Boys Don't Cry

It's the wedding rehearsal.
"Rehearsal," in this context, translates into "trivialities." Wedding trivialities. That's what we are there for.
At least my soon-to-be Sister-in-law has coupled it with a barbecue. And beer. And wine. And groomsman gifts.
Andrea has asked a friend to play an acoustic song as she walks down the aisle. She's a musician. A female musician.
I've always wanted to date a female musician because:
A) I always seem to lose to musicians. As they say, if you can't beat 'em, have sex with em', and,
B) I find male musicians' stubble to be too scratchy.
She sounds very lovely. She is small-breasted.
The barbecue is in full swing and people are milling about. I am avoiding conversation with all of them.
I start speaking with the female musician, Erin. She initiates. We chat. I'm being very witty (wittier than I should be under the circumstances).
She comments on how nervous she is about performing for the wedding. I tell her to not worry. I suggest that she simply tell herself that she's better than everyone else who is watching her.
Sidebar: This is not what I do to get over stage fright as I rarely suffer from stage fright, but I do believe this to be a legitimate tactic.
I tell her that the grounds are bucolic (this is not the actual word I used), the bride will be pretty, and she (Erin) will sound soft and pleasant, and it will all obviously go swimmingly for her (which it did).
She asks if I do stand-up comedy.
People often find out about the stand-up from a friend, and then they ask because they're curious, or because they're pretending to seem interested.
I ask if Andrea told her about it.
Get this: She didn't know about it. Instead, she played at a festival with a lot of comics, and I have the "exact same demeanor."
This is the greatest comedy compliment I've received so far, whether it was intended to be or not.
We talk for some time on our philosophies of performing, our opinions on various issues. No exaggeration, it is the best conversation I have had during an initial meeting with a woman in some time. It's really up there.
She dates a member of The Cure.
Of course she does.
I ask Brian which one, after he breaks the news to me.
He says that the guy owns multiple flats in Europe, and a recording studio in London, and therefore it "doesn't matter."
He's right. It doesn't. Over time, when retelling the story, Colin always interjects here and says, "...and then Paul asked which member it was! Like if it was the bassist maybe he had a shot!"
She doesn't remember their names, but one of the comics present was Harland Williams. He was in Half-Baked.
Good enough for me.

edit: Though I'm sure I described this in a post already, I couldn't find it.
Reading this again in 2015, I feel I should mention that I had a run-in with Harland Williams at Just For Laughs in 2010 when on my way to my first-ever (and only) 'industry' after-party.
I went past two velvet ropes and beefy security guys to get onto an elevator that was empty except for Harland Williams. I said nothing as the elevator rose, and when the doors opened onto a giant, 20-foot ceiling'd space with an open bar, and a cook ladling up smoked meat sandwiches, he said, "Go have fun for once in your life!" I know that that doesn't sound particularly funny (I know this because I've told the story several times and no one ever laughs), but it was funny when he said it.

Now A Grass Man

I've never admired lawns. I suppose this is because I have better things to do with my time, or so I'd like to think.
Earlier this week, I mentioned to Stephen that I might like to learn grass...species. Types. Whatever. Actual names. Know them well enough to pinpoint one over another while strolling through a well-kept park, or a lush neighborhood.
"Beautiful lawn you have, Dave. St. Augustine Grass. A very prominent species. That would be a...warm season family, if I'm not mistaken. Perhaps I should have grown Augustine myself, rather than the Sideoats, but you know what they say: The grass is always greener!" (Followed by obnoxious ha ha-ing.)
This trivialty is not, unlike most, a ploy to impress women. Hortoculture is not a turn on.
However, it may impress guys. And, since I have no idea how to build a bookshelf, and no one would ever trust me with a drill press, that might be important. Help me get that big promotion I've been hankering for.
Ironically, a few days after said conversation, I end up with family friends in Brampton. Brampton lacks charm apart from the brickyard. That's not the ironic bit.
The house is very large and very beautiful.
But the lawn, dear Lord. Never before have I felt this way about a lawn.
You'd have to run your hand over it to understand. It's so soft. It's like petting a chinchilla, this grass.

The Thick of It

I would say that I drink a milkshake once every four months.
Or, twice every eight months.
I'm not sure that that's enough.

Andrea

I think she's going to work out.

She looks like this <--

I'll admit that to be a Warford Woman you do need a great deal of patience, and a moderately thick skin because a Warford Woman is always outnumbered.
I've had the feeling that she is going to work out ever since she visited Newfoundland a few months back for some sort of wedding shower debacle.
We were seated in a restaurant in downtown St. John's. Our parents were there. Her mother was there, her cousin...Colin and I were there and we were drunk because we arrived early.
She began iterating a point of some sort when I interjected to make some smart-ass comment, and then Colin began laughing gallantly because he was all liquored up.
Abruptly, she turned to us and said, "Shut up, I'm talking," and then she continued speaking.
Ever since then...
She has already come to understand that I am not to be left alone with any great deal of responsibility. Watching her explain to Francis that I was not permitted to drink the night before the wedding was very entertaining.
Francis, trying his sales pitch: "We'll just go out for a little bit," he calmly coerced, "and then I'll get him on a subway, and-"
"We can't put Paul on a subway, we'd never see him again." (This is likely true.)
"Okay, so what is Paul able to do on Saturday night?"
"Paul can't do anything. He has to be home by 6pm so that we all know where he is."
And she can only get better with time.
Personal favourite?
"Paul, you have to finish brushing your teeth first before you can eat anything."
"M'kay"

Shout It Out

I love my brothers. We do not hug.
I have never hugged either of them. My mother used to always say, when one of us would get off of a plane, "Give your brother a hug!"
I think I tried it once with Brian because I listened to our mother for a far greater majority of my adolescence than the other two did. If memory works, he held up a fist, menacingly, until I backed down.
But when the three of us are together, we are entirely unstoppable.
And we're usually laughing.
Preparing for Brian's wedding, we tried on our tuxedos, accompanied by our cousin Stephen. I'm generally conscious around Stephen because he has always been so much older than I. The gap is large enough that he always seems like much more of a grown-up than me - even now. Besides, he's always seemed so neat. Neat-cool, not neat-tidy.
I'm generally very satisfied when I make my cousin laugh. Each time is an accomplishment. He has such a hearty laugh, too. It's a very loud guffaw that he has. It's great.
Anyway, we try on our tuxedos.
I look fantastic in this thing. If I owned it, I would wear it constantly.
"Coffee? Sure. Let me just haul the tux on. I'll meet you guys downstairs."
Everything is to a T, so we have them bagged up and then pay our deposits.
I ask if there's a charge for stains. The gentleman behind the counter chuckles and says, "Wine is fine."
"What about vomit?" I counter.
Brian and Colin pushed me out of the store before he had a chance to answer my (legitimate) question.

Rather K-9 Anytime

It's funny. You would think that the bike cops would get the best bikes around.
It's bad enough they have to ride around town in 40-degree weather in the first place, but the beaten and dented white Raleighs they have to traverse with? Deplorable.
Are they beaten and dented from high-speed chases?
If I were a bike cop, I would want a vehicle that looked very impressive, just so I would be taken a tad seriously.
I guess that's what the gun is for.
They say that "it's just like riding a bike," but I would imagine that if I tried to ride a bike now I wouldn't be able to do it without band-aids being involved.

Hyphen count: 4

"If only someone could tame him..."

My brother Brian is getting married tomorrow.
Sorry, just trying to make it sink in.

