The Miami Strikes Back (Part I)

Scene 1:
I embark for the airport at 12:45, hoping to tearfully reconcile with my family in time for a multiple-lavatory-trips-requiring lunch before we have to board our plane to Miami. My grandmother is turning 90 and we are surprising her and her I'm-really-old-and-a-Holocaust-survivor-I-dare-you-to-shock-me heart for the occasion. My aunt (she of Hermès belt purchasing fame) is in cahoots with my father, as he, my mother and my youngest brother are flying to Toronto to meet up with me so that we can arrive together and send the old bag (read: serene elderly lady) into a tizzy. The middle brother is hiking through Machu Pichu and has sent his regrets. As far as excuses, I feel this is pretty weak-sauce.

Upon arriving at customs, I observe that there are approximately 72,000 people waiting in roped-off cues to pass on through to the good ol' US of A. Fortunately, I am ushered along with about 10 people in front of me to the other side of the room where similar ropes have been set up. Unfortunately, this is only because they cannot physically shove any more travellers into the other side and thus we are now in line to get in line. Normally, this would perturb me, but my family has texted to say that they are waiting at a Tim Horton's on the other side of customs and I am trying my hardest to make sure that I do not have to join them. I also receive a text from my obese Hungarian father saying, "I don't think your [sic] ready...For this jelly."

I manage to clear customs 5 minutes before boarding is scheduled to commence and, upon realizing that my family is not holding courst at Canada's favourite coffee-urine fusion house, hurry my disproportionate ass down to the gate so that they do not panic. However, when I arrive I find that they are not there. Know who is? Two thirds of the Vancouver Whitecaps semi-pro soccer time. In any other situation the presence of professional athletes coupled with the absence of my family is ideal, but not so when faced with prospective of 3 days alone with family members averaging 81.333 years of age. Real calculation. I buy some shittastic pre-prepped sushi as the other passengers commence boarding. Why people insist on standing up to wait in a line 70 people deep only to then sit down again on a smelly cramped plane is beyond me. Also, beneath me. After taking out a mortgage to pay for the sushi, I turn and see the back of my father's side rolls just as the final boarding call is being made.

"Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" I scream at them before hitting my little brother upside the head. "And never recite Destiny's Child lyrics to our father again. Kelly Rowlands is dead to me and you know it."

Scene 2:
We have arrived at Miami International Airport and have just deplaned. My mother insisted on buying us all a round while in the air, plus an extra for herself after my father declined, being far too consumed with watching The Blind Side and crying like a little bitch while Sandra Bullock screamed at some big black football player who I suspect was Precious in drag. Between my mothers lush-flush and my fathers tear-streaked jowls, we are quite a sight marching our way down to baggage claim. Then, about 100 feet away, we see something silvery glinting in the fluorescent glare of an industrial pot light. My supposedly traveling brother is sitting there next to his huge backpack holding a sign coloured thickly with pencil. My mother loses her shit, her voice reaching pitches audible only to small dogs as she screams his name. Great. My place as the long-lost-son-returned has officially been usurped. What a dick.

