A Love in Colours: Pink

The dress was an amazingly stunning shade of pink and it sashayed and swirled around the dance floor. The music blared and couples around the club were virtually yelling to be heard, but the two of them danced, passionately in silence, undistracted by all around them, focussed only on each other, so much in love and nearly engulfed in a seemingly-magical and mesmerizing pink fabric that was practically glowing. 

She was sitting at her desk in her office and was watching the pouring rain through her window. The water was falling with such force that some would have referred to it as 'angry', while she prefered 'misunderstood' as she was certain that no one had bothered to listen to the rain's point-of-view. The constant drumming of the rain reminded her of the constant drumming of her sister while growing up and, perplexingly of how she would stand outside of her window at night, often in the rain, waving and smiling. She missed her sister aside from all of the incessant waving and smiling - it was nice at first, but it got old especially when they got older. As she sat there her mind drifted to him. Always to him, and occasionally to the tree in his front yard. How she loved that tree. Her mind settled on a single image from their vacation that summer and she smiled when the picture of his sandy, muscular body running with reckless abandon on the beach came into her head. She appreciated his recklessness so much more when it only appeared in her head while staring outside at the rain and less so when he was driving them to the movies. Tonight was the night they were to meet her parents for the first time and she was oddly calm and was sort of disappointed as she had been looking forward to being nervous. Having dinner with her own parents made her nervous at the best of times, but his presence relaxed her so much that she often became fairly concerned while cooking. She knew her parents would love him, and that made her happy, but she only hoped they didn't love him unconditionally as she believed that everything should have conditions. The rain continued to fall, and she tried to get some real work done as no amount of pretend work would feel satisfactory in the long term. She used to spend hours and hours pretending to work as a child which made her parents a little worried both because she wasn't just playing like an average child, but also because the work she was pretending to do, was being done fairly haphazardly. The work day was over and she saved her files and put her computer to sleep, only this time without the pillow and blanket as it was starting to draw her some unwanted attention from others as well as making her increasingly sheepish and apologetic around her printer and fax machine.

He was in the middle of yet another boring meeting and had a passing thought about why meetings were usually so boring, but then he partially remembered what his aunt always said in one of her less lucid moments "sometimes I just like being quiet". It was a true statement but it didn't make sense at the time and wasn't really that helpful right now either. He started a new list with the first item being starting to remember more appropriate quotes and the second being fully listening to his aunt when she  was "on". When the meeting wrapped up, he went to the washroom to apply some warm, soapy water to his face and the upper part of his neck all the while making a mental note to apply at least the same level of hygiene to the rest of his neck later on, He enjoyed the face-wash at little bit too much and actually let out a small squeal of joy which was thankfully heard by no one, but even if it had been they were used to his cute animal noises made periodically throughout the day. He was meeting her parents tonight and was supremely confident in his ability to impress them without having to resort to deception and trickery, although he was fully prepared to go there too if he met with any initial resistance. He had viewed a lot of photos of her mom and dad and had mentally given them entertaining and quite animated voices that always made him laugh uproariously and he just hoped that they were somewhat close to their actual voices. He couldn't decide what clothes to wear and had narrowed it down to a choice of either his vertically-striped suit or a pair of casual jeans and a unique and hip graphic t-shirt. The suit made him appear older and slightly taller but also was probably a better fit for a visit to the bank which he was fairly certain wouldn't come up that evening unless they all mutually decided on going to the bank after desert. And the casual and hip outfit, although comfortable, was maybe too relaxed-looking which may have his hosts wondering "Why is he already so comfortable here? Maybe we should apply some more pressure?" He hated having to choose clothes to fit occasions and he blamed his mother for that aversion as he couldn't come up with anyone else to blame at all on such short notice. He promised himself that he would look further into it and after plenty of research, type up a comprehensively exhaustive list of everyone else who may have played a part in his inability to match his outfits with his activities. As he left work, he ran to the car excited to see her.

Who Am I?

So, I am starting a creative writing club at school and before you stop what you are doing and give me a standing ovation, allow me to get changed into something more regal or failing that at least practice smiling for a few minutes first. After a short preamble describing the long set of rules, guidelines and initiation rituals for our club I gave the new members their first writing "assignment" (I am placing that word in quotation marks so none of them thinks that it is an actual assignment and also because I love using quotation marks and often misusing them too just so I don't come across as "the guy who perfectly uses quotation marks" because I know that guy and he is...how do I put this..."strange"). For our introductory piece I thought we'd all write about ourselves (I briefly flirted with the idea that we could all write about each other or write on each other or just hold a pen above a piece of unlined paper and sit at a desk in a white room with no windows and resist the urge to scream). Now, I have written about myself a few times already, but I don't want to skip the task outright or to just reuse something old, so here I am again. How to talk about myself without sounding redundant? Or should I just give in and be not only slightly redundant but incredibly, boldly redundant - so redundant that I should consider editing this sentence at a future date and either bolding or italicizing the word redundant or should it be the word "so" or both? Not sure... I mean while I'm highlighting certain words why not invite them all? I just don't want to bold or italicize too many words because then they start expecting and anticipating it and that doesn't mesh well with how I live my life or at least how I am trying to live my life since the day the crows came. For those that don't know me well, like the students in my club, no crows actually came to this point, but they are always welcome. I have a "crows always welcome" policy at my house and I always will until the crows actually come and then it will only be fair to allow another bird or animal or even my uncle to come visit, although that would mean having to reverse my current "no uncles welcome" policy that I've wanted to lift for some time now what with all of the amazing uncles I come across on a daily basis.

The kids in my creative writing club are probably wondering who am I really and since there is a good chance that I'm reading this to them right now, they may be looking at me as I'm sitting in front of them with my large purple water bottle next to me and wondering why is that water bottle so big with the short answer being that I am thirsty, a lot, and the longer more perplexing answer is being turned into a musical theatre production that should hopefully be opening at a kindergarten class near you at a later date. It is both easy and hard to write about yourself. Easy to hide behind lots of half-truths and transparently obvious falsities and hard to tell the gripping, teeth-rattling, knee-shaking, appetizing truth that everyone claims they crave. Everyone is always craving things sort of like single-cell organisms needing whatever they need for survival (is it oxygen? another cell? all-access cable tv for when the football-loving relatives come to visit round holiday time?) I try to toe the line on my floor all the time as sort of a test of the agility of my toes. I also metaphorically toe the line between what people want to hear and what I want them to hear. If lines had more sides I would also be balancing those two with what I hear while they are hearing things (not much outside of the sound of my voice which is lovely I have to say) and practicing my falsetto as you never can quite predict when it may come in handy - a sing off? my daily performance in front of the mirror before I leave the house? scaring away bears and other unwelcomed wildlife? In my writing I usually settle on starting off with the best of intentions, but then I get horribly sidetracked - horribly is completely the wrong descriptor as I love the sidetracks I walk down - they are far more interesting then the regular path that everyone seems to want me to walk down. Why walk that way, when I can go this way and have more fun, despite all of the mosquito bites and plethora of scrapes and scratches? Even though I go off on weird tangents and never quite get to the point I wanted to get to, I am a strong believer that the final destination is a whole lot less important than the trip to get there and I feel that about writing, preparing a meal and actual trips which is why an intended afternoon at the beach with the family is often spent at the museum of natural history accompanied by girl guides. And another thing, why are original points so important in the first place? My theory is that the word point intimidates us, or at least me and that is why I try to avoid points as much as I can which is why I never win at ping pongs. Not enough points. If those students are still facing me and avoiding eye contact as that may be misconstrued as acceptance then I guess I can take a short break here to enjoy the moment before continuing on.

The question on my mind right now is not important at the moment, so I won't ask it. I also find that asking questions in my writing is a completely unsatisfying experience as I never get an answer, unless I play the game of answering myself almost as if I have multiple personalities with one being the youthful, upbeat questioner and the other being the more grounded, voice of reason who supplies the answers and everyone once and a while a third guy pops in out of nowhere and orders a pizza. I don't expect lots of answers from the public when I pose questions that I choose to not answer myself, but people must either think I'm being facetious or rhetorical, which is easily understandable as I attempt to dedicate a minimum of 25 minutes each hour all day to both of these which is hard enough during the day but really challenging while bathing or sleeping (I never bathe and sleep at the same time not even on a dare unless there is the promise of plum pie  -that's how much I love plum pie. I've never even had plum pie. I will move on now). I would love to sleep facetiously or rhetorically but it is exceedingly hard to nail and usually just comes across as regular, plain old, sleep. Anyways, I do have questions on my mind like "what should I tell these students about me?" and "what stuff should I make up completely to give off the illusion of importance and dignity and tallness?" Let's see...I love my family, but that is pretty obvious- most people do and if I didn't, I definitely wouldn't be writing it in a blog that my family occasionally skims through and groans at. Also, not loving my family would make me a pretty contemptible figure that would make being the protagonist in my works of fiction really challenging and I don't think I have the mental wherewithal, vocal training or collection of shirts to be a villian. I guess I should tell the students about my brain and my heart all the while keeping it vague as I don't really know that much about brains and hearts - it is quite shocking that I've made it this far and know so little about two of the most important things in my life outside of my humanitarian work and my stamp collection. Really - I should make a shrine for each of them and pray before them except that I'll have to cut back on all of the praying I do before my stuffed baby tiger (gotta love that little guy) and the picture of my friends Harry and Frieda that no one can tell them about or else I will definitely not be invited over for the next taco night on the account of seeming creepy and I won't be able to blame anyone but myself and my red sharpie that I just had to draw roses with all over their picture. Outside of my love of my family, I also love being active, I love cooking and I love puzzles. To save time I have decided to condense the three loves into one. So, I am trying to find someway to go for a run while cooking and doing a puzzle or perhaps I am going about this way too literally (big shock) and maybe I need to find someway to make the exercise and cooking a puzzle in and of themselves or make a cooking puzzle that the act of solving would help me get some cardio in. I'm not sure what the answer is, but there is an answer out there somewhere and while I totally get the value in finding answers for myself in life I just don't have enough money for a flight to Bermuda right now. Nope, I'm the guy who saw the other guy about the thing that was not only monstrously expensive but also, long story short, caused me to put a halt to my winter plans that included some industrial strength rope, something those in the know call "whale juice" and car freshener.