We're Goin' Down

The scouts and I watched a video on airplane safety as our vessel taxied.
The stewards/stewardesses are not required to go through the motions of airplane safety anymore, apparently. The video does that job for them.
When I'm finally in my plane crash, I'm certain that all airline staff on board will not know any of the processes they are supposed to know because of the video. They'll eventually forget all of the emergency protocols and how to implement them.
"How in the hell does this door open?! Oh, if only they hadn't made that video!"
People get nervous during turbulence sometimes. I find this odd. I never pay attention to the plane's behaviour while flying; I pay attention to the stewardesses'. If they're collected, you're fine.
If you're about to hit a field and they know it, they're going to drop their professional courtesy act, and will instead go into hysterics.
Then you can be concerned.

To the Jamboree!

Colin and I both have an uncanny ability to attract the most irritating people that you could imagine having to endure while in flight.
I don't know how it is that it happens so frequently.
I'm confident that all major airlines have our names on file.
A lot of establishments likely have our names on file; we're influential people.
We're also very irritable people, he and I - especially during the morning.
I blame his general impatience and bitterness, which Colin has brewing in him continuously.
Personally, I find that people generally aren't paying enough attention to me in the morning, which makes me crabby. And grumpy.
Airport. It's 9am, approximately.
We're not pressed for time, necessarily, but it is also not on our side (because I'm involved).
We rush through security and decide to get some coffee on the other side, obviously.
So, we line up at dirty Tim Horton's as we wait for our flight to be called.
There are a lot of 8 to 11 year-old boys milling about.
They're wearing matching jackets and I'm instantly concerned. A lot of them are wearing safari hats.
I think that you shouldn't be allowed to wear a safari hat unless you either:
A) live in Africa, or
B) are on safari.
Then I see some older gentlemen walking around, yelling random cautionaries that group leaders tend to yell:
"Alright, stay together guys."
"Tyler, you're a little too young to get coffee, buddy."
"Jacob, you'd better take your pill now, before we get on the plane."
Scouts, they're Scouts. From The Goulds.
I certainly don't want to be presumptuous, but I would venture that Scouts from The Goulds probably do not travel beyond The Goulds very often.
The Scouts are all very excitable while I notice that some of the fathers are wearing the hats, too.
As I examine one be-freckled fellow doing a head count, with his socks and sandals, and his safari hat on with the drawstring behind his neck rather than in front of it, I am reminded that wiener people produce wiener children.
They get old, find a partner who also enjoys tapioca pudding and safety parameters, and then marry. They have sex, likely through a sheet of some sort, and then the whole cycle perpetuates.
It's a damn shame.
"There must have been a sale on those hats," I say to Colin. I try to say it as loudly as possible.
I know these pre-pubescents are going to be near us on the flight. Colin knows it, too.
We discuss this as we wait for the line to dwindle.

So, we're heading towards our seats at the back of the plane, and I overhear some kid shout: "Cool, we're sitting right in the back!"
I'll spare you the details.
However, some things that were shouted loudly by the little scabs include:
"I can see a lake! I can see houses!"
"There is a TV!"
"Go to channel 8! The music is wicked!" (this is yelled with particular gusto because the little one is listening to the wicked music on channel 8 at the time, and therefore can't monitor his own volume properly).
"I feel so light! Now I'm heavy! Now I'm light!"
(to a stewardess) "This must be a cool job!"
I decide that I'm going to drink beer in Halifax during our stopover.

I'm just Yang

I left and Turpin's leaving.
I'm really going to miss her this time.
I always like to keep her around to protect me from street toughs, and now I just don't know how I'm going to get about the city.
This is the emotional threshold for my blog, so you'd better appreciate it.
I don't enjoy appearing weak in front of people.
It's no way to galvanize a dictatorship.

My "Plus One"

I'm packing. It's late. I have to get up very early because that's how my family books flights. Stopovers galore.
Anyway, I'm choosing the most colorful socks that I have, and I'm sifting through t-shirts.
T-shirts are easily the most important part of my wardrobe because they cover up my ridiculous shoulder hair.
Okay, so I'm trying to decide on t-shirts, and I pass by Pia. Very special shirt for me. She's been through thick and thin with me, this shirt. She has survived a thousand washes.
She's also the only t-shirt I own which I refer to by gender.
"Where's Pia?"
"She's in the dryer."
And so on.
I glance at her, and decide to pass her over because I should bring along some new shirts instead.
Then, I think to myself, "Brother's wedding, family event, Pia has to be there."
Then I say "You're goddamned right," to no one.
Then I pack the shirt that I just felt actual emotion for.
I think I need someone to dote affection on, or, at the very least, a pet...

Sniper Scope

I almost ate a Reese peanut butter bar at home yesterday - thank God Crystal stopped me: "Maybe you shouldn't open that in the house." "What? Why? ...Oh! Right! The peanut butter." I ate it in the car.

I hear you knockin...(curtain), or Sour Cream glaze is the worst glaze

I wake at 9:15. I look at the phone to verify the time. Then I mutter to Turpin that she "doesn't know how to set an alarm." She didn't set any extra snooze times.
So, I do. I set an alarm to go off 11 minutes later, and another to go off 22 minutes later.
It's 9:37. I have to shower and collect all of my laundry, personal effects, and the rented movie. I have to return the secret key to Uncle Bill (in case he needs it). I have to at least make an effort to straighten the house. I have to do all of this in 24 minutes.
I lay about and talk to Turpin because the amount of time that I have in order to get all of this done has not yet sunken in. This is a serious problem with me; not cluing in to time constraints that are very much in place.
Turpin becomes aware of what time it is, and she suggests that I get moving. I now have about 13 minutes to accomplish all above-listed items.
I brew coffee.
I quickly shower. I run about the house, grabbing various things that I have written on a list. Turpin is adding things to the list whenever I happen to set it down.
I hurriedly tell her that she has to return the keys to Uncle Bill, and she has to return the video to the video store, and it would great if she could clean the house a little. Turpin is not a team player. Though she does volunteer to bring the movie back. Turpin leaves when I do, donned in a childhood jacket I wore to my first communion. Mom will never let her keep this jacket.
I rush off to Uncle Bill's while I eat the three remaining timbits from our pack of twenty that was purchased the night prior.
I toss the keys onto a counter and shout things about having to go. They have known me all of my life, Uncle Bill and Aunt Pat. They are not surpsrised. Uncle Bill shouts out the door that I should drive carefully.
I'm averaging a speed of about 130 km/h. I have about 40 minutes to get to St. John's before my shift starts. I believe that I can make it.
As long as I do not run out of gas, which was something that I meant to purchase the night prior, but I inevitably forgot, in lieu of Timbits.
I had just put $5 worth of gas in the car on the way to Uncle Bill's, as that was the maximum amount of cash I could spend while still having the necessary $7.60 needed to park my car for the day's shift.
But that was perhaps not enough, as the needle is flirting with the red area of the fuel gauge as I hastily make my way towards the highway.
It's flawless. I arrive on Water Street with a few whiffs of remaining gas, and park in my usual spot. I need no money for the lot as it is Sunday, and parking is free. The money could've gone into the gas tank, as it turns out.
I rush into the restaurant and quickly get changed into my cook garb. I go upstairs, and everyone starts asking me why I'm there. I do not have to work until 6pm that evening.
I will never be married to a woman.