Scene 3:
We are sitting in a van outside my grandmother's Spanish-style bungalow in Miami Beach, debating on the best way to appropriately Punk her. (Sidenote: Black Magic is on the phone in the next cubicleright now, declaring to her friend in a decidedly not indoor voice how she can leave her three children, all under the age of 10, alone for up to 45 minutes at a time. Somebody needs to put this one out to pasture.) My father is the first to go in and we hear Hungarians screaming love at each other. After about thirty seconds, my jean-jacket-wearing upstanding lawyer of a mother gets out of the van like she is James Bond, crawling under parked cars and scaling walls to get to the front door, despite the drawn blinds and the fact that the Hungarians are deafening small children in Tallahassee. Once she is in, there is more assumed merriment, while my youngest brother and myself climb out of the van and he starts imitating my mother's highheeled highjinx a mere 30 seconds before, while I fall down and promptly pee myself on the freshly manicured lawn. We get to the door and throw it open to find my mom, dad, aunt, grandmother and her large-jugged Jamaican nurse all in a group hug. They turn around and grandmother makes with the tears as she laughs in disbelief that we and our mother have bothered to show up for little old her. My proposition of half a day's wages lost in travel time are largely ignored. My aunt, whose Vesuvian emotions are world renowned, is running around like a cocky Real Housewives of Miami Beach cast-off in Juicy Couture sweatpants, crowing about how amazing we all are for pulling the wool over the cataracted eyes of a nonagenarian when there is a final knock at the door. She stops dead (like the muscles in her botoxed forehead) in her tracks and stares at my father, the colour draining out of her face. I tell her it is most likely a noise complaint from the city of St. Louis, Missouri and she goes to investigate. She opens the door to see my brother standing there and her face collapses quicker than my standards after three mojitos. Loses. Her. Shit.

As it becomes evermore clear that this particular get together is not going to be centred around me, I go and chill of to the side with the nurse, Velma (or Whilemina. Who can tell through my aunt's Hungarian-Floridian accent?), and we watch the rest of them dance around like First Nations people at an Olympic opening ceremony. I like Velma a lot. She calls me Handsome and has gap between her two front teeth that is so large that I suspect it is the real gateway to Narnia. Her mouth was the Gap's flagship store. Madonna WISHES she had a gap like that; the comparison is like a side-by-side penis photo of Shaquille O'Neal and William Hung.

"Weel, ya rilleh mad an awl wumahn happay."

"Yes, I guess we did. Where's the Grey Goose?"


NEXT TIME: I discover that vodka and seafood is a match made in heaven; Dad is still fat; grandmother eats a pat of butter.

Ernest Hemingway Had ED, too!

Sorry, all y'all. I've been not so much with the posting cause I've been hanging in Miami for the past few days and NOT at all because I have no news post ideas and have started and abandoned no less than three of them. Not. At. All.

In the meantime, here's a recap of the last time I went stateside.

Part I

Part II

NB: Part III never actually materialized because I undertook a Gimps Without Borders trip to Uganda and NOT at all because I am an incredibly fairweathered ecrivain whose creative dependability is on par with his penis' ability to maintain an erection around ugly people.

Betchya thought I was gonna say 'not at all' again, di'intchya? Well, fuck you. I'm not your butt monkey.

5(Barely)Alive

Saturday night began with buying Sprite in a gas station and ended with me inexplicably naked next to a very not naked flight attendant. Let us attempt to unravel the mystery of yet another fucked up night in the big city together, shall we?

The evening began with a very strong martini. I normally do not drink heavily prior to group pre-gaming, but I was feeling slightly anxious about the impending outing, the second in the week with the flight attendants, as well as the insinuation that there might be illicit substances involved. (Despite a relatively intimate history with las drogas, the thought of them still makes me nervous.) The idea of spending yet another evening with near-strangers was weighing heavily, a sentiment with which most transients/emigrés can empathize. One such empathizer was Flight Attendant Nick, who despite his man-child sweetness was actually rather acute at picking up on my reticence while msn-ing that afternoon. I felt much better after going all whiny bitch on his ass, emo-ing on and on about missing the comfort of long term friendships. In hindsight, I probably would have bailed were it not for this oversharing, so that and the martini were justifiable courage in getting my ass out the door.

ID: Hello, Rationalized Alcoholism.
AC: Hello, Illustrious D.

I took the subway to where the other flight attendant, Former Hottub Mate, was living to enjoy some libation along with FAN, two goateed bears and their dog, Pilot, who I spent the majority of the night calling Tyler. I imagine I might have been corrected by one of the other four humans had my increasingly drunken slur not come out as "GHIIIBLOTR" every time I tackled the dog after it started dry humping me.

