My favourite incident while playing the game so far:
I'm careening along in some sort of a high-speed sports coupe, and I slam into a cement divider, fly through the windshield of the car, and slam (with my body, that is) into a building.
While crumpled in a heap, a nearby pedestrian exclaims, "What the fuck?!"
Immediately after which, his cell phone rings, and he answers it by saying: "What's crackin', baby?!"
Trust me, when it happens in front of you, it's hilarious.
To think otherwise suggests that you may have left your soul in the wash.
Or under the couch.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
All Thumbs
Fellow peasants.
How are things looking on your end?
Collaborated?
Good.
I apologize for being so tragically mute these past couple of days, but anyone who knows me well, and pays attention to the electronic store shelves, has probably figured out that I am holed up in my apartment, playing this game.
In due time.
On the bright side, in the wake of my abscence, I should have a decent review written for it in The Scope next weekish.
Full of my discerned observations, and witty witticisms.
This weekend saw perhaps the best comedy night that we've had to date.
Every superstar that's been onstage so far was in attendance, along with a great number of pulses who came by to watch.
Along with one new guy who described the process of being tested for Clamyhdia.
That part was somewhat unpleasant, actually.
But! I came up with my best adlib ever.
Ever.
I could've kissed Sherri when I later learned that she was the one who unwittingly set me up for it.
But then I remembered that she's swimming with the best diseases that St. John's has to offer.
I hosted and I was deadly.
They paid me. They owe me free drinks.
Who wants beers?!
I stopped into Sherri's house last Thursday after a particularly involved Scope meeting.
She gave me the entire tour, which I thought was novel.
She apologized to her roommate for eating all of the carrots, to which her roommate replied, "Those were yams!"
My favourite part of my stay occured when the cat jumped onto the table, and she, turning from the kitchen counter to see this, scolded, "Logan! Get off the table, ya dirtbag!"
The cat hesitated...
"Logan!"
Then the cat got down.
I felt very at home.
While feeling sexually intimidated.
Because that's how Sherri makes you feel.
Tim Ronan makes me feel the same way.
How are things looking on your end?
Collaborated?
Good.
I apologize for being so tragically mute these past couple of days, but anyone who knows me well, and pays attention to the electronic store shelves, has probably figured out that I am holed up in my apartment, playing this game.
In due time.
On the bright side, in the wake of my abscence, I should have a decent review written for it in The Scope next weekish.
Full of my discerned observations, and witty witticisms.
This weekend saw perhaps the best comedy night that we've had to date.
Every superstar that's been onstage so far was in attendance, along with a great number of pulses who came by to watch.
Along with one new guy who described the process of being tested for Clamyhdia.
That part was somewhat unpleasant, actually.
But! I came up with my best adlib ever.
Ever.
I could've kissed Sherri when I later learned that she was the one who unwittingly set me up for it.
But then I remembered that she's swimming with the best diseases that St. John's has to offer.
I hosted and I was deadly.
They paid me. They owe me free drinks.
Who wants beers?!
I stopped into Sherri's house last Thursday after a particularly involved Scope meeting.
She gave me the entire tour, which I thought was novel.
She apologized to her roommate for eating all of the carrots, to which her roommate replied, "Those were yams!"
My favourite part of my stay occured when the cat jumped onto the table, and she, turning from the kitchen counter to see this, scolded, "Logan! Get off the table, ya dirtbag!"
The cat hesitated...
"Logan!"
Then the cat got down.
I felt very at home.
While feeling sexually intimidated.
Because that's how Sherri makes you feel.
Tim Ronan makes me feel the same way.
Friday, April 25, 2008
A Slice of Reality
I remember Sunday mornings, vaguely.
I remember having to go to church, and it was the worst thing that could possibly be happening to me.
I remember mom herding us all into the kCar.
I remember itchy pants.
I remember after church. When the radio would be tuned to some sort of heavily traditional Newfoundland music, and we'd have a late breakfast.
And we'd be starving.
Because the Body of Christ simply doesn't fill up a kid on the go.
And Dad would burn the toast.
Every morning, really. But I remember it best every Sunday.
My parents had this toaster that they received as a wedding gift. And they used it until it simply wouldn't work any more.
Then they found a modern-day replica.
It's a two-piece, with fold-down sides.
It's kinda like the De Lorean of toasters.
And this thing (either model) burns toast in the blink of an eye.
The heating elements function in such a way that it goes from being lightly crispy to black as tar in seconds.
So much so that it had (and has) holes drilled into the top of it so that smoke can escape from it.
Dramatically.
If you burn two pieces at once, it's like watching the start of a miniature warehouse fire.
And Dad would burn his toast every week.
He'd eventually notice, from the corner of his eye, and then he'd quickly get up, while saying, "Oh, me toast, I burnt me toast."
His slippers would scuff on the floor as he hurried over.
Every week.
And then the smoke detector would go off.
He'd scrape the toast, with very little effort, mind you, and then butter it.
My father turns 65 in a few days.
Colin and I have the same toaster in our apartment.
Obviously, I burn my toast all of the time.
And I scuttle over to save it while wearing the same scuttly slippers, and the same plaid Dickie's work shirt.
And I scrape my toast, and then I butter it.
You do become your parents.
Luckily for me, my parents are hilarious.
I remember having to go to church, and it was the worst thing that could possibly be happening to me.
I remember mom herding us all into the kCar.
I remember itchy pants.
I remember after church. When the radio would be tuned to some sort of heavily traditional Newfoundland music, and we'd have a late breakfast.
And we'd be starving.
Because the Body of Christ simply doesn't fill up a kid on the go.
And Dad would burn the toast.
Every morning, really. But I remember it best every Sunday.
My parents had this toaster that they received as a wedding gift. And they used it until it simply wouldn't work any more.
Then they found a modern-day replica.
It's a two-piece, with fold-down sides.
It's kinda like the De Lorean of toasters.
And this thing (either model) burns toast in the blink of an eye.
The heating elements function in such a way that it goes from being lightly crispy to black as tar in seconds.
So much so that it had (and has) holes drilled into the top of it so that smoke can escape from it.
Dramatically.
If you burn two pieces at once, it's like watching the start of a miniature warehouse fire.
And Dad would burn his toast every week.
He'd eventually notice, from the corner of his eye, and then he'd quickly get up, while saying, "Oh, me toast, I burnt me toast."
His slippers would scuff on the floor as he hurried over.
Every week.
And then the smoke detector would go off.
