'm scheduled. I try to leave, but not before making a clubhouse. Cut into four squares. Toothpicks. You know the drill. I try to cut this thing and tear the shit out of it. I have to make another before I can leave because the night cook is evidently a cunt. I do the same thing to the next clubhouse. I get to leave.
Re-reading this, I should say that the night guy wasn't being a cunt, he was running a kitchen. He was also being a bit of a prick. 
Wednesday:
More of the same. More potatoes.
Thursday:
So, I have a morning shift and I'm washing dishes. Whatever. That's fine. I know then that no one will be bothering me. And I'm not selling warranties to people. Fine. I don't eat that morning. I'm scheduled for eight hours. Kitchens don't really exercise breaks so much as they encourage brief stints of sitting down while smoking. Going to Xtreme Pita at lunchtime is not an option.
So, I'm starving, and I'm legitimately panicking because I don't know how I'm going to eat for the next eight hours. Insomnia kicked in the night before. I'm on two hours sleep, max. I steal a portion of chicken. A bag of cold, cooked chicken, that might equal a gram or two. I take it into a bathroom (there are cameras everywhere), and wolf it down voraciously. I stole a crust of bread later in the day and ate that. As if I were in a prison. That was Thursday.
There were more potatoes as well. I'm not joking. There were.
Friday:
I'm in front of deep friers all day. At one point oil spattered onto my face. I was terrified. I burnt my hand in the last hour of my shift. Ever have a taco salad in which the salad is actually housed within a taco vessel of some sort? That's what I was making. Deep fryer. I spill fryer oil onto the side of my hand and it hurts. A fellow cook insisted on ointmenting and bandaging. You know what really chews about the whole experience? There isn't a blister. No mark of any kind to prove this even happened. Am I getting chicks with a burn story in which there's no burn evidence? You know I'm not.
At least I ate before that shift.
I had a muffin.

Juice on the Lens

Well, Smallwood and I hit the town tonight, which is something that we haven't hit in a while. She decided that I needed to get out there, and absorb a little culture. So, she convinced me to go to the Nickel Film Festival, which took place in some building downtown. I've already forgotten the name of it, but I can tell you that the stairs were carpeted. Carpet on the stairs. ...I can't remember the flooring setup in the lobby.
Anyway, she and I do a sit down in Coffee and Company beforehand because I'm trying to get the attention of some bikers who are loitering outside. Smallwood doesn't even drink coffee, which is hilarious because I was convinced that soon after we finished dating she began drinking it due to my influence. This never happened. I considered this to be Smallwood trivia:
Q: "How did Amanda start drinking coffee?" A: "Not sure, but Paul had something to do with it."
I really believed this. Not so. She's never drank it before. She drinks tea. She drinks from styrofoam because she doesn't give a fuck about the planet. She told me so! This is how my memory works. Namely, it doesn't, not ever. I've obviously confused her with some other ex-girlfriend.
Over coffee (tea) I told her about this blog, and she expressed interest in reading it. I warned her that she may therefore be mentioned. She suggested I write it as though she won't be reading it. Please don't tell her she's mentioned so much in this particular post. Please don't tell her I told you about her 'fuck the planet' attitude; that was supposed to be between us.
Anyway, the films we're lined up to watch are independant horror flicks. Hilarious. It was really hot in this mystery building.
I just want to know how in the fuck you get a persian cat into a jumpsuit in the first place. It's hard to get cats into Santa Clause hats, or at least I assume so. Cats don't want to do anything that humans want them to do, and that's what makes them cats. I think that's why people like them so much. Cats don't give a fuck about us, and we, as a society, are drawn to that. So, how do you take an indifferent cat and put it into a little cat-sized jumpsuit? With the zipper up!?
Anyway, the initial shorts were very opaque and confusing, but they got better with each passing film. The last one, the full-length, the professionally shot...gear, was actually quite entertaining. Graphic as fuck (and I've played a lot of M-rated video games), but very engaging. Suddenly, the film cuts out at the end, right at this massive cliffhanger, and rewinds by about...5 minutes. People are looking at one another, people are confused. But, you know...independent film, this could be an artsy thing. This could be art. This happens three or four more times, the house lights come up, the trendy girl in the pants suit thing apologizes, we all leave. Huge cliffhanger. We all leave. My favorite part was when they took a brief intermission to piss around with the roll, trying to get it working, and each individual group of people (art gods and goddesses that they were) say to one another, "The first time, I thought it was like, part of the film? But then, when it happened again..." Everyone around us was echoing this. Smallwood and I mocked everyone. Smallwood and I have English degrees. Acadia English degrees. I can move objects with my mind. She can too.
Now we're both bothered by the huge cliffhanger in the film. They're screening it again, so we'll likely go a second time.
I can only watch an anus being tied off once, though.
The mustache actually, honestly, feels a little thicker. I'm mindful of hair length, and I'm making sure the colour is good. It seems to be turning a lighter, almost blonde as we go. As I go. You, the reader, have nothing to do with my growing this, actually.
I think I might do a standup show downtown. For the sake of paying rent, which will be included in the title, somehow.
But for now, I'm going to procrastinate. It's what I'm best at.
Also, now the brakes are nonoperational on the car because things are like that with me. The line started to leak immediately after dropping Smallwood off. Good thing. If it was before dropping her off, she would've seen me crying, while shouting, "My dad is gonna kill me! My dad is gonna kill me!"