Upon arrival, FAN asked me what I take with my Smirnoff. I considered telling him Grey Goose, but realized that this might be a lost cause when the mixer I was offered turned out to be 5-Alive or Déli-Cinq to all the Frenchies. The next thing I remember is being in FHM's room belting out the Glee soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album with roughly a 2-6 of vodka in my gullet. Why Stevie Nicks continues to haunt all my weekend misadventures is beyond my conscious level of understanding. Evidently, I cannot go my own way (go my own waa-aa-ay). After that, we merged into the bears' living room to watch the end of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a childhood favourite and one of the more overlooked films in the Dick van Dyke oeuvre. It's also incredibly fucked up and manages to make Mary Poppins look like a lesson in realism. After the end credits, we moved on to play Scene It, an interactive movie trivia game, on their sixty-inch plasma, confirming the stereotype of gay desire to play with the most inches possible. By this point, I had imbibed as much as I would and felt a bit goofy, but didn't think I was anywhere in the realm of drunk. I even managed to pull off a second place finish with Scene It while embodying the hottest avitar on the screen.

ID: Hello, Small Victories.
SV: Hello, Illustrious D.

The plan was to go to Buddies, a club in the gay village known for my most acrimonious enemies, the Hollister Douchnozzle and the Over-Manicured Twink. I got up from the couch to put on my shoes...and that is the last thing I remember until arriving at the club. Evidently, Smirnoff has a new time-release formula that makes you think you're all ballin' and awesome at Scene It and then - BAM! - need to lean on a 6'2" air steward just to walk down the street.

Now, I am pretty ridiculous-looking sober. I have relatively broad shoulders, a small waist, enormous hips, accordingly disproportionate ass and perpetual stubble. Combine all that with my meandering gate and there's chuckles galore for various squeegee kids and stupid drunk trollops out on the street. The only time I don't look a bit silly is when on drugs, at which point the marginally useful muscles of my lower extremities muster all their strength and I'm somehow able to be all normal times.

ID: Hello, Reason Why David Should Always Have Access to Street Drugs.
RWDSAHATSD: *crickets*

The opposite of this occurs when I've been drinking. Now, I've been known to yell at a bouncer or two when waiting to get into a club and they ask me if I've been drinking a lot. I usually yell at them about disabilities and how they might be able to ascertain the difference between inebriation and gimpiness had they not flunked Kindergarten 4 times. While this attempt to enlighten society about the everyday struggles of the differently abled may seem admirable, the fact is I'm usually drunk as the dickens. In this sloppy mess of a state, I am generally under the impression that I'm carrying myself off rather well only to reflect the next day and realize that I was an absolute shit show. 'That night proved to be no exception. Fortunately, the line at Buddies was so long that we just walked right on by and decided to go to a local watering hole where they have soft-core porn on the TVs and weekly Best Ass competitions. And we wonder why family values coalitions exist.

ID: Hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck.
EH: The bible says that a man and anot-...
ID: You shut your stupid whore mouth.

Now, I don't really recall what happened next. Something went down that I didn't see, but FAN, who had been all but letting me piggy back him as we walked far behind the other three, apparently saw someone making fun of me. Again, I didn't see this and frankly if I saw myself that night I probably would be making fun of me too, but regardless, we got into a cab and took it back to my apartment without telling the others. In retrospect, this seems strange. He kept saying stuff like, "I don't care about it. I just like you for you," and all this other noble stuff, which was all very well and good except that it was just kind of making things worse. God knows that if the whole 7 Deadly Sins thing really exists, I'm going down for all of them, but Pride, I suspect, would be the main culprit. I'm okay with feeling bad about myself; I don't need you to. I'm also inwardly suspicious of anyone that makes the 'it doesn't matter to me' assessment without really knowing me very well. Perhaps I'm overly cynical, but the ability to overlook something as fundamental as physical capability without having the affection that comes with time seems odd to me. It tends to place people in the Too Good To Be True folder.