He'd scrape the toast, with very little effort, mind you, and then butter it.
My father turns 65 in a few days.
Colin and I have the same toaster in our apartment.
Obviously, I burn my toast all of the time.
And I scuttle over to save it while wearing the same scuttly slippers, and the same plaid Dickie's work shirt.
And I scrape my toast, and then I butter it.
You do become your parents.
Luckily for me, my parents are hilarious.
Blood is Thicker Than Milkshakes
Potato chip bags used to come with stickers and rub-on tattoos inside of them.
Now they only come with nutritional facts.
This school term that just passed was the first in my (seven years?) of academia in which I: a) used a calculator, and b) used a pencil.
I'm not sure I did well.
How bedazled is your cell phone? Does it have those fake rhinestones on it?
If it does, I want to have sex with you.
Regardless of your gender.
Where do I buy a ficus?
I really want to buy a plant. I'm just not sure where it is that I go to do it.
Or, would the more nurturing approach involve me planting a ficus?
If so, where can I buy ficus seeds?
This may take some time...
I want fast food kids to be as curteous and accomodating as the pansies who work at The Gap, and I want the pansies at The Gap to be as indifferent and disillusioned as the kids working the fast food counter.
This is true.
People frequently mistake me for an employee when they go into stores.
I had it happen twice this month (at least) so far.
Now, I had a phase (it's not entirely over) in which I wore retail-oriented t-shirts casually.
But I do that much less now.
I had it happen in Canadian Tire and HMV.
In HMV I was sampling audio.
"Do you work here?"
"Yeah, I'm on my break."
And Canadian Tire?
Come on. Look at me. I'm lucky I get past the entrance.
At the Grady show the other night, a wrinkly old fellow asked me for weed.
This happens to me a lot as well, especially at concerts.
So, logistically speaking, then, I should probably quit my ambitions and become a drug dealer.
It would probably be a sadly smooth transition.
But I'd be making new friends.
Any other writers reading this?
Do you ever just think up fun titles to nothing?
You have a good title, you just need an entire story or poem or song or eulogy to go underneath it?
I came up with one the other day. But it's a title for something that I haven't written.
So I'm going to use it as the title for this post.
Alright, let's kill this one.
I have another to start. I need to tell you about burning toast.
Now they only come with nutritional facts.
This school term that just passed was the first in my (seven years?) of academia in which I: a) used a calculator, and b) used a pencil.
I'm not sure I did well.
How bedazled is your cell phone? Does it have those fake rhinestones on it?
If it does, I want to have sex with you.
Regardless of your gender.
Where do I buy a ficus?
I really want to buy a plant. I'm just not sure where it is that I go to do it.
Or, would the more nurturing approach involve me planting a ficus?
If so, where can I buy ficus seeds?
This may take some time...
I want fast food kids to be as curteous and accomodating as the pansies who work at The Gap, and I want the pansies at The Gap to be as indifferent and disillusioned as the kids working the fast food counter.
This is true.
People frequently mistake me for an employee when they go into stores.
I had it happen twice this month (at least) so far.
Now, I had a phase (it's not entirely over) in which I wore retail-oriented t-shirts casually.
But I do that much less now.
I had it happen in Canadian Tire and HMV.
In HMV I was sampling audio.
"Do you work here?"
"Yeah, I'm on my break."
And Canadian Tire?
Come on. Look at me. I'm lucky I get past the entrance.
At the Grady show the other night, a wrinkly old fellow asked me for weed.
This happens to me a lot as well, especially at concerts.
So, logistically speaking, then, I should probably quit my ambitions and become a drug dealer.
It would probably be a sadly smooth transition.
But I'd be making new friends.
Any other writers reading this?
Do you ever just think up fun titles to nothing?
You have a good title, you just need an entire story or poem or song or eulogy to go underneath it?
I came up with one the other day. But it's a title for something that I haven't written.
So I'm going to use it as the title for this post.
Alright, let's kill this one.
I have another to start. I need to tell you about burning toast.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Outcast
I think I'm going to take the bus today.
And get a cup of coffee.
Jane used to always say that I was reacting or saying certain things simply because I wanted to be like Larry David.
Which was true.
But there are some occasional neuroses of his that I believe I harbour as well.
Bussey let me borrow a coffee table book.
And I've been reading.
How about this one:
John Debellis (SNL and Late Show former writer): "One day Larry calls me up-this is in L.A.-and he says, 'John, I'm in love with the popcorn girl. What should I do? Should I write her a letter?'"
Last night, myself and Shandera saw Grady, a trio that came here from South Austin, Texas.
Yes, the singer is 'that guy from Big Sugar.'
A very buxom waitress served us Indias.
The band was fantastic. I'm still picking grit out of my teeth.
Lame? Is that a lame analogy? I guess it is.
But my ears are still ringing.
I need ear plugs.
I tried to buy them at Canadian Tire before the Gaping Lotus Experience show, but I didn't find the type I wanted to find.
It took forever. The aisle guys sent me to the car guys who sent me to the aisle guys.
I'll tell you something about that India, too.
Artsy crowd, cover your ears.
I don't like it that much. It's better than a bottle of Canadian, to be sure.
But if you want down home, you could just buy Blue Star.
It tastes better, and it's communicating the same message.
Whatever that may be.
I don't know what the artsy crowd is thinking.
They won't let me in.
Which is fine with me.
I just want to date their girls.
And get a cup of coffee.
Jane used to always say that I was reacting or saying certain things simply because I wanted to be like Larry David.
Which was true.
But there are some occasional neuroses of his that I believe I harbour as well.
Bussey let me borrow a coffee table book.
And I've been reading.
How about this one:
John Debellis (SNL and Late Show former writer): "One day Larry calls me up-this is in L.A.-and he says, 'John, I'm in love with the popcorn girl. What should I do? Should I write her a letter?'"
Last night, myself and Shandera saw Grady, a trio that came here from South Austin, Texas.
Yes, the singer is 'that guy from Big Sugar.'
A very buxom waitress served us Indias.
The band was fantastic. I'm still picking grit out of my teeth.
Lame? Is that a lame analogy? I guess it is.
But my ears are still ringing.
I need ear plugs.
I tried to buy them at Canadian Tire before the Gaping Lotus Experience show, but I didn't find the type I wanted to find.
It took forever. The aisle guys sent me to the car guys who sent me to the aisle guys.
I'll tell you something about that India, too.
Artsy crowd, cover your ears.
I don't like it that much. It's better than a bottle of Canadian, to be sure.
