It Can't be THAT Hard

My personal life experiences are somewhat interesting. I'm a cancer survivor. I've never broken a bone, but I've been dropped, fallen from heights and been hit by dropped and falling objects more times than I can count. This includes and is not limited to actual trees that were once standing moments before -- but that's neither here nor there. I've been to Afghanistan, deployed to active operations with the Canadian Military where I got to experience firsthand what true combat is. I've seen people die with my own eyes, how horrible death can be.

What's more is that I've fulfilled jobs with bosses that should be placed into mental institutions for how neurotic they are. I've had neighbors that had bedbug infestations and thought it'd be cool to try and spread the love. Currently, I'm almost literally stranded due to flooding with the possibility of a water boil advisory. I haven't lost power, nor been evacuated. I'm one of the lucky ones.

What does this all have to do with anything? Well, that's where the amusing thing starts. Well, at least, I find it amusing. In the most ironic sense of the word there could ever be, that is. You know that moment, when someone complains about having broken a nail? How about how you may have had to do dishes that one night? You're a teen and you were grounded and now can't go to that super-cool-awesome party. I've had to listen to kids complain ad nauseum about such things, as if the fate of their life hinges upon this one event. As though, in that moment, the decision was made as to whether or not they'd be rich, famous, beautiful, save the princess, yank the sword from the stone, conquer a nation and raise an army. No, you aren't that special, your day wasn't that hard, and just because your feet hurt and you're tired doesn't make you a superhero. Leave that to the people who actually do things and get shit done.

So I'm at work and some kid is complaining that they have to work tonight but they want to be at a party and if only their FOUR HOUR SHIFT wasn't so long. Then I laugh, because my worst day was forty hours long with no sleep -- nevermind that when this conversation is happening I'm pulling in an extra four hours of overtime. Yeah, the kids life is hard. Or even an adult is relating how their life is ruined because of the most innocuous thing. Ruined, truly? I know a man who died after a machine gun he was reloading was hit by a rocket causing it to cave in his chest killing him instantly. I don't think the word means what you think it means. Life ruined? This man is considered a hero. What have you done today?

But I suppose it may be relational. After all, experience dictates what a person might think of as the most horrible thing to ever happen in their short, silly, retarded and worthless life. I mean, what do I know? I'm just a guy surviving despite all the things that get thrown at him. Now if you'll excuse, I need to get some sleep because unlike little children, I get up in the morning with the sun for work. Because that's what real men do.

Get Out of the Way

Oh, I had a bit of an adventure today. Earlier today. In a parking lot. I was at the point where I was actively thinking of getting into a fist fight with several people. One of which was an old man. A couple were women. And I would not have felt ashamed to have lain them up on the ground like bruised and beaten fucktards. I went to a book fair today. It's a yearly thing, and I go because it's an excellent opportunity to find rare and extremely old books. I managed to get a couple, one from the 1930's while the other is from 1880's.

Anyway, I went out to my truck to find that, after being there for two hours, the parking lot is now packed. People are desperately looking for parking spaces. And, when it is seen that I'm moving toward one with the possibility of vacating it, cars start to follow me.

So, I'm in my truck, start it up. A vehicle is waiting for me to pull out. No big deal, so I start to back out. Only, on my left a white car pulls up, blocking my ability to reverse out with a turn (backing up straight would plow me into the car directly behind and waiting to take this spot -- and there's another car behind him off to the side a bit watching me like a vulture with intent). I am effectively boxed it.

I pull forward back into the parking spot in rage that people would move their vehicles in such a way as to obstruct me in their attempt to take my spot. So, I put the truck in park and shut it off. I actually opened the door, expecting to get out and start shit. The door was open when the SUV that had been directly behind me moved into position to block the white car. I restarted my truck and reversed straight to where he had been, letting him take my spot. Seeing this, the white car (with the old man) began to get angry. Fuck him. The other SUV wasn't too pleased, either. I was still boxed in, though.

Pulling forward, behind the SUV that had just taken my spot, I intended to wait until these two idiots had moved out of the way so I could leave the parking lot. Only a van, complete with driver who wasn't paying attention at all, was beginning to back up and would have smashed into my truck had I not honked my horn. I gave that driver, another wonderful man, the most severe look I could muster that probably suggested I would go Mortal Kombat on him and remove his spine via his mouth and beat him to death with it like a whip.

That driver stopped. It took a minute for these two drives in the vehicles behind me to get the clue that, no, there wasn't an available spot and to move on because I wouldn't (and couldn't) be moving until they did. I got out of the parking lot consumed in my typical rage wondering what the fuck is wrong with drivers and why they can't have common sense.

So yeah, that was my day yesterday.

You Can't Win

Liberal, Conservative, Communist, Nazi. See what I did there? It's the standard dichotomy between the two political sides. One side calls the other stupid and the other side mirrors it, both not seeing their own stupidity or how they're being manipulated by the media in the echo chamber (rights for rights and lefts for lefts). How is it that I'm no longer allowed a voice, and am told that I should go die, because my views differ from the other side? And it doesn't matter which side you're on, either. It's heated, almost a warzone (to which I'm surprised it hasn't devolved into one). If you're pro-choice, you're a murderer. If you're against abortion, you're a backwards thinking neanderthal who is against woman's rights to choose. Dissension to a party line even if you don't fully support it is tantamount to putting yourself up on a cross and waiting for the people around you to throw stones. There's talk about free speech on both sides of the line, but differing points of view are wrong and need to be stamped out before they create another communist or fascist regime.

How did we even get this far, anyway? It's like the parties themselves happily cause these shifts in the population. It's like they want class warfare and racism and the problems brought about by such in order for government to step in to solve it all. Because that's what big daddy government and big mommy government do, they solve problems for the children instead of us figuring things out on the lowest level and keeping them out of our lives and out of our businesses. Government doesn't believe we're intelligent people -- they view us for the stupid quivering masses that we are. Easily manipulated by the media systems that have no integrity that report for their side. Giant propaganda machines. We are living in Orwells world, it just isn't quite how Orwell thought it would be.