So we arrive outside my apartment and get out of the cab when I realize that I left my coat at the bears' house. My coat with my keys in it. I full on drunk dialed my friend in the building and it went a little something like this:

Slumbering Jessica: Mmmm, hello...?
ID: Garflehumbghroh.
SJ: Um, hello?
ID: Jmessicarz.
SJ: David?
ID: Are jhou hawm?
SJ: No, I'm at the boyfriends'.
ID: FAAAAAWWWK. Sorwy, were shjou ashleep?
SJ: Kinda.
ID: Oh sit, I'm shorry. I left my shjacket at bye.

Oh yes, internet friends. You can proceed to be jealous of the people in my real life any time now.

I had this crazy notion that perhaps the initial martini had impaired me enough that I had forgotten to lock my apartment door, so after a few minutes we covertly (read: stumbley)followed someone else into the building and walked to my place only to find that Stupid Slighty Buzzed David had, in fact, had enough sense to lock his door. I suggested we jimmy the lock. FAN thought this was unwise. I considered breaking in from the outside by cutting the screen on the window I'd left open. He told me that this, too, was probably not my best move.

We got into another cab and returned to the bar where our earlier companions had wound up. My previous history with bouncers came full circle when I was told with no uncertainty that I would not be going inside. Rather than deriding his education and/or assumed tininess of genitalia, I slunk down onto the steps and waited outside while FAN went in to find the others. It is at moments like these that I feel like a small child again. Nicholas is the same age as I and yet the entire night I felt like his little brother or something, and now I was planted on the stoop outside a bar with his hoody, big woe-is-me eyes and an urge to pee very badly. Eventually, the others filed out and one of the bears went to get the car. Or both of them. They were gone a very long time so let's go with both of them. Meanwhile, FHM had picked up some groady Italian guy and they were sloppily making out on the sidewalk. For the record, watching two unattractive people kiss while you're drunk is a better laxative than Metamucil.

Finally, the auwhora borealis came back with the vehicle and all six of us piled in, with me perched on FAM's lap, hearkening back to my child-like awareness where I also forget that I am nearly 6' tall and weigh close to 160 lbs. My sullenness was lifted when the Disney sing-a-long begins and we all start wailing along to Les Poisons in various degrees of ability. FAN told me I had a nice voice, as if I needed more proof of his inebriation. While it is nice when I'm sober and beautiful when I'm high, my drunk voice sounds like the love child of Peewee Herman and Cookie Monster.

ID: Hello, Further Proof That I Was Raised By 80's Television.
FPTIWRB8T: Hello, Illustrious D.

After dropping off the aesthetically challenged couple and Bear #1, Bear #2 drove us back to FAN's place, all the while talking about the drama that befalls two tops in love and his massive junk. It was very skeezy and reminded me that I am so not of that hyper-gay reality and am probably just a straight guy with daddy issues. We went inside and I promptly stripped to my skivvies, poured myself a glass of water that I regrettably did not drink and and fell asleep in his bed. When I woke up, we were spooning and hung over. We talked for about half an hour, at which point I realized that I was naked. I do not know how or why this happened, though he was quite the gentleman about it, curling into a hedgehog ball while I covered my shame.

The adventure concluded around 2pm in the consumption of greasy pizza, delicious chicken bites and a limp of shame home to catch up on backlogged episodes of Brothers & Sisters until well past eleven that night. It may not have been my perfect night, but at least I didn't wind up with a nauseating guido. So there's that.



NEXT TIME: David ponders whether or not he wants to make good on his acceptance into the University of Toronto's consecutive bachelor of education program. For those who are of the opinion that I should never under any circumstances be permitted exercise influence around children, it's not looking good for you.

It's 6:00pm. Do you know where your crotch fruit are?