But if you want down home, you could just buy Blue Star.
It tastes better, and it's communicating the same message.
Whatever that may be.
I don't know what the artsy crowd is thinking.
They won't let me in.
Which is fine with me.
I just want to date their girls.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Not Just For Guitar Hero Anymore
I found this blog while trying to write this post.
If you're interessted in game production, computers, 3d design and all of that gear, or The A-Team, check it out.
Otherwise, don't bother.
I'd do this on my videgames blog, but talking about a game like this on a site like that results in a lot of pock-marked fuckers calling you stupid.
As such, I'd rather an avenue where the majority of my audience ignores what I'm saying.
It's nothing big. But Grand Theft Auto IV is about to come out.
"Isn't that that game where you can rape elderly women, and you throw babies out of moving cars, and you solicit prostitutes, and then you beat them to death with tire irons and take their money and their dignity? And then Godzilla comes?"
Yes. Exactly. That's the franchise.
Rockstar is (at times) the Coen Brothers of the video game industry (says me).
Don't let the media and the filthy politicians fool you.
Well, they're going to release a soundtrack of a great variety with the game, much like the others before it.
This time, however, the general (gaming) public is going to complain that the soudtrack is awful.
Then, after four to six months, people will start commenting on the bands in the game, saying, "These guys are awesome!"
And everyone will buy their music.
Because they loved them all along.
...
It's arrogant, isn't it?
You should see the stuff the video game nerds write on the forums.
GTA 1:
GTA IV*:
If you're interessted in game production, computers, 3d design and all of that gear, or The A-Team, check it out.
Otherwise, don't bother.
I'd do this on my videgames blog, but talking about a game like this on a site like that results in a lot of pock-marked fuckers calling you stupid.
As such, I'd rather an avenue where the majority of my audience ignores what I'm saying.
It's nothing big. But Grand Theft Auto IV is about to come out.
"Isn't that that game where you can rape elderly women, and you throw babies out of moving cars, and you solicit prostitutes, and then you beat them to death with tire irons and take their money and their dignity? And then Godzilla comes?"
Yes. Exactly. That's the franchise.
Rockstar is (at times) the Coen Brothers of the video game industry (says me).
Don't let the media and the filthy politicians fool you.
Well, they're going to release a soundtrack of a great variety with the game, much like the others before it.
This time, however, the general (gaming) public is going to complain that the soudtrack is awful.
Then, after four to six months, people will start commenting on the bands in the game, saying, "These guys are awesome!"
And everyone will buy their music.
Because they loved them all along.
...
It's arrogant, isn't it?
You should see the stuff the video game nerds write on the forums.
GTA 1:
GTA IV*:
*Taken from IGN. I know it says that on the screenshot.
I just really want to make sure no one ever sues me.
eDit: I added a lot of additional links to this post since originally writing it.
Also, if you're into electronica at all (or you think that maybe you could be) check out the Electro Choc sample on the GTA website (soundtrack link).
A Brunch of Strawberries
Here I am.
Abolish Sundays.
How is everyone doing?
I'm dressed well and cleaning my apartment.
That is to say, I'm making the apartment look more like a messy two bedroom and less like some hasbeen bachelor's pad.
Yesterday morning.
There's a brunch (whatever that is) at Cora's.
Because Bussey is going to some part of Newfoundland that people in St. John's only hear of, and never actually go to.
I have no idea where it is. South coast, I think.
Now, first of all, assholes, yes, I was late showing up.
But, only for beverages. I was on time for the ordering of food.
That's the first thing anyone mentions when I try to re-tell this.
Me and my predictable behaviour.
Anyway, I order a waffle, alright? With strawberries on it.
We're a table of nine.
She eventually brings out everyone else's food.
And I'm sitting there.
Everyone starts eating.
I'm waiting.
Eventually, and I'm talking ten minutes later, she swings by our table, looks over the crowd, sees that someone at her table isn't eating, and she takes out her pad and starts looking at it.
This is a shitty waitress, everyone (a lot of the time it's the cook's fault).
I call to her, "Waffles!"
Anyway, whatever. I get them.
I start picking at my strawberries.
I glance at Butler's plate, and it's empty.
French toast, sausages. All gone.
That's how long I was waiting.
And I'm so shocked, I exclaim, "You're fucking done?!" with no sense of volume control.
There was an elderly couple sitting very close to us.
Two of em.
Or a 'deuce,' as they say in the industry.
In other exhalations, today is international weed smoking day.
I only learned this after my stint in Banff.
...Where I lived with potheads.
Alright, I'm gonna go pack a bowl.
And play 'Marco-Polo' with my cordless phone.
Abolish Sundays.
How is everyone doing?
I'm dressed well and cleaning my apartment.
That is to say, I'm making the apartment look more like a messy two bedroom and less like some hasbeen bachelor's pad.
Yesterday morning.
There's a brunch (whatever that is) at Cora's.
Because Bussey is going to some part of Newfoundland that people in St. John's only hear of, and never actually go to.
I have no idea where it is. South coast, I think.
Now, first of all, assholes, yes, I was late showing up.
But, only for beverages. I was on time for the ordering of food.
That's the first thing anyone mentions when I try to re-tell this.
Me and my predictable behaviour.
Anyway, I order a waffle, alright? With strawberries on it.
We're a table of nine.
She eventually brings out everyone else's food.
And I'm sitting there.
Everyone starts eating.
I'm waiting.
Eventually, and I'm talking ten minutes later, she swings by our table, looks over the crowd, sees that someone at her table isn't eating, and she takes out her pad and starts looking at it.
This is a shitty waitress, everyone (a lot of the time it's the cook's fault).
I call to her, "Waffles!"
Anyway, whatever. I get them.
I start picking at my strawberries.
I glance at Butler's plate, and it's empty.
French toast, sausages. All gone.
That's how long I was waiting.
And I'm so shocked, I exclaim, "You're fucking done?!" with no sense of volume control.
There was an elderly couple sitting very close to us.
Two of em.
Or a 'deuce,' as they say in the industry.
In other exhalations, today is international weed smoking day.
I only learned this after my stint in Banff.
...Where I lived with potheads.
Alright, I'm gonna go pack a bowl.
And play 'Marco-Polo' with my cordless phone.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I can't do real photography.
But screenshots?
Forget about it!
Actually, I'm not too hot with these either, but at least some of you won't know any better.
Did I mention that I applied to be a contributor for this website?
And I sent them a link to my blog?
I did?
