Know what's ridiculous?

Keeping your shoes on just in case the guy you had coffee with a few hours ago spontaneously calls up and wants to hang out.

Know who's ridiculous? This guy.

ESL adventures on Grindr

Holy Shit Balls: Hey

Illustrious D: Hiya

HSB: Love? Big? Love

ID: Pardon?

HSB: Looking for love. What kind of love

ID: Platonic or romantic, long term for both

HSB: Ok

ID: You?

HSB: R u hung? Platonically speaking I'm hung

ID: You're platonically hung?

HSB: Looking for big love Yep .))

ID: What...does that mean?

HSB: And platonically HOTT

*sends me picture of his cock*

Too :))

ID: K thanks

HSB: U going?

ID: Not looking for that kind of love.

HSB: But that was platonic Platonic is not physical Ur def need to be clear.

5 Little Known Facts About This Kid

1. I know I gotta eat lettuce and stuff, but I feel that it subverts the pleasure of eating so rather than make a salad I like to just cut off a big chunk and eat it like a carrot. No dressing. Like a fucking man.

2. I have 2 out of 4 DVDs of the third season of Will & Grace because the "friend" that gave it to me thought it would be "cute" if we "shared" them. I think she's a "cheap-ass bitch." These ain't no travelin' pants.

3. People are always really, really surprised when they find out I've never been to Europe, which I've started to interpret as everyone thinking I'm a abnormally stuck up. Well, congrats on having been to London for 5 days on your grade 11 history trip. You still have a unibrow and no money.

4. I don't like getting frisky before bed or first thing in the morning. I'm tired. Fuck off. Plus, neither a Xanax or morning breath are particularly aphrodisialical. Or something. Come see me, like, before lunch or after the gym and than we'll talk nipple tweaking.

5. I'm on Twitter @theillustriousd. This one isn't funny, just fucking true. So get on that shit. I talk about black bus drivers always being late and why I'll die alone. Probably cause of the racism.

Pimp my kid

Yesterday, my father offered to fund an eHarmony premium profile on my behalf.

Ignoring the fact that eHarmony is a secretly Christian site that doesn't offer same-sex matchmaking, this was a sweet if horrifically inappropriate offer. Dad essentially wants to be my pimp. He just can't understand why I'm single (as stated many times before here). I love (LOOOOOOOOOVE) the fact that he thinks so highly of his kid that he can't imagine why this would be. It's ricockulously adorable. He also said that he knows I've kinda pulled myself outta the game (true) and that it's time to get back in (perhaps also true).

So taking this under consideration, I decided to redouble my efforts, or because I'd been putting in no effort, simply double my efforts. I bought and paid for a three-month membership at mypartner.com, a site specifically geared to the Gs, Ls, Bs and even Ts looking for something lasting.

My rationale in actually paying for it is this: I invest in school to make me smarter, a trainer to make me healthier, high quality food to keep my body running as best as it can, plane tickets home to see my friends and family to nourish my 'soul'... why not throw a hundred bucks into the ring for the chance at finding something long term?

I read recently that over two-thirds of lgbt couples now meet online. Staggering, isn't it? Seeing as the stigma around it has pretty much come down, alongside the facts that I don't meet a lot of new people and my friends are zero help in this arena (evidently friend-to-friend matchmaking only occurs in Jennifer Lopez movies), this seems like a good shot.

But no more Manhunt, Grindr, even Plenty of Fish. F-in' wastes of time. If I'm making an investment (only $100, I know, but sha!) I damn well want someone who's going to invest in me too. So I'm sending a template message to any and all that seem remotely compatible, casting that wide net, and seeing what happens. This doesn't discredit any of my previous notions of being happy alone regardless. I'm gonna be a fuckin' treat. But might as well see if there's a chance, right?

GRRRRRR SUPERSTAR!

And I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

So many tags worked for this one

"I'm scared that I'm going to end up alone. I'm scared that I'm always going to be somebody's friend, or brother, or confidant, never quite somebody's everything. Mostly I'm scared I'm never going to find a guy that I love as much as I love you."

Okay, this is a quote from Dawson's Creek, so first off, fuck you for judging me. Secondly, just shut up and keep reading.

I don't deal all that well with male friendships. I know this is a huge gay stereotype, but as much as I hate having to identify with anything gay (self-loathing homo much?), it's the truth. They make me anxious. Despite having a few close male friends, they're sort of outliers, as though women are my own species and I have a few extraterrestrial buddies on top of that. Whenever I'm with a guy friend, I am keenly aware that I am indeed with a guy friend.

This brings us to the opening quotation. I have a male friend that I am not in love with. This is not remarkable, or shouldn't be at least. I do, however, love him very dearly and in the absence of someone to be in love with, this can muddle the brain at times. This is usually pretty innocuous, little jealousies here and there, an odd dream from time to time. I have these with most of my friends actually, but for some reason when they happen with him...I dunno, they just cut deeper.

I am not attracted to straight men. Not. Ever. This single fact is likely the reason why we were able to become friends and remain that way. Sometimes I think that despite all the various facets of our relationship, if this one fact were suddenly called into question then the entire friendship would be at risk, like the most architecturally sound house being build atop a single brick that you didn't know was holding up the whole thing and one day it crumbles and the entire structure comes crashing down. We can only be friends because I don't believe this brick exists. Still, the house exists and it is on the closest friendship-property I own next to adding the word 'in' before love. If you understand the metaphor I'm going for here then bravo, 'cause frankly it's 1:30 in the morning and I'm struggling to get it.

It terrifies me that I could spend the rest of my life (because this friend is a lifer) putting heavy, inappropriate, misguided internal pressure on this person because, for no other than being wonderful, he has been cast as my occasional closest-thing-to. I've stated before that I believe a person - or, more specifically, I - can be happy being alone during their life and I still believe this is true. However, as someone who is capable of romantic love and has experienced in short yet epic bursts, I think certain elements need to manifest in other, only slightly torturous ways, such as not being in love with your friend but on occasion thinking as if you were. All of it boils down to this: I am capable of loving another person so much, as witness to how deeply I care for this friend, that as great as it is, if this was still only the closest I could ever get and I never found someone I loved more than him, I would look back on my life not with regret but with such sadness.



