Do you know how I´m laying this sucker down right now, this here post right now? On my phone. I am writing to millions of people across the interwebs (I really should be a little more honest with myself right now, it´s more like maybe 30 people) on my goddamn phone. Not my laptop, because that thing is a four year old antique. On my fucking phone. Technology is grand, isn´t it? Let´s go through a typical day connected to my peers across the globe, shall we?
First thing is I get up. Woken, of course, by my phone, with it´s darling little chime at 7:30 am. I head to the washroom (with my phone) and begin to masterbate furiously to midget goat pornography, shot with HD and sent from a region of the world where midget goat porn is well within the bounds of the law. I thank the Norse Goddess Lofn for this bounty of illicit unions available at my fingertips. All of this provided by my phone.
I finish quickly and head to kitchen. I look to my phone for guidance. I search for ´killer awesome breakfast recipes´ and the phone returns to me with a gathering of only the finest ´killer awesome breakfast recipes´. I choose the recipe with the highest rating, as the hive mind has spoken. After my wonderfully banal selection has been prepared, I twitter on over to my facebook and see if anyone has commented on the clever quip I have left up upon my wall. Four comments! Not only am I a poet, but I am a poet with an audience! Jubilations!
And lo, what is this? I have received a message from a new friend! Two days ago I had no idea who she was, but we are now friends. How quickly this technology has allowed us to forge bonds! I text her right away to tell her we should meet for coffee (the place we have chosen has Wi-Fi). I check my phone for the bus schedule. I can make it in seventeen minutes, the phone assures me. I take off!
We meet for coffee and have one of the greatest conversations a person can have while an electronic leash is barking at you every thirty seconds. We almost connect at one point, talking the horrible effects that SOPA will have on our freedoms. Even if this act isn´t taking place in our country. Even if there an even more insidious act is taking place in the European union called ACTA. Even if our own government is trying to put in place a similar bill, Bill C-11. We both stand firm in our resolve to sign an online petition to combat SOPA. Our good deed is done.
After coffee, I check my phone for any updates in the world of media. My favorite band has released a new album! I hit the music store application and pull the music right from the airways of digital information that wafts though the space in between us. I look at my phone, marveling at it´s magnificence. I wonder how something like this could have been conceived. Was it one man? A team of geniuses? Was it the mobilized forces of Chinese workers, willing to work for mere dollars a day while pulling 12 hours shifts, seven days a week, able to completely revamp and redesign an entire factory with in ungodly schedule deadlines, in conditions that most of the western world would consider slavery? I shuddered at the thought of this labor force put into the industry of warfare. I pushed this big idea out of my head and choose to believe that it was conceived with magic instead.
Back at home, I playing a game, watching a movie and texting at the same time, all with my phone. My speech was becomin shortr n shrtr. We ddnt ned a mnstry of newspeak. We were cnstrctin 1 far bttr than they culd hav eva imagind. Whos dreem wuz this? Who said ¨1984? Brave New World? Why can´t we have the best of both?´
From the desk of the Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. Sent from my IPhone.
Sunday 29 January 2012
Monday 23 January 2012
MurderBall
Alright, my last post may have come across as a little preachy. It more than likely came out that way because I had been drinking. Heavily. In fact, I was half way through a bottle of vodka when I posted it. Hemmingway once said ¨Write drunk, edit sober.¨ I had neglected the last part.
When I woke up the next morning, it felt like a herd of cats had nested in my mouth and had died at some point in the night. My head hurts, my muscles were weak, breathing was a struggle. What I needed was a beer and a tasty blue cheese/broccoli omelet. That was not going to be happening. Thanks to my liquored memory, I had forgotten what I promised my brother the day before.
¨Get ready man, we have about an hour drive to get to Duncan and we still need to pick up Jeff.¨ Every word that came out my brother´s mouth was a cacophony of death bells ringing out through my head. My eyes watered. I didn´t want to go. ¨Kelly, I´m not sure...¨ He cut me off. ¨Holly got called into work, so I need your help unloading the wheelchairs from the van.¨ Kelly wheeled past me, the sound of his tires grating against the back of my skull. ¨I´m gonna... I´m gonna have a shower.¨ I said, the words hardly squeaking past my lips. ¨Well hurry up fucker, we don´t have all day.¨ The water poured over my head. Standing was difficult. There was a knock at the door. ¨What is taking you so long? You´ve been in there for twenty minutes!¨ Already?