A people divided from within. A nation divided from within. And we are ripe for our destruction and reintroduction into the new machine that's waiting

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 4)

It was a rather green Christmas where I was. What little snow had come melted. At best, maybe a week of cold and then it was gone in the wind. Literally. Lots of wind, hustling and bustling through the city, keening away. People complained about the wind until it stopped and the cold came back. Then they'd complain about the cold and the wind, hearing them, would swoop back in and gush about energetically. Either form of temperature was disturbing. The subs and pluses.

But I was going to my parents for Christmas, where there would be snow. Lots of it. All white, fluffy, adorable stuff. Throw it at people, laugh, eat a white orb in the face moving at significant velocity . . . okay, not so enjoyable, but you get the picture.

This of course involves an eight hour drive through a wonderful mountain pass. A pass that features blizzard conditions, blowing snow, black ice, compact snow, slippery sections and tailgaters with no sense. You can already see the horrible shenanigans taking place, like retarded ballerinas on ice. Just twirling, twirling into tomorrow. The future. And ruining your present. Of the literal, figurative and ideological sense.

Somewhere off in the middle of no where, between a town of little significance and a town of greater significance as a tourist destination for skiing, I found myself driving slow. Not as slow as I could have been traveling (or as slow as I wanted to be traveling to ensure personal safety). To wit, three vehicles trailed behind me, and while I was assuming a speed somewhere around the seventy kilometer per hour range, I began the hazardous attempt of braking in order to slow myself further.

This in itself was probably the thing that made my life a victim of happenstance moreso than the moment of the tires of my truck coming into contact with the slicker icy surface mere meters beyond the point of my braking. My truck began to slide, following the leftward contour of the road to extremes, the front end beginning to position itself for a head-on collision with the snow (and guard rail) on the opposite side of the road.

As it stands, I'm not sure if what I did was smart or stupid. Perhaps it lessened what could have been catastrophic damage to being merely cosmetic. I jacked the wheel as hard and fast to the right as I could while feathering the accelerator. This caused my truck to slew to the right, missing the opposite side of the road (and all it entailed) to instead rotate my truck one hundred and eighty degrees so I was now facing the direction I had been coming along.

Of course, the three hangers-on that had been following me passed me by. It being the eve of the few days before Christmas, their own familial traditions probably weighing heavily upon their minds, any for of Good Samaritan service would be a preclude to wastefulness of their time and proclivities.

My truck continued its slewing, skating on the surface to the point where the drivers side (occupied by myself) initiated contact with the snowbank. The truck rolled upward, the momentum carrying it. There was a brief moment as I looked to my left over the edge of the snowbank and . . . down. Down. An embankment of perhaps a good fifty feet, probably more. I was on the precipice, and in the back of my mind a small voice said, ironically, not again (a story for another time, perhaps).

However, the moment passed, and the angels reeled in their line pulling my truck back onto its four wheels. No smoke, no fumes, nothing but the purr of the engine. My head rotates to the right, and my sister is sitting stock still in her seat, eyes perhaps a little wider than necessary to perceive the world about her. At this point I placed my vehicle into four wheel drive (a trait I am most thankful for), and placed it into reverse. Three more cars passed, along with an ambulance.

A three point turn and turned-on hazard lights later, I find myself outside my truck inspecting the damage and thanking God for the skid plates under my truck (it's designed for off-roading, you see) that protected the undercarriage from damage. I drove the rest of the way to my parents house at a more subdued speed, but safely.

My truck is still running without fault to this day.

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 3)

Packing. Boxes. Totes. Clothes stuffed into bags, garbage and otherwise. Sealed up tighter than a . . . well I won't finish that analogy. Derailed. Denied. But I am approaching the horizon, the epoch of a long journey in an ever expanding storyline of anger, frustration, hated, ignorance (certainly no bliss to be found here, so move along), spite, apathy. The adjectives march by like a parade, I will assure you.

Anyway, there is the packing. It has to be done. All in the timespan of a day, two maybe? No, a day and a half, or was it half a day? It was furious, and while I found myself furious, fuming like a titillating teapot on an ancient stove demanding attention like an attention whore bound by her own impulses, I also found within myself a strange nerve. And it had been struck. Oh, by golly.

Turning to a roommate of mine, I approached with a singular question: do you want to move?

A shrug, a face, a twisting of features into a "don't know" and also a possible "don't care." But as we were jamming more items into small spaces as to make clowns with small cars envious. A website with pictures was found denoting a possible new place of residence. It didn't take long to sway either myself or the other roommates to move. It was easier to move (we were already packed!) then stay and live outside a box while our stuff was interned within.

A call went out, dialed into my aging, dying obsolete phone. An archaic thing with an answering machine! A cry in the dark, screaming in the wind, carried off to who knows where. And my plea was heard... eventually. But we're coming up on Christmas soon, too. And there's still a whole slew of other nuances yet to take place . . .

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 2)

There is a knock upon my door. A knock-knocking of poignant importance. My seat is left with a flurry and spins in my absence as I abscond to the top of the stairs, leaning over to peer down and through the window. Another knock upon my door, a knock-tap-knock. Impatient, insufferable, intolerant persons upon my step are gathered like a storm that hasn't properly visited this winter.

Dejectedly, muted as a TV in the throes of more important (if not insipid) conversation, I descend like a mongrel king to the entrance, and upon disengaging the lock of the door, divulge the outer frame by removal of the same. It swings inward, chilly autumn-like air pooling at my feel. Little gremlins stealing my heat. Two women, bundled against the cold, eye me. Blue eyes and brown eyes.

They hand me a piece of paper, speaking as they divest themselves of whatever this solemn duty is. Apparently, my abode is to be screened for bedbugs.