A couple enders:

1. I've been incredibly scared lately of my social disinterest in love. I've been thinking that I grew out of it, along with the other passions that ruled my early adulthood, from falling deeply into the hearts of virtual strangers to practically destroying my house in decorating for a party. But my heart has been beating so fast as I've been writing this post, and I turned off the lights and told myself to go to bed twice before deciding to just get up and pour this out. So maybe I haven't outgrown my irrational passions. They're heartbreaking but I want them around forever.

2, I've been spending a lot of time recently talking with a friend about their problems and I suspect because of this mentor-mentee relationship that they might have started having certain feelings of one-sidedness about the sharing of their traumas, that because of the advice I've offered that I am above emotional upheaval. If you are reading this, I hope this proves that I am just as weak and scared, and that we're just two people talking.

Bath + Photography = Natural Fit

This photo is way too narcissistic for Instagram, but this is MY effing blog, so I'm posting it here.

Flipper the bird

Oooooh! I'm on Plenty of Fish! Look at my profile! I'm so whimsical and lighthearted! I have shirtless pictures of me doing a handstand! The only thing I want on a date is to laugh! I have a really good orthodontist! I'm one of the 95% of people that count rock climbing as a pastime!

Anyway...

That was cynical, so let's turn this ship around, shall we?!

*turns ship around*

*accidentally mows down herd of dolphin*

*contemplates if a group of dolphins is actually called a herd*

*is too lazy to wiki that shit*

*ewwww dolphin guts everywhere!*

*ok, that last one wasn't even an action*

*Damnit!*


Phew, ship turned around! Anyway, I was on the bus yesterday and saw some dude with a plastic bag and immediately thought, "What a dick. Everybody knows to carry reusable bags with them these days!"

Then I thought to myself, "Hey, do YOU carry around a bag ALL the time? What if this guy does it, like, 364 days a year and this was the ONE day he forgot?"

Then I realized that I'd made the choice to think the worst of him. Oh, it was judgey. E'er so judgey. So I've made the decision that from now on whenever I see a stranger or anyone for that matter in a potentially negative way that I will assume better of them unless proven otherwise.

I feel we should all try this together as a social experiment. It doesn't mean bad things won't happen or that the positivity theorem won't ever be disproved. Still, it might help. As an example, imagine if a person who suspects their partner is cheating decides to not be a psycho bitch and instead just goes, "Hey, babe. I have this suspicion. Is it right?" He might be cheating, in which case, ya know, freak the fuck out. If he hasn't been though you've just saved yourself a lot of crazy bitch internal stress. Ya welcome.

Or another example, imagine if I have, like, three THOUSAND people that read this blog but only 17 follow it cause the rest are too intimidated by the awesomeness of my tag labels.

Anyway, try this in earnest. Report back and tell me how you felt doing it.

Of llamas and wontons

Life Tip: Don't be ugly and fat. Just try at least.

Been in Montreal for a couple days. It's been fun. Very chill. Lots of walking, which is great cause I'm only eating about twice a day and it invariably involves maple syrup and some kind of pork. Life really would have been so different and obese had I chosen to move here.

The dear friend I am staying with has a lovely live-in German boyfriend whose friend is also staying here. I sleep in the living room and wake up each morning to the two men speaking in German and so keep thinking I'm in the Magic Flute. I'm all, "Get yer hands off Pamina, you koksaugers!" and they're all *blank stare*.

I make friends awesome.

I went to see a concert with a couple of friends yesterday as their good buddy was playing viola in the orchestra. I was told he is 25, Israeli, gorgeous and plays the viola. They talked about him as though Jesus Christ was just the Putzie and that this fellow was the real Danny Zuko. Afterward, we all went out with a bunch of his friends - perhaps 8 of us total - to a Chinese restaurant he recommended, and I gotta say...additional life tip: Do not hype up your friends if they look like slightly attractive but slightly judgey Israeli llamas. This is not a great plan.

I've discussed "shiny people" in the past; those folks that most everyone is just drawn to like an everyday celebrity, and when you're one of the few that are not so into them...it's real awkward timez, which makes me awkward timez.* However, after about a half an hour, I just thought, "Hey, shiny asshole (He's not an asshole; I'm just being dramatic)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You're pretty eff-ing smudged," so then I regained my power of speech so oft lost around The Shinies and just continued on with the evening. Weirdly enough I had a nice moment with pretty much everyone at the table but him so the big final third life tip here is don't get weird around hyped people cause they're probably not that great and if they are that great then they will find you equally amazing and shiny instead of giving you pursed llama lips all night.

*Everything makes me awkward timez.

More like MegaFUN (Part 2)

4:01 - We depart Kingston. On our way out of town we see the Kings Court Fashion Outlet mall. Hand to god, the only three stores they have are Adidas, Nike and Laura Petites.

5:35 - Just woke up from a nap while listening to Tori's new album. All that clarinet's gotta be good for something.

5:40 - Bored shitty Internet. Start playing Hocus Pocus. Marvel at life.

5:42 - Officially arrive in Quebec and the first person I see is... an Asian. That must be some Doctor Who shit right there.

5:58 - Have to stop playing. Flaming-throwing alligators and homicidal monks are hard on the eyes.

6:09 - Contemplate how lovely it is to be in the country away from all that concrete, also if a motorcycle in French is still called a 'porc'.

6:50 - Arrive at the bus terminal in downtown Montreal. The city smells like garbage. Suck on that, Leslieville. There's a new dump-smelling bitch on the block and she comes with poutine!




12: 30 the following day - Walking down a side street in the rain with bright red and gold maple leaves strewn about the ground. I can't help but think how unfathomably different and likely better my life would have been had I chosen Montreal over Toronto three years ago.

More like MegaFUN (Part 1)

I am coming to you live from Megabus. I decided on a whim to go to Montreal to see some friends and flights were over $400 so the bus it is. I have heard tales of both woe and triumph from those that have embarked on this, the most economy of travel. The trip will take 6 hours, but they have wifi and I can watch Dexter, so really it will not be any different than any other afternoon in the past 4 months. However, I am hoping that there will be a few minor events to provide some fodder for this, otherwise I'm wasting a lot of time of nausea on this post.

12:40 - Arrive at bus terminal. Hurry to the washroom to change out of my suit, as I've just come from the 'gogue. One stall is broken with caution tape across it (yeah.) and the other is occupied by a gentleman passing a stool of roughly 5.3 kilometers. I change in front of the sinks because a) I'm classy like that and b) if I am the most egregious thing that happens in this bus terminal in, say, the next five minutes it will be nothing short of a miracle.