So this is just a completely sober *shifty eyes* Saturday night shout out to Nick, the Cher-lovin', AF cap-sportin', iPod OCD-havin' flight attendant mentioned in the last post who did, in the end, go and read the post and was an absolute sweetheart about the whole thing and is taking my sorry excuse for an ass out dancing tonight. Nick, you're a muffin. And I promise not to post anything more about you on here. Until tomorrow.

Happy Fulbert of Chartres Feast Day, y'all!

Riding in Cars with Boys

I just bit into an apple and the lower retainer that had been affixed to the back of my bottom teeth since I was twelve broke off. It was supposed to be removed in tenth grade but I stopped returning my orthodontist's calls the previous summer. Consummate professional, but awful lover. Also, I'm pretty sure I just heard my boss say, "That's retarded!" Ugh, so rude.

So the flight attendants...

On Thursday night, I agreed to go out with this guy that I had been sporadically talking with since January. The reason I finally took him up on his invitation? Because he'd offered to drive me and my suitcases from my apartment to the house sitting abode. I am a whore for non-public transportation. After dropping his friend off at a bar, it became apparent that this was not going my way when he suggested Tim Horton's as our destination. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress to a Dunkin' Donuts. This may be more than adequate for some people, but not this americano misto-sippin' G-star. He also chose to by-pass the location a mere block from us in favour of one 10 minutes away just so that he could use his friend's GPS. I'm still on backstory and already the Audible Sigh tag has taken the stage. Granted, he did treat me to my $1.50 cup o' joe (and I mean that; I accept any and all acts of chivalry), but the conversation was about as laborious as that Precious girl's saunter down the red carpet at the Oscars. Anyway, nothing much happened that evening, though he did drop by a couple nights later to hot tub and molest me. It's okay, y'all; I was wearing a really short skirt, so clearly asking for it.

Anyhow, this takes us to Monday. In the afternoon, some random starts talking to me on the msn. Turns out that this is the fellow we dropped off at the bar a few days prior and thought I was cute. I feel that 'cute' in this scenario is code for 'will stimulate the unfortunate looking if bored'. It became clear that the fact that I'd big spooned his friend two nights prior was not a deterant. Neither was loyalty, evidently. Anyway, it soon became evident that this man was reta-... really dumb. To illuminate, I offer this illustrated breakdown of his cranial output:

He kept talking about the two of them picking me and taking me for a drive (No, this is not leading to a three-way public indecency ticket). I received an "Okay, we're leaving now!" pretty much every hour on the hour for the entire afternoon. At 6 o'clock, I looked out the window and there they were, smoking cigarettes and sporting looks right out of an American Eagle markdown bin. For a moment I considered pretending not to be there, that they had the wrong address or that I was out or simply at Hogwarts, but I manned up, petted the kitty and walked outside. Our destination on this balmy Easter Monday eve? Bed shopping at The Brick.

Hear that sound? It's all 14 of my followers swooning in unison. I told them that there were some really great furniture places *cough* a few blocks away, not to mention a Leon's, but evidently the latter was too expensive and the former were not trustworthy as they are not chains (tragic foreshadowing). So we drive north for about 16 hours and the entire time, the newer flight attendant is playing DJ with his iPod. The only problem is that he is only interested in the three aforementioned divas and despite having upwards of 12 (not kidding) remixes of some tracks, cannot seem to find anything he likes. In the 35 minutes it took to get to the store, I'm pretty sure I heard three songs in completion. It was like

"Do you belie-eeve i-"

skip

"If I could tur-"

skip

"Do you be-"

skip

"Music! Makes the pe-"

skip

"Life is mys-"

skip

"Life is a mystery, ever-"

skip

"Life is a-"

Skip

"Life-"

skip

"Life-"

skip

"Cause I'm your laaaaaaaaady-"

skip

"This is a SONG FOR THE L-"

skip

"Life is-"

And so on. Hell, I know thee well. Eventually we reached the hallowed Brick, where the new one was talked into buying a $1,600 king-size bed. At first he protested, saying, "Oh but it's too big for just me," and then pouting in my general direction. You know when a fat person needs pants that are big enough to fit around their waist but they have no butt so they keep having to pull their pants up? Okay, if that's your situation, just go with the king-size. It's alright. No judgey. And you know when a person is so bad with money that they need to put their new mattress on an 8 month payment plan that requires on the spot credit approval? Okay, if that's your situation, you've made some poor choices. And lots o' judgey. But know what garners the most judgey? When you ask me whether your Abercrombie & Fitch baseball cap looks better forward or backward and then flip it around 7 times to fully illustrate. Hey, rotund effeminate men of the world: no.