Funny...I forgot that I'd mentioned it.
Anyway.
Mock if you want. But these do take an eye to set up, I swear.
Down Time
Every Tuesday...
I always forget that World of Warcraft undergoes maintenance on Tuesday afternoons.
Then I panick because I forget how to socialize outside of the game, and I can't wash or feed myself properly.
I'm taking a lot of shit from people on this one. I liked it more when people made fun of me for playing games in general.
I told Turpin that today was technically good for calling me, possibly.
Then I was reminded that it was Tuesday.
So I wrote back and told her it would be a good day to call.
During the afternoon.
She's gonna be so mad when she reads this, guys!
Act like we weren't talking about her.
That's what everyone does whenever Turpin enters a room anyway.
That's enough about her.
Back on me.
Since Warcraft was down, I did the most logical thing I could think of to pass the time:
I looked at all 312 pictures of myself on facefuck.
I've determined the most attractive picture of me that exists.
It might be on the blog somewhere already.
But for those of you who pine over me at night, all alone in your beds, here it is again:
I always forget that World of Warcraft undergoes maintenance on Tuesday afternoons.
Then I panick because I forget how to socialize outside of the game, and I can't wash or feed myself properly.
I'm taking a lot of shit from people on this one. I liked it more when people made fun of me for playing games in general.
I told Turpin that today was technically good for calling me, possibly.
Then I was reminded that it was Tuesday.
So I wrote back and told her it would be a good day to call.
During the afternoon.
She's gonna be so mad when she reads this, guys!
Act like we weren't talking about her.
That's what everyone does whenever Turpin enters a room anyway.
That's enough about her.
Back on me.
Since Warcraft was down, I did the most logical thing I could think of to pass the time:
I looked at all 312 pictures of myself on facefuck.
I've determined the most attractive picture of me that exists.
It might be on the blog somewhere already.
But for those of you who pine over me at night, all alone in your beds, here it is again:
I really don't look very good without clothes.
Monday, April 14, 2008
tall non-fat chai moccha shot-down
I just e-mailed this website and told them to hire me as a contributor.
I wonder if they'll listen...
I provided them with a link to my blog.
If my mother knew this, she would be mortified.
Of course, my mother doesn't know what a blog is.
But, if someone explained it to her, informed her that I have one, provided her with the website, gave her time to read it, gave her more time to murder me, and then informed her at my wake that I had, in my last days, applied for a job using this as a reference?
She'd be mortified.
There goes my brother. Having sex again.
I have another crush on a coffee barrista.
Does anyone know what number this is?
I once asked out a girl who worked at the Second Cup.
After going there non-chalantly for months.
But one day. One day I got up and I said, "Today's the day."
This was 2005.
I put on my best gangly outfit and went down there.
But she wasn't working.
She was at her other job.
At Kent Building Supplies.
She told me. I didn't follow her there, or anything.
Anyway, I said, "Fuck it. I was going to ask her today..."
So I drove there.
She was on cash.
I collected some random shelving bracket, and I brought it to the counter, and I asked her out.
I must sound ridiculous from their perspective.
"Huh? Oh. No. I don't want to buy this. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to go for coffee with me sometime. I know you work at a coffee shop, so you probably wouldn't want to get coffee there, but we could go somewhere else. You wouldn't have to get coffee, either, you could get some other sort of beveridge if you'd rather do that."
This is the sort of shit I say.
She had a boyfriend.
She volunteered to put the bracket away.
I wonder if they'll listen...
I provided them with a link to my blog.
If my mother knew this, she would be mortified.
Of course, my mother doesn't know what a blog is.
But, if someone explained it to her, informed her that I have one, provided her with the website, gave her time to read it, gave her more time to murder me, and then informed her at my wake that I had, in my last days, applied for a job using this as a reference?
She'd be mortified.
There goes my brother. Having sex again.
I have another crush on a coffee barrista.
Does anyone know what number this is?
I once asked out a girl who worked at the Second Cup.
After going there non-chalantly for months.
But one day. One day I got up and I said, "Today's the day."
This was 2005.
I put on my best gangly outfit and went down there.
But she wasn't working.
She was at her other job.
At Kent Building Supplies.
She told me. I didn't follow her there, or anything.
Anyway, I said, "Fuck it. I was going to ask her today..."
So I drove there.
She was on cash.
I collected some random shelving bracket, and I brought it to the counter, and I asked her out.
I must sound ridiculous from their perspective.
"Huh? Oh. No. I don't want to buy this. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to go for coffee with me sometime. I know you work at a coffee shop, so you probably wouldn't want to get coffee there, but we could go somewhere else. You wouldn't have to get coffee, either, you could get some other sort of beveridge if you'd rather do that."
This is the sort of shit I say.
She had a boyfriend.
She volunteered to put the bracket away.
SlightPlan
I'll tell ya, summer's kind of a love-hate for me.
I get to dress in a lot of seperate plaids. And we all know I love that.
But everyone always has massive plans for the summer.
Complicated trips overseas, cabins on lakes, living in one province for a while with some relative and then travelling somewhere to see a show and then heading back home to cook steaks on a barbecue that I couldn't afford the downpayment on.
Even Smallwood's going to Europe.
And everyone always wants to know:
"What are your summer plans?"
I have no idea how to answer this because I have no summer plans.
I don't really have any autumn plans, for that matter.
I think that if people ask me what my plans are for the summer, I'm going to respond with, "I intend to lounge."
And that'll be that.
Yesterday I ate the following things (I shouldn't even be admitting this):
4:30pm-A large plate of McCain spicy krinkle fries.
2am-McDonald's.
I swallowed two vitamins with my fountain coke.
There's a lone fry on my keyboard.
I get to dress in a lot of seperate plaids. And we all know I love that.
But everyone always has massive plans for the summer.
Complicated trips overseas, cabins on lakes, living in one province for a while with some relative and then travelling somewhere to see a show and then heading back home to cook steaks on a barbecue that I couldn't afford the downpayment on.
Even Smallwood's going to Europe.
And everyone always wants to know:
"What are your summer plans?"
I have no idea how to answer this because I have no summer plans.
I don't really have any autumn plans, for that matter.
I think that if people ask me what my plans are for the summer, I'm going to respond with, "I intend to lounge."
And that'll be that.
Yesterday I ate the following things (I shouldn't even be admitting this):
4:30pm-A large plate of McCain spicy krinkle fries.
2am-McDonald's.
I swallowed two vitamins with my fountain coke.