12:55 - All aboard and neither the wifi nor the power outlets are working. I am surrounded by three other laptop-carrying nerds and we take turns reassuring each other that everything will be fine once the bus starts. We exchange nervous smiles, tentative shoulder rubs and orgasmic sighs of relief once the bus starts and the power/wifi, yes, kicks in.

1:01 - We are about to take off drive away and the bus driver makes a few announcements. Evidently, if anyone going to Montreal gets off in Kingston to stretch their legs, they will be left behind. Bitch is hardcore.

1:02 - "There will be no alcohol permitted aboard." THIS IS BULLSHIT.

1:25 - First wave of bus-sickness from blogging. You better appreciate this, fuckers.

1:34 - I take a few photos. The girl across the aisle looks embarrassed on my behalf. Whatever. She's watching Two and a Half Men. Judgey.

1:52 - The guy across from me has chartreuse headpho-...Ok, this may be less eventful than I anticipated.

2:47 - Holy fuck cakes (New Favourite Expression Alert!), this is the shittiest wifi ever. Can't a guy watch a little Maddow and youtube? Side note: How the eff do Republicans exist in this world? They're like the Middle Earth equivalents of Orcs.

2:58 - I would punch a baby for a coffee right now.

3:01 - A dark-skinned fellow is Skyping someone in a foreign language. If I was more racist, this'd ignite a spark of terror.

3:27 - Feh. Trees. They think they're so fucking great.

3:31 - Watery-eyed septuagenarian giving me the stink eye/come hither look.

3:55 - We arrive in Kingston, the half-way point, and as such, this will be the half-way point for this two-parter cause certain people like to bitch and moan when this shit gets too long. Anyway...the canteen lady/possible transsexual whose windpipe may as well be a cigarette filter pulls up a canteen cart to the rear window. She nearly disembowels a poor lass for asking her to repeat the two varieties of Wonder Bread sandwiches being offered. Also, I notice a (relatively) attractive lad at the back of the bus who is a bit too skinny but is wearing a baseball shirt and therefore can do no wrong. I hope Coach Beast doesn't eat him too.

Good Trainer

(To the tune of "Good Mother" by Jann Arden)

I've got a weekly gig at a synagogue
I like the baldness of my head
I've got a friend that Skypes me twice a week
Got a rent-controlled apartment
I've got a transit pass

I've got a good trainer
And his squats are what keep me somewhat balanced
Feet not tripping on ground
No scrapes on hand
Or stumbling forward
Into stacking shelves

I....
I've never wanted rippled abs
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted rippled abs
So bad...

He's bored while I'm masking just how emo I've been
Coming out, thanks to some disgusting, man-filled 'net pornography!
The he says, "We'll have to put that on hold;
We're out of time. Please show your Visa at the nurse's window."

I've got a good therapist
And his "mmm-hmmm"s are what make me sigh
Couch that's kinda round
Gross fake plant
Daddy issues confronting my inner self

I...
I've never wanted happy drugs
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted happy drugs
So bad...

[musical break with key change]

[modulation back to original key. Bitch, make up yo mind.]

I've got rumblings in my stomach
I like that croissant over there
I've gotta mouth that loves pastry
Gotta choose
Chocolate or car(...mel)

I've got a good baker
And his carbs are what get me by
Gaining pounds
Heart attacks
From all the cream I shove in myself

I...
I've never wanted a glass of milk
No, I...no, I...
I've never wanted a glass of milk
So bad...

Gaining pounds...
Heart attacks...
Gaining pounds...
Heart attacks...

[outro, bows]

Today while on the streetcar I glanced out the window and saw a homeless man sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk with his shoes off beside him at the very top of Bay Street, which is like Canada's equivalent of Wall Street and given what is going on right now I just thought, "Oh my god, I like my feet to be cold when I'm sleeping too!"

Ok, but it even has an authenticity hologram!

Tuesday: I accompany Chief NoBalls to buy new clothes for him cause he has a job and a new-found keenness for emulating his more stylish friends' fashion decisions. We go to Zara and look at all the beautiful but on-par-with-Le-Chateau-quality-wise vestments*. It was fun, but I sorta kinda haven't earned any money in three months and no real money in over a year so I'm getting keenly aware that a $40 scarf should really not be on my weekly shopping list, despite the fact that Zara's are big and beautiful and come in jewel tones.

Wednesday: I go to Winner's to buy a white dress shirt as the one I wore to my cousin's wedding last month made me look like, in my father's words, "a homeless Zeller's cashier." I grab two and head for the dressing rooms, but as I do I notice that this Winner's has a suit section.** I riffle through it because in true Winner's fashion it is bound to be rife with disappointment, right? (PLEASE LET IT BE RIFE)


Calvin Klein

Calvin Klein

Ralph Lauren

Ralph Lauren

Other Cheap American Shit Made in Tijuana


And then...a great light descended from the fluorescent lighting Heavens and shone its glorious rays on a black, lustrous Roberto Cavalli two-button number that made even even the possibly-transexual woman beside gasp at its beauty/how much leopard print she was wearing.

I took it to the change room knowing full well that given all zee junk in mah trunk there was no way this was going to fit, and moreover praying that it wouldn't.

*sigh*

You guys...

Like a fucking glove...

So the moral*** of our story is:

$40 Zara scarf = no

$450 Cavalli suit = si****


*Evidently this refers to the robes worn by Roman Catholic clergy and NOT just a direct translation from French for 'clothes'. Fuck it, it's staying in.

**If you can't see where this is going, you got some shit to sort out.

***This is not a moral.

****WHATEVER! THESE FUCKERS NORMALLY START AT $1,200! YOU DON'T KNOW ME!*****

*****Yeah, ya do.

Ew Sucha Loser

I feel that I'm getting a little too good at this unemployment thing. Since mid-June, I've pretty much done nothing but watch TV online, work out, eat out (I spend about triple on restaurants what I do on utilities), visit Winnipeg for a bit, chill with friends, and...yeah. I recognize this was not the most sympathetic way of starting this post...

Take two: I am a bum.

I saw ESLothario last night for the first time in a year and a half. He looked good. I looked better. Not saying I'm better looking, but in the "who looks better compared to the last time we saw each other" game that goes on in my head and in which I am the only player, well, I won. Being a bum will do that to you.

