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.