"Pretty Much the Most Amazing Thing Ever"

See. 

Youtube is bullshit. 

And this is why. 

The whole planet was not meant to be viewed. 

I think that what he meant to say is, "I've got a really nice personality."

Watering Hole

Urinals are a strange thing, socially speaking. 

You have to look straight ahead at a urinal. 

You can't make any sounds at a urinal except for perhaps a cough. 

Sometimes old men fart next to me at the urinal. 

Most of the time I don't believe that they even notice. 

I've been tempted to turn to the guy next to me at the urinal. 

And say, "How's it goin'?"

Or yell something if there are urinal dividers between us. 

"Hey buddy, there's gum in mine!"

Also, I've thought about standing at the urinal like the 4-year-olds. 

Pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles. 

Because I think that it would be really funny. 

But the men's washroom is not the ideal place to expirement with new humour. 

Save that for the loan office.

Long Passed Due

I had a man show me a lot of guns at the inception of this weekend. 

It was really interessting at first. 

But as he got to the handguns I realized that I was slowly losing interest. 
Which I then had to hide. 

I don't believe that he noticed. 

I think he likes talking about them. 

And I got the impression that his family had heard it all. 

He let me hold the .44.

But he wouldn't let me spin it on my finger. 

So what's the point?

That man's daughter threw up in our car over the weekend. 

And raspberry vodka had nothing to do with it. 

Saturday morning and Charlotte looks miserable (as usual). 

"I just threw up," she tells us. 

Because, she suspects, she ate some of the expired meat in the fridge. 

"Which meat?" That's me. 

"The salami and stuff. I had a piece of that."

And I immediately got nervous. 

Because I had had a whole plate of that expired meat. 

I even had a piece of the chicken bologna. 

She continued to vomit though. 

And I eventually returned to my oblivious nature. 

Hopefully she's just pregnant. 

At one point dad was thumbing through The Telegram and Charlotte asked:

"Oh, what's my horoscope?"

"You're going throw up in a car today," I piped up. 

Even dad laughed at that one. 

Tip of the Icing

Three hugs, two drawings of myself, and a cake.

That was my sendoff.

Considering how apathetic an audience I had, I think I did alright.

And these people are so preoccupied with sex and throwing up, it's a wonder they found the time.

I will legitimately miss them.

But not yet.

Daphne (not her real name) made the cake.

The icing spelled out 'Peace out Mr. Warford.'

I wanted the whole thing to myself.

But I had to share it with them.

Dylan (not his real name) asked to go to the washroom and I told him he couldn't.

"Because you didn't want to give me a present like Daphne did."

"Yeah I did, but I don't know how to bake!"

I let him go after that.

So, now I have a month to myself.

I plan to spend it whittling.

Either a chili spoon or a boat.

Jim had a chili spoon. That he whittled.

He also had a long head.

And few other redeeming qualities.

Clutching at straws.

I'm actually thinking about using the month to write a paper.

Defending video games as an educational tool.

Because I'm really, truly, quite odd.

And I've little interest in sex.

Requires movement, you see.

Some selections (don't mutter about what a dick I am

Just listen to them):

Via Purifico (Final Fantasy X)

Dungeon Theme (Legend of Zelda)

A medley (The Secret of Monkey Island)

A soundtrack (Castlevania IV)

The Circus is in Town

And they're doing Any Way You Want It. 

Have you seen this guy yet?

Apparently the tour is getting to him. 

It just goes to show: 

Having your greatest fantasy come true can be horrendously depressing. 

Callin' Your Bluff

I appreciate that it would be very difficult to prove, one way or ther other. 

But if Oprah read Eugenides' Middlesex, I'll eat my fucking shoes.

All pairs.

Causemetic

I wore a woman's hair extensions over the weekend.
Can you believe that you're not supposed to get those wet?
It's human hair
(which is fucking disgusting, by the way).
How are you not supposed to get them wet?
I'd sooner wear horse hair.
Wearing human hair is borderline voodoo if you ask me.
Hair extensions should only be worn by cancer patients.
And people dressed as famous hippie musicians for Halloween.
Same goes for fake eyelashes.
What a waste of time and money and delicately-applied glue.
Like guys give a fuck what your eyelashes look like.
You could ask a guy after 'dragging off' (picking up, etc.) the following morning:
"Did she have eyelashes?"
And he'll likely say, "I-unno. Probably."
My roommate looked the sexiest when she was doing laundry.
And while she showered and I secretly recorded her on my web cam.
Otherwise she generally looked like some sort of stranger.
Speaking of Halloween...

I got into a hot tub and I forgot to take my shirt(s) off beforehand.
I forgot to take off my hair extensions as well.

"What's Yours is Time"

You know what my favourite possession is?

Above the video games?

And the various oils and lubricants that I have hidden in a shoebox under my bed?

More than my Nazi memorobilia that I also keep hidden (seperate shoebox)?

My free time. 

That's my favourite possession. 

And the planet keeps trying to take it from me. 

You're History

If my romantic life flashed before my eyes right before my hitting the pavement-

'Go bungee jumping,' they said.

'Fine, we'll go somewhere for you to get a sandwich right after the bungee jumping,' they said-

it would look like this:

An orange prom dress worn a year too late.

A helium balloon.

Peach yogurt on a doorstep.

A typewriter.

A Tim Horton's chicken salad sandwich.

A Polaroid camera.

(sex)

Red shoes and a history class.

Boots I didn't like and friends younger than me.

A massive lull (this doesn't describe a romance

but a massive lull).

An uncle's house in Canmore.

A dog that was alright.

Boots that I really didn't like.

Sudoku and weed pipes.

Caesar salads.

Caramel suns drizzled over plates I washed.

A plane and a too-big room.

A stuffed chicken breast.

A party I was going to skip.

Conical party hats with Triceratops on them.

Inappropriate postage.
A chaperoned date.
Pad Thai in the afternoon.
("Spidoodle!")

Then I'd hit the ground and head to Valhalla.

Where these women would feed me grapes for eternity, I suppose.

I think that The Stones are bullshit.

Or Mic Jagger.

I think that Mic Jagger is bullshit.

If you watch him do his peacock strut, you should be thinking to yourself:

Now there's a man who didn't deserve half of the sex that he got.

He did write 'Paint it Black,' though.

 And this tune:

Which pardons his on-stage antics.

Very marginally.

The Neverending Story

I haven't contacted her yet. 

As they say, 'abscence makes the heart grow' and so on. 

Not sure if that works with complete strangers. 

If you weren't willing to entertain the idea of having sex with someone, would you give them your full name?

That's the question. 

I watched a 13-year-old girl recite 134 digits of Pi a few weeks ago. 

It was surprisingly entertaining. 

Alright. 

I'm going to correct 20-something research papers. 

That's all I've got.

"I never do this." "Do what?"

Where would I be without my friends?

Here. 

But I'd have fewer people to borrow money from. 

I asked for a strange girl's phone number this evening. 

Because of them. 

I don't ask strange girls for their phone numbers.

She didn't give it to me. 

She did give me her e-mail address. Told me to do the MSN thing. 

Probably the ol' duck and roll, but at least I asked. 

And more importantly:

I didn't vomit on her.