I feel so much more at peace with life since I last saw him, and I didn't get all emotionally regressive but still... I dunno if we (I) can ever get over emotional trauma. It's not like we went through a break up or that there was anything traumatic in our friendship (and it was only ever a friendship), but in my head...things got a bit mucky, hence small emotional trauma. I had a hard time keeping eye contact, which, not to brag, is normally my thing *breath on knuckles, rub 'em on chest*. I just didn't want to look at him, like he was an anachronism from a time before I went back to school, stopped being a borderline alchie, and found all that inner peace shit that comes with one year of teacher education (lulz). As kind as he is to me and as well as I think of him I can't help but think it would be easier if I never saw him again. He also smelled really good and had on a sweater that was a nicer version of one I own. Whatever.

NEXT TIME: I spend outside my means.

(Chilean Sea B)ass

I don't care what those damn Chileans tell us, chocolate and chicken do not go together. It's like eating a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and ass milk.

I don't know know what 'ass milk' is and I don't care to find out.*


*Please define 'ass milk'.

I got a chocolate milk today after working out (I know! That shit's still happening! Holla!). I hadn't had it in probably 10 years and upon my first swig was dismayed to discover it did not taste as good as I remembered.

Then I noticed it was now 1% instead of 2%.

Then I remembered I was a fat little kid.

Then I added whipping cream.

It's no huge declamation to say that my output over the past year has been pretty meager. I've written just under thirty entries in the past year. By comparison, in March 2010 there were twenty posts alone.

This troubles me. Not because I'm well-known or read by hundreds. Moment of honesty: 17 followers plus a scattering of friends does not a huge base make. Still, I've encountered some really interesting and diverse people out of those 17 and I remember very fondly the kind of near-daily interactions we used to have.

I've struggled writing in the past year because I went back to school, was busier, yada yada yada...but the fact is that what really gave me a blog boner from December 2009 to July 2010 was working at a mindless job with lots of free time to observe the ridiculous people around me and write it. Plus access to MS Paint. Biiiiiiiiig factor.

The reality is that I've been trying to write from that perspective when those variables are gone. Life...just hasn't been that funny. There's been huge shifts, new points of view that come with education, less ethnic people. Okay, that last one is a lie. I was standing at a bus stop next to a guy named Noodle yesterday. I mean, really...

Still, I went back and read a few of my older entries and was surprised to find I was kind of offended by some of the things I'd written. I know I genuinely didn't mean anything hurtful by them, but was really unaware of how they might present to a stranger. This shouldn't really be a consideration when writing (which is why I'm not taking them down) but I don't think I'll ever really write in that style again.

So I'm going to try to do this again, just a bit different. It might not always be that jokey or caustic, and, let's be honest, it might get damn emo up in herr at times, but as I recently said to a friend:

We'll just try again tomorrow. Try to do better, be better. Improve. We all gotta try.

It's kinda crooked, too.

So the other night I got kinda fucked up and invited some dude over for cuddles because evidently I never want to have any sexual relations ever again but still get a bit needy sometimes and we kinda just spooned-snoozed (spnoozed? Whatever) until, like, 1 pm the next day cause when you're not really sleeping you can stay in bed for, like, a long time, y'all. Anyway, as we were waking up (read: finally seeing what he looked like in the light) he was all, "I love your neck; it's so cute," and I was all, "Hey, thanks," but THEN today I standing in front of the mirror and was all, "Oh Em Gee what is wrong with my body?...Oh holy crap, it's my neck." It's, like, seriously skinny. Like gross gross skinny anorexia-of-the-neck skinny neck. So, like, what's that all about? Plus, this is my first post in a really long time so I know all y'all thought it'd be epic or at least funny, but joke's on you, babies, cause other than unemployment and accidentally breaking glassware, there ain't a lot going on up in herrrr.

Fucking neck.

Child Nazi

Recently, I've started to think that, hey, maybe having a kid or two one day wouldn't suck so much cock after all. I know I should probably stop comparing parenting to fellatio before that happens, but bygones.

The main reason why I want to have a kid is that I want to do it better than anyone else. Yep, for me parenting will be a competitive endeavour. I've said for years now that should a global council be formed with the sole purpose of deciding who may and may not have children I would like to be vice-chair. I watch way too much Rachel Maddow to allow hicks who essentially vote in favour of their own poverty to keep on procreating. It's not even my country, true, but things are seriously frightening down there, y'all.

I would love to say that I will be a modest if amazing parent, never judging others for their choices, but that would be a blatant lie.

"What? You let your kid drink actual dairy milk instead of unsweetened organic soy milk?"

"Pardon me? You don't buy 100% peanuts peanut butter and then doctor it with sea salt and honey yourself to avoid all the hydrogenated oils and preservatives?"

Yeah. I'm gonna be that guy. My kid will be allowed to bring whatever boy or girl he or she is dating home, but no fucking way is that little shit eating so much as one Chicken McNugget so long as they live under my roof.

Don't you love how I think all parenting relates to food?

I'm also gonna say no a lot. There's this whole thing now about denying your children things without saying the actual word 'no'. Like, "Sweetie, Daddy would really prefer if you didn't play so close to the freeway." Fuck that. My kid is gonna hear 'no' like an American Eagle employee hears "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey around December 21st. Every ten minutes. HOWEVER, I won't be all stern or parenty about it. I will have various No Characters. The Jolly Pirate. The Demure Geisha. The Opera-Singer-Hating Baritone. An entire cast of personae that will tell him, "Hey li'l guy, you fuckin' up."

Aside from wanting to prove my superiority to other parents, the other reason I want kid(s) is so I can be in a real life Modern Family. In other words, I only want them for family get-togethers and for those rare moments that will make for hilarious moments to tell at family get-togethers. A failed figure skating career? Suck it, Claire and Mitchell: I used to make my five year old brother do choreographed routines to Starlight Express. Essentially, I just threw him in the air a lot like a figure skat-...DAMNIT!

Whatever. So long as wind up with an Alex or a Manny and not a Hailey or a Luke. I mean, they're cute and all but everybody knows you're happier in the long run being smart rather than goodlooking.


Inner Voice: Hey, aren't you smart and miserable?

ZOMG JUST SHUT UP INNER VOICE. NO KIDS FOR YOU!

Rockabye Baby

Secret message:

Shut the fuck up and go to sleep or I will drop kick your baby ass out of the elm.