There's a lone fry on my keyboard.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Birdbrain
I want to purchase the world's most intelligent bird.
Parrot.
Whatever.
And keep it as a pet.
Because I think that if I speak with it enough, it'll eventually solve all of my problems for me.
"Try joining a gym."
Parrot.
Whatever.
And keep it as a pet.
Because I think that if I speak with it enough, it'll eventually solve all of my problems for me.
"Try joining a gym."
...Que?
So, it's a few days back.
I have to write this damnedable archaeology paper.
Which discusses pieces of ceramic that were found under the ground in southern Labrador.
This is very exciting to some people.
We were given a bunch of items to look at in class.
Four or five classes, actually.
And I knew nothing about how to analyze this stuff at the time.
I'd show up and write down random notes about how this one looked 'kinda orange' or that one 'looks like it may have been a mug. Or a bowl.'
I had no idea what I was doing.
I was just thrilled to be able to listen to music in class.
I must've bobbed around a lot during one of the additional sessions because one of my female classpals said, "That music you're listening to must be really good."
"Oh, yeah. Radiohead. It's wicked. But you've gotta wait your turn."
So, I'm trying to find some magical website that has a picture of every type of ceramic that has come out of a kiln since the 16th century.
I look for sources in the centre for Newfoundland studies.
And there's this book that they recommend for me.
Written in Spanish.
And the woman says, "It's in Spanish, but sometimes there are English essays in there."
There weren't.
But, I skim through it here and there, and I get to the back of this thing, and I realize that it's a report written on the exact same place that we're studying.
There are pictures of sherds that I actually may have been holding a few weeks prior.
I've found my Holy Grail for the week (cause each week it changes).
It's in front of me.
In Spanish.
So, I start trying to figure it out.
I'm reminded that instead of using "quotation marks" they use <>.
Which proves to be fatuitous.
I look for every word surrounded by the little 'less than' and 'greater than' signs, and write it down.
I write down every year that I come across.
I try to deduce what other things may mean.
Translating a language that I know nothing about.
"Now, does "y" mean 'and'? Or 'or'...?"
I've since received the paper.
I didn't do excellently on it.
I have to write this damnedable archaeology paper.
Which discusses pieces of ceramic that were found under the ground in southern Labrador.
This is very exciting to some people.
We were given a bunch of items to look at in class.
Four or five classes, actually.
And I knew nothing about how to analyze this stuff at the time.
I'd show up and write down random notes about how this one looked 'kinda orange' or that one 'looks like it may have been a mug. Or a bowl.'
I had no idea what I was doing.
I was just thrilled to be able to listen to music in class.
I must've bobbed around a lot during one of the additional sessions because one of my female classpals said, "That music you're listening to must be really good."
"Oh, yeah. Radiohead. It's wicked. But you've gotta wait your turn."
So, I'm trying to find some magical website that has a picture of every type of ceramic that has come out of a kiln since the 16th century.
I look for sources in the centre for Newfoundland studies.
And there's this book that they recommend for me.
Written in Spanish.
And the woman says, "It's in Spanish, but sometimes there are English essays in there."
There weren't.
But, I skim through it here and there, and I get to the back of this thing, and I realize that it's a report written on the exact same place that we're studying.
There are pictures of sherds that I actually may have been holding a few weeks prior.
I've found my Holy Grail for the week (cause each week it changes).
It's in front of me.
In Spanish.
So, I start trying to figure it out.
I'm reminded that instead of using "quotation marks" they use <
Which proves to be fatuitous.
I look for every word surrounded by the little 'less than' and 'greater than' signs, and write it down.
I write down every year that I come across.
I try to deduce what other things may mean.
Translating a language that I know nothing about.
"Now, does "y" mean 'and'? Or 'or'...?"
I've since received the paper.
I didn't do excellently on it.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Meantime
H'alright.
My papers are now concluded, and the resulting euphoria I was supposed to experience was annexed by a great flurry of sleep deprivation.
I bought pills.
Remember: Nytol's the way to go.
I was supposed to go rock climbing and didn't.
I have an exam tomorrow.
I have no idea how to prepare for it.
I have stories pertaining to the writing of the paper.
I'll tell 'em later.
This is just filler during the interim.
My papers are now concluded, and the resulting euphoria I was supposed to experience was annexed by a great flurry of sleep deprivation.
I bought pills.
Remember: Nytol's the way to go.
I was supposed to go rock climbing and didn't.
I have an exam tomorrow.
I have no idea how to prepare for it.
I have stories pertaining to the writing of the paper.
I'll tell 'em later.
This is just filler during the interim.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Doesn't deserve a title
I just want to mention that I'm wearing three different schemes of plaid today.
Together.
When it comes to fashion, layering is pivotal.
It's fuckin' 'gargeous' outside.
You barely even notice the snow.
If you have a dog, walk it.
Together.
When it comes to fashion, layering is pivotal.
It's fuckin' 'gargeous' outside.
You barely even notice the snow.
If you have a dog, walk it.
"You were in my class." "I was yo' teachah."
So, I went to that show last night.
It was pretty deadly.
I got (relatively) drunk with two childhood friends, and some other dudes I met that night.
And Shaun.
I don't know how he spells it. But he strikes me as a 'u' kinda Shaun.
Sean.
Shawn.
I think the 'w' looks really stupid.
And with that I just lost every Shawn fan that I had.
It'll be a noticeable abscence, I 'llow.
H'anyway.
I ran into Brad Byrne and Adam Porter.
And their girlfriends.
The same girlfriends that they had in high school, which kinda threw me.
But whatever.
The only reason I'm even writing this post, really, is so that I can mention that I remembered Ashley Williams' first and last name.
I haven't seen this chick in at least six years.
I can't remember for certain, but I think I actually told her that I was really impressed with myself for remembering her name.
I did, too! I just remembered.
Because Jennifer Snow said that the only reason I remembered their names was because they were pretty.
But I've known Jennifer since I was like, two, so I would have remembered her anyway.
But for Ashley Williams, that's totally true and accurate.
It was pretty deadly.
I got (relatively) drunk with two childhood friends, and some other dudes I met that night.
And Shaun.
I don't know how he spells it. But he strikes me as a 'u' kinda Shaun.
Sean.
Shawn.
I think the 'w' looks really stupid.
And with that I just lost every Shawn fan that I had.
It'll be a noticeable abscence, I 'llow.
H'anyway.
I ran into Brad Byrne and Adam Porter.
And their girlfriends.
The same girlfriends that they had in high school, which kinda threw me.
