Tell me to stay

I always do what I’m told. I’m what they call a “conformist.” I make it my goal to make sure that I don’t have anything resembling will.

Okay. That’s a lie. I don’t do what I’m told. I’m what they call an “un-conformist.” I make it my goal to never refer to myself as an anarchist, ‘cos frankly, I’m not eighteen anymore. But that’s only because I’ve been alive for twenty-two years. Yes, it’s a technicality, but I think I can get away with it.

See, I’m kinda emotionally hedonistic. Whatever feels right for the moment to say or do, I blurt it. Then I’m stuck with the consequences of my words and/or actions, doomed to sit on the sidelines and smoke, nursing my wounded… whatever that thing is that holds host to those things called “feelings.” If it’s still under warranty. Though, come to think of it I think I nulled that.

‘Cos if there’s anything I do, it’s stick to my guns. I’m a very black and white kinda guy. Not, you know, physically, ‘cos in that regard I’m so white and not “street” that my skin is almost luminous. Could be the whole “being a vampire thing,” but whatever. Anyways, black and white kinda guy. Okay, that’s another lie. But the sticking to my guns thing, not.

Maybe it’s ‘cos I find a gun that I really like and damn, the trigger is so smooth, the barrel so clean that the metal flies so straight and true that I always know that I’m gonna hit my mark. I keep the gun so clean that if a grain of sand dares to try to sully it, the grain evaporates. Or rolls off, whichever works.

And these metal bits that fly, goddamn they are hard to swallow, hard to keep track of, they move so fast they fly into the target before I even have time to blink. And it leaves me with a torn and blood stained jacket.

Disposable

Last week I killed a man. My first thought was about how I was going to get the blood off of my jacket. It’s a nice jacket, all army and green, now it’s all army and green with red on the sleeves and a rip on the arm. I think I’m going to cut the sleeves and turn it into more appropriate summer wear.

I got myself a nice replacement today. Bought a jacket at Sears. It was thirty percent off. I’m always a sucker for a good bargain. The lady at the cash was friendly but she had a fake English accent. Either that or she’d had a stroke.

But damn, this jacket, it’s got like a dozen pockets. I can now carry a bunch of shit with me that I won’t ever have a need for. Things like a charming personality and ruggedly handsome good looks. My new jacket, it’s brown and it’s warm but it breathes so I don’t have to worry about overheating, ‘cos that leads to sweating and that leads to smelling and that leads to no fun at all.

This jacket, it’s one hundred percent polyester and yet it looks like leather. Now I’m not one of those people that’s all anti-fur or anti-leather or anti-meat – ‘cos those people are retards – but I don’t see leather as practical. I mean, it swells and it cracks and it looks like shit if you step out in the rain for too long. And I love me the rain; it’s all cleanse-y and rinse-y. Very handy for getting the blood off of your hands without having to worry about touching something and leave behind some sort of forensic evidence.

Wait a sec. Did I just confess to murder? Ah well, at least I look snazzy in my new jacket.

Forgettable

Every time I log in to Blogger it tries to make me switch to the “New Blogger.” The way I freaked out when Dr Pepper did something as insignificant as changing their packaging means that the chances of my willingly changing to “New Blogger” are slim to none.

Sitting on the desk in the dim light tossed off by the monitor is a pen. Just thought I’d share. It kinda makes me want to go for a cigarette.

Smoking over the last few days hasn’t been all that enjoyable for the last week or so. Now, I’m by no means going to quit, I’ve just been congested. Phlegm has literally been falling out of my nose in liquid form. Smokes just taste off when I’m sick. Besides, it’s not all that fun to be on break and have to smoke in a smoking section that’s been covered with a shit pile of snow.

I’m [not technically] up for a “promotion” at work, which isn’t as much a promotion as it is a substantial increase in responsibility and a non-existent increase in wage. Hence the quotes. Chances are I did the air quote thing before I typed the word, ‘cos I’m, you know, retarded.

This is what happens every Christmas

At some point I start to nod off from the consumption of turkey and booze and shortly after I wake up and tell people off for no good goddamn reason.

Ah, traditions.

You can almost see my jowls, but they seem to be mostly hidden by my tie and shirt. My hair is much longer now, but it’s not Sampson long, more like Sam from Supernatural long. I can poke myself in the cornea with strands of hair if I wanted to. Which oddly enough, that actually seems to come up more than one would think.

P.S. Hi Amber.

That sick taste in my mouth

I’ve started working on this again. Even though it’s been a year since I did, I still remember where I was going with it, though I’ve pretty much completely revamped the storyline and some of the characters. I have kept the concept intact however. The entire universe is now structured, rather than me just running with a bizarre concept.

The villian is also solidified and who/what the villian is really makes me laugh.