True Hollywood Story: Moses

Today, while sitting in da 'gogue, the Rabbi Older-Than-Elijah began his sermon by saying, "We know very little about Moses..."

Anticipating (correctly) the coming 20-minute snooze cycle, I whispered to Mark, "His favourite colour was blue."

Mark replied, "He was a big fan of Britney's early work."

The following is a Top Ten Little Known Facts About Moses that we composed during the remainder of the sermon:


10. His bar mitzvah reception was at the Olive Garden.

9. His favourite films were The Ten Commandments and Gigli.

8. He used Charmin Ultra exclusively.

7. He was executive producer on Children of Israel Behaving Badly VII.

6. Favourite song: Donna Summer's Bad Girls.

5. He once bought 3 "52% off Old Navy" Groupons.

4. Dislikes: burning shrubbery, armies of Pharoah, dill pickle potato chips

3. He created the trendy mixed cocktail Red Sea Breeze.

2. Loved the pan-flute, the NRA and was a backer of Howard The Duck.

1. He was Team Edward.

Gym, part the third

Just spent $2,500 on a gym membership and personal trainer.

I had better fucking have someone to hold with my newly muscled arms once I get them.

Cars are real dicks

An old university friend was in a car accident recently. He was badly injured but should be alright. Phew. I'm not awesome at condolences of any kind and so instead asked a friend to read him a note from me. I'm too busy hating my personal trainer to think of anything that good for the blog, so instead I'm just gonna publish the letter here. Enjoy-ish.

Dear Andrew,

I feel simply terrible. We encounter situations that, like a hurricane-causing asshole of a butterfly, may complete change the course of ones life. This morning, for example, I was about to leave my house when I thought I’d have one more cup of coffee. I mean, who would even question this? Coffee is delicious, Andrew. You know what isn’t delicious? Nearly wee-ing yourself during the rabbi’s sermon. If someone had just popped their head in the window this morning and said, “Hey, champ. You don’t need it. Now scoot!” well, that woulda been creepy. But they would have been right.

I’m rambling a bit. Just nervous, I guess. You see, I’ve been feeling a lot of guilt ever since Sandra told me about your mob hit accident. Is she reading this to you? Say hi for me. Anyway, we’ve known each other for some years now and at once point spent quite a bit of time sitting around, getting hives from sitting on poor industrial carpeting and talking smack about flute majors. Good times. Terrible outfits. My mind has been wandering to Eating a Lot of Pie at That Shitty Restaurant But It Was Amazing Cause We Were So Tired day. Man, I hope that doesn’t become a government holiday. Long ass name to print on a calendar. As Marcy and I dropped you off at 1:30am, there was something I wanted to say, something that may have changed things, but then Marcy said something. It was probably stupid. Stupid, stupid Marcy. Then you closed the door and I thought, “Ah well, another time then.” That time never came though, did it now? No, it did not.

Do you know what that thing I now so desperately wish I would have said? It was, “You cannot run through a car, Andrew.”

I mean, good on ya for trying. Brave man. I sorely understand the temptation myself. You knock over one tonka truck as a toddler and from there the beast grows. But cars, real cars – big boy cars – well, they’re just solid motherfuckers. Even immune to atomic realignment. I made that up, but I think it would be something like Wonka-vision, but with people instead of chocolate. People, Andrew.

Anyway, I’ll keep my ear to the ground should any new developments pop up, cause to pass directly through a Subaru Outback is clearly your dream. We share that, along with a distant-but-ever-present fascination with Mike Klassen’s ass. It may have its own orbital pull by now. In the meantime, though, no more car molestations. Say it with Sandra: NO MORE CAR MOLESTATIONS. (Did he say it? Sandra? Did he?)

Speedy recovery,

David

Y’all, I seriously wish that rapture had shown up, cuz fer serious, I got nothing to write. My favourite bloggers are either:

a) riddled with anxiety, drama and drunken/drugged-out adventures

OR

b) people that actually have their shit together and lead interesting lives.

I gots neither of these things going for me. I’m out, get on well with my parents, about to have a kinda-interesting-but-only-to-me career and don’t do nearly enough drugs. Seriously. I’ve been looking and – so strange – no one has responded to my “SELL ME DRUGS” craigslist ad. I’m also doing a cleanse at the moment so I can’t even drink. I had three weeks worth of Chelsea Lately episodes to watch last weekend, an impossible endeavour whilst sober, and momentarily contemplated giving myself a vodka tampon enema (yeah, it’s a thing), but after reading into it, I decided that burning sensation, diarrhoea (that’s British spelling, y’all!) and potential death aren’t really my thang. And so I holla’ed back to my decongestant experiment days and popped 3 non-drowsy Advil Cold & Sinus. Unfortunately, they just made me buzzed and really cranky, so at 9:30pm I took an Adivan and called it a night.

Do you see? Do you see why this is not the blog of winners?

Also, follow me on Instagram @theillustriousd. I take cool pictures. Rekanize.

I am NOT what I eat if I'm a dick

I think there must be some sort of positive correlation between one’s age, the time they have been single and inquiries about if there is a guy/boy/someone special/anyone/new person/dating service in their life.

I have had some form of this question posed to me no less than 5 times this week, 3 of them by my father. He wants a gay-in-law so damn badly. Crazy hunkey.

I had a bit of revelation last month. It’s not all inked in dogma or something revelatory requiring a soapbox. However, after years of everyone and their mom (yeah, moms always wanna make sure I’m getting ass) asking about my romantic life, and me consequently spending a lot of time thinking about it, ye ol’ brain came up with this:

What if it never happens?

Let me say right here before anyone jumps in with, “Oh you’ll find someone,” or, “You’re a great person; it’s only a matter of time.”

You shut your face. Hard. That kind of talk is unwanted here. No, like really hard.

Because, not to be a defeatist, but simply from a pragmatic perspective, what if it just…doesn’t happen? Am I to wander around for the next 20-30 years looking for this elusive thing rather than just being awesome and enjoying the ridiculously cool life I plan on building? F 2 da no, I say. You gotta be okay with just you. Some people get good with Jesus. I’m going to get good with D-sus.

Yeah. That just happened. Sorry.

Robyn covering Bjork

I haven't been able to find any good drugs in Toronto, but this just totally got me high.

Wax THIS off, mufuka.

Elderly Grocery Store Owner: Hello! I help you?

Illustrious D: Don't you try you Far Eastern charm on me, bubba!