Things went from bad to worse after I gracefully bit it while exiting the store and the Effeminable Snowman, thinking that I'd merely hurt myself, wanted to make light of the situation and began imitating my walk as he minced down the sidewalk. Naturally, he had no idea that this is actually my regular contribution to bringing sexy back, but still it wasn't awesome. I got pretty quiet after that. Then we got back in the car and drove around looking for a - wait for it - SWISS MUTHAFUKKIN CHALET. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress t-... Wait. There is no equivalent to the devil's own chicken shack. I suggested we go to the Greektown area, because the food is good and the people are hot, but mostly because I wanted to be closer to home when I made my escape.

"It's really nice, kind of like mom & pop bistros and bars all along one strip."

"Well, do any places around there have endless breadsticks?" asked my former tubmate.

"Um, n-..."

"Cause we ain't goin' nowhere without endless breadsticks..."

"Life is a myst-"

"...And dipping sauce."

After another hour of driving around in circles, they decided to meet four other friends for Korean BBQ. I took one look at what was sitting in the front seats, multiplied this by 3 and though, "Nargh, I'm out." Fortunately, it was at this time that my mother called and right on Jewish mother cue says, "Honey, what's wrong? You don't sound so good." I told her that I was out with some lovely new friends but that I was getting one of my chronic migraine attacks. "But you don't have mig-.." I hung up on her.

"Fellas. This has been nifty and memorable, but I'm feeling headachey. Is it okay if I jump out at, oh, say this subway stop that we're just happening to pass as I tell you this?"

Then I dove through the passenger window and called my mom, who laughed the entire time. What a bitch.


Yesterday, the nonsensical softness posted a comment which referred to me as grumpy and a self-proclaimed douchebag. Later, Kama over at Queer In the Mirror pondered about my real life personality versus the one that authors this blog and where the line falls. I told him somewhere in between, as I am generally more caustic and lively in the presence of close friends, but am nowhere near as racist. Some may know London Preppy, a Greek-British blogger who for many years was essentially the leader amonst gay hedonistic oversharers. His life revolved around his body, clothing and various prescription medicated adventures. It read like fiction and after several years he announced that much of it was. In the same way that he his not a complete narcissist, I am not that much of a douchebag as I seem to think. Details and emotions are just often exaggerated for dramatic/humoUr sake. Anyway, the point is that I maaaaaaay have given one of the flight attendants this blog address, so if you're reading, um, hi and I had a great time and, yeah, call me. Also, congrats on learning to read.

I am seriously pissed

This Easter weekend was pretty pathetic, with me spending the majority of my time faux-convalescing in silk pj bottoms on my aunt and uncle's bed (house sitting again), catching up on streaming TV shows, searching in almost-vain to find a hot tubbing companion and eating more matzoh than my colon would like to admit. The final evening ended in near-suicide while in a car with two Cher-loving flight attendants. I will post a bitchatinous entry on this tomorrow as the wounds are too fresh, but in the meantime there's something pressing that I must address.

Some other d-bag has now given me one of these:




Look, people, I can't deal with this shiz. If you are going to give me praise I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.

Evidently, this recognition for writing about stupid shit that happens to me came with a caveat that I overlooked last time, specifically that the recipient is required to reveal five little/un known things about them. So as punishment to Ryan or Jason or Achmed, whoever writes soft nonsense, I'm gonna go all emo (shocking) in...