I would go on and on for a while, but I am trying to keep this somewhat short as my way of paying homage to all of the pumpkin growers out there right now (I am horrible at paying homage and even when I accidentally get it right, my ability to choose the correct recipients is questionable at best). I guess all that I would like to say before I leave you is that I always aim to write how I talk, so that if you were to read something I wrote while sitting in a cafe it would be an eerily similar experience to hanging out with me at a cafe and it would be even more confusing if the piece of writing you were reading to yourself at the cafe was about the two of us sitting together at a cafe talking about me writing a piece about us sitting together at cafe. I have also thought about trying to talk how I write, and although I believe that after hours of practicing (followed by a really nice herbal tea) I've nailed it, it just comes across as a long series of clicks and I just can't get pronounce the sound the space bar makes. I think everyone should try to capture their voice in their writing and I like to think of my voice as a brilliant red cardinal who once flew so gracefully in the skies majestically drifting in awe-inspiring fashion until the fateful day when the rains came and the cardinal finally listened to his mom and just got out of bed and went to school because that is what twelve year old boys do, they go to school and they dream of training seemingly untrainable wild cardinals, or at least I once did when I was twelve. But then I grew up, as all young boys do, and I came to realize (mostly through an amazing set of educational videos my mom just happened to have in storage that she just happened to have done the voice over work for - I did think it was oddly coincidental that I loved the exact bird that my mom had been involved in making educational videos on and I briefly contemplated my mother's role in this before deciding to take a much needed nap) that wild birds must stay wild, especially the transplendant cardinal, for they are the red dots on the lower case "i"s of the world and to capture them would be akin to not serving a homemade aioli with the grilled veggies at a dinner party. Look I know that doesn't make a lot of sense- I don't make the rules here, I only report them. And you read them. How could you!?!?

So there you have it. I think I've introduced myself, kind of. I think those that have read this now have an incrementally small amount of knowledge about me that they didn't have previously. I'm sure some of them wish that it could have either taken less time or that they could have been eating cookies while reading this. I hope you have found this entertaining and I think the long-term impact it will have on you is almost limitless, all you have to do is dream. Have I inspired you to prepare a traditional Japanese holiday meal? Have I  encouraged you to dig a large hole in your backyard for no apparent reason? Have I convinced you that understanding differential calculus won't keep you warm at night? Have I made any progress in convincing you to knit me some woollen mittens to match my sweater or at least not clash with the rainbow pants I am knitting right now as I write this (okay I lied - I clearly can't be writing and knitting at the same time and since I'm clearly writing who is knitting these pants I am proudly wearing? I promised my grandmother one day quite cryptically to never forget where my lunch is and also who made my pants, but then again I promised my adorably daffy grandmother lots and lots of things - it made up much of our daily conversing). But, most importantly have I answered or explained who I am? For those inclined to say "yes" - thank you! The cheque is in the mail (if by "cheque" I mean "this large handful of nearly-expired coupons that I want to give away in the effort to cover my bulletin board solely with colourful pushpins" and by "mail" I mean "here you go, enjoy"). And for those who feel that the answer is "no", I applaud your brevity and your hard-hitting style - it will take you far in life, hopefully far enough away from me so you don't have to hear me crying from the disappointment of a failed writing activity. But, I'll be okay in the end, your "no" will only strengthen me and toughen me up so that one day I will rise with a new, thicker (and hopefully more durable) skin and hopefully I will find a way to utilize this skin to gain some sort of fame or at least membership in an underground club that I am unaware of at this point. And, lastly, for those of you who either want to answer "maybe" or who were blissfully unaware of the question in the first place as yet another thing you are blissfully unaware of in life, thanks for showing up and continue to enjoy this seasonally warm fall day.

I Declare Immunity (and other random thoughts)

I've heard that it takes one to know one, well I demand two!

After many years, I have decided to put function over form and let the chips fall where they may. I also need to plan ahead and buy some chips.

I only swing for the fences. When all of the fences are gone, I will alter my goal.

In my world, it is always sweater weather. On a side note: I have a whole closet full of unworn vests that I am looking to unload.

Please don't try to sell me items or services door-to-door. I was raised in a home where we NEVER attached doors to each other by hyphens or any other means as it would have made getting around the house or quickly moving from room to room too challenging.

When I am told I have no one to blame but myself I often spend hours trying to either find someone else or pay someone else to blame before embracing it and making it my own and attempting to bask in the blame, which is harder than it sounds.

I show a constant and blatant disregard for all minimum and maximum height requirements.

I totally get that this draws unnecessary attention my way but I have to come clean. I will reuse and recycle, but there is just no way that I will reduce. I also have to come clean that I am too proud to admit that I'm not totally sure what reduce means and that while I'm sure it has it's merits, I've already made such a public display stating my case against it that it is just too much work to change course now and will make me seem more wishy-washy then I already am.

While it's not my favourite, I will take your pity if it is all you are offering as long as I have a chance to upgrade to sympathy at a future date.

All of the water that I had is now under the bridge that I constructed in my backyard and my only concern is that I now have a bridge in my backyard. Where will I plan my herbs?

When I declare immunity, I expect you to listen flu bug!

The only problem with dot-to-dot puzzles is that after hours of connecting fun I find it exceptionally challenging to stop connecting dots once I've started.

If I had to choose, I would prefer to hang dry rather than be tossed around in the dryer. Thankfully, up to this point, I haven't had to choose but you never know what tomorrow may bring. For that reason I decided to take an ax to my dryer...and that is why I am seeking your professional help today doctor.

Sorry if I offended you with my frankness, but there have never been any attractive dictators and there never will be. 

I enjoy a close shave as much as the next guy, and that is why I am offering to shave you right now - you really look as if you'd enjoy it and if you aren't interested could you please move aside and make room for someone else to stand next to me for a while?.

If I have to look before I leap, then I'll never leap and I never do. On the other hand, if I walk around town with my eyes closed, leaping may be just one of the exciting new experiences I encounter.

I am constantly stumped when asked if I am ready for the cheque because I am not at all sure if I am.

My beauty may only be skin deep or it may go some amount further, but I'm too squeamish around blood, particularly my own, to find out. 

Regardless of what you've heard, I am not a book worm although I do display worm-like tendencies on a regular basis.

Every day I stretch  to be less stiff, more flexible and just a fair amount longer-limbed as I think that may be beneficial in the future.

More About Me

Who am I, people may be starting to wonder? And now that I ask the question, I am also pondering this. It would be great if one of you would just tell me, or at least set-up an intricate set of puzzles and challenges that would reveal who I am upon solution. I love puzzles, especially the kind that involve dressing up as pieces of fruit for no apparent reason aside from keeping the guy who lives downstairs happy. What a funny, appreciator of people-dressing-up-as-fruit-as-a-seemingly-unconnected-yet-connected-piece-of-a-puzzle my neighbour is. But, again, who am I? Any progress on one of you telling me? No?....Fine then, in my estimation I have two choices, I can either undertake some honest self-reflection in this piece of writing or I can go off on ridiculous tangents that neither answer that question nor answer any question - in fact sometimes I go out of my way to intentionally create tangents and asides just to spite those who aim to use me and my beliefs to answer their questions! How lazy can you get? Oops! Sorry -that sounded a little too harsh and would have only been appropriate if I was your mom, and I am definitely not your mom, although with some coaxing (read "money in large denominations" or "a new hat that would give me the illusion of being Cuban") I am happy to try - although I must tell you that I refuse to excessively praise you or say you look beautiful when only a mother would more than once a day. Any more than that would sicken me and you don't want to be around when I am sickened - really, it is quite gross and pungent. I believe that the truth and nothing but the truth may be "good for me" or "less bad than a number of the alternatives including but not limited to half-truths, quarter-truths (I'm also looking for ways to divide truths into even smaller fractions - can you imagine a twentieth of the truth? Would that even seem at all similar to the truth? If time permits, I'm also possibly looking to express truths as rational numbers that would look good printed on coffee mugs of mathematicians who tell less than the whole truth) and wearing purple socks ironically" especially when accompanied by a glass of soda and one of those singing trouts to mount on the wall. I once met a man but that is just not important right now. Another time I met a different man who tried living his life telling over 100% of the truth all the time and it nearly killed him. Well that and all of those angry, angry truth-defiling sharks. Plus, me being truthful and showing what is really inside my brain would be interesting for most people especially neuroscientists and the men/women/manchilds/half-man half-lions who love them or at least tolerate them what with their braininess and their constant questioning and that annoying, hard-to-place European accent that makes them sound either smarter or European or like a scary plastic surgeon - believe me I know. For most other people, seeing what is inside my brain would cause you to have nightmares for weeks. Yes, if I explore the honesty route, then quite possibly professionals in white lab coats, who are genuinely concerned and looking for more subjects (and objects - I can do both! No extra charge!) for their longitudinal and qualitative research paper will sign me up and hook me up to numerous electrodes and be given free pizza or at least scratch-n-sniff stickers that smell like pizza or I'd even settle for some regular stickers. I am happy to oblige, although oblige may be the wrong word  -it is an area I need to improve upon. I imagine those professionals go home, take off their white lab coats and, after feeding their dogs and their human families and then their sim family in the video games that occupy most of their free time (in that order) they take off their coats, momentarily freed from the world of the coat and all of the rules and societal pressures and tears often role down their cheeks when they remember when they used to dream of unicorns and leprechauns who were plotting to implement phase one of their plan to take the rest of us down and they'd also dream of a life where they would have an option to wear a coat or not and when choosing to, it could be the colour of their choice.