I hear you knockin...(crescendo), or The Dolls Have Eyes

It's a few days ago:

Turpin and I are stoned in Chateau Warford. Please don't judge us, by the way. There's not a whole lot to do in Bay Roberts - even on a Saturday. We were going to go hang out in the McDonald's parking lot, but Turpin got on da go with Rodney last weekend, and Trevor might've been up there, and if he was there and Turpin was there, he'd be at her, and then Rodney and Trevor would've gotten into it.
So, we're in Chateau Warford and we are committing various infractions that would infuriate my mother (who terrifies everyone). We are smoking pot in the kitchen. We are trying on various clothing from my childhood closets. We are making a huge mess around the house, which was immaculate when my mother left.
I jokingly suggest that we have a tea party with mom's dolls. Mom's dolls are as significant to her as her children are. The number one rule in the Warford household, once we started drinking and began worrying about getting caught was: Do Not Touch The Dolls.
So, I'm posing the with the little crippled doll in the wheelchair while Turpin takes pictures. We consider freeing them all (an idea that has been entertained and ultimately discarded before), and instead secure them in their prison once more.
Then we play cards because we're in Bay Roberts. We play Crazy 8s because we're too unorganized to play an actual game of anything.
If you can believe it, Turpin has never heard of Crazy 8s & 3s before.
This was a appendix to the classic version of the game that I invented as we were playing.
I believe that Turpin, being the oldest of her siblings, needs someone around who will occasionally pester her just for the fun of it. This is my job. Technically, it is also Claire and Jennah's job, since they never seem to treat her as the oldest (nor did they when they were young).
Regardless, I randomly throw down a three, and change it to spades, and Turpin immediatley starts arguing over semantics to the game of Crazy 8s. I banter back, since there's nothing better to do. I occasionally attempt to change the current suit with whatever 3s I have throughout the course of our Crazy 8s (&3s) bout.
We photograph everything in order to document the evening (us playing cards by ourselves on a Saturday night).
We put on a movie that takes us forever to pick at the video store, and I immediately fall asleep.
Turpin went to work at her shoe cobbling, or whatever it is that she does at night.
I have to be up early the next morning. I have to work at 11, and I have to drive into St. John's before I can very well work there. So, I (Turpin) set(s) an alarm for 9:15.

I Hear You Knockin'...(overture)

"Dad, do you still keep the key to the house in the same secret spot?" It was there ever since I was little. You get locked out, you know where to go. "Oh yes, it's still here. Just use it if you need it, luh." With that, Dad physically removes the key from its resting place, shows it to me, and then puts is back. This was last week. My parents are currently in Toronto. Turpin promises me food and a juicebox if I hang out with her for the day, so I drive around the bay on Saturday in order to see her. I arrive. I wander into the Turpin kitchen area to see Anne-Marie on the phone. I can't remember the last time I saw her - Christmas, I suppose. She doesn't get up. I like Anne-Marie. Is there a hyphen? I don't know if there's a hyphen in her name; we're not that close. Chris has his shirt off and there are tools about. He's being forced to do something because Anne-Marie is home. Extricate Turpin. Back to my yard. Time to get the secret key, which, although I won't divulge specifics, is nestled in one of the several nooks and/or crannies of the shed. I try the shed door, and it's locked. The shed door is never locked and I'm aware of no contingency. Thanks Mom and Dad. For a brief instant, I consider trying to 'break the door down', like they do in the movies, figuring that if I break my arm, Turpin can probably festoon a decent splint. I change my mind. I examine all surrounding areas of the shed. I refresh myself on where windows are, and how small they may be compared to my ridiculous frame. Evidently, I'm wider than I thought. Alas, the door's my only option. I then attempt to slide the door's small window open so I can simply reach through and unlock the door. The window begins to slide easily. As I'm doing this, Turpin asks, "Do your parents have an alarm system?" Getting into the shed of my own accord is important because there's a female present. Now, for the average male, Turpin is inexplicably quite captivating, and although, for me, she barely qualifies, a woman is a woman. I have to appear handy. I am not handy, which Turpin knows. The window falls out of the frame entirely, and shatters on the shed's concrete floor. Now there's glass everywhere. Turpin's very afraid of broken glass, and fittingly hangs back as she laughs hysterically. I enter the shed and act as though the broken glass isn't a big deal. I even try to replace the window in its frame, despite the fact that it will no longer protect against any sort of element. My father's rakes and shovels are now in jeopardy. I'm fumbling with the window, I'm acting like I know what I'm doing. I have no idea how I didn't slice open an artery while doing this. The key isn't there. It was there last week and throughout my childhood! I can't stress this enough: the key has never not been there. Now it's gone. I call my parents in Toronto about it, and leave a nasty message for them on their friend's machine. I circle the house and try to figure out how I might break in. I can't. Sheds, no problem. Houses, different story. Meanwhile, Turpin is saying that we have to hide because the Keeping daughter is lurking in the neighbor's driveway. I can't really remember the child, apart from the fact that she's a frigging urchin, and I therefore decide that I don't want to deal with her. Mom calls. Turns out Uncle Bill has the key. In case Uncle Bill needs to get into the house. He isn't even my real uncle. Earlier, during the drive to meet Sarah, I decided that it might be a good idea to get high and walk along the track through the middle of town. I passed Adam Powell's house, you see. Then I passed the track. Then I got all wistful-like. So, I drive us to the Amalgamated parking lot. The plan is to smoke a bowl and then get to walking. It's mozzy outside and this quickly evolves into a decent downpour.
An hour and a half later we drive out of the parking lot to get snacks. We do not take so much as a step onto the track. We go to Uncle Bill's and he asks us to stay and have a beer. I attempt to calculate Turpin's current capacity for chitchat. I can tell that it isn't high, but apparently I don't care.  We have a beer and we chitchat. We get the key.

100 Idiots

Okay, this is killing me. It's starting to feel as though the post regarding the White Stripes is a homework assignment that is now late. I'll make the retelling as abridged as possible so that we can all quickly move on with our lives:

