Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Goose Murder, Fucking Audis, and a World That Doesn't Totally Suck

I live in a kinda shitty neighbourhood, completely surrounded by less-shitty -- and in some cases, frigging ridiculously nice -- neighbourhoods. When I go for a run, I can see everything from mansions full of diplomats to the Governor General's house to some guy smoking something brown through a hollowed-out Bic pen tube in the span of half an hour. That pen-thing is something I have actually seen TWICE during my ten years in Ottawa. Fucking TWICE.

Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.

I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I do look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.

Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people do seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.

About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.

Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.

As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I was on welfare.)

I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.

I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.

I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.

As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.

He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.

I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Still Waiting For A Facebook Ad About Weird Porns

An ad popped up on my Facebook feed today, telling me not to worry -- if I just follow this ONE SIMPLE TRICK AND NEVER GIVE UP I will not end up alone!!! Specifically, judging by the photo that accompanied the ad, I will be proposed to by a douchebag on a beach. I'm basing the Douchebag Assessment on the fact that he's wearing a suit on a beach and kneeling in flower petals, and those things seem douchey when you combine them.

Now, I was under the impression that Facebook ads are somehow catered to the things I put on Facebook using algorithms and science and fucking unicorn magic or some damn thing. I'm not able to figure out how my status updates about McDonalds, porn, Cheerios and crying babies led Facebook Ad God to decide that I was concerned about being single. I can only assume that Facebook Ad God (who, upon realizing what it would be, will not be getting an acronym) uses the same formula as 95% of people who have ever or will ever speak to me: She is single. She must be pretty sad about that.

I'm fucking not.

Before someone starts pissing down their leg and screaming about how I hate couples and it's because I'm jealous blah blah blah fuck off blah -- that's just not true. I don't give a shit. Are you in a relationship? OK. I don't give a shit. Are you not in a relationship? OK. I also don't give a shit. Did you once have an orgy with George Clooney, some midgets, and a guy in an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume? I would actually like very much to hear about that.

I kinda wish the "You'll Find Somebody Someday" people would all get rampant gonorreah or something. Or big sores in their mouth that would prevent them from talking. They all have one thing in common: They all say "you'll find somebody someday!" even though at no point in the conversation did I say anything that would lead to them saying that. They're the Relationship Expert equivalent of the dummy that says "It's Friday!!!" when you ask him how he's doing. The response has nothing to do with what came before it. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Nope." "You'll find somebody someday!" "Don't recall saying I fucking wanted to."

Lucky for me, I have friends who understand that I'm perfectly happy being uncoupled. But for the rest of you, and for the sake of all people like me who aren't going to shrivel up and die in a puddle of Ben & Jerry's Oh God Why Won't He Love Me Chocolate Cherry Chunk while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and crying into my dog, here's a handy-dandy checklist I suggest you print off and carry in your fucking wallet In case you ever feel like saying something stupid.

And yes -- these are actual things that actual people have actually said to me.

1. Q: Why don't you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?

    A: Because no one wants to voluntarily love me after I show them where the pus comes from.

2. Q: Don't you get lonely?

    A: Sometimes. But then I remember that living alone gives me the freedom to watch TV in my underwear and try to fart in time with the theme song for the 6 o'clock news without anyone judging me.

3. Q: But you'll die alone! That's so sad!

    A: Fuck off.

4. Q: Doesn't it make your friends uncomfortable when you're the only one there who's single and they're all there with their wives and husbands and stuff?

    A: No, because my friends aren't fucking stupid.

5.  Don't worry -- you'll meet Mr. Right someday!

     A: Wasn't he the guy who invented airplanes or some shit? I'm pretty sure he's dead.

Stop it. Just fucking stop it.

You can thank a stupid Facebook ad for this rambling bullshit. Hopefully they put up an ad soon about porn inspired by the TV show Anderson Live, because I have what some might call "too fucking much" to say about that.