Today was not going to go well.
After the shower, we hopped in Kelly´s jeep and got some burgers. Grease was exactly what the doctor ordered. We swung by Jeff´s place, switched vehicles and headed off to Duncan. I was feeling a lot better. Definitely still hungover but recovering nicely. I had brought my laptop and was getting prepared to hammer out a little writing while these guys played their ´Murderball´. I really had no idea what Murderball was all about, except that it was described to me as ´Wheelchair rugby´.
We get to the arena and I started to unload the chairs. Whoa whoa whoa, who are you, I ask in my head as this cute woman starts giving me a hand moving the chairs. I make an introduction. This day just got a whole lot better. I walk inside. Wait a minute, there´s a few women here, two of them my age and not holding children. I walk up to my brother. ¨Hey, what are these two doing here?¨ ¨Those two? They´re doing some sort of vocational training thing through the program they´re taking. Sports Physiology or something.¨
At least I have a few people to talk to while I´m sitting around. Not to mention a couple of these girls are sorta my style. I might be hungover but that isn´t going to stop me from putting on the old macking shoes and...
That phrase in my head was cut off by a thunderous crash that rang throughout thee arena. My headache was back in full force. What the fuck was that noise? Holy shit that was noise was fucking...
CRASH!!!!!!
This time it was louder. The boys were getting warmed up. I hadn´t been paying attention until now. Shit, I hadn´t even bothered to have a good look at the chairs until now. They were flying round at high speeds crashing into each other. The chairs seemed more like little tanks than wheelchairs. Kelly drove into another player, Jordan, at full speed. Both chairs tipped up a little, the noise rippling through the air. I tried to distract myself by firing up a conversation with the girl sitting next to me. I was just about to mention something about her fingernails (they were painted) when Kelly sped up to me. ¨We need an eighth player.¨
¨What, you mean me?¨ Kelly looking right at me. ¨You heard right, get into a chair. Josh, the ref, will explain the rules to you.¨ He took off.
I was not prepared for this. Standing up straight was still taking a lot out of me. Playing Murderball? I´d be using muscles I haven´t used in a long time while sweating out the last bit of shitty vodka that was still in my system. My mouth still tasted like a dead cat orgy. This was going to be a nightmare.
I hopped into a chair. Kelly lent me some of his gloves. I started asking about rules. Josh filled me in; The goal is to carry the ball across into the endzone, you can only hold the ball for ten seconds so you either have to pass it or dribble it, you have 12 seconds to get it across the half when your team first gets possession, The ball goes in your lap when you´re moving, you can grab at this ball but you can´t grab at their hands. Those are the basics, he says.
There´s the tip off and we begin playing. Chairs crashing into each other, people chattering about positions and blocking. I was lost for the first minute or so. I tried to stop one of the guys charging my endzone, he carved around me as if i wasn´t even there. I spun around to chase him but was hit by one of his teammates. I tried to move but was locked into the chair of the gentleman who had just collided me. He was preventing me from moving so the other guy could continue flying through the endzone. Point for the other team. ¨They´ll do that, prevent you from moving. Make sure that doesn´t happen.¨ said Calen, one of my teammates.
I was starting to see the strategy in the game. They were running blocks the same way it was done in basketball. I was also starting to sweat like a clown on a hot day. My head felt spinny, my mouth still felt like a murder at the cat boudoir. Not only that, these guys were good. Really, really good. I felt like a pylon that was there to be wheeled around. I mentioned it to my brother. ¨They should be good,¨ Kelly said ¨Both Shawn and Peter play on the BC team and some of the other guys used to play on it.¨ Fuck me.
None of these guys had the use of their legs anymore but it wasn´t going to stop them from sticking their boot up my ass.
First quarter was done. I swung by the fountain to grab some water. I was about to puke. Between breaths I was trying to drink water and not throw up. Fuck you, dead cat fuck parade in my mouth. Kelly came up to me. ¨So brew, what do think so far?¨ I tried not to vomit. ¨ Good... man. Intense ... sport.¨ He kinda laughed. ¨Struggling buddy?¨ I tried to talk but just kinda waved him off.