But whatever.
The only reason I'm even writing this post, really, is so that I can mention that I remembered Ashley Williams' first and last name.
I haven't seen this chick in at least six years.
I can't remember for certain, but I think I actually told her that I was really impressed with myself for remembering her name.
I did, too! I just remembered.
Because Jennifer Snow said that the only reason I remembered their names was because they were pretty.
But I've known Jennifer since I was like, two, so I would have remembered her anyway.
But for Ashley Williams, that's totally true and accurate.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
"Useful Idiot"
You know what?
Write your own damn posts!
...
I'm joshin' ya. You know I'd never mean that.
You're all the henchmen to my crime syndicate.
The mercury to my thermostat.
And so on.
Not a whole lot to talk about.
I still have choking, gagging school shit to complete that could have been so easily completed by now if I were not such a deadbeat.
Now there's a word that's not used often enough these days.
And what ever happened to 'hasbeen'?
That's an insult that really had a bit of bite to it.
Because if you're calling someone a hasbeen, they probably fit that description.
Thus it rings true.
I won one of those GPS things on a Tim Horton's cup.
Medium decaf. I only bought it to pass the time, too.
...
Just kidding. I never win anything.
"April Fool's was last week, motherfucker!"
Did anyone believe that April Fool's story for a second, by the way?
Did I get anyone going?
Why a GPS 'navigation device'?
What kind of a prize is that to win?
If I actually did win it, I'd just toss it to one side and begin concetrating really hard on winning the boat to go with it.
What a pile of yuppie hogwash. Convincing yourself that you need a satelite-guided device to get you around civilization.
Especially in this city.
"I forgets where da mall is!"
"Stand back!"
Location: My house. Destination: Shandera's house.
Take me there.
Alright, I'm gonna go buy some earplugs because I'm seeing The Gaping Lotus Experience* tonight.
Which sounds like some sort of fucked up Vagina Monologues ripoff, but is, in fact, a Tool cover band.
*Warning: I didn't check this clip for sound quality.
Write your own damn posts!
...
I'm joshin' ya. You know I'd never mean that.
You're all the henchmen to my crime syndicate.
The mercury to my thermostat.
And so on.
Not a whole lot to talk about.
I still have choking, gagging school shit to complete that could have been so easily completed by now if I were not such a deadbeat.
Now there's a word that's not used often enough these days.
And what ever happened to 'hasbeen'?
That's an insult that really had a bit of bite to it.
Because if you're calling someone a hasbeen, they probably fit that description.
Thus it rings true.
I won one of those GPS things on a Tim Horton's cup.
Medium decaf. I only bought it to pass the time, too.
...
Just kidding. I never win anything.
"April Fool's was last week, motherfucker!"
Did anyone believe that April Fool's story for a second, by the way?
Did I get anyone going?
Why a GPS 'navigation device'?
What kind of a prize is that to win?
If I actually did win it, I'd just toss it to one side and begin concetrating really hard on winning the boat to go with it.
What a pile of yuppie hogwash. Convincing yourself that you need a satelite-guided device to get you around civilization.
Especially in this city.
"I forgets where da mall is!"
"Stand back!"
Location: My house. Destination: Shandera's house.
Take me there.
Alright, I'm gonna go buy some earplugs because I'm seeing The Gaping Lotus Experience* tonight.
Which sounds like some sort of fucked up Vagina Monologues ripoff, but is, in fact, a Tool cover band.
*Warning: I didn't check this clip for sound quality.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Disturbed Domestics
Alright.
It's Friday.
And unlike myself, a lot of you nine-to-fivers don't have a bunch of shit to catch up on.
We're getting closer to Spring, Newfoundlanders.
My favourite two-week period.
So, here's some music.
If you feel like bobbing your head, listen to this.
If you feel like dancing, listen to this (yes, it's 'that song' from 'that phone commercial').
If you feel like rocking and rolling, listen to this.
If you feel like appeasing me (and you should), listen to all of them.
It's too bad that they kicked Nick Oliveri out of the band.
But beating your wife can cost you more than your wife.
Ask Patrick Roy about it.
It's Friday.
And unlike myself, a lot of you nine-to-fivers don't have a bunch of shit to catch up on.
We're getting closer to Spring, Newfoundlanders.
My favourite two-week period.
So, here's some music.
If you feel like bobbing your head, listen to this.
If you feel like dancing, listen to this (yes, it's 'that song' from 'that phone commercial').
If you feel like rocking and rolling, listen to this.
If you feel like appeasing me (and you should), listen to all of them.
It's too bad that they kicked Nick Oliveri out of the band.
But beating your wife can cost you more than your wife.
Ask Patrick Roy about it.
Thou Shalt Not Make Fun of Our Tiny Country...
This one's for all of you who think that Catholocism is a sharp choice.
The Vatican cooked up some new sins.
Hang on, let me get his name.
Archbishop Gianfranco Girotti. Not the pope. One of the pope's henchmen.
Just released them the other day.
It's now a sin to perform stem cell research, genetic manupulation, and I think there's something in there about wearing crocs before the first day of Spring.
Now. First of all. I don't necessarily disagree with my man Gianfranco. There's also a sin against pollution.
Good.
At least these refer to the possability that science might exist.
Which is just as well. Because religious zealots need to get their head out of their ass on this issue.
Science is a pack of shit until they get a brain embalism.
Then it's a different story.
"Do you have something that can get it out? You do? Is it prayer? No? Well, fuck it. Do it anyway."
But that's not even the point.
If it's bad, announce that it's bad.
But new sins?
You can't just make new sins.
There's seven of them. Seven deadly sins. We've all seen the movie. We know how it works.
Can you list 'em?
Everyone can get two or three, usually.
But, if you're on a city bus, chances are, between all of the passengers and the driver, you can come up with the seven of them.
And that's not bad. Considering they're two thousand years old.
But you can't just add new ones to the mix now.
It's too late, Gianfranco; you had to be there.
Make up some new commandments, while you're at it.
God won't mind.
This would be a bit, but Margaret Cho already did it.
And there's no way I'm coming up with something better than her material.
Alright, let's try to think of them.
This is a serious effort. These are the ones I can think of.
Comment with the others if you can remember them.
No cheating!
Just think of the murders in the movie.
Pride
Gluttony
Vanity
...
That's all I got.
[eDit]: I thought of another one already.
The Vatican cooked up some new sins.
Hang on, let me get his name.