My face falls, a warrior atop a ridge shot in silhouette and left to tumble down in crimson, furiously clinging to a wound and life. A victim of happenstance. Questions begin to roll out my mouth, unabetted regurgitation of demands for information. At first, shy and coy glances are spent between blue and brown. Oh, but they can't! But they shouldn't! But they couldn't! But they will. And the tale, loathsome as it is, is unfurled before my glazed over eyes.

It begins innocently enough. New neighbors. Only it is what they've brought with them that horrifies, shocks and bedazzles the mind. An infestation of bedbugs. But they didn't, nay wouldn't, tell anyone of their pet problem. Instead, they horde the little beasts in the confines of their beds, feeding them at night on a strict diet of human blood. But a problem arises. Some of the minuscule pests jump ship, clambering through a wall into an adjacent townhouse . . . upon which the renter made complaint.

Obviously, there was an investigation of all the attached units, to ensure that the problem hadn't spread further along. And then they realize who had started it: three families, all of Indian origin (from the country of the same name) and who were now tracking that very vile parasite between three different blocks of townhouses, one of which was my own. They were living next door.

Everything had to be packed up. Furniture pulled away from walls, dishes boxed up, clothes into totes and plastic bags to protect them from the pests, although they first having to be laundered in boiling hot water and died in the dryer at the highest temperature for a minimum of forty minutes. So much work for the inspection. The end result I already knew -- I didn't have an infestation.

This, however, leads to a new whole series of adventures...

The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 1)

Where to begin, where to begin. A statement, not a question, because there is no question inasmuch as to the fact that things have indeed happened to me. The percolation of non-thoughts, for I can't say I have truly been thinking, and deeds, for they are actions in name alone, of a morbidly malcontent societal zombie has broken down the tirade dams erected against the brazen beast of a supposed civilized world.

Too much, no enough, and somewhere in-between. Like the pivotal point of a movie plot, the highest moment where heroes become truly heroic and demons and villains become their most disturbing incarnations of the apathetic beast. I sit in a kind of limbo, only now having sinned and eaten of the fruit and seen truth, but I can't call it wisdom, for to admit to myself any form of wisdom would be deceitful, and only cause to stand out the lark that is my own true retardation.

I think, if anything, I should throw back the clock into the previous era of months past. That being September of a year now currently disassociating itself from the current year. Roughly in this stretch, I began to receive mail from a government I probably elected, but through shenanigans, the bureaucratic behemoth has become another malcontent and is in itself seeking debtors, even those not indebted to the system. Or at least, believed not to be indebted to the system.

The letter, THE LETTER, held in my grubby hands and torn into like a starving child in Africa, was government issue. Obviously of importance. I remember checking the mail on a lunch break while I was home, making lunch itself. A good day was destroyed in that instant. Oh, but it was. It proclaimed in not-too-subtle language that I owed to the government a large sum of money, and that if I did not reproduce these misplaced funds owing, would find myself at the pointy end of litigation. The thoughts that began to fester in my mind at this point were cancerous at worst.

Returning to work, I found myself relating my new conundrum with coworkers. Oh, how this must be wrong. I had yet to file taxes for the current province of residence, so my address should have technically been somewhere else, but no, the government had in a moment of putrid, blindingly-bright epiphany, found me. Upon returning home, I seized upon the phone. A conqueror taking what he felt he owed.

I called the various revenue agencies within Canada. Two numbers. When passing on my personal information, they assured me that I didn't owe a single cent to the government. This was good. But still, the lingering poison of doubt left its presence upon me. In fact, one of the agencies even said that this might be the possibility of being fraud! Indulgent to this thought, I left it as is. A month passed until September became October. The day before I left for my folks place, a rainy day, my phone rang and I answered.

It was a woman. A Christine, if memory serves. She alleged that she worked with the CRA, or Canada Revenue Agency, and that once she had my name, wanted to know if I had the sum owed to the government. I, at this point, held my temper. Barely. Fraught with an internal rage burning brightly, eyes I'm sure glimmering with the utmost vengeance to be sworn upon this rabid, spiteful harlot and her ilk, her kin, her children and grandchildren whom I would consume in fire for centuries. But none of this was elucidated from my lips. Instead, a pointed remark: "I don't owe the government anything."

There was of course very pointed confusion on her end. Obviously this was not the remark she wanted, and she asked, nay, demanded clarification on my part as to the how's and why's that would come about such an outcome as me not actually owing money to the giant tentacle monster poised atop Parliament Hill. I clarified: "I've already contacted the CRA and they assure me that I don't owe any money. In fact, your timeline for past infractions as to my indebtedness to the government via lack of payment is indeed fraudulent at best, as in your earliest indication of slipping to pay taxes, I was still in highschool."

Oh, but now she is doubly confused. This isn't right. Her data is wrong. She begins to say that, no, it can't be wrong, because she FEELS it is right. I again reiterate my point, even going so far as to give my birthdate for clarification. I can feel the heat of a light shining through the receiver on my phone, the kind of giant spotlights used in prisons to find prisoners. She asks me for a specific point of information, and after a moment of thought, I give in.

The sorries begin to gush, the dam broken and the watery equivalent of apologetic-ese, a disease suffered by many North Americans, asserts itself. It's so her fault, and she is so very, very sorry. The person they are looking for has my name (except my middle name), once had my home phone number (two years before), and even lived at my residence! (again, within the previous two years). The coincidence of this and the magnitude of likelihood of this happening are exponential as if to be impossible.

I got to my parents house very thankful that Thanksgiving.

Time Well Spent

It's dawning outside, a sun rising. I see only blackness and find myself nodding off intermittently. Wakefulness is fleeting, grasped barely and holding only the constant thrum of a diesel engine. The vehicle quakes slightly with each turn, each pothole, the rise and ebb of the inline-eight cylinder providing a lullaby.

Cool air sifts in through the sentry hatch while the orange fireballs of lit cigarettes explode into life before sullenly dying out.

Eventually, a lurch, a stop. The ramp drops and darkness still shrouds, save for the stars muffled by early morning clouds. They linger, grasping at a sky soon to banish them. I find myself left behind with a few others. Rotation, he says. I'll get my chance. Chance at what?