My 5 Purty Things 'Bout Me

1. Like, omg. I, too, also had really weird associations with chewing food on the same side! Lemme 'splain: First off, I always favoured the right side, so every pattern would have to finish on the right. I would start on the left and then go to the right (L-R), then the next time it would have to reverse so you wind up with (L-R, R-L), 'cept now I'm ending on the left so it then becomes (L-R-R-L, R-L-L-R) and the madness would continue. Some kids are molested by their Uncle Carl; I had eating algorithms. My point? We're all a bit fucked up.

2. Older readers will be familiar with the "Not So Tiny Tim" tag and newer readers are probably staying up wondering what the crap that's all about. Essentially, the NSTT tag denotes posts relating to a medical condition I have called CIDP. I gave a brief explanation about it here, so feel free to peruse at your leisure, but it pretty much boils down to this: I fall down a lot. Sometimes this is funny, more often it is just embarrassing. It doesn't really effect people around me that much, although witnessing one of my splendiforous tumbles is a friendship rite o' passage, but it pretty much informs every physical movement that I make. And for those asking why I can't get it together to rehabilitate my lazy ass, well, I have no answers for you. And also, shaddup.

3. I've never been in a long term relationship. I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw up off the floor and throw something at the gob that just smacked you. All done? Excellent. Unlike my inability to hold down an exercise routine as mentioned above, I really have no answers for you on this one. My friends (claim to) love me, I am constantly being told I'm good dating material and am routinely approached by suitors. Unfortunately, they tend to leave me pretty cold. I suffer from that awesome self-hating affliction of not having the slightest interest in a person once they've appeared interested in me. Clearly, this means that there is something wrong with them. We may be gearing up for spring clothing, but my subconscious self-loathing is in fashion year round!


4. The only reason I drink, do drugs or grope strangers is cause I am bored. Incidentally, preeeeeetty big factor in blog writing, too. This is why I will never be an addict. It's not that I love the sensation of being messed up or felt up all that much; I just have nothing better to do at that moment, which is clearly healthier than addiction...


5. The only time I cry is when watching melodramatic television shows. It only happens once or twice a year, usually after a period of duress and with many non-network show lead ups of misty eyes, usually while listening to Wicked. The last huge bawl came about a year ago (oh shit, I'm due!) during Grey's Anatomy, with a near-cry occurring a month ago while watching the Desperate Housewives where Linette dreams about having a gimpy son and how she forces him to be independent and made me all, "Why didn't my parents do that? Waaaaaah. Oh wait, why didn't I?..." In any case, ABC is responsible for a solid 1/4 of my Kleenex output. The rest? Fist babies.


Okay, now that that nonsense is over, I have to pass this on to 5 other bloggers. My way rebellious theme is Bloggers That Have Ridiculous Amounts of Followers and Will Never Read This In a Million Years. The buck stops with me! Also, they're awesome.


Livin the Dream - Cause there needs to be one straight guy that I read. Sorry, Achmed.

Steam Me Up, Kid... - Cause her dog is black and so am I.

30 is the new 13 - Cause 25 is the new 18. Until May 4th when I turn 26. Mark it in yo calenduhs, bitchezzzzzzz.

HAPSICAL - Cause it's a really awesome fashion blog and also I'm getting desperate.

ecostems - Cause this is the guy I went out with last weekend he seems half decent and three quarters sexeh.


Yeah, I got nothing left at this point. If I were a male orgasm, it's pretty much just be air and lint comin' out.



NEXT TIME: How many remixes of "Believe" is too much? Evidently, not 17.

Post on mah wallet

As previously stated, I have a very complicated relationship with my wallet. We're like a couple in an abusive relationship that neither party is willing to leave because "maybe this time it will be different." Like, "maybe this time he won't get lost on the streetcar," or "maybe this time he won't try to broil me alongside homemade croutons." Our cycle of abuse is legendary in the public transportation office of any city I've lived in and a source of neverending snickering from my friends. Evidently, psychological battery is funny to some people.