¨Second quarter, ball to the white shirts.¨ The ball came to me. I put it in my lap and sped off. I was about to be cut off when I saw Kelly pull up next to me so I handed off the ball. He sped off and scored a point. I was starting to feel good about this. I was getting the little nuances of the game. Comparatively I was a lot slower than most of everybody here. At the end of the second quarter I had sweat most of the liquor outta my body.
We played the last half, then another quarter for kicks. I´m not a sports journalist and because I spent a lot of the game praying for death, I can´t give you an exciting play-by-play. Check out Murderball on youtube, that will certainly give you a better understanding of the sport. One final note. As we were leaving I asked my brother if he was going to try out for the BC team. ¨Can´t man. It´s actually a sport for quadriplegics. These guys all have limited use of their arms.¨ Getting schooled by people is always a little humbling. Getting schooled by someone in a wheelchair who only has limited use of their arms?
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. My mouth still feels a little like a dead kitten sex party. No joke people.
When I woke up the next morning, it felt like a herd of cats had nested in my mouth and had died at some point in the night. My head hurts, my muscles were weak, breathing was a struggle. What I needed was a beer and a tasty blue cheese/broccoli omelet. That was not going to be happening. Thanks to my liquored memory, I had forgotten what I promised my brother the day before.
¨Get ready man, we have about an hour drive to get to Duncan and we still need to pick up Jeff.¨ Every word that came out my brother´s mouth was a cacophony of death bells ringing out through my head. My eyes watered. I didn´t want to go. ¨Kelly, I´m not sure...¨ He cut me off. ¨Holly got called into work, so I need your help unloading the wheelchairs from the van.¨ Kelly wheeled past me, the sound of his tires grating against the back of my skull. ¨I´m gonna... I´m gonna have a shower.¨ I said, the words hardly squeaking past my lips. ¨Well hurry up fucker, we don´t have all day.¨ The water poured over my head. Standing was difficult. There was a knock at the door. ¨What is taking you so long? You´ve been in there for twenty minutes!¨ Already?
Today was not going to go well.
After the shower, we hopped in Kelly´s jeep and got some burgers. Grease was exactly what the doctor ordered. We swung by Jeff´s place, switched vehicles and headed off to Duncan. I was feeling a lot better. Definitely still hungover but recovering nicely. I had brought my laptop and was getting prepared to hammer out a little writing while these guys played their ´Murderball´. I really had no idea what Murderball was all about, except that it was described to me as ´Wheelchair rugby´.
We get to the arena and I started to unload the chairs. Whoa whoa whoa, who are you, I ask in my head as this cute woman starts giving me a hand moving the chairs. I make an introduction. This day just got a whole lot better. I walk inside. Wait a minute, there´s a few women here, two of them my age and not holding children. I walk up to my brother. ¨Hey, what are these two doing here?¨ ¨Those two? They´re doing some sort of vocational training thing through the program they´re taking. Sports Physiology or something.¨
At least I have a few people to talk to while I´m sitting around. Not to mention a couple of these girls are sorta my style. I might be hungover but that isn´t going to stop me from putting on the old macking shoes and...
That phrase in my head was cut off by a thunderous crash that rang throughout thee arena. My headache was back in full force. What the fuck was that noise? Holy shit that was noise was fucking...
CRASH!!!!!!
This time it was louder. The boys were getting warmed up. I hadn´t been paying attention until now. Shit, I hadn´t even bothered to have a good look at the chairs until now. They were flying round at high speeds crashing into each other. The chairs seemed more like little tanks than wheelchairs. Kelly drove into another player, Jordan, at full speed. Both chairs tipped up a little, the noise rippling through the air. I tried to distract myself by firing up a conversation with the girl sitting next to me. I was just about to mention something about her fingernails (they were painted) when Kelly sped up to me. ¨We need an eighth player.¨
¨What, you mean me?¨ Kelly looking right at me. ¨You heard right, get into a chair. Josh, the ref, will explain the rules to you.¨ He took off.
I was not prepared for this. Standing up straight was still taking a lot out of me. Playing Murderball? I´d be using muscles I haven´t used in a long time while sweating out the last bit of shitty vodka that was still in my system. My mouth still tasted like a dead cat orgy. This was going to be a nightmare.