EGSO: *toothless mouth parts slightly*

ID: Shit...is about to go down.

EGSO: *reaches for 911 button*

ID: I AM HERE TO TALK ABOUT V8 JUICE.

EGSO: *retracts hand*

ID: THIS, Mr. Miyagi, is inferior product.*

EGSO: Uh, that's a V8 bottle with water in it.

ID: Precisely, sir. I bought this bottle of what I thought was refreshing, healthful, not at all disgusting and only bought because I'm on a motherfucking diet bottle of vegitable** juice and what did I wind up with, but water.

EGSO: Sir, I do not believe that you bought it like this.

ID: Or DID I?

EGSO: You did not.

ID: *persuasive eyebrow raise*

EGSO: *shake of head*

ID: *stink eye...like a really good stink eye*

EGSO: *uncomfortably averts eyes*

ID: Ha! I win!

EGSO: Sir, you drank the juice and filled the bottle with water, didn't you?

ID: I ju-! I ca-! WH-? Js-? TIHL?

EGSO: Ok, now you're just putting random consonants together.

ID: Your mom.

EGSO: Wow.

ID: *jazz hands*

EGSO: I think you should leave.

ID: Right-o.



*Wow, the Illustrious D is super racist, guys.

**That's Italian for vegetables. Get cultured, fools.

Two Things

1. My parents went to a royal wedding theme party where everyone was supposed to wear a fancy hat, a fancy top and casual pants. My father later sent me a group photo of the party wherein everyone's lower half was still considerably fancy (full-length dresses, tux pants, etc). I sent an e-mail asking what had happened to the casual bottoms. His response:

"My underwear was very casual. Dad"


2. Today, while waiting in the rain for a streetcar, I decided to check Grindr and guess who was less than 300 metres away from me. Yep. This is my life.

Loner Week - Day 1: Jaundiced Swan Lake

I have a week off. I'm doing daily Loner Tours of different parts of the city. Today is Day 1.


First up was brunch at Tequila Bookworm. Smoked salmon platter with cream cheese and a Montreal bagel. Apparently so good that my fat ass forgot to photograph it. Here are the remnants.

Next, I stopped by my old building to see if the bike I had left U-Locked to a pole outside the local Montessori school last July was still there. Admittedly, not on the official Eye Weekly tour, but bygones. Not surprisingly, the bike had been removed, to which I say: Fuck you, Montessori. Fuck you and the humanistic instruction horse you rode in on. You don't know me. You don't know my life.


On to the Lakeshore condominium district, where one developer had built a park and within it an art instillation paying homage to Canadian literary hero, Douglas Coupland. I have no answers for you on this point.




From here I started my trek to Union Station, but got distracted by the gorgeous misty lake and the wouldn't-you-know-it schooner and tugboat sitting in its harbour. As if this wasn't picturesque enough, as I was taking the photo a swan swam up. Yep. A motherfucking swan, motherfuckers. True fact about swans: they are the size of pigmy rhinos. No foolin'. They could fuck your shit up if they wanted to.




From the lake, I wandered to the financial district and attempted to find the PATH. These letters stand for something but I don't care what that something is. Essentially, the PATH is a series of underground tunnels and shops that connect the downtown area bordering between Front and Lakeshore (N-S) and Yonge and York (E-W). For non-Torontonians, it's a lot of goddamn space, ayit? Also, move to Toronto. Also, I got lost a lot and it took nearly one and a half adventurous hours to get from Union Station to Old City Hall. Kinda fun. Kinda old-person-power-walking-in-a-mall.


Next on my list was to buy Spanx at The Bay. Do I need Spanx? Did I just buy tight Calvin Klein undershirts instead? Maybe. Was my entire plan a disaster when I got home later and realized I'd grabbed the large size by mistake? Yes, yes it was.


At this point I was nearly passed out from all the walking. This *points to self in drag queen-esque manner* is not meant for physical exercise. I got a burrito. It was awesome. Then I went to my next checkpoint, which was the National Film Board of Canada, where you can watch a movie in a private booth and NOT slip on semen. Aces. Not aces? The fact that they were closed. Fuck you, Can-con, I'm-a go watch Rango. Again.


I did this thing for Luminato a few weeks back and they'd given me a $10 gift card to Kiehls. Way to treat a boy right, Luminato. I bought a bar of soap for $17 and regret nothing. Plus the counter chick was really sweet and gave me tons of free samples, and they had a wicked backsplash.


Then I went to hipster favourite, The Dark Horse Espresso Bar. Actually, no. They just opened a second location so you know those hipsters ain't havin' it no mo'. Still, maybe the best capp I've ever had. And the wait staff is pretty as was my driiiiiiiiiiiiink! And yes, that is a chocolate pecan butter tart. Hate the playa.

Unicorns can suck it

Let's not even pretend to discuss how long it's been. Just suck it, okay? And here we go...


My eyes fly awake. Not literally. That would be disgusting (seriously, what's wrong with you?). It is 5am. My natural inclination in these situations is to curse whatever god I'm diggin' that week and try to go back to sleep.

"No," a voice inside tells me, "You are awake. Do not force it. Embrace the morn."

"But it's still dark out," I say.

"You shut your stupid mouth," the voice replies.

So I get out of bed. Not drowsy in the least, I head downstairs, throw out the day-old coffee I had planned on reheating and boiled water for a fresh batch. I sauteed some garlic and spinach, beat some eggs, crumbled some chevre and made an omelet. Such an indulgence on a morning with classes starting at 8:30. I took the omelet and steamy cup of coffee to my room, watched some Rachel Maddow on youtube and chilled my non-sleepy ass out.

This day was good and it had yet to really begin.

At around 6:30, I was still so totally blissed out on the dawn that I decided to be a sport and preorder a couple grab-n-go Starbucks tetrapacks for the morning class. As previously mentioned, my instructor (Big Fat Greek Mama) had lost her own Big Fat Greek Mama in October and on New Year's Day, Big Fat Greek Papa joined her. Greeks...what a bunch of fuckin' drama queens. In light of this and the multitude of assignments raining down upon us with every passing day, I decided that we needed a treat and that my hasn't-worked-in-6-months ass would be the one to buy it.

