An interesting, exciting new method of stress relief.

Agressive Urination (aka "Infurination")

Most people aim for the upper region of the bowl. It's a proven fact. It's quiet, discreet, and politically correct. However, when you're really stressed, nothing feels better than an agressive piss. Shoot for the water. Bounce it off the rim so it sprays all over the walls. If you're really stressed, and not in a public bathroom, yell at the pee. Make it your bitch.Take out all of that internal rage with the power of your urethra. A good, well excecuted angry pee, can satisfy even the most stressed out person. Don't have a penis? Worry not! If you're a girl, "touch your toes and see where it goes!".

GODDAMN that felt good!

Pretty sure...

I'd fuck anything with a vagina and a British accent.

Reflection time

Today, I became disgusted with myself.

Not because I forced myself to open all the windows in the work van after letting out a silent (but very deadly) fart, and not because I laughed when a girl crossing the street tripped on the curb and fell into a snowbank. No, these are acceptable flaws I've found within myself.

I am disgusted because today I ordered an extra large Tim Hortons coffee. To add to this, I also verbally confirmed my order, when asked "are you sure you want an extra large?". It was no accident. I actually felt I needed half a gallon of coffee. It was $2.00. *For those unaware, Tim Hortons has increased the size of it's "Extra Large" coffee from 20 oz. to 24 oz.*

I know right?

As I drove along, gulping down my porno-sized coffee, I suddenly realized how much of a fucking douchebag I was. There is absolutely zero need for that much coffee. Ever. In fact, even a large (the old large, current medium) is pushing it. This is coming from an avid coffee enthusiast, who at times, would drink in excess of five large coffees a day. Those days are long gone - primarily due to the effects it had on my digestive system - but I still love(d) my coffee.

As I finished off the last few sips, I started thinking about all the excessive shit I consume. WE consume, as a nation. It made me feel sick just thinking about it. At that point, the girl fell into the curb and I laughed for a good solid 5 minutes, and then lost my train of thought.

This concludes my blog post.

I'm an asshole.

That's right. I'm an asshole.

I've been told this 4 separate times in the past week, and you know, I'm actually starting to believe it. It's kind of like if people kept telling you that you were a cat, you'd eventually start believing it. First you'd start kneading the bed before you slept, and the next thing you know, you'd be swatting at your friends for attention, chasing small dangly mouse-like toys, and talking in the third person (it's safe to assume that because of their narcissistic nature, if able to speak, cats would speak in the third person.)


Here's an example:

*DISCLAIMER* Since blogging about this situation could potentially land me in some trouble, I've decided to omit/edit certain details to protect the identity of those involved, and to disguise the actual activity... poorly


Baking a cake with Sally 

SO me and my pal Sally decided that we should get together, and do some good old fashioned baking. I go over, we chill for a bit, pound back a bottle of wine, and throw down... some ingredients on the kitchen counter. I start to preheat the oven, and things get rolling. Next thing you know, we're in full on baking mode. Now, Sally makes some pretty weird faces when she's baking, and quite frankly they scare the shit out of me. So, when Sally noticed that I could not make eye contact with her, she inquired why. Being the honest, open person I am, and also being slightly intoxicated, I informed her that she looked *MILDLY* retarded. Bam. I'm an asshole, and me and Sally don't bake anymore.

Clean, wholesome baking. 

But here's the thing - I'm actually okay with being an "asshole". You see, people tend to group a whole bunch of qualities together to form the stereotype of an asshole. Qualities that, on their own, aren't actually that bad at all. I mean, yeah I may lack a situational buffer in my honesty, but what can ya do. In my four situations, I was called an asshole, or the accusation of being an asshole was inferred, exclusively because of the accusers perceptions and obvious psychological ailments. Truthfully, in all situations, I was just being an honest guy.

Thoughts on life

Let me begin by saying in no way am I an expert on life, or even a remotely good source of life advice. This one is going to be a bit philosophical, even "deep" if you want to go that far. Just a warning.

Life is like a spiralling roller coaster with a Boeing jet engine strapped to the back and a blind deaf quadriplegic at the helm. Nothing stops this monstrous fuckrocket from moving, despite how unfair you proclaim it to be.

This time last year, I lived a completely different life. Literally everything has changed in one short year, and I've come full circle in my outlook and overall mentality. January 2011, I had a full-time, well paying job, steady girlfriend, secure financial situation, and a thriving social life. Life was good, I would even call it spanky. Spanky is a good word. It sits in between fantastic and un-fucking real.

Suddenly, without any warning, during the summer shit got real. In a matter of 3 months I went from living a peaceful, promising life, with my free time consumed with exciting events and activities, to finding my nights consisting of sitting in my boxers on a shitty ikea futon 200kms from home in a mediocre apartment watching re-runs of friends and eating salad bowls of raisin bran.

This sad, comical life continued for several months, before one night I took a look at myself, covered in bran flakes giggling at Ross' uncomfortable quips, and I realised three things:

1. If left alone, this comical life would continue into my forty's.

2. The cold hard cock of life was dry fucking the shit out of me.

3. There are serious repercussions to eating obscene amounts of bran.

At that moment, I decided to turn shit around. It worked, surprisingly.

Now, here's where shit gets real. I'm sure you've heard people tell you "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." I'm here to tell you that's a fucking lie. Making lemonade will do nothing for you. Nobody even likes lemonade anymore, unless it's got vodka in it. You've gotta go further with it.

Lets see if you can make sense of the following metaphor:

Here's what you've gotta do. Take those lemons that life gives you, grind them up, and make them into muffins. Put some poppyseeds on them too (I had a lemon muffin with poppyseeds on it once and I literally figuratively blacked out in a fit of joy). Take the muffins, make a nice decorative basket for them, and take them with you to your car. Drive to the closest forest. Take the muffin basket, and swiftly punt it directly at the forest critters. Get back in your car, and back over a raccoon, just for effect.

What am I getting at here? It's really quite simple. One hour after reading this post, on your way to get a lemon poppyseed muffin, you could be struck by a dump truck. Clean out of nowhere, BAM. Dead. You could alternatively eat the muffin, choke on it, and die. You could be in the lineup at starbucks, in the middle of ordering your lemon poppyseed muffin, and drop dead from a brain aneurysm.

Point being, there's nothing you can do about life's curve balls. You can't change things out of your control, and giving any bit of a fuck about them is a waste of time. If life drops a giant rapist grizzly bear with a lust for sodomy in your way, you take a detour. Go around the fucking bear.

GO AROUND THE FUCKING BEAR.

At any given point, our time can end. Stop wasting time worrying about the small stuff, and stop letting the big stuff hold you back.

I'm done.

Buenos Dias

Happy New Year.

I realize my postings have been rather sporadic, I haven't had very much to write about, and when I do have something to write about, I'm too busy living it. Ya dig?

I promise I'll try to try harder this year.