Thusly, I present an illustrated history of me and Wallet.



The Beginning


Illustrious D: Omagawd, I can't believe I got a Louis Vuitton wallet for mah 18th birthday! I will love you and treasure you for life! Yes, I will! Cootchy-cootchy-c-...

Bitch-Ass Wallet: What up, baiznatch.

ID: Hey, there's no need for that kind of language. You are supposed to act like a gentleman.

BAW: Gentleman this
ID: Wow. Rude.

BAW: Know what else is rude? Your face.

ID: Good one.


So we got off to a bit of a rocky start, specifically when he insisted on calling me "ADRIAAAAN" for the first six months. After a short while together, we went on a three-month-iversary to Winner's.

ID: Hey, this bag is really fly. How'd you like to ride around in that?!

BAW: Yeah. Sure. Whateverz.

ID: Cause it even has these awesome snappy pockets so you'll never get los-...hey, what are you doing?

BAW: Nuttin'

ID: You were for totes checking out that little Chanel number!

BAW: What? Nah. You trippin'.

ID: Trippin' over your lechery, mayhaps. We have been over this! You like other boy wallets! FERRAGAMO! That's it, we be out! Hey, where'd you go?

BAW: [be all hiding in tube sock bin]




ID: Fuck me...


That was the first time of many when Wallet would decide to venture out into the world without adult supervision. Although, there was one occasion where some of the aforementioned snickery friends were directly responsabbible for our separation.

Walletnapped


Music School Walletophile: Hey, there little wallet.

BAW: Wha-? You talkin' to me?

MSW: I don't see any other cutie-patootie wallets around.

BAW: Oh, garsh...

MSW: What say you and I go for a little ride in mah van together?

BAW: I dunno, the awesome [and handsome] guy that carries me around said to stay right here so that his dumbass behind could find me later.

MSW: ...

BAW: ...

MSW: I got candy.

BAW: LET'S DO THIS.




So then they went off together and didn't bother telling me 'til the next day, causing me to be all angsty and post a real PO'ed rant about takin' mah shit and then not telling me 'til the next day which I'm not gonna link cause I was all angsty. 'Preciate.


Mid-point Review: My wallet is a whore who will go with anyone from transit ticket takers to Superstore check-out clerks. This li'l gem of a story happened last December the day before I was to fly home to Winnipeg

ID: Gee, we got on the 502 car instead of the 501. I hope we'll be alright, little buddy

BAW: Get the AIDS and die.

ID: Whazzat?

BAW: Bet on maids and pie

ID: wtf?

BAW: *cheeky eyebrow raise*

ID: Are you having a stroke in instalments?

Obese Bus Driver: This streetcar will be turning at McCaul so haul ass outta herr.

ID: Son of a bitch! I knew I should not have listened to you and your "The higher the number the fewer poor people are on board" logic. [Dismounts streetcar] I cannot believe you suckered me with xenophobia yet again! When we get home I'm gonna bend you over and rap-

After that, I vowed never again to be taken in by that little scamp. I called up my friends and crowed, "Well, guess who the fuckity-fuck has gone and left himself on the streetcar again. You know what? I don't even care. I have another one just waiting at home BEGGING to hold all my shit. That's it! We are done! WE ARE DO- hello?"

Our great tale would end there was it not for a cooking misadventure last week involving my tardiness at Stove Orientation when I moved into my building, resulting in turning on the wrong burner and branding my little man like the cow hide he is, in fact, not made out of





BAW: Holy crap balls, that is the lamest drawing ever.

ID: YOU SHUT YOUR STUPID MOUTH.

BAW: No, seriously, dude. That bandaid looks like a cross section of an egg sunny side up.

ID: Actually, that's fair.

BAW: The blood detailing is nice though.

ID: Thank you.



FIN