If Turpin Can Walk and Talk....

...then I can walk and talk. And blog.
And so I am. Mine will have more swearing and less pictures than hers. Obviously, this will be something that we'll compete against one another for on a regular basis; who has the deadlier blog.
Alright, so this will be minimal effort from the start because I will likely tell no one about this except for Turpin. Unlike her, my life is way too monotonous to publish pertaining details daily. Not the case for Turpin; did you hear she was mugged/pushed recently? Further, I can't even wash my laundry without forgetting to put it in the dryer until the following day, so it's not like I'll be dedicated to this, or anything. Hell, I rarely get around to calling my grandmother.
But, we're here, so whatever.
Like the title? I am perpetually awkward*. I was thinking of putting that on a shirt. I have a lot of ideas for things to put on shirts. Wee little sentences that I happen to think are cute, or 'in your face'. Like my shirt that says 'Fuck Oprah'? That's in your face. Well, it's not in yours so much as it is in Oprah's, and I never see her around. She's a billionaire and I can't afford gas money, so who cares who I don't like?
So, I've put in my 'two weeks'. People can never say they quit anymore, it's always their 'two weeks'.
"I'm going to grow some balls and tell this place to shove it. In two weeks' time."
I plan to grow a mustache. Well, I plan to try. A real one, not some dirt porn 'stache. I have other things in mind. Before I elaborate, though, I just want to say that I find it hilarious that mustaches are the lamest piece of facial hair out there, until you turn 40, and then they're passably. At 40 it is not only normal, but indeed dapper, to have one. I want to grow a 40-year-old mustache, thus making it cool and acceptable for my generation. I'm talking soup-strainer.
You know, I really had ample oppurtunity to have sex with an Australian girl while I was in Banff, and I didn't even get around to it. I think that's going to haunt me down the road. When I settle down, with the picket fence I didn't put up, and couldn't possibly repair once it fell into disarray, with my small-breasted wife and my sickly kids, I'll be sitting at my breakfast nook, and I'll be drinking my coffee, and reading my paper (which I never actually do, but I will in the future, in my real world life), and my doting wife will turn, while having the fridge open (her lacking curves exentuated by the fridge's lightbulb), and she'll say, "Would you like plain cream cheese for your bagel, sweety, or the strawberry kind?"
And I'll shout, "I'd rather have some vegemite!" Then I'll throw my coffee mug at her, and push over whichever sallow kid who happens to run by.
It was Banff. People were loaded all the time. I should've had sex with an Australian chick...
Was this a good start? I think so, too. We'll cut it here.
Oh, just a little something to leave you with: I think I'm at a point in my life where I'm ready to hear about my parents' sexual escapades, as long as they're funny, or at the very least, insightful. Do you have any idea how fucked up it is to become that mature and, ultimately, old? Feels alright. Bet it'll feel less alright after I hear the tales, though.
Not that I'll be specifically asking any time soon...

*Perpetually Awkward was the original title of the blog.