I hopped into a chair. Kelly lent me some of his gloves. I started asking about rules. Josh filled me in; The goal is to carry the ball across into the endzone, you can only hold the ball for ten seconds so you either have to pass it or dribble it, you have 12 seconds to get it across the half when your team first gets possession, The ball goes in your lap when you´re moving, you can grab at this ball but you can´t grab at their hands. Those are the basics, he says.
There´s the tip off and we begin playing. Chairs crashing into each other, people chattering about positions and blocking. I was lost for the first minute or so. I tried to stop one of the guys charging my endzone, he carved around me as if i wasn´t even there. I spun around to chase him but was hit by one of his teammates. I tried to move but was locked into the chair of the gentleman who had just collided me. He was preventing me from moving so the other guy could continue flying through the endzone. Point for the other team. ¨They´ll do that, prevent you from moving. Make sure that doesn´t happen.¨ said Calen, one of my teammates.
I was starting to see the strategy in the game. They were running blocks the same way it was done in basketball. I was also starting to sweat like a clown on a hot day. My head felt spinny, my mouth still felt like a murder at the cat boudoir. Not only that, these guys were good. Really, really good. I felt like a pylon that was there to be wheeled around. I mentioned it to my brother. ¨They should be good,¨ Kelly said ¨Both Shawn and Peter play on the BC team and some of the other guys used to play on it.¨ Fuck me.
None of these guys had the use of their legs anymore but it wasn´t going to stop them from sticking their boot up my ass.
First quarter was done. I swung by the fountain to grab some water. I was about to puke. Between breaths I was trying to drink water and not throw up. Fuck you, dead cat fuck parade in my mouth. Kelly came up to me. ¨So brew, what do think so far?¨ I tried not to vomit. ¨ Good... man. Intense ... sport.¨ He kinda laughed. ¨Struggling buddy?¨ I tried to talk but just kinda waved him off.
¨Second quarter, ball to the white shirts.¨ The ball came to me. I put it in my lap and sped off. I was about to be cut off when I saw Kelly pull up next to me so I handed off the ball. He sped off and scored a point. I was starting to feel good about this. I was getting the little nuances of the game. Comparatively I was a lot slower than most of everybody here. At the end of the second quarter I had sweat most of the liquor outta my body.
We played the last half, then another quarter for kicks. I´m not a sports journalist and because I spent a lot of the game praying for death, I can´t give you an exciting play-by-play. Check out Murderball on youtube, that will certainly give you a better understanding of the sport. One final note. As we were leaving I asked my brother if he was going to try out for the BC team. ¨Can´t man. It´s actually a sport for quadriplegics. These guys all have limited use of their arms.¨ Getting schooled by people is always a little humbling. Getting schooled by someone in a wheelchair who only has limited use of their arms?
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. My mouth still feels a little like a dead kitten sex party. No joke people.
Saturday 21 January 2012
Marilyn Monroe
Alright people, let´s have a little chat. There´s been some memes floating around the net recently and when I say recently, what I´m actually saying is that they´ve been around for a couple years. Whatever. I have been seeing a surge of Marylin Monroe based memes on facebook in the last week or so. I´m certain you´ve seen them, the pictures with Marilyn standing next to a current model or actress who happens to be skinnier than a rail with a caption along the lines of ´Fuck Society; This is what real beauty used to look like´ or something like ´This is what a healthy woman looks like´.
There´s a lot of guys who are patting themselves on the back for liking this or agreeing with these statements. People acting like internet white knights, riding their silver haired horse to save the helpless damsel in distress. So I figured, being one of the few sane people on this miserable green space rock, I´d chime in with an opinion.
Dudes, Marylin Monroe was a lot of things. She was an actress, a model, a celebrity and easily the biggest sex symbol of her day. She was also mistreated, abused, passsed around like a toy by one of the most powerful families in America and she was a pill popping junkie. A typical day in her life started off with cleaning one of the Kennedy brothers spooge out of her vag, followed by dropping a dozen barbiturates into a class of scotch. I´d say she´d be crying but we´re talking about a woman who grew up in orphanages and foster homes, a woman who was depressed as shit but put on a brave face and smiled for the camera. Marylin was hard as fuck. Beautiful, yes. Healthy? No fucking way. If you have a daughter, the last role model you´d want is Marylin Monroe.