Shandera, Tracey and I hit up George Street at 4pm after hearing rumours that the famous pair would be playing a 'secret show' there at that time.
They had played a secret show in a random location in every city on the tour so far.
We waited. People milled about.
A rumour within a rumour was overheard, and it was believed that the Stripes were setting up at The Ship (a prediction I myself had made earlier that day. I was very proud of myself).
A group of 100 idiots began running towards the location. We followed.
Halfway there, all turned around because the rumour was false.
We waited. Again.
It began to rain (a lot).
An Evening Telegram car pulled onto the street. People mingled around the car and one mingler began whispering to nearby people, and that whispering then spiderwebed.
Soon, everyone was running again. This time, we watched.
As soon as the crowd of 100 idiots began to run down the street, two telegram correspondents emerged from their car and began taking pictures.
I was pissed because it certainly seemed like a sneaky trick had been played on a mass of youths for the sake of a photo op. The crowd returned soon afterwards.
German Diedre emerged from Bridey's. She asked if we were going to the show. We said 'yes', and explained that we had an extra ticket. She offered to purchase it, and then she asked for my number A SECOND TIME.
The Telegram car returned. I informed our little circle that I was going to go tell the Telegram correspondent that she was an asshole for playing a large group of people for chumps. Here is a photo of me doing that:
She denied the whole thing, but she was likely lying. Either way, it felt good to stick it to someone.
Diedre agreed to meet up with us later for the show, and I began questioning whether or not this was a date, in my head.
5:15. Shandera's patience has run out. So has mine, really. Much of the crowd was of the same opinion. People badmouthed Jack White as we began to exit the street. How come no one ever badmouths Meg? They're a duo, aren't they? We left. Tracey stayed.
5:30. Tracey called to tell us that they're setting up, but she'd heard rumours that it was only going to be a one-note show.
I told her that there's no way they'd do that, and then I told her to take pictures, as we were not turning around.
They did play a one-note show. Jack White's ego could topple nations. The CBC will tell you more.
We arrived early because I was with Shandera. We sat and soon Pete showed. We sat some more. We were in the front row. I kept an eye out for D.
She eventually showed. She was drunk and immediately suggested we get a beer. While doing so, she saw a guy with a ridiculous looking mohawk and claimed it looked hot. I disagreed.
She began talking to some fellow who I would've been intimidated by, were he more attractive. She introduced me by the wrong name, so the date was going pretty well. I decided at that point to put far less effort into trying to impress her.
We sat for perhaps 2 minutes before she mentioned that she wanted to hop over the boards and go to the floor. There were ushers on either side of us. I get caught when I try to be rebellious. She did not know this, but I knew this.
I told her that perhaps we should wait. She didn't wait. Instead, she simply bolted.
She then goaded me from the floor, a few feet away, and motioned for me to hurry up. I didn't want to get kicked out before the show even started. I figured that this is what would happen.
I surprised myself and clamored over the boards without being spotted. She then took my hand and led me through the crowd. I felt as though I was on the set of Can't Hardly Wait.
We were one of those couples; those who elbow everyone else out of the way in order to get closer to the stage. I generally hate those people. She was turning me into one of those people. I followed her regardless because I guess I was still trying to impress her after all.
She then asked to get onto my shoulders so that she could take pictures. She is very petite, but she still didn't realize what she was asking me to do. I hesitantly crouched. I truly believed I was about to kill her. Well, specifically, I believed the stadium floor was going to kill her when she landed on it after I dropped her.
I surprised myself again and managed to keep her upright - luckily for her.
She proceeded to rock out. She complained that the crowd was 'too boring.' She shook her head and shouted "This is sad" after each song.
I tried to keep up. I admit that the crowd was a little lax, but it was the White Stripes. They're not exactly Cannibal Corpse.
They proved to be very deadly and soon the show ended.
We exited and parted ways. I worried that Diedre wasn't going to give me Peter's money for his ticket. I had to push the issue a little before she left.
I then elected to not drink and to go home instead (at 11). Diedre wasn't impressed with me, but at the end of the day, I wasn't entirely impressed with Diedre. Though she was very cute, and probably wild in bed because she's German, as though that's something I'm looking for.
Anyway, I went home and continued being boring.

Nice To Meat You

So, I check out some music at the Fat Cat tonight with Shandera and Bussey, and the boobs they care for.
It ends. We part ways.
I decide that I want some 'street meat' for the car ride home (by myself). As I'm waiting for the vendor to ladel up my meal, it dawns on me, amongst the surrounding throngs of drunk idiots, that I am the only person alive who would buy 'street meat' while sober.
So what do I do? I act like I'm drunk as I buy it. I teeter as I count my change, and I act like I'm having a really hard time tallying the numbers required to make four. Then I purposefully make a mess while applying my fixin's. Granted, I would have made a mess regardless, but still, I was particularly attentive to making a real spectacle of a mess tonight.
Then I get into the car and decide not to eat it right away, but to drive home, get high, and then eat it.
So, I drive home one-handed, while holding an Italian sausage that's balanced atop a roll most likely purchased from Sobey's (profit margin), licking melted cheese off of my thumb as I'm signaling. Because sometimes, just sometimes, I am Homer Simpson.
I did come up with a few ideas for a new bit on the way home though, so that's cool. I'm not about to divulge it in this post, though. I hope to perform it instead.

"Say 'hello' to my lack of taste!"

Through the course of the evening I saw two (count 'em, two) separate dudes wearing two separate t-shirts featuring prints of Scarface . One of them was actually more of a button-up. You know, for semi-formal events.
There's one message and one message only which may be conveyed through this fashion atrocity: Coke dealers are wicked. Especially fictional ones.

Gym Bag

I smell my clothes to determine whether or not they're fit to wear (again) before cleaning them. All boys do this.
All boys.
We smell each area of the garment that would harbour an odour. Armpits. Crotch. Whatever. All of the hotspots. We inhale deeply, and we put our faces very close to these olfactory gambles. All boys do this.
My chambers was in a huge mess a few nights back, and I wanted to sleep, but I also wanted to live in a less-than-despicable room for just one night. It was 2:30 in the morning. I eyed all of the laundry that was scattered about my room. Some of it was clean, and some of it was not clean. It was salt & peppered because my laundry was tossed about as Turpin looked for her missing wallet, which she misplaced last Friday. Friday was the night she told me I was hot (you were there).
Anyway, I eyed this clothing mishmash and thought to myself:
"Oh man. I have to smell so much clothes right now, and I just want to sleep."
I've been a bachelor for too long.

Placate

I have yet to concoct the post regarding the White Stripes concert and my second run-in with Diedre, sie German, and my concern over potentially killing her.
But I just can't do it right now because I cooked and it was somewhat stressful tonight. There's a new guy, and though I initially thought he was going to work out to be normal, I'm beginning to get the impression that he's a waste of skin.
Mom came in today. She delivered Turpin to me, and cake, and lasagnas, wrapped and frozen. My mother loves me. I love my mother.
Turpin, I can take or leave. Depends on how drunk I am.

Food for Thought

Monday Smallwood and I went for lunch. I brought her to the Hearth because I hoped that my knowing other people (ie: co-workers) might impress her. Also, it was the only place I could afford to eat in, since I can tab my meals there.
She admitted that she's ceased reading my blog. I deduce that it is because she stopped being mentioned as much. I can't really blame her, as this is how I read things other people have written; I scan for my name, and when I don't see it there, I toss the material aside. This is why I haven't finished the Bible yet. I went through Genesis without seeing my name once.
She chided the mustache somewhat, but she still couldn't deny that it holds a certain charm. I told her about Diedre asking for my phone number. I also pointed out that D's asking was now irrelevant since I'd brought Smallwood on a lunch date to work, and Diedre was the one serving us.
Smallwood instructed me to tell D that she's just an ex-girlfriend that made me miserable, which was sweet of her to offer.
Not much else to mention. I came up with a brilliant metaphor, describing Smallwood as a puzzle piece - an intricate one. A border piece. Better yet, a corner. There's only four of those. Anyway, I told her that I intend to use it as a line sometime (I do).
I returned her to work half an hour late because I am the bane of punctuality.
We had an incredibly awkward farewell, and I'll admit that I was the one who made it so. Due to reasons that I cannot quell, Smallwood still has this innate ability to disarm me entirely from time to time. Suppose it's because she's such a puzzle piece.
I left the step where I used to always bring her after our lunches in the past, when we were still regularly seeing one another naked. As I walked away, I wondered if I should've moved home or not.
Then I removed the parking ticket from my windshield.

Purty and Thin

I wouldn't make it in prison, I've decided. I never really noticed before yesterday, but I drop the soap a great number of times when I shower. It makes sense; I'm trying to hold onto something slippery, and I generally have trouble holding onto anything. Like my dignity, for example.
Inmate #1: Whatdya think of the new guy?
Inmate #2: In a word, supple.