I left the house at about 7:15 in order to make my 8:00 pick-up at da' Bucks. As I rode the streetcar to the subway station, my mind was filled with unicorns and rainbows and all sorts of uncharacteristic optimism as represented by elements in a Precious Memories greeting card. I arrived at Starbucks ten minutes early (!) and patiently waited as the bariste (that's 'barista' plural, bitches. Italian-lawyered.) prepared enough coffee to require a pack mule. Fortunately, my natural gate is somewhat of a clop and so I am the perfect substitute.

I imagined what they must think of me. Clearly this was an up and coming professional that worked on upwards of the 25th floor of some office tower and was putting in his dues, picking up coffee for the morning meeting. So dapper in his coat and tasteful yet elegant scarf. So clean-shaven. So ballin'.

Messenger bag on back, one tetrapack in each hand, I cantered my way back down into the subway, smoothly navigating the turnstiles and finding a sweet-ass spot leaning against a pole. I enjoy being pole adjacent. The school being only two stops away, I got there in a jiffy (8:10!) and strode confidently out of the car, a stranger shoulder-bumping me upon the exit. I was unharmed (start breathing again, devoted reader) but noticed that one of the two side pouches on the left tetrapack had been near completely torn off in the kerfuffle. Man of calm and reason I, I simply switched its contents (spare cups, various sweetening agents) to the other side and made my way up the stairs, reaching the 10th step before the other side broke off, fell to the floor and sent two full venti cups of milk and cream crashing to the ground, forming a harormonious, roughly combined 7% stream of dairy cascading down the steps of St. George Station.

I would love to tell you that in this moment of faith-testing I kept my cool in did not proffer an F bomb so vociferous as to send unborn children on the platform into immediate prenatal therapy, but this was not so.

Rebuking the offers of aid from the bum who'd been sleeping on the stairs (it shows a real strength of character for a homeless person to wake up, feel his bum all creamy and to offer help to the bloke the creamed all over him), I noticed a classmate staring at me, shoved the remaining tetrapack in her arms and ran off with the other one in search of the nearest Starbucks. And by ran I mean jogged. And by jogged I mean walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do. Omigawd, are you seriously gonna keep going with this? I'm in the middle of a story here! JEEZ. So rude.

As I walked ever so slightly quicker than I normally do, I fantasized about how I would lay into the barista just in case she should happen to give me some guff upon my arrival. I was gonna be all "Faulty products!" and "Customer satisfaction!" and "You can't handle the truth!" but then she was all sweet and gave me exactly what I wanted so bitch di'in needed 2 be cut 2day.

I got to class five minutes late which was perfect timing to be all, "Oh, me? Yes, I brought coffee. Oh no, I need no thanks. No, please, stop applauding."

I hate rainbows, unicorns can suck it, and the next time I am unceremoniously awakened at 5:30, I am becoming an atheist, I swear to G-... WELL, SOMETHING. I DUNNO. I HAVEN'T FIGURED IT ALL OUT YET. DO NOT TEST ME! DO NOT TEST MEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!

*curtsy*

Slightly Nostalgic/Drunken Review of Disney's Cinderella

0:12 – Worst. Opening Song. Ever.

3:13 – I want birds to pull back my drapes to awake me with the dawn’s rays.

3:43 – But if they tried to touch me or my comforters, I would fuck their shit.

4:18 – I know she just woke up and all, but bitch looks seriously high.

4:41 – Do they hold singing auditions for Disney Princesses? It seems like a prerequisite that birds and woodland creatures must enjoy your vocalizations in order to qualify.

5:14 – BAHAHAHA That mouse’s tail got all knotted up while he slept. PWNed.

5:53 – “Even they can’t order me to stop dreaming!” Deeeeeeeep shit.

7:03 – Why is it always the fat mouse scatting a descant?

7:12 – ZOMG YOU GUYS! CINDERELLA HAS NO TOE NAILS

8:26 – If all the mice (My drunken ass just said ‘mouses’ in my head.. No judgey.) are wearing outfits, isn’t the presence of a naked one kinda pornographic? I mean, he’s fat so you can’t see his junk…but still. Perverts.

8:43 – Jack the mouse: “Hey little guy, we rike-uh you!” Are all mice Asian?

11:54 – The dog just woke up. Is everybody stoned in this movie?! You just know that he and Cinderella totally 420 together.

21:19 – One of the step-sisters is a dead ringer for Olive Oyl

23:55 – Oh goodie, the king looks like the baron in Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang!

26:46 – “Oh siiiiing, sweet nighdngale, sing sweet nighdngale…” Hey, Ella, this isn’t the Apollo. Reconize.

27:17 – She’s harmonizing with her own reflection in a bubble. High confirmed.

27:37 – Female reflection barbershop quartet. Fuck me.

31:14 – CINDERELLIE, CINDERELLIE, NIGHT AND DAYS IT’S CINDERELLIE!

31:21 – For music geeks only: same chordal structure as ‘Be Our Guest’.

32:31 – “Leaving the sowing to the women; you go get some trimmin’.” This line caused then 16 year-old Gloria Steinam to burn her first training bra. Fact.

36:39 – If I had a mouse, I would totally bead its tail with a 9 year-old girl who just returned from a family vacation in St. Lucia.

41:23 – Frazzled-just-had-her-dress-torn-apart-by-step-sisters Cinderella totally looks like Jem. Way to be 150 years ahead of your time, girl.

42:11 – Aw, poor li’l snowflake is crying by her angel fountain. KIDS IN CHINA HAVE NO ANGEL FOUNTAIN.

43:08 – Why is the Fairy Godmother in KKK robes?

44:06 – “I would say the first thing we need is a pumpkin.” Crazy ol’ bitch.

44:19 – HOLY SHIT IT’S MOVING.

44:36 – For music geeks only pt 2: “Bibbidy-Boppity-Boo” = “We’re Off to See the Wizard” chordal structure. Mash-ups to follow.

44:41 – Does anyone else think that nonsense songs are just ways for untalented lyricists to fake it? No? Just me? Cool.

46:10 – So she turns the mice into horses and the horse into a coachman? This seems like far too much work.

46:11 – Actually, buckteeth aside, that’s a pretty hot coachman. I’d hit it.

47:09 – Um, nice dress, but a black choker? What is this, 1996? I don’t think so, buddy.

48:38 – I just counted the processional and there are 15 eligible young ladies in all of France. IS THE CENSUS TAKER STONED, TOO?! Christ on crutches…

51:09 – “Pompous windbag” is the “stupid motherfucker” of 1850s France.