Sleep lulls me back. I fight for wakefulness. It's a battle I lose again and again until a slam on the hatch.

My first intake of breath is of the sight of a sun rising into the almost-crisp morning air. Mud walls rise all about. The road is hardpack, well worn from years of use and an unforgiving sun. But my first sight truly isn't the landscape. Before me lays the wreckage of another vehicle, flipped onto a side with fenders missing, tires incognito and a hole in the ground deep enough to have needed an excavator to make.

I'm told where to go. Cradling my rifle, I walk. Already, the heat is starting to become unbearable. It's not even seven in the morning. The locals are coming in force, too. I find myself cursing at them. It appears to be the only language they understand. "Get the fuck back", "Fuck off" -- they're my call words, my watch words, the only saving grace lent to me in a hostile nation. They work, but only when applied with conviction, with faith. My conviction, like my faith so early in my tour, is lacking.

It works, for a time at least.

But like the waves of an ocean, they are always pressing in only to ebb. Then they press on, trying to pass me. They make hand gestures, as though this would make me understand that they're on a tight time schedule and this is the only route they can take to get from A to B.

Hours pass by. Hours of sun, of heat, of locals staring at me. I am an animal in a zoo with no walls, an attraction. They have come to see the Canadian in tan, pretending to be a man. I stare back from behind tinted ballistic sunglasses, swearing, cursing, dehydrated...

Time spent in the LAV in air conditioning guzzling water is well spent but short lived. By three in the afternoon, we finally leave. Nothing happens beyond the IED site. It has barely been a week, but already my hate for a country I know little about is growing...

A Toast

Two people have stood by me for a long time. The first I realized as a friend long ago and have built up a lasting friendship with him over the decade-plus that I've known him. The second I've known longer, and although I call him friend now, the realization of that moment came much later, but is still no less poignant.

There have been ups and downs, moments of gratitude and indignation, arguments and debates, kind words and curse words. Through all this, I would like to think that it's all been for something and that I'm closer to these two people despite my own inadequacies and failings. This is for them:

KJ & KS.

Inspiration, conscience, better half, friend.

Nothing But the Truth

As I sit hear, musing to myself with a rum and coke in hand, I'm thinking. The aforementioned asshole really wasn't blazing a brand new trail with me. No, all his behavior had already been initiated with someone else previous to my escapade with his shitpump-style fucktard antics. About two and a half months ago, I decided to contact my ex-roommates old roommate and ask some very pointed questions. I got answers, and the sad thing was that it didn't prove to be a surprise at all.

I guess trouble first started shortly after we got our internet hooked up. [He] started spending more and more time online, and we rarely saw him outside of his room. I know that he was late a handful of times for work in April, and called in sick once, But he was good for his rent and bills. As far as chores went, none of us were very regular about getting them done, but J. and I were the only ones doing them by this point. He also failed to pitch in for groceries, ever. More on that later.

Wow, I'm already seeing the pattern here. It took me about three-quarters of a month to get internet hooked up at my own place. While I do enjoy it, it never once was a major priority, like working and a job were. But the jerkwad always complained about the lack of internet, citing that it was I who was suffering withdrawal from it. Right... But wait, there's more!

In May he missed the phone bill, and that's when I started to suspect that he had been fired or quit his job at Boston Pizza's. Never did find out which it was, but [he] remained steadfast in his lie that he did have a job until I called the place pretending to be looking for him, then he changed his story to that he quit and was looking for work. (I realize that by now I should have realized that something was up, but that's another story.)

This happened a lot. In fact, I'm fairly certain he had something like ten jobs. Ten fucking jobs! He's had more jobs in an eight month span than I have in my entire working career (mine being at seven jobs total for my entire working career, starting at thirteen and going onto the present). So, you can utterly describe this shit-tard as one of those people you see and wonder how the fuck it is that they have a job, only you find out they've been fired later on. He's got zero work ethic. But I guess I should just follow up with the rest of what my ex-roommates own ex-roomie has to say on the subject, all of it in its glory:

Things really heated up in June when he missed that month's rent. I was gathering up the rent on the first as I knew our landlord would be by to pick it up, he told me that she had said she wouldn't be by until tomorrow to pick it up. When she showed up a few hours later, he said his wallet had been lost or stolen. When we questioned what the square thing in his pocket was, he told us it was a book. (Again, more red flags, in retrospect I was rather naive to not see all of this unfolding.) Our landlord allowed him to pay his rent with next month's rent.

Our Landlord was going on vacation at the end of the month, and instead of fussing around with all that, we offered to pay July's rent early. [He] was leaving for a trip [back home] shortly before the due date, so I pressed him to see if he'd taken care of the rent owing, "It's been dealt with," was his response, and trusting him, I left it at that. I found out on the collection day from [the landlord] that no, he hadn't paid a penny of the money owing. With him absent, there was little we could do about it, and [our landlord] decided to allow him yet another extension, with interest this time. He was to pay all money owing for rent on July 10th.

I questioned him on the tenth to see if he'd paid it, he tried to shrug it off by saying "it had been taken care of." As I was slowly smartening up, I pressed him further, to which he said he'd "left a cheque in the mailbox." I left it at that as it was late, and phoned to verify the next day. Big surprise, no he hadn't left a cheque, and the landlord's husband had been around twice and called several more times with no answer. (I know that [he] was the only one home that day and he almost certainly -was- home.)

That being the last straw, I told [him] if he wanted to stay, he had better pay up what he owed by the end of the month. His parents came and moved him one day a couple weeks later while I was at work. He moved back [home] and lived with his parents for a while. I attempted, through Emails, World of Warcraft, and phone calls to get a hold of him in order to try and get him to pay up. Eventually I just gave up.

Throughout this entire time, he only ever once pitched in for groceries once, he rarely helped out with any of the few chores we had around the house, and I rarely, very rarely, saw him outside of his room unless he heard us cooking dinner, then he might come out to grab a bite.