Under Konfusion or Perpendicular or Waking Up The Neighbors

For anyone who doesn't know, drinking with a Turpin is something you get used to, like a new pair of shoes, or a lobotomy. It is not a process you just jump into. I've also learned that it is easy to forget what it is to drink with a Turpin. I was reminded. Here is my account:

So, a bunch of frisbee players were having a pub crawl. I've played enough disc to know that frisbee players are, for some reason, generally ropey, slender, and attractive. My favourite exception, Sarah, asked me to meet up with these people. Single and somewhat slender myself, I concurred.
I parked my car downtown. I locked my keys in the glove compartment with the intention of using my spare set the following day. Before doing so, I had forgotten to remove my house key from the keychain. I didn't realize this at the time.
First, I had to get drunk before finding these people, due to the females that would no doubt be beyond my caliber, and also because I was going to be drinking with a Turpin. I knew Sarah was nearby at this point, and I knew that she was wasted. (Just how I like her.)
Therefore, I pounded gins at the Celtic Hearth as my co-workers bustled and moved about me. I looked dynamite at this point. I had coordinated my outfit very well, and was even more excited about it because I did it all by myself. To boot, I was sporting a new, staggering mustache.
"Mustaches look stupid. blah blah blah" you'll say. Fair enough. But, if you remember Diedre, the attractive German with the young cousin from a few posts back, you might change your tune, since she asked for my phone number. No girl has ever asked for my phone number before. Out of the blue like that? Never before. This is moot in relation to the account, but I wanted to mention it because I'm clearly still excited about it and can't quite let it go yet.
It was then time to don my (drunken) game face and meet up. A text told me to go to Rob Roy's.
I don't really do downtown and I didn't know where Rob Roy's was. I only know the Irish bars because my brother Colin likes to drink in them. Observe:
Moving on. I saw a patio and the proper signage. I approached two fellows standing beside a door. They very much looked like typical bouncers. I believe one of them even had a barbed wire tattoo around his arm. I told them I was George Street staff (because I am), expecting to get in for free. This was supposed to work, though it was my first time trying it. It didn't work. They said that there was a 'charity'. I had no idea what they were talking about, but was too drunk to care by then. I paid and went upstairs. There were two very bored-looking typical bartender wenches and no one else. I was in Konfusion and it was then that I figured out that Rob Roy's was the patio.
They gave me my contribution back, but it took a minute. The larger fellow took a twenty from my hand, and I kinda gawked at him. He grinned, friendly like, and asked, "Can I have this?" I told him "no," but I also knew that this man weighed more than my family does, and he could therefore have whatever he wanted of mine. Graciously, he gave the money back. I guess it was a joke or something. People are so strange.
I arrived and Turpin was nowhere to be seen, and I wasn't really attentive to anyone else, apple of my eye that she is. Maggie suddenly appeared, leading me by the hand to her location.
Things happened. I got more gin, awards were distributed to frisbee teams. Turpin's team (whatever it was called) won second, which surprised me. I then realized that this was based on their pub crawl 'performance', and not their frisbee playing, and it made more sense.
While receiving their award, someone shouted that the team should take off their shirts. I was then expecting to see them take their shirts off (which I was ready for), but they didn't.
Turpin, properly sauced by then, got onstage, where she had been moments before. Only difference was that she was up there alone, and there was now no reason to be, socially speaking.
That was when she gestured that I join her, as provocatively as she ever would with me. So, we cut it. Hard. We danced the fuck out of the place while pictures were taken (though not as many as I would've liked).
At one point Sarah slurred "No matter how close we dance we'd never make out." Story of our lives, sadly. 
One. Two. Three. Switch.
Time had passed and everyone was milling about and drinking more. It slowly dawned on me then that Turpin was missing. Well, not missing, so much as absent. I went out to the patio, turning to look into the bar for her lanky, stork-like figure. I was supposed to be drinking a mystery shot of some sort, but this suddenly seemed unimportant. 
I assumed Turpin to be addressing boy issues which don't go in my blog, but may be in hers.
Barbed Wire showed up out of nowhere and asked for that "twenty I owe him." I told him "not now."
She had disappeared. This was not strange or out of place for me. I immediately accepted it, and I, just like that, disappeared as effortlessly as she had...
...into the Hearth again. In the span of a half hour I smoked pot with two separate groups of people without making any effort to do so. One group was a gaggle of complete strangers from Bishop's Falls. I was, at this point, sufficiently wasted. Suddenly, Turpin texted me. I managed to get her on the phone to give her my whereabouts. I then waited in front of the restaurant.
She reappeared, all legs and arms, and verbally meandered over God knows what. I felt a strong urge to extract us from the downtown scene at that point, so I brought us to a cab. Turpin refused to believe that it was in fact a cab I was trying to load her into. She's so cute when she's hammered.
As our cabbie drove us (recklessly) home, it occurred to me that I had no key to get us into my house. My roommates were all out. I said nothing about this as we careened on.
Turpin, meanwhile, was texting a lot (Lord knows what she might have been saying).
We arrived at my boarded home and I then explained that we were in fact locked out, and that she should perhaps hunker down, as we could be waiting a while to get in. Crystal, when drinking, often does not return home until 5 or so (as it turned out, she did not return at all on this particular evening).
Turpin seemed relatively unconcerned with our being restricted to my yard for potential hours, and instead yelled random shit about guys into my cul de sac from my front stoop. I hoped that she was waking my next door neighbor, since his dog never shuts up.
I was tired by then, so I let her go for a while.
20 minutes passed.
I decided that, given our time cushion, I might as well try the patio door. Maybe I'd get lucky, and it would be unlocked. I left Turpin to her dementia and rounded the corner of the house. I discovered that the patio door was open, with only the screen door being closed. The screen door I was willing to destroy with my mighty hands if it happened to be locked, but it wasn't. Liberated, I walked through the house to open the front door.
Now, drunk or no, there are certain things that people cannot get away with. Getting wasted and slugging a friend for no reason? Can't get away with it. Cheating? Can't get away with it.
I don't care how drunk she was, she doesn't get away with it. I opened the door, and Turpin turned and said, "You're so hot right now." She was saying it because of my supposed ingenuity for opening the door (I'm not even sure that she noticed me leave), but I was already looking forward to making fun of her the following day about it.
We slept, though I wouldn't call it sleeping, if you know what I mean.
It was 7 and I was suddenly awake. Turpin was making her gross sleeping noises. I tossed and turned for what ended up being three hours. Three hungover hours.
Turpin eventually vomited. I sang "Just call me angel of the morning (angel)" as she finished. We muttered various tidbits. We snoozed.
Turpin got up and vomited again, so I sang her new vomit song again. She asked for crackers with Cheez Whiz and juice. I grabbed crackers from my brother, Cheez Whiz from Crystal. I ensure she's fed.
We then went over the evening's events, and I quickly realized that Turpin was encountering many of them for the first time as I regaled her. She asked at one point, "Did we dance last night?"
...
"Did we do anything besides dancing?" I asked her. I filled her in on everything; her sexual advances, both physical and verbal, her disappearing, her reappearing.
We went back to sleep for a while, with her drifting first. Instead of laying on the bed like a normal person, she lay on the bed perpendicularly, with her stovepipe legs pointing t'wards my window.
I eventually slept perpendicularly as well, with my pale legs pointing towards my door.

Edit: Now that it's 2015 and she's dead, this was exceptionally hard to edit. 