I’m starting to look for my own place to live, because I really can’t stand living under my mother’s roof. It’s not as if I dislike her, it’s quite the opposite. It has a lot more to do with the fact that I’m 21 and I don’t want to live with my mother anymore. With I think is completely understandable.

I have magazines and everything, full of various houses/condos/apartments for rent. Most of them are in the Hamilton neck of the woods, which I really don’t get, considering the magazines are for the Niagara area. I’m also not ruling out moving to either Toronto or Vancouver in a year or so. What the future holds, I do not know and I really do not care. Whatever will be, will be. The only thing that I do know for certain right now is that I’m in love.

In love with Vodka.

I’m not wearing underpants

Instead I’m wearing pajama bottoms. They are far more comfortable and roomy. God knows I need the room.

In the last month I’ve managed to get my friends all hooked on Buffy, Angel and Arrested Development. See, I’m a good friend. I should start charging them every time I bring over a season of my DVDs. I could make a shit load of cash.

No wait, I couldn’t, ‘cos they’re as poor as I am.

It’s gotten to the point where at least one of us is humming the tune of The Final Countdown and that’s gone so far as a couple of us putting the song on our Myspace pages. It’s actually kind of scary, ‘cos every second thing we say is somehow an Arrested Development reference. It’s also kinda scary due the amount of dancing that now takes place, Will Arnett style.

G.O.B. is by far the funniest character in television history. Bar none, except maybe Lt. Castillo. That motherfucker was all about the funny.

I don’t really live here anymore

It’s come to my attention that I haven’t been wise. Specifically, I wasn’t prepared for today. See, I get cocky; all, I know everything and I’m the reason for existence. Which, is technically true, I am the reason for existence; my own. But today – holy shit – was cold.

I really should have worn an extra layer.

That’s where the cocky comes into play. At some point, everyday, I say to someone; “I’m from up north, I’ve got ice in my veins. This isn’t cold.”

Anyways, I took a test today that resulted in me finding out that I’m not autistic. Next.

Arnold Style

I think that it’s now safe to assume that I’m back in the blogosphere. Show of hands of how many people notice/care?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

I do miss the good old days of blogging though. When I’d post something and people would make some sort of a comment about it. The days before I dropped from the Earth and spent 2 years flying around the universe with Xenu, going all hydrogen bomb on various planets.

We had some good times he and I. He’s a good guy and he doesn’t need the bad rap.

On a ‘Tom Cruise isn’t Jesus Christ’ note; right now, I’m happy. And also, “The Final Countdown” by Europe is quite possibly the greatest song ever.

Army of Me

See, what I love is when my friends go off on a tangent on someone. Maybe they’ll say somethings that I wouldn’t say, ‘cos I’m so decent. [No I’m not.] It’s nice that someone will stick up for you, even if you didn’t ask them. It’s kinda the opposite of being a General, because at no point does anybody die and at no point did I give orders or demand respect.

It just means that someone feels good in the end and somebody else doesn’t. But fuck that person. Because chances are they had it coming. Life’s Karma.

It’s kinda funny, because I was talking with my hetero lifemate today and while he did state that there surely was some old school Classic Dan in the workings, [he also said – and I quote – “Dude, I don’t know what it is, but you’ve got the worst luck with women” after I told him of the other things that got fucked up recently with the ladies] he advised me to not start any shit. He’s pretty much the only person I listen to and even then, it’s only half the time. In this case I listened.

But in the end I still got to laugh.

Poppy Seeds

“I’m tired of giving this any thought,” I say.

Jim looks at me and rolls his eyes.

He says, “I know, it’s not your strong suit.”

That dick.

The beer sits warm in my gut and I slam back a shot of jager. There’s little buzzing next to my eye and every time that I turn to it I remember that it’s just the weed making my brain fuzzy. We clink our drinks in the timeless notion that we are not poisoning each other’s booze and turn away from the bar as we’re of one mind.

A pretty little blonde winks at the bartender and a pretty big dude swings his fist into a pretty small dude.

I say, “the fuck do we come here for?” I say, “You know that one our faces is going to end up on that guys’ fist.”

“Cheap booze,” says Jim.

I nod and shut up. Cheap booze always wins any argument. The little dude is getting pulled from the ground by his buddies while the big dude’s friends hold him back. Motherfucker’s on parole, he can’t afford another manslaughter rap.

The little dude, I should be helping him out. He is after all, my brother, but I really could care less. It’s not my responsibility if he gets a fake ID and wants to go bar-hopping. I’m just not looking forward to my mother’s frantic call tomorrow morning, waking my hung-over ass up screaming about how I should have been a better example.

Makes me want to walk over and punch him myself.

Jim opens up a plastic bag and passes it to me.

He says, “poppy seed?”