All in all, he left us pretty well screwed, much of the damage might have been avoided if I hadn't been in the mindset that "I've known him since high school, and while he's an ass, he wouldn't stab us in the back like this." I've given up on him and ever seeing that money he owes us, though I'd probably be interested in getting back in touch with him if I thought he would pay up.

So, yeah, he's done it again. Same bullshit shenanigans, lies and craptacular antics as befit a grown-man-baby. But I guess I should also note that about a month, maybe two months in, my sister and I were talking about getting a second cat. Well, we didn't, but he did. The end result was that this cat had to be taken to the SPCA because he didn't, and wouldn't, take care of it or put in the iota of effort necessary to train it. I found it under a laundry hamper with a blanket overtop and a kettle weight on top to hold the animal in place while he was out. This happened probably on a number of occasions. His excuse when I asked him about this? His cat needed a time out... A several fucking hour time out.

Well, thankfully, he's gone. His cat is in a better place, but still -- thanks for the good times, the bad times and the really bad times. I don't think I could put it as succinctly or even better than A.Y., "I've known him since high school, and while he's an ass, he wouldn't stab us in the back like this."

Dispassionately Displeased

When I was a teen, I babysat. Didn't do it a lot, but I did it. Sometimes it could be a fun experience if the kids were great, sometimes not. But at the end of the night when the folks come home, I'd get paid for my time and it wouldn't be so bad. Well, I just spent eight months babysitting a grown-man-baby who's idea of cleaning isn't cleaning, regardless of the task (dishes, vacuuming, moping, sweeping, etc) and that his idea of cooking isn't, well, cooking (putting item, usually a full package of bacon or an entire pound of ground beef into a pan, turning it on the highest setting and walking away for fifteen minutes then coming back to eat the entire thing). You see, I was inundated with a indolent, irresponsible, immature, lazy and otherwise useless human being who decided that shackling himself to his computer to play WoW on end was a better pursuit of his time than holding down a job for longer than a month and a half.

Oh, and there were the jobs. So many of them. In the first couple months, after he had transitioned through three jobs and I approached him on the subject, he said he was keeping his options open. Keeping his fucking options open about a job? You're supposed to hold it down, not fucking let it fly away. Nope, all his jobs just up and vanished like a grain of sand in the wind. And now? Now I'm getting his tax forms from those jobs, all mailed to my address since he's moved on and I'll get an inkling of just how many jobs he went through. My own rough estimate is ten, but hey, could be more.

So, not only was he useless in the house, but also useless in the workforce. His passion was World of Warcraft. I would become annoyed as I would wake up in the middle of the night hearing him talk to his "friends" and guildmates over his headset at two or three or four in the morning. He had no life. In the entire time he was here, he made no friends. Left the house when he worked (that is, when he actually had a job), but otherwise solicited no outside interference into his life and his WoW-time.

There is also the fact that his room smelled something awful. I remember elucidating to a friend that it smelled of a small child murdered and left to rot in his closet. He asked me how I would know what death smelled like. I think I know, having been overseas and seen and smelled it all firsthand. Rank. His room smelled disgusting. Even now, after a couple days of letting it air out, it still permeates like a musk, like some kind of feral animal marking territory in the most instinctual method.

As I remarked to my sister who had accompanied me on this escapade, it "isn't that he can't, but that he won't, and then that he can't," meaning that what he did do was so horribly done that it would have to be re-done anyway by someone else with an inkling of what was necessary. Apparently he never learned that you should do something right the first time unless you like to repeat tasks again and again until failure was met with success. Nope. Just lots and lots of failure. Rank, sad failure.

However, I'm neglecting to mention the times he shorted me for rent or bills. While I did get the money, it was an eventuality that should never have occurred. He paid for food once (out of three people), and put in another hundred and fifty. When we (my sister and I) began to pressure him for money to buy food, he posted on Facebook how he could survive on less than what we were asking of him on a bi-weekly basis. Fed up, I told him that evening he didn't owe money for food, but would be buying his own from that moment forward. I saw him eat three times in four weeks (when he deigned to leave his room).

But the man in question, the ex-roommate, and most assuredly an ex-friend (because honestly, if you find yourself lying to someone continuously, shorting him, owing him money, are you truly a friend or just a selfish child looking for handouts? I'm sorry, I'm not the nanny state giving handouts through welfare) has left. And when he did, he took the things that meant something to him: his cloths and his computer. He left behind a bed, a broken desk, a busted down computer chair (destroyed beneath the girth of his WoW addiction, and more) and a bunch of other things. Now, I could try and sells these, but I already know that he had tried to sell them because he was so strapped for cash. I, however much an asshole people thing I may be, will be sending these artifacts of a inhuman creature back to his mother. She can figure out what to do with them, because I don't want to handle them.

The expression that these past eight months have personified all of my hate would be an understatement. The initial bliss of moving was far overshadowed by the callous, uncaring and sadistic nature of a man who would go out of his way to stab someone in the back because he couldn't even begin to be bothered to care, as was wont of his selfish nature. But, he's gone. And all I'm left with is a thousand-dollar I.O.U. from him. Thanks for fucking nothing.

EDIT: The bastard in question is known as Tier Bladesinger from Veterans.

In Memory

Talking with a friend of mine, he made the comment that I intentionally block out a number of various memories. That my memory, as it stands, isn't the greatest, and I'll admit, at times it isn't. But for the things I choose to remember, it can be fairly sharp. But, as he was saying, I should stop blocking out specific parts of my life because I don't like them. He may be right, may be wrong. But his prodding of me to utilize my memory fully and not indulge in the action of blocking or repressing things that have happened brought about a very painful moment in my life, one that erupted to the surface rather blatantly, and for the past couple weeks, I've been unable to push back beneath the surface. So, with that...