I Owed You One

I prepared crackers with Cheez Whiz for Turpin on Saturday morning because she had vomitted. I also rocked her world, in the process, with the sheer romantic atmosphere of the act. Everyone thinks that Turpin and I have slept together. But I wouldn't call it sleeping, if you know what I mean.

"She's My Little Deuce Coupe, You Don't Know What I Got"

I asked my father about purchasing his first car on Friday, over steaks. It was actually a very pleasing story for me to hear. I implore you all to do the same thing. I believe that too easily we forget that our parents were trying just as hard to get laid when they were young as we are now (excluding you squares in long-term relationships). Ever see a teacher in a grocery store when you were a kid? You were blown away because your teacher actually BUYS GROCERIES LIKE A NORMAL PERSON!? This is sort of the same phenomena. I was never blown away to see teachers buying groceries because the same teacher was likely in my home earlier that week to celebrate my mother's birthday. To hear him speak of it was humbling to a degree. I could see that Dad was getting wistful in the process. And rightly so; my dad is old. This likely happened a long time ago.
"I was around your age. So-and-so had just bought a brand new car. I asked him how he could have afforded it. "'Just tell them you have a degree from MUN (which dad had), and you're about to start teaching (which he was at that time), and they'll give you the money.' So, I went to the bank, and I told them. And they said, 'How much would you like, Mr. Warford?' They covered the cost of the car up to within $500 of the asking price. Dad leant me the other five hundred. I took the bus into town, and I remember I had two dollars in my pocket. I went and picked her out, and took her to put two dollars of gas in 'er. She was a '68 Ford Fairlane 500, fastback. She had black bucket seats, and she was maroon outside. They weren't around much longer after that because they had their name changed to the Ford Torino. I took her to the station, and the man pumping gas next to me said, 'That's a nice machine you've got.' I told him I'd just bought it. But I don't think he believed me. It was a very nice car... Dad told me to forget about paying him back the five hundred dollars."
I hope I can tell my kids a story like that, some day. I hope I can own a car.

"Mostly Coconut"

Okay, so it was 3am on Thursday and I decided to book it to the Tim's at the bottom of the hill in order to grab myself some coffee and a snack. I'm a sucker for 'baked goods'.
The dream girl from a few posts back? I forgot to mention that her breasts would be small.
Anyway. Tim Hortons, the night crew and I. Obviously, there was no one else there. Normal people were sleeping, which must be nice. Sleeping.
At this point, I was in and out of sleep, doing it occasionally (about as frequently as tidy people do laundry).
My choices were a little strapped. There were chocolate chip cookies. That was it. I didn't want chocolate chip cookies because I'm a baby. So, instead of telling the employee what I wanted, I saw the cookies in their lone basket, and said, "Oh..." and then I just stood there. Finally, she said "There's some other stuff in the glass case."
Display case. Of course. How silly of me.
So, I see walnut brownies. They looked scrumptious. I was about to order one (two or three) when I realized that walnuts contain the word 'nut', and therefore might be a cousin to peanuts, which, through proxy, might kill my roommate. She was home at this point, hovering over her boyfriend, who was very passed out on the living room floor.
I noticed the Nanaimo Bars, and decided that I was good to go. Egg white and chocolate. Bring it on. Can't kill anyone with that. But that bottom layer...What is in that, exactly? I figured it's mostly coconut, but I chose to ask. Not because I was worried about my roommate, mind you, as I'd already decided on getting them, but out of sheer curiousity.
"Do these Nanimo bars contain peanuts, do you think?"
"Umm, I don't think so," she replied. Pause. "But I'm not sure what's in the bottom layer."
I'd already lost interest. I should've said so.
She asked if I was allergic to peanuts, and I explained that I was instead allergic to being responsible for killing my roommate. 
"Let me ask the guys out back." Brief pow wow with the bakers. "They're not sure," she explained.
She asked the bakers to check the contents on the box ('Always Fresh', my ass). A hairy, squat man in white entered from the baking area in the back (although at this point I was wondering what it was he was baking back there). "I'm not sure. It doesn't say what's in 'em. You allergic?"
Employee #1: "He doesn't have the allergy, his roommate does."
Employee #2: "Should be okay. ...Except for that bottom layer. But I think that's just coconut."
Employee #1: "You could get a yogurt,"
Myself: "I'd rather chance it with the Nanaimo Bar."
They first eye me curiously, and then the plate of Nanaimo Bars.
Employee #1: "Are you sure?"
Myself: "Sure. It's okay. If I kill her, it'll be ruled as accidental. I can't do time for that."
No one laughed. A third, very young female employee approached us from the drive-through window.
#3: "What's up?"
#1: "Oh, this gentleman isn't sure if the Nanaimo Bars contain peanuts or not, and his roommate is allergic."
The three of them then discussed what might be in the bottom layer of Nanaimo Bars. At this point, I'd been there for about 15 minutes.
#3 eventually turns to me, stone-faced, and says: "Everything here contains peanuts. I wouldn't do it. You could get a yogurt..."
#2: "You could get fruit punch."
At this point I was wishing I'd gotten a cookie.
#1: (reassuringly): I'm pretty sure the bottom is mostly coconut"
#3: "But, that's still a nut, though. Wouldn't they be the same thing?"
#2: "Nuts!? (While gesturing an approximate size to a basketball) Those big old hairy t'ings?!"
I was then trying not to laugh.
#3: "I wouldn't do it."
Myself: "I think I'll go for it. It'll be fine."
#3: "Are you sure?"
Myself: "Yeah, it's not like I'll kill her. I just have to eat it and then wash my hands. It's peanut residue on doorknobs, so - you probably don't care about my roommate's peanut allergy."
I've been trying to point out when people don't care about things I talk about. I mean, why should she care?
#1: (concerned): "So, a Nanaimo Bar?"
Myself: "Sure. Actually, make it two. Make sure I really finish her off."

Now You've Gone Too Far

I had myself another date with Tracey. Half date. Non-date. Whatever.
There was a great amount of deliberation on who was meeting with whom, and who was to be driving. Tracey recently acquired a driver's license, as in a few days ago. Now, apparently she's been driving, illegally, for years. However, figuring that she would find it all the sweeter motoring under provincial law, I invited her to come on by. She asked for landmarks in order to locate my domicile, but my landmarks are the domicile, and other peoples' domiciles. That's about it. So, I mention CONA, we go back and forth, I toss her some street names. Turn here. If you see this, you've gone too far.
I love that description. I think that it's the most definitive aspect of good directions.
"Now, there's a butcher shop. It's called Andy's Meats. If you see that, you've gone too far." I think that it's very important to include a 'you've gone too far' parameter. Otherwise, people could drive indefinitely, looking for fire hydrants and signposts that may not even exist (because the snowplow took 'em out last February). If you don't have a 'you've gone too far', the driver will generally start to make up landmarks that are similar to what was described to them. It reaches a point where they'll assume that you were too stupid to direct properly in the first place, and will begin filling in the blanks themselves.
"Now, they said to turn up by the post office...I don't see a post office anywhere." It's worse when you're searching by yourself because you have no mediation; no one to mull over the directions with. So, when you get close to where you think you should be, you turn down the radio, and talk to yourself. "Those are mailboxes. Those might be it. Now, he said the street was Hillview and this one says Mill - what is that? Millfox? ...Millfox? Maybe he said 'Millfox' and I heard 'Hillview'."
See?
Then you head up random streets, now late for the party (that you're hypothetically looking for), browsing any house with a lot of cars parked in front of them. Meanwhile, other people may be having social functions of their own, and they could be complete strangers to you. Showing up at the wrong door is always humbling. You never tell your friends if you went to a wrong house.
"Does Gary live here?"
"Who?"
Then others in the (wrong) house get excited, thinking you're someone they actually want to see.
"Is that Booker?! Tell him to get his ass in here! Booker!"
"Nah, it's just some jerkoff at the door."
"Oh, I'm sorry," and you quickly leave. This is like a wrong number, but it's in-person, which is far more embarrassing.
However, if a 'you've gone too far' has been included, you just drive until you see that, and then turn around.
"Okay, I'm at the butchery. I've gone too far. I'd better turn around." Then, you switch all your turns in your head; left becomes right, right becomes left, and you reverse engineer where it is you're supposed to be.
Tracey didn't go too far - she couldn't have because I told her the wrong CONA location. So, all of Tracey's turns were accurate, but she kept finding inaccurate street names that didn't match my directions because I was directing her to chase geese.
Oh, and get this: My directions had Tracey saying, "He said Ridge Road, but this is South Ridge Road..."