Archbishop Gianfranco Girotti. Not the pope. One of the pope's henchmen.
Just released them the other day.
It's now a sin to perform stem cell research, genetic manupulation, and I think there's something in there about wearing crocs before the first day of Spring.
Now. First of all. I don't necessarily disagree with my man Gianfranco. There's also a sin against pollution.
Good.
At least these refer to the possability that science might exist.
Which is just as well. Because religious zealots need to get their head out of their ass on this issue.
Science is a pack of shit until they get a brain embalism.
Then it's a different story.
"Do you have something that can get it out? You do? Is it prayer? No? Well, fuck it. Do it anyway."
But that's not even the point.
If it's bad, announce that it's bad.
But new sins?
You can't just make new sins.
There's seven of them. Seven deadly sins. We've all seen the movie. We know how it works.
Can you list 'em?
Everyone can get two or three, usually.
But, if you're on a city bus, chances are, between all of the passengers and the driver, you can come up with the seven of them.
And that's not bad. Considering they're two thousand years old.
But you can't just add new ones to the mix now.
It's too late, Gianfranco; you had to be there.
Make up some new commandments, while you're at it.
God won't mind.
This would be a bit, but Margaret Cho already did it.
And there's no way I'm coming up with something better than her material.
Alright, let's try to think of them.
This is a serious effort. These are the ones I can think of.
Comment with the others if you can remember them.
No cheating!
Just think of the murders in the movie.
Pride
Gluttony
Vanity
...
That's all I got.
[eDit]: I thought of another one already.
For Claire
I had dinner with my Uncle Tom tonight.
Through marriage.
But whatever. He's still paying. So we won't hold it against him.
Actually, he's a stand up guy, my Uncle Tom.
Married my Aunt Barabara when they were both in their forties.
He wrote her a song and played it for her at the wedding.
She cried.
A lot, according to the pictures.
Which is why I call him 'uncle' Tom.
If he just wore a corsage and didn't give a shit, I'd probably call him Tom.
This evening he bought me a steak as large as the fist of a man who eats a lot of steak.
Follow that?
Fantastic.
He bought a bottle of wine for us, and gave me instruction on how to taste it the way that wine nuts drink wine.
But without all of the empassioned discussion of distilleries and grape moistness and 'hint of oak' this and 'hint of juniper' that.
But without all of the empassioned discussion of distilleries and grape moistness and 'hint of oak' this and 'hint of juniper' that.
Instead, he explained how he journeyed to The Canary Islands when he was in high school, and that wine was all that was available to drink there because apparently The Canary Islands are not known for their wonderful drinking water.
They're known for their canaries.
He then explained how he was consequently drunk most of the time that he was there.
Then we spoke about my doing comedy and he hinted that in a few years he might be willing to try acting as my agent.
Which I think he could do.
Then he talked about how much weed he smoked when he was younger.
To his dismay.
And that's why Uncle Tom is wicked.
Because he doesn't talk to me like I'm the youngest in the family.
Aunt Pat is wicked for the same reason.
She's not my aunt through marriage, though. In fact...she's not my aunt at all.
Just for all of you 'the youngests' out there who are reading this:
When you're 26, everyone in the family continues to ignore what you have to say.
Because you're still the youngest.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
T & A & OT
I look at pornography on the internet sometimes.
Not gonna lie.
There are certain sites that haven't been corrupted quite yet by fake breasts, massive dudes with tribal tattoos criss-crossing their glazed, chisled bodies, and everyone spitting on each other.
"Porno is debasing and disgusting."
Bullshit.
Porno of the past ten years is debasing and disgusting.
And is, ironically, now on TV.
H'anyway.
I noticed on Easter Sunday that a lot of pornography sites that I frequent didn't have daily updates.
Because it was Easter Sunday.
And if you're keen on Jesus, or just a part of the white-collared working force, that means a holiday.
Later that day I picked up some McDonald's, since I'm back on the wagon.
And I mused to myself in the drive-thru that porno dealers got Easter Sunday off, and McDonald's employees didn't.
Is there irony in that? Or is it just me?
Not gonna lie.
There are certain sites that haven't been corrupted quite yet by fake breasts, massive dudes with tribal tattoos criss-crossing their glazed, chisled bodies, and everyone spitting on each other.
"Porno is debasing and disgusting."
Bullshit.
Porno of the past ten years is debasing and disgusting.
And is, ironically, now on TV.
H'anyway.
I noticed on Easter Sunday that a lot of pornography sites that I frequent didn't have daily updates.
Because it was Easter Sunday.
And if you're keen on Jesus, or just a part of the white-collared working force, that means a holiday.
Later that day I picked up some McDonald's, since I'm back on the wagon.
And I mused to myself in the drive-thru that porno dealers got Easter Sunday off, and McDonald's employees didn't.
Is there irony in that? Or is it just me?
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Like Any Other Night...
Crystal lives upstairs.
Her hair has a lot of various colors in it, and she listens to music at incredibly high volumes.
Anyway.
She calls me yesterday evening.
Says she's freaked out because she's upstairs by herself and she 'could've sworn' she heard a noise in the kitchen.
There's a screen door there.
There is also a fridge.
So, I tell her that I'll drop up and check it out.
Because it's the sort of thing that a man is supposed to do. So says the handbook.
She lets me in and I check out all of the rooms of the house. Behind doors, that sort of thing.
I tell her that it's all clear, and that I'm gonna head back downstairs.
She thanks me.
I turn to leave.
Suddenly, this guy jumps out from behind the bathroom door and he locks me into this chokehold.
My breathing is cut off. Just like that. It's incredible how sudden the sensation was.
Crystal starts flipping out. Screaming and crying, but I can barely focus on that cause this guy's grip is getting tighter and my vision is starting to blur a little bit.
He smells of oil, and his hands are caloused and rough. He's breathing heavily with the strain of placing more and more pressure on my windpipe.
So, I start thrashing back and forth, but this guy outweighs me by fifty pounds or so for sure.
I throw my weight backwards, and he collides with the bathroom mirror somewhat, and I wrestle out of his grasp.
I hear the mirror shatter behind me, followed by the occaisonal sprinkle as pieces of the glass fall into the sink basin below.
I make for the living room, and moreover, the phone, but he tackles me from behind, and now I'm facedown in the carpet and he's on top of me.
My breath is shortened again as the full, hulking weight of him compresses me tight to the floor. HIs knee etches its way into the small of my back.
He grabs my hair and starts ramming my face against the floor.
Repeatedly.