---

I'm running. We're all running. I'm energetic, watchful. My head snaps this way and that, looking, scanning. The packed dirt walls towering on either side cast shadows in the sun. Alleys that were full of children are empty as the scattered shots of weapons ring out. My mind is drawn to the fact that at a distance, it sounds like popcorn going off. Past a gap in the wall and then a second. I take up a position along it, looking into the field. Shadows flirt in the treeline and I fire. Suppressive fire, shooting at the points where muzzle flash breaks the darkness of their hideout.

I don't hear the call I'm so enamored of what it is that I'm doing. Aiming, firing, reloading, watching. Then I hear it, my name, being called. They want me because I have the combat stretcher. I ask where, get told, and begin to run. Back through the gaps, the heat of the sun and the peppering of dust flickering into the air as rounds lash against my bootheels. But I'm not thinking about that.

There he is, lying face up. The captain.

I begin to take the stretcher off. My sergeant is there, yelling at me. I'm numb. He's been shot around the neck, but not much blood. But he's unconscious. My rifle, my sergeant asks, where is it? I look at another man, also there. He has it, had taken it off me when he handed me his machine gun because he was a back-up medic. I shrug, tell my sergeant what's up, and pick up the captains rifle.

Life his body onto the stretcher. Radio in for the truck to come pick us up at the intersection. Have to move. Lift and carry. Back through the gaps, a body on a combat stretcher while dust is scattered up all about me as I run with three others to safety from bullets erupting all around me. Now I'm afraid as I raise my captains rifle one armed to shoot back into the field. I don't care where I'm aiming, because I can't aim. I just want them to keep their heads down, because if someone is going to take a bullet, it'll be me on the outside.

And through the second gap, still walking at a quick clip. My adrenaline is fading, being replaced by the empty pit in my stomach. His body gets loaded and I turn to a wall, pumping rounds down range. Anger is surging. Finally, I get tapped -- time to move. Time to run. I begin to run. It's not too far back to the COP. Two hundred meters and I'm home. Home. But there are figures on rooftops, firing. I'm firing, blindly. They're dropping, dead or for cover, I don't know. I don't care. I'm still shooting and reloading. My life depends on it. Others lives depend on it. I'm near the back of the first section moving in.

And I'm gasping for air like I can't breath when I finally return to the outpost, gulping at air like I'm drowning.

Swimming in a world of oxygen unable to breath, hyperventilating, listening to the medics as they attempt to keep him alive, listening to the gunfire receding in the distance as we mortar the fuck out of the enemy. And my arms go slack and I can't even hold my gun, and my legs are screaming, and my eyes are watering, and I can't breath. I'm gulping, but I can't breath. And I look over, and there's blood. Everywhere, there's blood. Soaking into the sand, the stretcher. It's everywhere and I can't look away, but I have to.

Sand I'll be digging up with a shovel and putting into a garbage bag.

And the choppers won't be here for fifteen minutes. Meanwhile I'm on the wall, lungs screaming for air they can't have, body aching for rest it won't see for months, and a yearning for a silence that won't happen. And I'm aiming down the sight of a weapon that isn't mine looking for enemies I can no longer see as they retreat. And I look down at my watch and it's only past nine in the morning. We'd been fighting for hours. Since seven. And everything feels like a there's a finality to...something. An eventuality that I will see but wish I wouldn't. He's dead...

Tigers in My Pants

I've been telling this tale a lot lately to co-workers, but I don't think I've intimated this tale to any of my readership (if I have one), so here it is.

It starts in the year 2006 when I was doing my Basic Training, well on my way to being an actual military member. I was in my cubicle (we lived in these 9 by 9 foot boxes strung along a circular (kinda) corridor similar in design to a prison) minding my own business when a guy comes along and says to me, "Hey, Carey, you wanna put some Tiger Balm on your nuts?"

I look up at him.

"Do I look stupid to you?"

"Maybe."

"No. Are you going around asking everyone that?"

He just shrugs, walks over to the next cubicle and says, "Hey, Cloutier, want to put Tiger Balm on your nuts?"

"Fuck off!"

So, he continues on down the line. Eventually, as I sit polishing my boots, I begin to hear this high pitched screaming. He found a guy. The screaming gets louder as the guy in question rounds the corner wearing his boxes, holding his balls and screaming. Felix. Not the brightest guy and now he's hurting for that lack of intelligence.

I hear someone yell, "Hey, Felix, put water on it! It'll cool it down!"

All I can think is "Oh no. Oh fuck no."

You see, if you know any form of chemistry, often times water acts as a catalyst, speeds up the reaction. So, Felix, taking this ill-intended advice, runs into the washroom. And the screaming rising an octave or so. I could not believe it. He comes whipping out of the bathroom, face red, eyes watering, balls being crushed in a vice-grip with wet boxers and then a loud shout pierces the halls: "GROUP!"

When an NCO comes onto the floor, the first person to see the NCO must come to attention and yell group alerting all persons that the NCO is present and that they too must come to attention. So, the NCO comes around the corner and sees Felix standing there, fidgeting at attention, jerking up and down like he's having a seizure while standing up.

"What the fuck is your fucking problem, troop?"

"I- I- I- h-have T-t-t-tiger B-balm on m-muh-my nuts, S-s-uh-sergeant."

At that point all of us begin to snicker, holding in laughter. The NCO looks around, eyes scanning above the cubicle walls at everyone standing at attention. I can only imagine what was going through his mind as Felix stood there fidgeting with Tiger Balm on his balls, but he said after a short pause, "Carry on" before leaving the floor.

Felix slumped into a pile, shiver and shaking as he cried for his pain. So, remember, if someone asks if you want to put Tiger Balm, or Icy Hot (a later incident involved this to much the same development), just say no and save yourself the pain.

My Day Was Good

Lies and slander.

I started my morning pissed off the moment I walked in the door at work. I was told by the only other person in the store, who showed up about ten minutes before me (myself already ten minutes early) that the truck I was arriving before 5 AM to unload would be thirty to forty-five minutes late. The reality was that the truck was an hour late. This meant I had to find things to do before the truck showed up... But that wasn't hard when I soon discovered that the garbage compactor bin that was supposed to be re-delivered to the store last night at 4 PM hadn't shown up.