Who is this man (its me!) behind the words and are there other, more remote words that are also behind him? Maybe those words are worth reading. I'll try to look over my shoulder or construct a series of mirrors or just turn around when I take a break and I'll let you know. If I decide to forgo the truth about me and instead go the weird-tangent route then it is because I've come to the conclusion that I must protect my true self sort of like a turtle, except that I'm trying to resist using any tortoise-related analogies at least until the next full moon or until my new shipment of multi-coloured erasers arrives. I sometimes set out trying with the best intentions to be serious and normal and to be less weird and crazy sounding and then something happens. It is hard to explain. It is sort of like the normal writing is a boat, let's say a cruise ship (no that sounds too hoity-toity  -do you want everyone thinking you are an elitist snob? No, but it is totally fine for everyone to think that I write/talk to myself? Good thinking.) - okay how about a yacht (much better...you either have no idea how to avoid sounding elitist or are doing it  just to bug me knowing how much I have a soft spot for those that write like they are oh so upper-class). Anyways, the honest, normal writing is a boat and the weirder and funnier (read "less marketable" or "impressive if written by a 9 year old") writing is like a large jar of glue which is either holding the boat together or being sniffed ad nauseum by the sailors. And the wacko parties they have after sniffing that glue...I'm not exactly how that analogy works and what it all means - and I wrote it! Imagine how you must feel! On an aside, I once spent a whole weekend trying to figure out how someone else felt and it just made me hungry for sushi - it turns out they felt a little bit annoyed (I was staring and making a series of sketches that I later on had no success selling at popular tourist destinations around town as they came off looking a bit too haunting and green - I only had one crayon) and a little bit melancholic, which I never would have guessed as I needed a dictionary to even have any idea what that even meant, and even after looking it up and reading about it extensively on the internet, I still think they made it up. Back to the boat being the writing - let's just imagine that that was true. Work with me for a minute....so there is this boat ("the writing") and it is a mighty fine boat and it has set sail for somewhere...let's say the Promised Land or a convention for the annual meeting of ornithologists or Guam and the boat sets sail and for the first few days things are very uneventful. There are the usual hijinks you would imagine - a glass-blowing contest, staying up till midnight when the captain required sailors stay up till three or until the next shift showed up mostly to be on guard for pirates, and shaving each other's backs to make learning Spanish more enjoyable (which is hard to do - it is already very enjoyable, or so I've heard from my neighbours who are learning Spanish and can never stop smiling. Having said that, they were always smiling and they could just be like that - always smiling. God, they are annoying! But, multilingual - so I'll have to give them that). And then the storm hits and rocks the boat ("the writing") and luckily the crew has just come from a big sale of glue ("the weird stuff") and have no real concept on how to react to the storm and out comes the glue. Now we all know that I could go on and on about the boat and the glue and use a ridiculous amount of unnecessary detail to try to make this totally superfluous analogy work and we all know that I would never quite do this and wouldn't care as that was never the point in the first place which would raise the salient question over my use and abuse of analogies in the first place and whether I totally understand their use at all and if I should just spend the money and take a course once and for all - one that would force me to learn or make me conform or at least smell better. Or maybe the analogy is a living entity itself (it isn't) and it wants to corrupt or feed off the story (it doesn't) and once it has done so it may find a way into my brain and start setting up camp - this makes even less sense then even the average nonsensical stuff that you are expecting to read and it would be correct to wonder if I am okay and whether I need to lie down for a while and think about elephants or to actually make a few phone calls and get some elephants delivered so I can stroke their big, floppy, ears that just go on and on for ever - I could just wrap myself up in their ears and drift off as a happy as a clam and not just a run-of-the-mill clam either- I'm talking top clam here. 

I think I am a pretty regular and normal guy, although, having said that, it is all relative. Compared to some people I'm all wacko and a few phone calls away from being removed with the upside being becoming a well-compensated spoken word performer for the king of some hard-to-pronounce Eastern European kingdom or for a guy calling himself the king with little-to-no competition for the title from others as the country had been converted to a republic in a bloodless, coup-less good natured discussion that was over early so they all went out for ribs that were unfortunately substandard (they had discussed having bloody coup but everyone was quite squeamish). And to others I'm almost hyper-normal - sort of like the most normal person you know (right- that guy) only much more normal. When the decision came down to use the words hyper and normal together as a contrast to the weird part of this paragraph I was also drinking raspberry-cranberry juice and contemplating going for a run - I decided against it as it is very hard to write while running and even if I could I would either break out laughing or the writing would be completely unreadable and that is saying something as I would be typing and I use autocorrect. I have wondered if who I am in real life is the same as who I show myself to be in my writing. Do I come across as weirder on purpose or maybe to make myself look good? Do I think that is actually happening? Can I really create funny and odd writing that would have an effect on how someone sees me? And would it actually either trick them into thinking I now look good or would they see me as good in comparison to the writing - I hope I look better than the words I write, or at least in the same ballpark. Maybe who you see come out in the writing is my true inner self who I've kept locked away for years and is finally enjoying the blue skies, fresh air and focaccia bread (which will be store bought-  I'm sorry, not wasting my talents and time making homemade focaccia, at least not until I buy some new, masculine-looking, leggings, which may take some time based on current fashion trends and my own struggles with appearing masculine that I am blaming on the lighting in my house). The problem is (according to my wife) that I am almost addicted to being literal and odd. To set things straight, I am not addicted to it. I mean, I can walk away any time and not be literal and not get a case of the shakes or the jimmies. And I don't have to be odd in the same way that I don't have to cut or brush my hair and I can either grow a super-awesome afro or have dreadlocks. I really don't know what happens. Honestly, I don't. I often set out saying to myself "this next piece of writing will be non-weird - the kind I could show my grandmother, or someone else's grandmother if the two of them were chilling together reading creative writing on the internet. On second thought, that will never happen. Although, I've been raised to believe the impossible and if I can dream it, then it can happen. What was I writing about again? Oh well - open the flood gates!". So, I want to be normal and then some crazy force, either internal or external or a combination of the two collude where the two join forces to take me down! Why is everyone trying to join forces to take me down! (What? Are you saying this isn't happening? That it's all in my imagination? Wow...quite the imagination I've got. Good job me. I can sit back in revel in that for a while. I had nothing to do this Friday anyways.) Anyways, the writing often starts out along a straight path before it goes all haywire and fun and I start laughing and loving the strangeness and all connection to reality is long gone (reality is lying by the pool enjoying a cool drink and contemplating a swim before hitting the restaurant for some lightly-seared scallops in a wonderful beurre blanc). On second thought (it could be my fourth or fifth, I lost count - that's how it is with thoughts, so hard to keep track of unless I could come up with a numbering system or get them to line-up outside my brain like kindergarteners coming back from a recess of splashing in puddles and sharing their peanut-laden snacks with a willy-nilly disregard for allergies), who wants to be normal? When I was in my 20s I used to take being called normal as a criticism or a put-down and I am still that same guy, or just an older version of that guy with a depressingly smaller afro (some would say no afro and they would be depressingly correct) and a more refined taste for bitter foods (those two things may be connected on some level  -or could be connected -don't think I can't! I should have a Ph.D in making connections between things that others think can't be connected). So, it is totally incorrect and misleading (at the same time - I am crazy like that) to describe the process as poor little old helpless me being ambushed or attacked or beaten around the face and neck by strangeness. I am a willing participant and I welcome the diversion from regular stuff and thinking - it is inside me and I am far from blocking it's rise to the forefront - I bought it an annual first-class ticket on the train and it is riding that train all night long! That's right, baby! Ride that train like the badass you are! I'm not totally sure how bad-ass riding a train in first class actually is what with the pampering and tea and crumpets. Never been there or done that. Maybe a better way of looking at it is as a prison break, but that would be comparing my mind to a prison or maybe it is not a comparison and my brain is an actual prison. I don't think so, as nothing and no idea is trapped there against their will. Possibly it is better to describe it as a voluntary mental institution where everyone can check in and out whenever they see fit. My words and ideas can come and go as they want, have guests, roam the grounds, catch a show and just obey the curfew, because if you don't I can't be responsible for what happens. I mean I could be responsible, but I'm usually asleep at that time which makes the consequences for missing curfew up to my cat and my cat has a lot of pent up anger and aggression probably stemming from a past life as a mole. I totally get that comparing my mind to a psych ward is far from complimentary for me or for psych wards themselves - no one said that this writing thing was going to be full of compliments. 