Teeth For Two

My newfound roommate went into the bathroom some time ago, and she won't come out. She's not making any noise. On the way in there she said that she was drunk. I believe she said that. Now, I'm concerned she has passed out in there (it's only ten p.m.) and I have to brush my teeth before I go to work.
I could knock on the door, and say, "Are you okay?" That.s awkward for both of us, though.
What's the story on those Crest Whitestrips? Are they for real? My teeth usually stain because I drink so much coffee...and I really am attentive to oral hygiene. Are these things worth my time? I've tried whitening toothpastes, and whitening mouthwashes, but neither have worked. Sure, they improve things, but they don't really fix the situation.
I'd feel like an idiot, gluing these things to my teeth, trying my damnedest not to get them stuck on my gums. Then I'd have to sit there, thus wrapped, and then, guaranteed, some random girl would show up at my door: "My car broke down. Well, it didn't break down, I just forgot to put oil in it. And gas. I'm running late for my pool tournament, and all of my friends are there to watch me. All except my boyfriend, of course, because I don't have one. I find that a personality is so much more important than looks, and I just can't seem to find a guy I can relate to. The last boyfriend I had? He kept arguing with me because he said that I play too many video games, and that I enjoy silly satirical cartoons way too much. I even made him a shirt that said 'Fuck Relationship Spats' in an effort to end the argument, but, you know how these things go...
"Anyway, could I use your phone, maybe? Or perhaps you could drive me there? I've just started learning to cook. I could make you something as a thank you. Or I could bake you something. Do you like apple pie? I really have to get to this pool tournament. Do you play pool?"
And then I'd say, "Yesh! Oh ma gawd yesh! Wait, jush let me take off my Cresh Whiteshtripsh!"
Then she'd laugh at me and leave.

See? Worthy.

I've only ever looked at the ocean and felt actual emotion twice. This morning was incident number two. The first was about 4 or 5 months ago, when I was driving with Hoskins through the whacky twists of CBS. We rounded this bend and came upon a sweeping, panoramic view of the water, and at that moment I felt somewhat overcome with pride, which I had never felt before, and I decided at that moment that I had been in Banff for too long. I also decided at that point (I think) that I want to raise a family on the East Coast.
As I was vacating Water Street this morning, after another overnight shift (these, by the way, are likely going to kill me if they continue. I have a cold that I'm nursing and complaining about now. I don't get colds. For someone as sickly looking as I am, I have a surprisingly apt immune system), I decided to scale Signal Hill (in my car) and check out the view. So I did. Even at eight a.m. there were many tourists. I hate tourists. I locked my car because I figured that it would be my luck to do something as poignant as this, and have my iPod stolen by some dickhead visitor in the process, as I'm finding myself. That's when I would get looted.
Anyway, with the Buick fitfully secured, I scaled a little knoll off the side of the parking lot, where there was an itty bitty pool of water. Then I looked at the much larger pool of the Atlantic. It was ever-so-clear and crystal, and the sun shimmered on the water, and I just felt as though I didn't need to leave anytime soon. I felt thoroughly and satisfactorily introspective. I decided that perhaps eight dollars an hour was worth it, I mentally made a note to myself to bring my next girl-type friend/victim to this knoll to make out sometime, and then I drove home.

We've Evolved

How does a movie make a good first date?
This is where we were before everyone realized that drinking coffee is fabulous.
You both go, you sit there in your seats, and you don't talk.
You just stare straight ahead, and then it's over.
Two hours of sitting side by side.
You're better off taking a short bus trip together. At least then there's conversation.
I might try that out some day (this weekend).
"I'm on my way to Placentia, but I accidently bought an extra ticket.
Have...you...ever been to Placentia?"

Spontaneous Politeness

Hypothetical:
You're walking down the street.
You pass a stander. He's waiting.
He's a waiter/stander. Bus, maybe. He's waiting for a bus.
He stops you to ask for a light.
"Hey, gotta light?"
Can you see it? Picture there for you?
Now, it just so happens that on this day you do have a light.
You may not even smoke, but it just so happens.
You took a book of matches from the bordello you were in the night before.
You picked up a nice piece of tinder as you were walking a few blocks back, and you have a dry sprig of something in your pocket.
You have a light.
Alright, out of nowhere, the stander/waiter spontaneously combusts.
I suppose that it's obvious that it happens out of nowhere, if it's spontaneous.
Anyway, he spontaneously combusts.
Now, do you still offer him a light?
Cause now he obviously has one.
But, you have a light, he asked, and you have nowhere in particular to be.
What do you do?
Should you put him out first? Then offer him a light?
Stop him. Drop him. Roll him?
I think I'd just say, after he has burst into flames, "Looks like your day's turning around already, buddy," and then I'd walk away.

Trading Licks

I've decided today that I'm going to start giving Turpin charlie horses occaisonally, at random, in an effort to toughen her up.
Now, don't feel bad for her. It's for her own good. And besides, she once stapled my ear with a stapler! It didn't have actual, physical staples in it, but my ear bled. So, charlie horses. And noogies. Don't tell her what they are; she doesn't know yet because she's sheltered. This is why she needs the charlie horses in the first place. And the noogies.
Do you know that she couldn't even swear before meeting me? I had to show her porn, as well.
And, one day, I'll have her buying knives. For the hell of it. Because that's what she met me for. That's why God made me such a glorious swimmer in the first place.
Inside joke.

Not My Imagination

I've forgotten to divulge on the only aspect of my life that's interesting right now, which I'm embarrassed about. I'd imagine my fans are on the edge of their...computer chairs.
My mustache is actually coming along pretty well. Now, earlier this week (late last week for people who need things that anal and specific) I was thinking of trimming the whole operation. However, seedlings have sprouted, and therefore so has my ambition. I'm a new man, who will soon have a new mustache. The resulting handjobs, my goodness.
Have you noticed that everyone uses the word 'figment', but only in the context of 'figment of my imagination'. I'm going to utilize figment more often. There's no rule that says I can't.
"I'd like a figment of your salad, if you'd part with it."
I liked figments of this post.

Pumping Iron

I worked all night last night. 11 to 7. I sat with Dave the cook and Chad the server on the step of the restaurant at 6, and watched joggers jog by. "Good morning," they'd say. I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to figure out why people would jog at 6 in the morning.

Little happened. I ate granola and made nachos occasionally. My nachos actually look very good. I've been complimented on them several times since starting. I'm serious. Okay, I take them out of the oven, and a fellow cook glances them and says, "Those look good." That's a compliment. That counts.
While cooking, I desperately seek approval from people who know what they're doing. It's a thing. I'm not sure why I'm like that.
I've been lifting a lot, lately. Sacks of potatoes can't get from upstairs to downstairs without a new guy to bring them there. Then new guy can cut them into fries. I get really distracted when I notice that my veins are protruding because I'm lifting something heavy. Sometimes I look at myself in a mirror, all gaunt and pale, while clad in little, and I try to imagine what I would look like if I had any semblance of definition. But see, that's the thing: I don't think I'm supposed to have any. Like, God wouldn't allow it, even if I tried. I'm not supposed to have muscle mass. Sure, I look ridiculous now, but if I was defined I bet I'd look more ridiculous. Wouldn't it be funny if I started weight training, and immediately got fat? That would somehow make sense.

I've a new old roommate. Melissa. She used to live here before I lived here. She lives here again. Crystal comes into the room while I'm Facefucking: "What would you think of Melissa moving in?" "Will she pitch on rent?" "I guess so, yeah." "That's cool, I guess. When was she looking to move in?" "Later today, I think." Which she did. This is who I live with.
Melissa's hair is huge. She likes a clean bathroom. She's sharing one with me. Melissa doesn't know what she's in for. I come home, and she has spick-and-spanned the whole area. My bathroom was fittingly disgusting before I left for work, it was spotless when I got home. My hair all over the drain everywhere. You have no idea how hideous my hair is once it's off my body, but Melissa knows. I felt terrible. I still do. I will feel a lot worse after I kill her, which I probably will.
She has an airborne peanut allergy. Residue on doorknobs, knives, the whole thing. There is no possible way this person is going to survive living with me. I will forget about the whole thing, and one day I'll randomly make peanut butter cups (I'll be proud of myself because they're homemade) and I'll have them strewn about the house in a fun scavenger hunt.
"Hey, you're home! I've got a real treat for you! Fuck Reese, I'm better than him! I hid these all over your room, just to say "Welcome to the homestead!" I put one or two in your bed and I-Missus? ...Missus?!"
They won't invite me to the funeral, but I'll make a greeting card that hints at how unfortunate it is to have a bad memory.
And the bagpipes will sound in the distance.

"Do you still talk to Sarah Turpin?!"

I have to go to work in 30 minutes. It's 10:30 p.m. I don't like it.
Last night was ludicrous as drunken Canadians ordered many, many platters of nachos, which I prepared. While wishing I was dead.
Just kidding. It's not that bad.
So, after work, I'm supposed to smoke a joint with Doug (he's 19 and adorable, in his own right, just because he's so 19 [He once commented that "Having sex is pretty wicked"]) after work. I get a beer at the bar. Doug is talking to a circle of waitresses that range in age from 20ish to 40ish. Diedre is German and attractive. She's showing her cousin a night on the town. I don't find out immediately, but her cousin is 15. Her cousin does not look 15. Her cousin is GOING TO GRADE 11. How hilarious is that? Just hearing someone say "I'm going to grade...." sounds insane. So, I have a drink or two with these people. Then I learn that I can start a tab at the bar which will be payroll deducted from my cheque. Perfect. Co-workers who don't know me keep buying me shots.
15.
We go to etomik (christ knows why I agree). We can't get in cause what's-her-face gets I.D.'d, and is therefore denied entry. And she's the only one who wants to go in the first place. Mavis is in front of us in line, getting turned away because he's too drunk. So, now drunk Dave is with us.
I talked to a Carolann from high school at some point in this procession. I forgot to mention that.
She's talking to me. "How have you been?! Do you still talk to Sarah Turpin?!"
Oh, we communicate, so to speak, but there ain't a lot of talking involved, if you catch my drift. 
The Carolann said my name, I turned, and then did the worst job of pretending to be happy to see someone in my lifetime. I wonder if she caught it.
I have to go work now and wish I wasn't working. Because it's late. This was pointless.

Cop on the Beat

My parents come in today for a visit.
Mom calls to wake me. It's two.
My parents always want to eat at Swiss Chalet.
Every time we go there, they suggest it like it's a new idea that we've never explored before.
"Oh, how about we go to Swiss Chalet?"
I laugh every time they mention it. They always ask why I'm laughing.
My parents are flabergasting people.
Mom says, "We can go to Boston Pizza instead, if you want."
Dad climbs into the car while she's saying this, turns, and says, "Oh yeah, we can go to Boston Pizza if you want to."
I don't want to.
I'm 5 years old at this point.
I decide not to fight. Fuck it. At least it's not Swiss Chalet. Besides, they're paying.
We eat and they leave.
They give me moose burgers and a chocolate cake.
Laughable they are, yes, but I love my parents indiscriminately.
I go to Starbucks. It's unsatisfying.
I meet up with Tracey. She's a co-worker of sorts in that she works at the Mt. Pearl EB, which is a staff that doubles as a second family for me.
We've been facefuck messaging one another for quite some time. We decided the night before that we would get coffee that day.
It's so refreshing to hang out with a female who is taken and you know it, and you therefore don't have to obsess over whether or not you want to have sex with them.
Concentrating comes naturally in such a scenario.
I extricate her from work. We kick it.
It's her mother's birthday, and she's hanging out with me. "Paul? Who's Paul?" her mom likely said.
After we dropped off her flowers, that is.
I drove us to Coffee & Company because I wanted to get the attention of some bikers that were parked out front.
We sat.
We talked.
She's chatty. I love it.
We drive around and discuss music. Refreshing.
We decide to look at boats on the waterfront. There's a huge one. It's the HMCS St. John's.
I notice a helicopter PARKED ON THE BACK ON THE BOAT!
So, now we must check it out.
There are asses getting drunk on other nearby boats.
There are asses coming off of the boat as we approach it. We're hoping we can get on.
We climb up the gangplank (is 'gangplank' right?).
We are told to leave by Navy fellows because there are no tours going on until the following day. Tracey resolves to check out the tour the following day.
I say nothing, but resolve not to.
We're back on Water Street now.
I'm trying to choose a cool song that may impress Tracey while driving.
It's the day before Canada day. George Street is nearby. There are drunk people everywhere.
I'm driving slowly, and swerving mildly, since I'm fumbling with my iPod.
There's a cop car behind me.
Tracey wakes me up to this and maintains that I should perhaps drive like a normal person.
She tells me to turn up by Subway, but she's told me the wrong street.
Because Tracey is somewhat scatterbrained like myself.
Now there are cabs and drunk fuckers all around us. There's a cab in front of me. I can't move. The car can't move.
The cop pulls up beside me. Does the whole motioning thing for me to roll down my window.
It's a female police officer. She's attractive.
She tells me I'm not allowed on this road, and don't I know that?
I've just realized this, I tell her.
She tells me to therefore "Move my ass", while smiling.
As I move my ass, Tracey immediately begins to deduce that the female cop was totally flirting with me.
I never know when females are flirting with me. Except when they're 18.
I very much don't think this was the case. She was very smiley and friendly though, all things considered.
I wonder if she spills stuff on herself while she eats as well....
We go to Mustang Sally's because it's Tracey's favourite place to eat. I now love Mustang Sally's.
That's it. I platonically drive her home.
Now I'm here. Now you know. Now I'm done.