So, all the departments in the store, with all the common sense of a mole with its head bashed in by a mace, thought it'd be hilariously funny to dump their garbage at the farthest end of the store, the receiving bay, so as only stink up that area and effectively blocking off the area.

Well, now I've got to clean up the garbage from multiple departments and pile it onto pallets to get it out of the way for when the truck actually, FINALLY, shows up. My milk order showed up before my actual, true order shows up. So, I've at least got something to do at 5:30 other than paperwork after cleaning up the trash.

When I finally get the order offloaded, more than an hour behind schedule of where I actually should be at, I find out that I've been shorted a number of necessary items. So, not only is the truck late, the bin not there, a mess in my receiving bay -- I don't have all the items I had ordered to plug holes in shelves and there's a head office tour coming on Thursday.

My day was great. What about yours?

Eight Hours

Imagine yourself in a car traveling down a highway at 90 kilometers an hour. Now imagine that, while you could be actually doing that speed, or even faster, you can't, because the moron in the vehicle in front of you brakes for every turn, even on a straight stretch, because they've never driven through a mountain pass.

I did such a thing. I drove yesterday, for eight hours, and spent roughly four of those hours raging behind novice drivers who were given a permit to operate a vehicle who have no idea how to actually drive for the conditions that exist.

Congratulations, you passed! Here's your license, not go pretend you actually know how to drive by pretending you're a grandmother in a Studebaker going 30kph instead of the posted 100kph. Oh, and upon realizing that there's cars backed up behind you because you're going so damn slow, slow down more!

I wish I could install spikes into my truck and get a permit to ram people who drive like retards.

The Post Mortem of Bliss

So, I forgot to do something. I forgot to talk about the events directly after my move. My parents helped me, they hauled one trailer, I the other. It was quick, and by the second of June my folks had left. Well, the power went out for us that night...and no one else. There was a limiter placed on the power because the previous tenants had failed to pay their utilities bill. We were paying for that... But that got fixed the next morning.

For the first couple weeks, out of myself and my two roomies, I was the only one with a job, so inherently, I got to pay for everything. That's balanced out now (kinda). Then there was the fact that I didn't get a landline (phone) until the 17th of June and didn't get internet until the 25th of June. I had signed up for both on the 2nd of June. That's...way to long to wait for either.

Never mind me attempting to get my license changed over (and needing a bill for that, which I had to wait until near the end of the month to get) or that I get to play taxi as I'm the only person with a vehicle and a license to drive it. Still waiting on my two roommates to get bus passes. At least one of them has a bike.

And my job? I get to deliver stuff to people who are, quick seriously, crazy. Or just straight up odd. Very, very odd. But, it'll be fun.

Delivering News

So, I moved...and I've started working. I work as a delivery driver, primarily. A fancy title comes along with it. I've been working even though the store isn't officially open. And in that time, I've done two deliveries. The first one was just a TV, nothing special. The second...well. My second delivery was two children's bedroom sets -- one white, one dark. It was while I was setting up the white one up stairs that my tale begins.

There was a small child, a girl of perhaps four years. She was jumping about the room excited to watch as I set up her new bedroom set. As I'm attaching the headboard to the bedrails, I begin to talk to her:

"Excited to be getting your new bed?"

"YES!"

"You like the color white, or the other color downstairs?"

"White is my favorite color."

"So what do you think of the dresser? Pretty cool, eh?"

"It's awesome!"

"I've got some pretty cool furniture myself. My dad and I built it."

"What's your daddy's name?"

It is at this point that I should have clued in and shut up. But I didn't. To me, it was a harmless question by a four year old. So I told her my dad's name and asked her what her father's name was. This was the response:

"I don't know my daddy's name."

Oh... But, she followed up with:

"I'll go ask!"

Then I hear from the bedroom:

"Mom, what's my daddy's name?"

A moment later, she returns to say:

"My daddy's name is Bob!"

Yeah. Note to self, to mention anything about parents. Could be a touchy subject. Especially, as I found out, if the woman has had five kids from five different men. Bad indeed. As an aside, though, I'll have another post up in the future about what's been going on in the past month.

The Addendum to Bliss

So, there are events that I failed to mention in the previous post that happened. On the 1st of April, I put the check for my monthly rent in the box where all the building tenants put their checks. Sealed away in an envelope including what apartment number I am, etc. Well, I included with it a written note informing my landlady about my intention to move out, but that, barring complete catastrophe of events, would be leaving. I did make light of the fact that I was expecting failure, and that I would give her more information as I had it, such as if I were to be leaving fo' sho'.

My landlady, in her infinite wisdom, took that as gospel, and even though I said that it would be likely that I might not be leaving, she began taking orders on my apartment. I was unaware of this, and of course when the job fell through and the housing plan fell apart and my life appeared to be in a downward spiral, I had my roommate call and tell the landlady that, in fact, no, we wouldn't be moving. I hadn't given proper written notice to move, but a written notice of a plan to move barring failure of certain parties that I had vested interest in. Yeah.

Well, I got a lovely phone call from my landlady -- she was going to kick me out of my apartment on the 30th, regardless, because other people had lined up to take my apartment and were under the assumption they would inherit it from me and my roommate for possession on the 1st of May. Oh my. Oh deary me. So, not only did I lose my job in the town I wanted to, I was having to ask for my current job back from my employer, did not have a housing option even available in the town I wanted, and was looking at getting kicked out of my apartment. So, I went from having a job and home to having no job and most likely no home. Definitely steps in the correct direction.

Well, my boss offered to take me back. The landlady, after some discussion offer to put me and my roommate up in a one-bedroom apartment in the building that was open. So, we'd be getting kicked out earlier. But, I wouldn't be jobless and homeless, so, looking up. But, I've discovered a trait I have -- when it comes to survival, I'm extremely lucky. I may not come out ahead, but I'm never at a complete loss.