Here is what you should know about me as it is both revealing and strangely not-revealing at all as that is almost impossible to do in a blog with no pictures. I do not profess to conquer the impossible with this blog, but if that was to happen coincidentally then I will gladly take full credit. I have been known to revel in coincidental accomplishments and, in case you missed those times, will gladly do it again. Let's get to some juicy details about me, which is tough because I have reduced my juice intake a great deal and that includes intake through the mouth, ears and eyes (sometimes I was very inaccurate with my pouring skills, missing holes where juice could flow into and instead relying on the absorption rate of my skin  - I owe my skin so much. Remind me to thank it sometime. What's that you say - I should do it now as there is no time like the present? I guess, but between you and me I just don't feel comfortable thanking my skin in while everyone is listening - it's personal.) Here we go - I love hitting things with racquets - usually balls, but I am willing to hit whatever comes my way and I often walk up and down the streets (I'd call it roaming the streets but I signed that court order saying that I would stop roaming and that I would also stop calling it roaming), racquet cocked, just ready to hit things. I do this as I heard that this is what some world champion tennis players did in their youth although I never quite believed it, I'm not in my youth and I'm pretty sure they weren't wearing nothing but goggles and shockingly tight underwear while doing it. In all seriousness I love playing squash and tennis and have done both for years and am now, as I approach the twilight of my youth, finding great joy playing my two children. My face lights up with pride and pleasure (among other random and fleeting expressions that I have no control over - it's sort of like I'm waiting for the hypnotist to snap his fingers - except that their is no hypnotist and only fingers. Lots and lots of fingers) to see their young, pretty faces in high degrees of anguish as I lead them through hours upon hours of grinding, energy-sapping drills. I kid, I kid, we only play for short periods of time, but they are showing great promise and it feels very dad-like to be on the court with them, which is doing wonders for me and my stock as a dad. If my dad-ness was on the market I would suggest buying now as the stock only goes up every time someone walks by the court as they are probably thinking "now, there's a dad!" unless they happen to wander by when I'm growling at my kids which is highly probable as that makes up much of our on court time. Before you judge, they have requested that I do that as it is a big step up from teaching them using mime or yelling. I am attempting to use less vicious-appearing hand-gestures and high-arching eyebrowed expressions as, again, it does not makes me look good and, in the end, that is essentially what this and everything I do is all about. Anything that does not make me look good is worthless, unless I happen to be making money while doing it and then it does have some worth, just not enough for me. I am a man who prides himself upon extracting and compiling as much worth per minute of each day as I possibly can and, to play racquet sports while doing so. I am joking about the hand-gestures and overuse of eyebrows - I am what you would call a "nice" guy and a "gentle" man and a "proper" person and all things not nice, gentle and proper are either beneath or beyond me - depending on where I hid them and where I happen to be standing. Squash is a wonderful game - I love to run hard, work up a sweat and figure out a strategy that helps me win or at least not only lose all of the time. It can be a lot of work, but I am usually up for the challenge and when it is all over and I sit in the steam room stretching, I feel like I have accomplished something - nothing major like building a fence high enough to keep the prying neighbours from seeing me suntan in my backyard (who am I kidding - I don't tan, I only burn and excuse me, but I like to burn in peace. And yes, I do understand, that in times of war, I should still use an SPF of at least 45). No, the feeling I get after finishing a tough match is more like tying my shoelaces with hands covered in vaseline while swimming away from a playful seal - I have never done this, but it sounds challenging and it is in my current top 10 of completely made up daydream accomplishments. I still haven't decided if I befriend the seal in the end or if the seal is fairly standoffish and turns down my invite for tea. Or if I should give the seal a turn with the shoes - who am I to hog all of the shoe-wearing in this scenario? This is quite different from an actual daydream, as it is purely made up and I'm trying to think about it often enough until the dream just happens and then later on it actually occurs in real life, which is the opposite of how it usually goes down in my life where real events turn into daydreams and then into figments of my imagination. Most of my imaginary friends and possessions used to be real and that is why I cry myself to sleep most nights. For the record, and in case the lawyers need to know, the seal's name is Guido. 

I have always loved cooking. Or more accurately, I have always loved cooking aside from that one week when I was 16, when I just didn't like anything except bouncing a ball against the wall and curling my tongue. There is just something about preparing food that makes me happy. I also love eating the food. I love planning the menus, buying the food, cutting it up, cooking it and feeding the results to my family. I'm not a huge fan of watching the cooked food go into their mouths as that is a little weird and hard on the eyes almost like staring directly at the sun (I do take photos of them eating and stare at them after everyone else has gone to bed which is only slightly less weird or possibly on par), but I like seeing their satisfied faces after consuming the meal. Cooking is a hobby (some people call it a chore and I call talking about those people another hobby although sometimes, when I'm tired, it feels like a chore) and I look forward to taking out the knife and chopping up the vegetables and then watching them fry in the hot oil, defenceless. I also enjoy grating things, which is a welcome break, for all around, from me being the thing that is grating. Seeing the thick, proud, seemingly-impenetrable block of cheese transformed into a mound of small strips provides such a release for me although, I am quite aware that the tables may be turned some day (in fact, we were contemplating rotating them later this week). Someday the cheese may rise and overthrow us. I am expecting it, what with all of the melting and I am just trying to become one of the humans spared - they will need someone to wash the floors. I also feel that there is nothing more pleasing then whisking a thin cheese sauce and watching it thicken on a beautiful autumn afternoon just after the rain has stopped. The loose sauce reminds me of myself in my youth - loose, pretty pale, lacking a sense of fashion, a little lumpy and then the whisk comes along and the sauce metamorphizes into my older self - thick (in a good way - like I'm not just going to start oozing all over the room when company is over, or at least, oozing a lot less then I used to), bubbly, and delicious (I would say so myself, but true story - a random group of religious zealots just happened to stop me on the street the other day and comment on my relative deliciousness apropos to nothing, although I could have been mistaken as they were speaking in what resembled tongues and I was trying not to appear to interested as I have a tendency at being sucked in and idolized by zealots of all shapes and sizes). There is a time and a place for cooking - the time is almost always 9 or 6 and the place is usually the kitchen or, in desperate times, the front hall closet. I hate be restrained (unless there are multiple pigs and a saxophone involved) and I am trying to open up my mind to new times and places to cook. Like why can't I cook at 2am in the bathtub? Or why can't I create a temporal wormhole where time and space lose all meaning?  Or throw away all time pieces and cooking equipment, paint the whole house black, cover ourselves in molasses and let the wrestling begin. We can order in. There may be lots of questions asked. My favourite meal to cook is weekend brunch but I have to qualify that by saying that I was bought off and they got to me. Previously I didn't care for weekend brunch, but after hours of brainwashing and sampling some of the finest brunches in town, I gave in and now I love it. I have always said that if I have to be brainwashed at least let me eat some really good Hollandaise at the same time. So now, I make omelettes, frittatas, smoothies and entree-sized salads with a smile that is very similar to the naked eye to all of my other smiles and even can be mistaken for my grins and smirches as well. Brunch is fleeting and in a blink of an eye it is over especially with certain company who takes more than their share. As for my least favourite? I don't love making school lunches in the evening before going to bed. More accurately they are the bane of my existence mostly because I was advised to have a bane in the first place once I earned enough points to have an existence (and it took a long time, let me tell you). They just go hand in hand I was advised. So when it comes time to make the lunches, I'm tired, it's redundant and I'd rather be watching TV, even a show where they are making school lunches - "poor sap", I'd think, watching that guy on TV making lunches, "stuck making lunches like a loser" I would get close to mumbling before noticing that I too, am a lunch-making loser. At least I have new socks, so there is that. You know I did take exception to be called a "lunch-maker" as I found the term both repulsive and derogatory for reasons that made very little sense and could have just been a result of watching too many gory online videos after making one too many lunches. I also appealed the term loser, but I was told that I had signed the contract and should have paid closer attention to the finer print which is ironic because I am 1/10th finer print by birth. There is a certain amount of power providing sustenance for a group of people - it's almost like "I am allowing you to eat now - pray before me! Which always sounds good in my head or in front of the mirror in my room (that mirror has witnessed many a self-affirming diatribe and now won't settle for anything less or else it will be "too tired" too reflect and will give me a refraction instead which does not do much for my self-esteem), but significantly less when said at the time especially because everyone's mouths are full. I always chicken out and continue to feed those that love me, although I have started to wonder about the relationship between the food I give and the love they return and their relative values and wondering if we could make a killing if we bundled the two together - I did go as far as buying a chart and some over-sized graph paper that is lying in an unused pile in my closet next to my pile of old newspapers just waiting for a paper mache day, my framed portrait of a dog-Mozart (it is so cute sitting at the piano with that look on his face) and my collection of used mops. Those graphs of the food-to-love equations could sell like hotcakes and even more so if we threw in a few hotcakes to sweeten the deal (I would provide some sort of sweetener up to a point and then you'd have to purchase some as honey does not currently grow on trees). Don't get me wrong, I love making food for my family and I don't take the responsibility any lighter than I take any other responsibility (or any heavier - and I have had them weighed - it is usually within 5 lbs) and I don't want or need anything in return except for the occasional series of pats on the head or the back, some unexpected jerky and something to grease my wheels, preferably grease.

I love puzzles of all kinds - crossword, jigsaw, math, ones involving action figures - you name it! Puzzles are fun in-and-of-themselves and also because they make me feel smarter. I'm unsure whether they actually make me smarter, but I don't care - all that matters is how I feel. A few minutes of puzzling and I feel like a new, incrementally smarter, man ready to face the world. But, I don't want puzzles that are too hard as those ones make my head hurt (most likely from all of the banging), cry for my mommy (who never answers my cries!), and feel less smart than I did before. Puzzles that are too easy aren't great either - no, what I'm looking for are ones that are just challenging enough without being an insult to my intelligence and a waste of time or overly frustrating. When I find a puzzle like that and I solve it I am overcome with emotions (I'm usually found weeping like a little boy or bleating like a little lamb or contemplating cooking a nice meal of roast lamb and handing it out to the very first little weeping boy that I see.) My current favourite are large 2000 piece jigsaw puzzles. These puzzles occupy a huge piece of prime real estate on our living room floor for the time I am working on them. I have tried to get lost in a puzzle which is really hard to do seeing as I am quite three dimensional  - I once had this amazing dream where I became two dimensional after a horrible vacuum cleaning incident and was able to live inside the puzzle which I thoroughly enjoyed aside from all of the dust inside the puzzle box until I started missing some of my favourite, three dimensional activities and then I couldn't break free as I had put down a damage deposit for a new two-dimensional living space and had also signed up for some two dimensional pilates classes and wanted to get my money's worth. In the end, I enjoy sitting down and putting some pieces together, standing up and shaking my legs that have fallen asleep and then walking away - I really enjoy walking away and have considered writing a song about it. I could get lost in walking away from puzzles but, thankfully, there are always walls and/or couches to bump into. I also love Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzles. They are the correct level, they make me feel smart while doing them and I love the play on words. For those that are just joining us, I am absolutely taken with wordplay and expressions and these crosswords are right up my alley, which was hard to construct seeing as I live in a townhouse complex where no alley previously existed. It is very probable that I will get fined for the whole alley thing, but I will argue that it was beyond my control, it was my destiny and that the crossword made me do it which is all very hard logic to argue against and believe me I tried throughout my youth with my crazy, crossword-completing, destiny-following, alley-building grandfather. He followed his destiny until his last day at which point he was fairly certain he had made a wrong turn a ways back and also that he should have drank more milkshakes with ground flax seed and kale for the fiber and nutrients. Finally, number puzzles have always been one of my favourite activities. I enjoy "seeing the numbers dance" or dancing myself with stationary numbers all-the-while trying to convince the somewhat shy numbers to come join me on the dance floor. They claim the song is hard to dance to and that I am embarrassing them and that they would rather play a game on their phone. I counter by saying that it is my phone, that they are just numbers and that I should stop conversing with them as people are starting to stare and not that I mind people staring as long as they are doing it for the right reasons - like a perfect cartwheel - those are awesome. Numbers can do almost anything if you believe it, and even more if you sweeten the deal (just don't use anything too sticky). They can add, subtract, multiply and divide all while keeping a straight face and not blushing - very hard to do! They can also sit cross-legged for hours at a time while snake-charming or allowing themselves to be crunched up to a point (even numbers have a breaking point, I have learned the hard way - I wish I still had that 4). Number puzzles are logical, attractive and sharp quite like a take-no-prisoners accountant/model who will file your taxes by day and then hang on your arm at the club at night or like a model/accountant who walks the runway at night and keeps getting hired based on her looks and fired when she can't operate the calculator. I believe I am quite alone in this view of number puzzles and I am also alone right now with my number puzzles and the two of us are a team ready to take on this cold, hard world where letters and pairs of people dominate and aim to keep us down. I am also contemplating going back to school to study either modelling or accounting and eventually writing a thesis on how models/accountants will represent our best chance for survival when the aliens arrive as long as we have constructed enough runways. It's also highly probable, that one day in the near future numbers will rise and all those that fear them will tremble and shiver (we also plan to use a few high-powered wind machines mostly for the effect and also as we may want to take a break and go fly some kites). When the numbers are correctly in their spots and the puzzle is done I often put on a new shirt and then take it off and return it to the store as it is not my colour. What was I thinking when I bought that shirt?

So there you have it. You have now learned a lot more about me - the man behind the writing you probably skim through as it is so long. Why do I have to make it so long? Good question! I will work on making it incrementally shorter each week dropping all that is superfluous and redundant until it is only a series of vowels and periods. I hope you feel that I am relatable, intriguing and human or at least not less of those then before you read this. I am quite relatable - some would say hyper-relatable and others would just refuse to comment. I have an immense amount of respect for those who refuse to comment for reasons that are totally beyond me and I like that arrangement - some things are better left unknown especially the code to my strange uncle's safety deposit box. Can you imagine what sort of weird stuff that guy kept? It is interesting how one comes across compared to how one really is and think of how hard that would be for two or five for that matter. Man, am I glad that I am not 5 people - think of the challenge splitting the bill or playing doubles! And all of the whining! I have been told that I whine enough for 10 people sometimes, which means if I was 5 people that would be like 50 people all whining for more sauce on their noodles or to have a few more minutes in the bath. While on the topic, I am also glad that I am not part man/part cat as I'm sure my cat-side would expect my human side to lick it clean and also for all of the unwanted attention when I'm shopping for clothes or investing money. One day I plan to write a book or just walk with more attitude - either way really. I also think it would be pretty cool to experience incandescence at least for a few minutes. So, what have you learned? I'm all ears - which is completely inaccurate except for the part that are my actual ears and then that is all ear - meaning I would love to know what you all think? I only require you to submit your thoughts in a 15000 word essay using correct APA formatting and references. Now that you know more about me can you help me make it big (I'm pretty sure I will need some gold-plated gloves, a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds and some industrial-strength yarn) or at least bigger (I have some clothes I am still trying to grow into) or failing that, can you help me learn how to whistle and snap my fingers? Once I learn to do those, I will be unstoppable! I'll just walk around whistling a happy tune and snapping and pointing at everyone making the shades and leather jacket-look slightly more tolerable to all of you critics out there always following me around, lurking in corners and critiquing my every move - it is highly probable that this evidence of my over active imagination that is always highlighted by an unhealthy dose of paranoia and superstition. I wish I could find a practical use for paranoia or have it be "cool". Anyways, I am always trying to improve and to grow and to become the best me that I can and I will only settle for second best when all of my sock puppets grant me permission (those sock puppets run a tight ship and leave me in a constant state of fear and with cold feet - all the freakin' time!). Writing this was not at all cathartic for me - sorry - you get what you pay for.

A Day in My Life

I have no idea what is going on.

Actually, I do know a few things. I am afraid of ducks and, only slightly less so, swans. I'm wearing brand new socks. I'm sporting newly straightened hair. And I'm on a bus right now. Not much else. While I probably should be concerned about this, I'm not. I don't know where I'm coming from or where I'm going to. But, I am enjoying the whole bus experience - trying to live in the present like that quack doctor advised me to (living in the past was getting way too expensive anyways). I am probably coming from home, but I really can't be sure. I could have gone shopping or maybe I have a job....do I have a job? Do I shop? Should I have or do either? Maybe I live on this bus? No, I probably do not live on this bus, as if I did, I would almost definitely smell worse and I smell really spectacular. I don't even want to spend one more minute contemplating the living-on-the-bus reality, although maybe in that reality I'd be taller. I have this feeling I'm on my way from something - like maybe I am running away from my fears or troubles - I've done that before and I'll do it again. Or maybe I am late on my way somewhere...or if I was late, wouldn't I take a cab?

Looking around it dawns on me that I'm currently sitting on a bus surrounded by a motley crew of weirdos. What else is new? I feel like I've been on this very bus a thousand times. Everywhere I go weird people find me. It is like my doctor implanted a homing beacon calling out to all weirdos when all I asked for was a informational pamphlet on nose bleeds. I wonder how I look to them? Do I appear weird? Are they moaning inside about having to share a bus with me? Or possibly I am the best thing that has ever happened to them as far as fellow, anonymous bus passengers go. I contemplate looking around and smiling and waving at them all, but I decide to dive back into my book. I'm currently reading the classic novel, Little Women - a moving book about...NORMAL-SIZED WOMEN!?!?!? what a misleading and ultimately disappointing title. I was highly anticipating a thrilling story about a group of crime-fighting tiny females who save humanity from extra-terrestrial gargoyle-type creatures who want to harvest our brains for sport. This book was sort of like that except more emotional moments and coming of age aspects. Today's bus riders do not disappoint - they are weird.

On my left is a guy who looks like a combination of someone who was just released from a prison for the criminally insane and someone who just finished shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond. He is either speaking to an imaginary friend trapped in the window sill or speaking to himself - I'm not sure which is better for him or for me. I try to imagine what he did to get committed and how he was able to convince them he was okay. I entertain this thought for a moment until remembering that his mental health or lack there of, is completely my invention and he could be teaching sanity lessons at the local community college. I could learn a thing or two from this living-on-the-edge sort of guy. I am spellbound by the limitless dimensions of his hair which seems to be living proof of the existence of the 24th dimension. It juts off in every direction and would be cool if he was in a boy band or just finished removing his helmet after skating on a half-pipe. My senses are confused. He looks as if he should smell horribly, but instead, I am overwhelmed with the aroma of lilacs. Lucky for him, I have a thing for lilacs. Also, lucky for him, I am not hungry for lilacs - I learned my lesson years ago in our neighbour's backyard.

I turn to my right and there is a woman who just can't stop smiling and doing everything in her power to stifle a laugh while flipping through the magazine she is reading. I'm sorry, there is no way that Cosmo is that funny - regardless of how many overly ridiculously inaccurate lists they have on how to please your man or ways to dress for summer. I mean do they actually survey real flesh-and-blood men? And are there really 99 ways to be pleased? I'm pretty sure I only have 11 and at least three of those is "feed me chocolate". Or possibly she is finding some of the airbrushed pictures particularly humourous? I like the ones where the female models appear to have naturally glossy skin that would be particularly useful if preparing for a slip n' slide. I have heard of some studies that smiling and laughing is infectious. In this case, it is having the opposite effect as I want to scream or cringe or itch something. She is smiling so widely that it is almost as if she has just been to a physiotherapist who instructed her to stretch her facial muscles daily. But, who am I to critique someone else's emotional state? I should aspire to be more like her! Why be all gloomy? Maybe I should read more Cosmo? It couldn't hurt, unless someone like me decided to rip it from my hands and hurt me with it.

In front me there is a young couple with a baby who looks about 6 days old. Why are they taking such a young child on a bus, I'm not sure? Stay at home, enjoy the peace and quiet, change a diaper or two, maybe go for a walk - don't subject the rest of us to a never-ending stream of high-pitched crying and wailing. Impressive lungs though, I have to admit, and the shade of red that her face is turning is making me hungry for my friend Emilio's tomato sauce. Coincidentally, he also screams like that while making his sauce, but usually due to the scalding (once because I "accidentally" stabbed him with a knife to proof a point...or was it to win a bet?) The couple, despite the crying child, is so much in love that I come close to suggesting they get a room, but I'm guessing, based on the baby, they already have...a few times. The baby abruptly stops crying and seems to fixate on my nose, which I have been told on multiple occasions, is quite nipple-like. My reactions to being told this range from anger to concern to curious and then back to anger again. But, it is so hard to be angry with a 6 day old cute baby even though I can tell, by it's look, that it is suggesting some sort of major reconstructive surgery for my nose. Or it is just hungry. I reconsider it's age. It is definitely not a day over eight days old, I think confidently. After a minute, I have some doubt - he may be 9 or 10 days old. Possibly he just looks young for his age.

And behind me are a couple of teenagers whining and complaining about how horrible their lives are. They are taking turns describing the depths of their sorrow and pain and suffering and it actually works out perfectly as it gives me an unforeseen opportunity to mentally rehearse my infinitely sad violin concerto that I've been composing for moments exactly like this. According to them, no one understands these teens (or buys them anything), but I think I do and I'm tempted to stand up and verbally shake some sense into them or orally smack them silly or just buy them a non-fat ice cream cone possibly filled with low-fat ice cream - I just need them to be quiet as they are reminding me too vividly of my own teenage angst which bled into my early twenties angst which led to my late twenties angst which naturally led to that job at the post office. Surprisingly delivering and sorting mail was the cure for my angst and I briefly debate suggesting this to these forlorn teens only to reconsider when they are hit by a fit of the giggles that surprisingly causes me more concern than the angst. Uncontrollable giggles should make me smile, but instead it makes me yawn as I am really really tired, plus the exact pitch of their high-pitched giggles makes me yearn for dog treats for some reason beyond my comprehension. Fortunately, I am carrying an unopened bag of dog treats. I divert my attention elsewhere before they start to notice my calculated stares and either contemplate reporting me or, even worse, start talking to me. The last thing I need is to be tricked into giggling right now. Not on this bus.

I still wasn't totally sure what I was doing on the bus. I was tired and wondered if I could use that to my advantage somehow or at least not have it be the reason for being taken advantage of for a change. Why was I so tired? Why did I feel like I hadn't slept at all in a long time? As I pondered those questions, I itched my nose, scratched my head and stretched and then did the same three things in opposite order for symmetry sake. Then I had to fight the urge to try them all at the same time, which I am pretty sure would have not only worked but may have inspired others to try as well. And then we could have broke out into a well-choreographed song and dance number. But, I quickly decided against it as I am sure I wouldn't have been cast as the lead and I'm tired. Also, I recently made the mistake of being asymmetrical and I am working on that. How long have I been riding this bus? How long will I stay on? At some point, I thought, I should rise with confidence and get off the bus, just so no one else clues into my lack of awareness and direction. I could write a book about my lack of awareness and direction, let me tell you. If I wrote a book every time I thought about writing a book, I'd have written a couple of books by now. Maybe I should do it now? Or just get off the bus already? As I alternatively psyche myself up into making the move and fighting the temptation, I notice the ads on the bus above the windows.

Usually I sit on the bus and am oblivious to these ads, and sometimes I rant and rave in message boards online about bus ads and how they are contributing towards the moral decaying of society. For fun, I often select a random message board -those ladies on that quilting forum must have been taken by surprise. But today I focus in on these ads and maybe it's my mood, but they really get me thinking and questioning myself and how I am living my life. Do I want a new cell phone? Especially one that comes with a plan, and not just any plan, an amazing plan that doesn't outwardly state, but seems to implicitly imply, that it will significantly improve my life, especially in my ability to text more frequently and get more data. I knew something was missing in my life - was it more texting? Perhaps, but I was leaning towards just needing more fiber. Too bad texting isn't also good for digestive health. And what could I do with all of that data! The possibilities are endless and I honestly don't know what any of them are. Will I need a bigger house! Can I still hang out at the coffee shop drinking tea? Should I say goodbye to my old friends who are definitely not big data users? Should I buy a parrot? (actually I have always wanted a parrot and just thought this would be a great time to ask) Previously, I was fairly sure I didn't want or need a new phone, but this highly glossy sign on the bus with its neon colours and large size 120 font letters is fairly convincing. I feel oddly drawn to the sign and decide after some thought, that maybe it is the actual sign that I want and not the phone. I wonder where I can buy a copy of this gloriously aggressive sign.

Then I notice another ad trying to convince the observer to attend the local community college. The two students (or actors posing as students as they look a little too "student-ish" in my mind to be actual students) are seen sitting in the library "studying" and have the two biggest, happiest smiles that are humanly possible. Now, I haven't studied at that college or sat in their library myself, but there is no way they are having that much fun at that library studying. What did the director of that shot want to convey? That students studying at that college are over-the-moon happy all the time especially when studying at the library? And that, if I was to go there, it would lift me out of my sad-sack life and give me a new found optimism and a sense of humour? And what are they studying? History? Not too many laugh-out-loud moments there. Medicine? Possibly they are overjoyed with all of the money they will make one day. Or maybe she just told him a funny joke, maybe something a bit risque or overly high-brow. Maybe, just maybe, they tried a photo of them displaying other emotions like fear ("so, school is scary like I thought" people may say before running away and joining the armed forces), anxious ("if these students, the leaders of tomorrow, are that worried and stressed, I shouldn't be relaxing on my sofa right now" people may say before looking into the logistics of cryogenic freezing), glum ("nothing annoys me more and makes me more angry than young, attractive people in ads looking sad" people may say before storming the campus with flaming torches, yelling angry slogans, attempting to rid the city of the institutions of higher learning that cloud us from the truth starting first with the libraries) or staring straight at the camera with an ultra-serious look ("are you looking at me? Oh, it's on!" people would say before making idle threats that they were in no position to issue, especially when you consider that they were speaking to a two-dimensional advertisement that was in no position to defend itself). Regardless, I am too busy and still scarred from my previous school experience - nobody warned me that universities didn't have playgrounds. But, I will store this info away, if I am in the neighbourhood and what a little emotional pick-me-up, I know where to go.

The rest of the ads are all public service announcements reminding me not to litter, vandalize, ride without paying or smoke. "Thanks mom", I mutter to myself, all of a sudden,.missing my mother even though, ironically she was a habitual litterer, a constant threat to vandalize, addicted to free rides and, although she was highly sensitive to smoke, she smoked like a chimney - taking huge massive inhalations followed by an endless stream of ash and soot. People would always tell her she was doing it wrong and that she shouldn't get so dirty from smoking, and she mostly ignored them and continued on her life work, a musical based on the unabridged dictionary. She didn't seem to enjoy smoking or any of its perks - like the incessant coughing, the perpetually raspy voice and having a built-in excuse to take multiple long breaks at work. I always felt that her smoking was merely a result of her confusingly strong attachment to both cylinders and fire. I spent a lot of time at grandma and grandpa's farm growing up and if I heard the story about how mom vigorously hated squares and rhombuses once, I heard it a thousand times. She was raised to love only three-dimensional shapes and had such a hard time deciding between a sphere ("kind of a like a ball, in many ways...actually, how are they different?", she always remarked about spheres, especially when I was playing with a bouncy ball, which oddly was slightly oblong-shaped due to her leaving cartons of cigarettes pressed on top of it much of the time), a cylinder ("nothing like a long, slim, filtered cylinder to start the day off with" she would say at breakfast) and the lesser-known dodecahedron ("so many angles, so many sides, I could just sit here and get lost in your sides" she whispered to her purple 20-sided Dungeons and Dragons' die the morning that father left with his girlfriend. Father drew the line at 10-sided shapes - who could blame him?). And fire? Mom was so caveman-like in her love for fire. She once spanked me for acting slightly nonchalant about fires and demanded a near-round-the-clock fire-appreciation mindset. That was so tough to keep up, but I tried. I tried for mom. Good old chain-smoking, cylindrical-focused, fire-fiendish mom. She was my mom, and we were always pretty concerned about her.

Abruptly, I stand making an unnecessarily big production out of it drawing the attention of a number of other passengers. Their focus on me is fleeting. Once they see that I am not going to break into song, ask for money or attack them (you always have to be on guard for those solo-belting, currency-focussed, knife-wielding maniacs on our city's buses) they go back to what they are doing (probably plotting their own plans to either sing, ask for money or attack the others). Why did I stand? Am I leaving this rectangular, metal "home" that seems to be rocketing towards some unknown destination that was not of my choosing? I want to leave, but the doors seem really far away. After a moment standing there, I realize that the far away doors are actually quite far away, but they aren't the doors on this bus, instead they are the doors to an apartment building across the street - I have always been confusing doors in my life - an odd, and ultimately quite debilitating problem. I pause, standing there, contemplating my next move. Do I sit again? No! That would be announcing my submission, my defeat, my clear need to add more squats to my currently non-existent work-out routine. Do I commence a yoga-like stretching routine? I mean I do need to stretch right now and I recall the advice from my counsellor - "live in the present". I was never quite sure what she meant and I should have asked if I was giving off the impression that I was living in the past due to my wearing an outfit from another time complete with a hat with adorned with a beautiful feather. I want to stretch very badly - check that - I yearn to stretch, but I don't. Maybe stretching is exactly what "they" want me to do. (my counsellor also wants me to stop worrying about these other people I always refer to as "they", for many reasons - "they" may have really peculiar tastes, "they" may not have my best interests at heart, "they" may not actually care nor exist - I have an inkling that she is trying to push me towards realizing the latter, but I am just not ready to take that step in my therapy, mostly because I like my therapist and am trying to see her more often. Not to ask her out, but to slowly try to reverse our roles so that one day, seamlessly, I can become her therapist and she, my patient, and then I will push her towards asking me out. I haven't decided if I will say yes). I decide to leave. Yes! I want to leave and leave I will. Then I wonder how I should approach the rear doors - confidently? (could be a good call - it would give the illusion that I know where I am going not just now, but in life) - non-confidently? (would be hard to display this and have it appear different from hesitatingly and I just don't feel like appearing hesitatingly any more today) Since I am unsure how to proceed, but am certain I need to leave immediately, I get up and race towards the doors and trip on the top step which catapults me into the air end-over-end. I'm not sure how this happened, but I ended up completing two complete flips and sticking my landing causing the entire bus and all of the pedestrian on the street to break out into a standing ovation. While I enjoyed their applause, I quickly started to worry about next time as it would be really hard to match or surpass that.

I walk a few blocks receiving tons of high fives and slaps on the back along the way. Finally I find some peace and quiet and sit on a park bench next to a busy tennis court where a dad is trying to teach his young girls to play tennis. In the part of the lesson I am watching they are learning how to make bone-rattling grunts and how to incorporate gymnastic-style tumbling maneuvers into their tennis game. I feel that this dad is either a crackpot or on to something, but I can't decide so to take mind off the tennis I take out a small handheld mirror I always carry with me in my bag and look at myself (an overly macho friend once commented that this mirror is so small, it is really a compact and that maybe I "needed a purse" to carry it in, so I went out the next day and bought a purse and he hasn't talked to me since). I love looking at my reflection in the mirror and could do so for hours almost as if attempting to memorize the size and placement of each freckle (and possibly naming them much as stars have been named by astronomers - the big one near by right shoulder I always wanted to call  "Cancer", but was talked out of it by my overly cautious dermatologist who thought that the name was tempting fate a little too much, so I settled on "Benign Tumor", which he liked slightly more). I tried to limit my self mirror watching to my home as doing so publicly is generally frowned upon for reasons I've never been sure about. Is it because it is "nicer" to look at others? Or possibly I'm supposed to share my mirror with all of the sad sacks around me who either don't own their own mirrors or are just very forgetful? Or maybe my looking into the mirror makes it seem that I "love" myself and that I should be more "normal" and less "strange". "Thanks Ms. Pinter" I always say whenever I think those thoughts in my head, which is strange because the actual Ms. Pinter was my grade 5 teacher who taught every lesson  looking into a large mirror instead of directly facing us students, which meant that we learned from the reflection of Ms. Pinter who I had a massive crush on (I was often a bit confused if I preferred her right side to her left side and which side that actually was seeing as it was her reflection). Oddly, my school-boy crush didn't extend to the actual Ms. Pinter. Her reflection helped me so much that year - I have been looking for a motivating, attractive reflection to fill that void ever since.

I also love playing facial games in the mirror. My favourite, by far, was exercising my eyebrows, an exhausting, hilarious way to waste away the afternoon which had the upside of utilizing my Grouch Marx-sized eyebrows that I super-glued to my face and  making my forehead quite a bit more muscular and strong which could come in handy one day. I prided myself upon being ready for just about any situation and having a stronger than average face seemed to be a good idea - I mean it couldn't hurt unless a situation called for a weak face. I'd like to have a face that can not only withstand all types of weather and being tar and feathered (I know this doesn't come up much and may not even be used any more) but can also be that face that can adorn posters and pamphlets and help the masses see that there is so much to live for and that there is good in the world and maybe, just maybe, my face could inspire and motivate people to exercise their faces as well (could be some money in this for me).

The park I was in was very serene and I was taking huge, deep breaths of the fresh air which caused the person sitting three benches away to get up and leave - it wasn't as if I was trying to use all of the air or anything! Weirdo! My goal this week is attempting to be kinder to people. I have a weekly goal and spend Sunday evenings either with a huge celebration or a few hours of constant berating and humiliation based on how I have done in regards to the previous week's goal. In anticipation of the celebration I bake an elaborate cake adorned with motivational slogans. In the event I succeed with accomplishing my weekly goal, I sit down to a huge plate of congratulatory cake and if I am not able to succeed, I end up crying profusely, all the while mashing the cake with my fists. Since success feels so much better than failure, you would think I'd steer away from hard to achieve goals and settle on super simple ones, but I don't. I learned that the hard way. It was only Wednesday, and I hadn't done a great job so far, so I decided then and there to stand on the street corner smiling, waving and saying whatever kind thing first popped into my head about the stranger (in some cases this was hard as the first five to ten random thoughts were definitely NOT kind and had to be discarded or saved in case a future goal involved being unkind to people). Being kind to strangers feels good inside and after a few hours of this I was both exhausted (that was a lot of smiling) and much happier. "I am a good person" I thought and wished my ex-girlfriend who always claimed that I was "such a loser" could be here right now, so I could stick this in her face for old times-sake.

The whole goal setting thing came about mostly out of boredom and wanting to avenge the tragic death of my pet mouse (at first he seemed to be enjoying the boat ride in the toilet) and the death of my second pet mouse who sat too close to the fireplace (actually, I sort of "threw" him in when he wouldn't share his cheese tray that was WAY too much cheese for him to eat by himself anyways. I did feel horrible about it, but also kind of justified as sharing was explicitly stated as the number one rule in the house when he first came home from the pet store) and the demise of pet mouse number three who "somehow" ended up in my famous chicken noodle soup when my parents came to visit (the story goes like this - I promised my parents that I would make the soup that they loved and then realized I didn't quite have enough chicken and was just too lazy to go tot the store to buy some more. Look, I'm not happy about it either and if there is such a thing as mouse-hell, I know I'm heading there someday). I also thought that the setting of goals "sounded good" in nearly any social setting and if nothing else may help me find a few more people to help me in times of need (not sure how those two dots are connected, but next time I am trapped at the bottom of the well - don't ask, it's happened a number of times - maybe one of those people exposed to my goal setting may happen to wonder by and either take pity or randomly decide to help - you just never know).

I walk all the way home mostly to avoid a repeat of the morning's experience on the bus. I alternate between walking very slowly and speed walking depending on what song is playing. Then the music shifts abruptly to classical and I start to "dance" my way home like I am at a grand ball. One particularly long song with a very slow, meandering opening that is building towards the "meat" of the song comes on and I decide to sit cross-legged on the sidewalk until the tempo picks up. A guy across the street sees me and comes over and sits next to me. I'm not sure why - maybe he is listening to the same song? Or perhaps he thinks I'm protesting something and wants to join in for the cause? Has a couple of screws loose? I momentarily close my eyes and upon opening them there is a long line of people sitting on the sidewalk with me and this guy. I want to ask questions and then I notice that they are all very attractive. Like really attractive. So much so that I feel like I am hogging up all of the ugly, again. After a few minutes sitting in silence with all of these beautiful strangers wondering what we should do together (tag? a choreographed dance number? cheer-leading?) a huge gust of wind blows by and I find myself alone again. Did that actually happen? Were those people actually here a minute ago and gone the next? Maybe I missed an ice cream truck a block away that they all ran off to? Or possibly they all jumped really high when I looked and they landed and then ran off after I looked away. Maybe they suddenly became two-dimensional? Can that actually happen? Or possibly I'm still on the bus. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten those five long-expired yogurts this morning as I had given in to my odd craving for bacteria. But hey, at least this hallucination didn't try to steal my pants.

I arrive at my house and sit on the steps.

As I breath in and out, I contemplate the complexities of life.

It is fairly clear - I have no idea what is going on.

If It Walks Like A Duck...

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. Or quite possibly a small person dressed in a duck suit or a family pet encouraged to act duck-like or get flushed. Or a highly trained and camouflaged marsupial who has infiltrated the duck ranks, learned to waddle and quack without drawing any attention to itself, with the intent to take the ducks down from the inside. Not likely I know, just saying that it is possible and that you would benefit, in my opinion, from expanding your what-could-pass-as-a-duck framework.

If I say Bert is my friend then he is my friend no matter how imaginary your team of doctors and other mental health professionals say he is. And I don't care if the "putting a hat on his head experiment" resulted in a huge pile of feathered hats on the floor or not - that could mean lots of things....like maybe Bert has a particularly slippery head of hair, which could be solved by using a new anti-greasy shampoo. I know, I know that is my answer to everything.

If it looks like a corporate takeover and it feels like a corporate takeover, then chances are you haven't been doing your job and have been too busy checking out the classified ads looking for rare Japanese songbirds. You are so unfocused you wouldn't know a corporate takeover if it hit you in the face. Oh, and by the way, your services are no longer required here. Enjoy the songbird search.

If it looks like butter and it tastes like butter, then it must be butter! And if it ain't butter, but I can still cover myself with it and go sliding around on my belly on my hardwood floors to my hearts's desire then you don't see this guy complaining.

If it looks like an oasis and you are in the dessert and starting to hallucinate due to an extreme thirst and you are starting to see a whole collection of white-clothed men and their camels starting to perform incredibly choreographed numbers from West Side Story, then who am I to tell you it is a mirage. Drink away!

If it looks like a plate of noodles and tastes like a plate of noodles, it is probably a plate of noodles, although these days they are most likely not your grandfather's noodles (but it is probably still your grandfather's discoloured, chipped plate - buy some new plates, cheapo!). Nope, those noodles you just ate were made of either brown rice, quinoa, corn, spelt or some mix of the above. I guess the terrorists have won.

If I act like I own the place and I talk like I own the place could you at least allow me to pretend that I actually do own the place especially when my parents are visiting in June? I've kind of, sort of been telling them that I do own the place and they will probably arrive here expecting me to own the place most likely as a result of all of the photo-shopped photos I've sent them and the multiple t-shirts I made up saying things like "My son - the owner of the place", "My son, we've never been so contingently proud of him" and "My son is no longer a huge disappointment to us, at least for now - it is all dependent on us seeing some actual proof when we visit him in June." (I know, I know kind of long for a printed message on a t-shirt and maybe it smacks of me trying to hard, but I think they bought it).

If people collect it like it is great art and they are willing to pay tons of money for it, it must be great art, no matter how ugly, confusing and gaudy it may appear to you. You are clearly not that cultured and would it hurt you to visit the art gallery once and a while so you could stop embarrassing us with your lack of culture? And by "us", I mean "me". I am embarrassed daily by your lack of culture. And would it hurt to change your shirt from time to time as well?

If I decide to sing everything I say today as if I were in an opera and it sounds like an opera to my tone-deaf ears, then it is a opera. Either that, or just one really long, meandering song. Regardless, my two wishes for today are coming true - people are leaving me alone (I had a horrible sleep last night) and I am shattering wine glasses (I have plans to buy all of my friends new wine glasses for Christmas).

If it looks like a cow and produces milk like a cow, then it must be a cow. I can't tell you what it means, if it also says "oink". It just doesn't make any sense at all. Maybe some pigs decided to teach the cow to "speak" another language or possibly a few pigs made a cow suit and are hiding inside to scare the farmer or possibly the cow took part in a farm-animal exchange program where a young cow and young pig switch homes for a while. Another explanation is that it was a pig all along and you shouldn't be trusted with differentiating between various farm animals and the sounds they do or do not make or anything else of high importance as well.

If I move my hips and swing my arms and I call it dancing then it must be dancing no matter how much it reminds you of a dying swan.

If I cross my Ts like a mass-murderer and I loop my Ls like a mass murderer, I still don't care what your slew of handwriting experts say - I didn't do it! I know the evidence seems to point to my guilt, but in the end you will see that I am also the victim here. On the night in question I just happened to be running around the abandoned rose garden brandishing my pruning shears with my face covered in shaving cream after eating a delicious beet salad albeit very messily wearing my mother's Hawaiian dress. That's weird to you? Listen - I don't come to your house and question your gardening skills, methods of grooming, choice of healthy salads and why you have kept your mother's really old and horribly out-of-style Hawaiian dress, let alone your sanity, so why are you doing it to me? I understand that my writing is pretty strange and worrisome - I get that, I do. I remember my grade two teacher screamed and retreated to the corner the first time she saw me use cursive writing (she also cursed whenever I screamed and retreated to the corner, but that is story for another day), and I also get that the evidence is piled up against me, but what I don't get is how one becomes a handwriting expert. Really, I'm just saying that it seems like a cool profession and I have no idea how someone gets into that line of work. Do they go to college? Maybe something offered online? Maybe through a series of audio tapes? I'm just saying if I am somehow found innocent, I could be interested.

If he looks like a tall drink of water and is cool like a tall drink of water, that is all well and good, but stop trying to drink him or lick what you think is condensation off of his arms (it actually is condensation which raises a whole series of questions about him and what he is up to, but this isn't about him right now)- it is just so weird and off-putting. No wonder you are still single and dehydrated all of the time.

If it beeps like a phone and rings like a phone then it must be phone. What is that you say? Your friend Fiona also beeps and rings? Sorry, what? Are you telling me that all this time when I thought I was ordering pizza, texting my girlfriend and playing games I was actually just touching Fiona? I like to think outside the box and all, but this is fairly strange and it doesn't even make sense on a number of levels. Stop asking so many questions and "answer" Fiona's ring? I'm outta here. Can I have my phone back?

If it feels like a rich self-created fantasy land full of friendly witches, trolls with hearts of gold and unicorns and the fantasy land not only doesn't disappear when I pinch myself but continues to grow more interesting and compelling as I venture into the forest on my silver steed, then stop trying to wake me up! Isn't it abundantly clear that I'm happier here?

If it feels like the end stop questioning things, it is the end. Yeesh, what is with you people always over-thinking things and analyzing every little tidbit?...Oh yeah, that's me.

Why Did We Leave Our Banjos At Home?

We are on a beautiful and relaxing walk in the nearby forest.
You comment that in many ways we are very similar to the trees that surround us.
I have to fight back the overwhelming desire to push you down and yell "timber".
You reveal that in moments of frustration you want to metaphorically chop me into kindling.

We are in our backyard on a beautiful summer's day doing some weeding in the garden.
I remark that in another life we could have been cute little puppy dogs.
You laugh and start to bark loudly, which is funny initially and then considerably less funny when it passes the 10 minute mark.
I finally get you to stop by smothering your face with long, deliberate, yet frisky licks.

We are preparing an amazing brunch, with you scrambling the eggs as I am toasting the bread.
You indicate that in a certain light we could pass for human-sized jars of dill pickles.
I am not sure how to take this but I instinctively turn my hat around and around trying to tighten it so you can't try to reach inside.

You wait until I am asleep before filling my water glass on my nightstand with a mix of vinegar, water, dill, garlic and salt and then placing my hand in it to begin the pickling process.

We are boarding a bus headed for Mexico.
I think that with the proper head wear we could easily pass for monarchs.
You turn slowly and regally towards me and silently indicate that you expect me to kiss your shoe.
I turn on my smart phone and start researching methods of regicide.

We are searching for wild rabbits to feed, all-the-while clutching pieces of carrots and celery in our hands.

You tell me all about an idea for a science fiction novel you thought of where large, dinosaur-sized bunnies try to feed wild humans scraps of vegetables.

I am quite surprised both by the thoughts in your head and also that I nearly dislocated my eyebrows as a result of those thoughts.

You stand there for a few moments, bemused by my reaction, before slapping me silly with a stalk of limp celery.

We are spending a rainy Saturday afternoon eating popcorn and watching movies.

I murmur to myself that I wish it was a sunny Wednesday and that we were eating peanuts and watching a magic show.

You bite your tongue to stop from saying something insensitive, after debating biting my tongue instead.

It is moments like this that make me wish you were a rubber tree and I was a plantation worker needing to extract your valuable rubber latex.

We have decided to repaint all of the rooms in our house.

You strike a particularly intimidating pose while wielding a brush.

I shrink away from you scared in equal parts by the pose and the brush itself.

To lighten the mood you shave off my carefully groomed and highly restrained mustache and delicately paint on an elaborately comical one in its place.

We are instituting new rules around the house that more closely agree with the laws of physics.

I wish that we could somehow bend the laws to make us significantly more attractive.
You make plans to cover yourself completely in magnetic tape.
I decide to carefully arrange the multiple prisms I have on hand to attempt to refract you.

We accidentally purchased 50 pounds of apples at the local farmer's market as we thought we saw a decimal that was just a pit.
You suggest that we bake a huge apple pie and, after it cools down, we hide in it and freak out your sister.
I get a horrible headache after 30 minutes of attempting a look that combines squinting, furrowing, and lip pursing all the while peeling apples for this pie.
In the end, you change your idea to just giving her a card and out of frustration I dump 20 pounds of peeled, cored and sliced apples on you, but decide to take the cinnamon and brown sugar home with me to use next time.

We are playfully playing tag in our bare feet on the sand at the beach.
I yell out to you that I love you despite the sheer amount of seaweed caked to your back.
You stop playing tag, cease smiling, slowly peel away the seaweed never once breaking eye contact with me.
Why did we leave our banjos at home?