With each blow I can hear the muted thud that my own face is making, and I can taste bits of carpet fibre sticking to my tongue.
I can taste blood in my mouth.
Then Crystal hits the guy with one of these silly potted plants that Melissa adorns the common room with.
He rolls off of me with a lurch and a grunt, and I roll in the opposite direction and stagger to my feet.
Now he's turning on her, and he's stumbling towards her.
Instinctively, I grab this guitar that Glen always has propped up by the TV and I hit him in the back of the head with it.
Then I grab one of the guitar strings that's hanging off of the neck, which is now all busted to hell, and I wrap it around his throat.
He quickly throws me over his shoulder, though, and I slam through the pine coffee table that acts as the room's focal point.
He picks me up off of his feet, and I get my first look at this man face-to-face.
His eyes are wild and darting, spotted with green and blue. His teeth are bared like a hyena's may be, and they're yellowed and sparse, like corn kernals.
His face is hidden behind a full beard that is the result of not shaving rather than any sort of personal choice. His hair is a reddish blonde, reminiscent of marmalade, but his facial hair is brown and faded, like the boards of a weathered treehouse.
His clothing is filthy, and doesn't fit him properly. His shirt is buttoned improperly, and his pants are smeared black with oil or mud or God knows what.
He says nothing.
He throws me into the kitchen, and I slam against the stove, and then collapse.
He's trying to locate Crystal again, and while he's looking for her (the back of his head is sticky with blood, his hair's all matted and tangled) I grab the chef's knife out of the cutlery drawer and I yell, "Alright fucker! Stay right there!" My voice shakes from the situation. My throat is hoarse and strained-I barely recognize it.
He wheels, shoves his way past me, and he goes out through the screen door, presumably the way he came, into the dark, and up the bank towards the highway.
I let the knife clatter to the floor.
Crystal is whimpering softly in the living room and I have blood flowing from my nose and into my teeth. I can feel a welt forming on my forehead, just above my eyebrow.
I'm dizzy.
I ensure that Crystal's alright.
I wash up my face and hands as best I can.
My arms criss-cross with scrapes and cuts.
Crystal suggests I get a shower.
I do so, watching trickled blood and flecks of my own skin circle down the drain.
When I get out of the bathroom, I find Crystal in her bedroom, entirely nude.
She suggests I come into bed with her.
We please one another sexually.
I go back downstairs.
I make tea.
It was quite a night.
...
April Fool's!
The guy actually left through the front door.
Her hair has a lot of various colors in it, and she listens to music at incredibly high volumes.
Anyway.
She calls me yesterday evening.
Says she's freaked out because she's upstairs by herself and she 'could've sworn' she heard a noise in the kitchen.
There's a screen door there.
There is also a fridge.
So, I tell her that I'll drop up and check it out.
Because it's the sort of thing that a man is supposed to do. So says the handbook.
She lets me in and I check out all of the rooms of the house. Behind doors, that sort of thing.
I tell her that it's all clear, and that I'm gonna head back downstairs.
She thanks me.
I turn to leave.
Suddenly, this guy jumps out from behind the bathroom door and he locks me into this chokehold.
My breathing is cut off. Just like that. It's incredible how sudden the sensation was.
Crystal starts flipping out. Screaming and crying, but I can barely focus on that cause this guy's grip is getting tighter and my vision is starting to blur a little bit.
He smells of oil, and his hands are caloused and rough. He's breathing heavily with the strain of placing more and more pressure on my windpipe.
So, I start thrashing back and forth, but this guy outweighs me by fifty pounds or so for sure.
I throw my weight backwards, and he collides with the bathroom mirror somewhat, and I wrestle out of his grasp.
I hear the mirror shatter behind me, followed by the occaisonal sprinkle as pieces of the glass fall into the sink basin below.
I make for the living room, and moreover, the phone, but he tackles me from behind, and now I'm facedown in the carpet and he's on top of me.
My breath is shortened again as the full, hulking weight of him compresses me tight to the floor. HIs knee etches its way into the small of my back.
He grabs my hair and starts ramming my face against the floor.
Repeatedly.
With each blow I can hear the muted thud that my own face is making, and I can taste bits of carpet fibre sticking to my tongue.
I can taste blood in my mouth.
Then Crystal hits the guy with one of these silly potted plants that Melissa adorns the common room with.
He rolls off of me with a lurch and a grunt, and I roll in the opposite direction and stagger to my feet.
Now he's turning on her, and he's stumbling towards her.
Instinctively, I grab this guitar that Glen always has propped up by the TV and I hit him in the back of the head with it.
Then I grab one of the guitar strings that's hanging off of the neck, which is now all busted to hell, and I wrap it around his throat.
He quickly throws me over his shoulder, though, and I slam through the pine coffee table that acts as the room's focal point.
He picks me up off of his feet, and I get my first look at this man face-to-face.
His eyes are wild and darting, spotted with green and blue. His teeth are bared like a hyena's may be, and they're yellowed and sparse, like corn kernals.
His face is hidden behind a full beard that is the result of not shaving rather than any sort of personal choice. His hair is a reddish blonde, reminiscent of marmalade, but his facial hair is brown and faded, like the boards of a weathered treehouse.
His clothing is filthy, and doesn't fit him properly. His shirt is buttoned improperly, and his pants are smeared black with oil or mud or God knows what.
He says nothing.
He throws me into the kitchen, and I slam against the stove, and then collapse.
He's trying to locate Crystal again, and while he's looking for her (the back of his head is sticky with blood, his hair's all matted and tangled) I grab the chef's knife out of the cutlery drawer and I yell, "Alright fucker! Stay right there!" My voice shakes from the situation. My throat is hoarse and strained-I barely recognize it.
He wheels, shoves his way past me, and he goes out through the screen door, presumably the way he came, into the dark, and up the bank towards the highway.
I let the knife clatter to the floor.
Crystal is whimpering softly in the living room and I have blood flowing from my nose and into my teeth. I can feel a welt forming on my forehead, just above my eyebrow.
I'm dizzy.
I ensure that Crystal's alright.
I wash up my face and hands as best I can.
My arms criss-cross with scrapes and cuts.
Crystal suggests I get a shower.
I do so, watching trickled blood and flecks of my own skin circle down the drain.
When I get out of the bathroom, I find Crystal in her bedroom, entirely nude.
She suggests I come into bed with her.
We please one another sexually.
I go back downstairs.
I make tea.
It was quite a night.
...
April Fool's!
The guy actually left through the front door.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)