On the appointed date when I was to be kicked from my apartment with my roommate, we got a call from our landlady. The person who wanted our apartment bailed. So, end result? I still have my job and my apartment. I still want to exchange them for a job and apartment elsewhere, though. But that's a tale for later...

Life is Bliss

It's been eventful, these past few weeks. I'm not sure what's going on. Mess is the definitive answer, screwed up being the secondary answer; and, of course, there are tertiary answers that follow a similar vein in methodology. The short version? I want to move and I want a new job since the current one is in line with gouging out ones eyes with a spork. The long version, well, it's the attempt to obtain those two things, which of course leads to the answers. Mind you, the answer isn't so much an answer as a descriptor of what the true answer should be -- a tale of woe. Not really, but yeah.

It started some time ago. I decided around the turn of the year from the old to the new, more current one, that I wanted to move. While the thought had been burning a hole in the back of my head for a while, sitting and smoldering on the backburner, it didn't truly come to the forefront of thought until sometime in February. At which point I began slowly putting things together. Time passed, and as it did so, I began to make plans. Simple plans, at first, but growing more grand as time flew by with the spinning of the clocks hands in their merry-go-round fashion. However, it would be far from merry.

The first step was to decide upon a time. The time, I believe, was set in stone. Not true, but hindsight is a wonderful irony in itself. I wanted May 1st to be that day. My D-Day. My wonderful, poignant day where the culmination of my efforts would be wound into the toy monkey with cacophony, cymbals clanging away to sound off my accomplishments. But a monkey I was, led astray by a banana -- in a sense, at least. The second step, of course, was to find lodging. I began my search online, looking for houses and apartments and townhouses and all forms of roof-over-my-head places that might accommodate myself and the entourage coming with me. This is where the banana comes in: somewhere along the line, I got it in my head, like a whisper from a devil, that I should buy a house. Mind you, I began to look at this scenario, and after what seemed an eternity, the idea seemed sound. The foundation, I would later find, was not.

As all things go, there is an eventuality. I made my attempt and reached out. I went to the town, set myself up on a blind date with a Realtor, and a quick round of speed-date-resume-pushing. The results appeared wonderful, like a lab tech looking at some fungal growth. There was potential. I was offered a job, I found a house, it all looked up. Then I went to the bank and discovered my first true hitch in the plan. They wouldn't give me a mortgage. I ended up returning home, defeated, but not downtrodden. I was revising the plan with new information for a new offense. A visitation to the bank back home with my parents yielded better results. I could get the mortgage -- it would only require my parents to refinance their own home to loan me the cash. This of course set off warning bells, because now the stakes were much, much higher. Nevermind that the government had just passed into law that morning that all exchanges of land, in the form of a home, required a twenty-per-cent down payment. Ooh, big ouch.

While I was working my head around this new backhanded and tactical maneuver by some unseen enemy attempting to oppose my move, the place that had offered me the job called stating that they needed someone, and badly, and because I was not in that town and wouldn't be for four more days, I was fired, and some other twit hired. Suffice to say, my hopes were dashed like a ship on the shoals of unseen danger. But, I kept a stiff upper lip and whored out my resume online to various places that were hiring in the area I wanted to move to. I kept my fingers crossed -- and it payed off. I heard back from a couple. We set up appointments for me to drive back there to conduct interviews at appropriate times. I emailed people who were renting apartments and townhouses, as opposed to buying, and found that I would be able to set up a time to view these places.

And then the irony of the whole thing comes in: the people who offered me a job, then rescinded the offer, called me up to ask if I could work. Turned out that the person they hired to replace me was a wash-up. They wanted to know if I could work, and when. I told them that their previous call threw a wrench in my plans and that I wouldn't be back for another two weeks, but thanks anyway.

This of course brings things to the here and now. Now I'm still going for interviews in a couple days. I've still got my fingers crossed, knocking on wood, and, you know, praying a bit. Can't hurt, right? Finalized results may vary, like with drug doses, but there's always that sense of euphoria if you get it right.

Drive By

Normally my nights aren't so eventful at work. Usually, when something happens, it generally isn't that noteworthy. Tonight, however...well, it was eventful. The first thing happened as I came off my first break. A coworker was taking a Drive-Thru order. The woman wanted a steamed milk. Not difficult by any means. She wanted espresso in it. Again, no difficult, but odd, since a latte is steamed milk with espresso already in it (and is cheaper than getting a steamed milk and adding espresso). And finally, what made this whole ordeal interesting enough to contemplate -- she wanted a medium of these...in a small cup. I'm somehow supposed to jam it into a small cup. She goes on at length, no less, about how she wants this medium steamed milk -- add espresso -- in a small cup. My coworker is stumped. I had to literally tell the woman that it was technically impossible unless she somehow had a device to bend space-time to force larger objects inside smaller ones. That shut her up. A man came behind her with an order of his own, and when he got to the window, told me the woman in front of him who had made these demands was a lunatic, and that he didn't envy my job. We had a laugh.

However, this second bit to my night is what really takes the cake. About nine-thirty, a woman came through. She ordered a couple large coffees. I put them together and came to the window. Repeated the price I had on the speaker box, and then promptly felt my jaw slide open a bit.

When she came up, I noticed the woman was pretty good looking. Literally a smoking hot blonde. She had a nice pair of legs, too. In fact, I followed those legs up to where they connected with her torso only to find she wasn't wearing any pants. None. Not even any underwear. The only garment she had one was a jacket. That's it, and even that wasn't done up all the way revealing some very, very nice assets. At this point I tried my best to keep a straight face, not make comments and maintain eye contact. She was stone-faced, although blushing profusely. She paid in cash, hurriedly took her coffee and drove away. Never before have I had a woman come through Drive-Thru wearing only a jacket that came barely to her waist.

I've heard of being in a rush and forgetting your pants, but everything else? Yeah...maybe it was a dare? Either way, she was pretty cute when you look at it...all things considered. I'm gonna stop there.