54:45 – The clock just stuck midnight! Ok, I’m on my second bowl of popcorn, which I air popped on the stove with Crisco and a pot. Do any other grain-y-type-things pop or just corn. I mean, I guess rice pops, cause we have rice crispies. And there’s puffed wheat, too, I guess. Clearly, I’m not so engaged in this movie right now.

103:49 – Omg, bitch just locked Cinderella in her room! I forgot about this paaaaaart! It’ll be okay, Gus-Gus! It’ll be okaaaaaaay.

109:39 - THE CAT HAS TRAPPED THE MOUSE WITH THE TEA UNDER A TEACUP! SHIT JUST GOT INTENSE!

113:05 – Stepmother broke the glass slipper but it doesn’t matter cause Cinderella has the other one!!!!!! Ok, I just misted up.

113:43 – Wedding day. Still with the black choker. Really? REALLY?

There was a boy I went to school with. He transferred to my elementary school in the fourth grade, distractingly pretty features and slightly effeminate manners. Naturally, the majority of his friends were girls. We never had a class together, but stayed in the same schools until grade 12 graduation and he was always a source of interest for me. He still dated girls in high school, the longest, ironically, being with the girl I went out with...in grade 8. First and only, baby. He had a lightness to him. Not pertaining to his loafers, specifically, but rather that his whole spirit was light. His face shone, his features so finely set. I saw him once after high school, at a gay club in Winnipeg, and we did the "Oh hey! We're both out at a club!" hug and that was really all there was.

Nearly three years ago, he was driving down a street in Montreal, were he now lives. There had been a huge storm the day before and the ground was still littered with debris. A huge branch sprawled across the road in front of him and so he stopped the car and got out to move it. At that moment, another massive bow broke off from a tree on the boulevard and fell onto him, shattering his spine. He lost all mobility below the waist, was told that his chances of walking again are negligible and began a new, twisted version of his former life in a wheelchair. He moved into an assisted living facility for others who had suffered similar injuries. His boyfriend of 4 months eventually broke up with him, understandably unwilling to cope with this magnanimous change in the new relationship.

Less than six months later, he met someone new. The guy was a bit older, not too much, perhaps ten years, but if Facebook photos are any indication, they are very well matched. They got engaged last spring. Engagement photos were taken, white background, my former classmate in his wheelchair, newly huge arms, beaming smile, and his fiance next to him, mirroring that facial expression. They're getting married this summer.

This Valentine's Day, the guy I had been seeing for a few weeks prior forgot that he'd asked me to go out with him and made plans with his friends. Despite being apologetic, no make up plans were made, the only subsequent contact being a text message saying 'hug' around 11:30 that night. This was a guy who broke all my dating conventions (white, same age), was a psychic medium (seriously. That was his business), said wonderful things to me and made no actions to follow through on them. In the first week we met, I was at his place 4 times, taking care of his influenza-ridden body and alcohol-ridden mind, and I was glad to do it. On his end, he said that I was beautiful and that he'd waited a long time for me.

Continuing the outlier pattern established, I ended it, not him, which is likely understandable given what you read in the previous paragraph. I issued myself a little pat on the back with not sticking around longer than a couple weeks after finding out what this person really was. He was cracked, marked and broken, not unlike myself, but in no way seemed likely to patch himself up anytime soon and so I walked, like my friend's ex-boyfriend after his accident, and even more justifiably so.

This leaves me wondering, jackassily: ok, if a guy can lose all use of his body below the waist (ALL use) and wind up happy and engaged a year later, what does it say that I've been going at this with a mere limp for 10 years and can't find someone worth sticking around an entire month for? The decade-old dialogue of "It'll happen when it happens" and "Just be patient" have worn thin and I think it's time to perform a spiritual castration, turning myself into an emotional asexual, existing as the lone member of the species and completely self-propagating. Not a sad thing and certainly not a call for compliments, which inevitably accompany any self-depressive comment in the digital age, but I think it would be very freeing.


I've started a couple entries in the past couple months, but none seem right to put out there. This probably isn't either, but I wrote it out for myself, so might as well post it. I miss reading my favourite bloggers and having those electronic interactions, but things are just too hectic with school. I almost long for the days of an autonomous soul-sucking job, the consequence of which was that I had all this intellectual/humorous build up that needed to come out via posts. But this is how it is for now. Hopefully I'll find my way back.

It's not all fun and racism over here at Fleekin Floygn

Where to start, where to start?

With the last week of classes, so ripe with cheer and social occasions with fellow students that I almost felt normal, almost felt 'Winnipeg', again?

With the week spent in Winnipeg, seeing so many friendly acquaintances and so few friends, the latter having fallen to the wayside by means of argument or silence?

With the minimum five cups of coffee I drank daily while there, owing to all the breakfasts and Starbucks chats, which really just jacked me up so much that I didn't know whether to be elated or irritable?*

With the Mennonite stranger I saw more than anyone else simply because I didn't have enough to do and neither did he?

With the hot chocolate mix and box of Bailey's-infused chocolates** I received from a close friend, having purchased for her everything on her list, including clothing, a teddy bear and a Snuggie, and how petty I felt about caring yet at the same acknowledging that bitch shoulda stepped it up a notch?

With the lovely surprise of a two-day house guest once I returned, thanks to a canceled bus reservation, and who breathed fresh energy into what I'm sure would have been a very bleak and lonely weekend?

With the bleak and lonely week that has followed, during which I left the house exactly 5 times, each time fewer than three hours long, and spent the remaining time in pajamas slowly lulling myself into a state of depression not seen for nearly a year?***

With the simultaneous gladness for and madness due to the silence that comes with a roommate-less house, leading to the radio being on nearly constantly and me actually petting my dickface of a cat**** just to feel that the solitude is manageable?

With New Years Eve, spent with a quasi-friend who really just wants to hit this *points to self-loathed body*, drinking vodka, eating bad Chinese food and watching eight episodes of Family Guy?

With the monthly massages I've been treating myself to just so I can be touched?*****

With, in true drama queen fashion, how I told a friend today that 2010 was the worst year to date and then spent the first day of 2011 not doing a thing to make it different?


*I was almost exclusively the latter.

**I hate Bailey's, and don't give me no guff about it, neither.

***Maybe I have that seasonal affective bullcrap.

****It has been the best week of his life.

*****Yep, it's been that long.



Happy New Year, people.



Also, I shaved my head: