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LAST FIVE ENTRIES
The Sunday Suicide Ritual - 03.19.06
somnambulism: n, Jeremy on a Sunday night - 03.13.06
careful what you wish, you may regret it... - 03.05.06
somebody gona geta hurt real bad - 02.20.06
=NOT(rain V sleet V dark of night) - 01.31.06
too much stink for an entry by a stinky white boy - (02.07.05)
While walking home from my trip downtown last Saturday (see below), I stopped off at the bank to grab some cash, since I was going to be going out for dinner after volleyball on Sunday (also, see below), and I try to keep my Interac purchases to a minimum to avoid massive service charges. After inserting my card and punching in my Secret Security Code, I asked the nice machine to tell me how much money I had in my account, so I could judge how much I was going to take out. It's an old habit of mine, and for once it paid off.
What do you do when the ATM smacks you in the face and calls you its bitch? You can't smack it back, otherwise the cops would be on you so fast the only thing you'd be smackin' would be your gums together after your cell mate Bubba punched your front teeth out. You know. For convenience.
I just stood there dumbfounded, as if Ken Jennings (who?) had just ridiculed Alex Trebek for having a dago moustache and asked for the answer to "Foreign Titties" for $700. Then, as is only logical when one finds out one has negative money, I got angry. At what, or whom, I have no idea. But I stormed out of there like a five-year-old who didn't get two chocolate bars at the grocery store, even though Billy's mom let him have two chocolate bars AND IT'S NOT FAIR AND I HATE YOU.
I must admit, the storming didn't last long, and by the end of the first block I had slowed to a normal walking pace. By the end of the second, the fire in my eyes had been extinguished, and by the end of the third I was so out of energy from holding my breath and pouting that I had to call a cab.
The first thing I did when I got home was turn the computer on, which, to be honest, is absolutely commonplace. However, as soon as it was done its 5 minutes of
As it turns out, the minus sign in my statement was no one's fault but my own, due in large part to grossly underestimating how much money I spend on seemingly trivial things. My rent and loan payments alone more than took care of my paycheque for the beginning of the month, leaving me to fend for myself on the meager savings I had accrued from the mid-month advance. Which, as you have no doubt now discerned, was not bloody enough.
Luckily enough, I have slowly been putting away small amounts of money every time I think of it, so I had $300 in my reserve savings account. That said, I was kind of hoping to use that to pay off some other money that I owe. You see, in addition to owing money to both the provincial and federal government, as well as another bank entirely, I also owe money all over town, as the kids say. Back when I was unemployed, looking for a job, and also without work (all at once, mind you), I had to borrow some money that I was hoping to never touch until, well, I don't know. I just never thought I was going to have to use it to bail my ass out of not having a job. So I was hoping to put enough money away so I could replace the money I borrowed from that account. However, in some sort of cosmic tale of irony, it would seem that I needed to use the money I was planning on using to replace the money I had to use to bail my ass out of financial trouble to...uh...bail my ass out of financial trouble. Surely there's a moral or a children's story in there, somewhere.
I mentioned that I went downtown on Saturday. This excursion could be considered special for a couple of reasons. One: I went downtown. I neee-eee-EEEEEEEEEver go downtown</Dr. Cox>. Two: I went somewhere for the specific purpose of finding someone on the street and giving them money. Sort of.
After far too much deliberation, I decided to go ahead and sponsor a child. Despite some of the weird subtlties of the arrangement that don't ring right, they aren't enough to keep me from trying at least a meager attempt at helping someone less fortunate. I complain about having -$24, but the particular young man I have decided to sponsor, Robert Ng'ambi from Malawi, probably hasn't heard of a bank account, much less overdraft. I figure, I'm barely going to notice $35/month, but if it helps this kid out, then what the hell.
The weirdest thing about the situation was that I expected to get those warm fuzzies that you get when you bestow upon a stranger a random act of kindness. Oh, who am I kidding. Y'all are a bunch of heartless, soulless bitches who would step on puppies if they weren't so damned fast. But trust me when I tell you, one can usually expect to feel good about oneself when one does a good dead. Like shit-kicking a guy who stole an old lady's purse, or flicking the ear of some shitwit on the bus who makes life hard on everyone by wearing his big, bulky backpack despite the sign explicitly stating that only shitwits wear their backpacks on the bus when it's crowded (a self-realising statement perhaps?). Yet, I never got those feelings. I never felt like "hey, I'm doing something good for once in my life." I guess maybe all of those little things I spoke of weren't enough to stop me from sponsoring, they just raised enough doubt to keep me from feeling good about it. Which is good, because feeling good about something like this that's supposed to be selfless is kind of, well, selfish. And I don't need to feel good...wait, yes. Yes I do. Because right now I feel like shit.
Segue!
Volleyball. Normally a source of joy for me, has lately become more of a downer than the first time I heard that Jennifer Connelly was married and showed no signs of leaving him for me. The Sunday previous we had some serious issues, that being I essentially kicked one of my teammates off the court for being, get this, too short. It was basically the icing on the Steaming Shit CakeTM of that weekend. But we had a bit of a talk about it afterward and it looked like we cleared things up a bit. I still felt shitty about it afterwards and, quite frankly, still do.
Then, this past Sunday we had more problems. This time it wasn't entirely my fault, though once again, being the attention whore that I am, I had to get myself smack-dab in the middle of it. Shortly after the beginning of our first match, we stopped being a team, and started being six people one a court who just happened to pass the ball to each other. Thankfully our captain had the stones to say what she thought afterwards, which was great, because despite her being a girl half my size, she's got balls way bigger than mine. I simply agreed with her. Because I'm a yes-man.
We have a practice this coming Saturday, followed by two more matches on Sunday. My hope is that the practice will allow us to play some non-competitive volleyball and remind us that the sport can actually be fun if you're concentrating on the ball instead of telling people what they're doing wrong.
Wish us luck.
Comic relief!
From the Something Awful Comedy Goldmine comes a Fake Windows Feature from mrkillboy.
I laughed so hard when I saw that.
On my way to volleyball on Sunday, my olfactory senses were literally bombarded, as if they were Canadians attending a wedding in Iraq and the stenches were US pilots going "Heh. Oops!" First, while riding the B-Line, I was treated to the freshly squeezed scent of cancer, as the asscrack who was smoking a cigarette at the bus stop (see, there I can stand 15 feet away there and not have to deal with it) decided that immediately after stomping out his smoke he would sit right beside me on the bus.
I believe the medical term is "regurgitation," and boy did I ever feel a little regurging coming on.
Imagine walking into a smoking room after a 10 hour marathon smoking session. It is absolutely mind boggling how much stink can stick to one human being, only to be almost immediately released into the surrounding area once the space has been confined. As soon as another seat opened up a short distance away I hauled ass to it, as if it held some secret Passageway to Oxygen. However, it was not enough to escape this man's wrath.
You see, before stepping on the bus, he was talking on his cell phone. Loudly, you know, like you do when you have a small penis and are trying to compensate. Mercifully, the combination of the infinite expanse of the sky, the 20 feet between us, the Broadway traffic and Chevelle were able to keep at least 80% of his decibels at bay. Even when he was standing, with his muddy shoes, on the fucking bus stop bench to see if they bus was coming. I mean, jesus. You must need a microscope to see the thing.
His penis, not the bus.
Anyway, his conversation ended shortly before boarding the bus, because I guess one needs to concentrate if one is to fill an enclosed area with the stench of death (science dorks: get it? concentrate? ha!) However, I suppose he felt like the attention on him was waning, so he flipped out the old cell phone, which flipped out of his hand and crashed on the floor. You would not believe how hard it was to keep from laughing at this moron. He picked the thing up, and, you could see the gears turning through the space between his ears, made a distinct effort to draw more eyes on him. He [successfully] flipped open his phone, called someone, and proceeded to tell whomever was on the other line, and the entirety of the double-length B-line, that he'd just won his first hand of some card game. That he had two queens, no, two tens, yeah, and then the a six and a nine came up, and he was all like "five eight, five eight!" and then it came up. He, like, totally called it. And then he went over to the roulette table and called "red 19" and it came up! But he hadn't paid the buy-in so he only got like $10, but if he'd paid the buy-in it would have been like, uh, like....$700 or something!
As fascinating as that was, my stop arrived and I booked it out of there, as I had an appointment with another episode of nasal battery.
This one started out innocent enough. I got on the SkyTrain and sat down, ready to zone out as I often do. Everything was fine until the next stop, when Potty McPotHead got on the bus with his girlfriend. I swear to your God, if my nose was any indication, that guy didn't just burn one on the way to the station, he was still burning it. He reeked so badly of pot that I wanted to ring the security alarm, since I thought I was going to get beaten down by the cops for being high.
After moving to my new seat of non-stinkiness, I veged out again. The announcement sounded "Metrotown," which somehow broke me out of my Going to Matt&Riss's Trance. I had passed my stop. Oops. Getting off that train and onto a westbound train I encountered my third and final battle of esophagus vs. lunch.
My days in Penticton brought me into contact with a number of transients, mainly people who made their way out from Quebec or some shit to pick fruit for the summer. From what I was able to determine, as part of the transient hazing ritual, they were required to obstain from any form of bathing. It seemed as though these two were a little early and in the wrong part of the province for apple pickin'. Good lord they stunk. Three weeks of wearing the same clothes to volleyball and keeping them wrapped up in a plastic bag during the week couldn't have compared me to Tweedle Stink and Tweedle Stench. I was grateful I only had to go two stations, otherwise I might have hit that security button again, due to my fear of personal safety. If Bush was seriously looking for biological weapons, all he would have had to do was pick these two up. One hour in a small, hot room with them would leave you pleading for the sweet release of Sarin gas.
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