Point two. I get the idea, you´re comparing old school actresses with the new ones, saying the skinny new ones are sickly looking and the old ones are ´what women should look like´. I put that last phrase in quotation marks for a reason. White knights, you´re doing two things here, two things that I know piss a lot of women off.
First, you´re comparing women with... other women. I once had a girlfriend call her makeup her ´Warpaint´. She wasn´t fucking kidding. Women have been urged to compete against each other. Compete for jobs, compete for men, compete for status. Women aren´t pokemon. We´re not gonna stick ´em in a ring and have them duke it out. Nor would I ever use the phrase ¨Gotta catch ´em all¨.
Second, and this is the reason I put that phrase ´what women should look like´, is that you don´t get to decide what women look like. I mean that in both senses of the phrase. You don´t get to pick what you are going to look like. I´ve known one girl, who was a thick girl, literally eat nothing but salad, did a two hour workout every day and literally was pumping herself full of drugs to lose weight. When I say pumping herself of drugs, I mean going to the doctor and GETTING HERSELF INJECTED WITH DRUGS TO LOSE WEIGHT. That´s seriously fucked up. On the flip side, I´ve seen skinny girls pound back steaks, drink shakes and stuff themselves stupid trying to gain weight. Big girl envy thin girls with tight stomachs, thin girls envy big girls with their big ol´ titties. Everybody is miserable. Also, you don´t like the way a girl looks? Ain´t your fucking business, ain´t your decision.
That´s the end of my rant. A lot of boys out there might think I´m kissing ass right now. Truth is, most of my friends are women. I´d rather chill over a glass of wine with a bunch of ladies that hang with a bunch of dudes. I´ve got a group of men I´m super tight with, but the sad truth is that men are hard to find these days. My boys don´t dress and act like clowns when we´re out. Straight up solid group.
One day I´ll get around to writing about where all the real men went. I´ll just say this right now; if your idea of manliness is based on what kind of vehicle you drive, what kind of cocktail you drink or how big your muscles are, then you my friend are a boy trapped in a man´s body and you probably take beer commercials way too seriously. You can fool a lot of people, you ain´t fooling me. But the first step in the right direction is to stop judging women based on what they look like. I thank whatever dead God you believe in everyday that my ass isn´t taken into account when I go for a job interview. And that folks is something, as a male, I get the privilege of.
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. If I ever order a Cosmopolitan at a bar and some motherfucker calls me out on it, the next thing I´m ordering is a tall glass of I´m gonna fuck your girlfriend.
There´s a lot of guys who are patting themselves on the back for liking this or agreeing with these statements. People acting like internet white knights, riding their silver haired horse to save the helpless damsel in distress. So I figured, being one of the few sane people on this miserable green space rock, I´d chime in with an opinion.
Dudes, Marylin Monroe was a lot of things. She was an actress, a model, a celebrity and easily the biggest sex symbol of her day. She was also mistreated, abused, passsed around like a toy by one of the most powerful families in America and she was a pill popping junkie. A typical day in her life started off with cleaning one of the Kennedy brothers spooge out of her vag, followed by dropping a dozen barbiturates into a class of scotch. I´d say she´d be crying but we´re talking about a woman who grew up in orphanages and foster homes, a woman who was depressed as shit but put on a brave face and smiled for the camera. Marylin was hard as fuck. Beautiful, yes. Healthy? No fucking way. If you have a daughter, the last role model you´d want is Marylin Monroe.
Point two. I get the idea, you´re comparing old school actresses with the new ones, saying the skinny new ones are sickly looking and the old ones are ´what women should look like´. I put that last phrase in quotation marks for a reason. White knights, you´re doing two things here, two things that I know piss a lot of women off.
First, you´re comparing women with... other women. I once had a girlfriend call her makeup her ´Warpaint´. She wasn´t fucking kidding. Women have been urged to compete against each other. Compete for jobs, compete for men, compete for status. Women aren´t pokemon. We´re not gonna stick ´em in a ring and have them duke it out. Nor would I ever use the phrase ¨Gotta catch ´em all¨.
Second, and this is the reason I put that phrase ´what women should look like´, is that you don´t get to decide what women look like. I mean that in both senses of the phrase. You don´t get to pick what you are going to look like. I´ve known one girl, who was a thick girl, literally eat nothing but salad, did a two hour workout every day and literally was pumping herself full of drugs to lose weight. When I say pumping herself of drugs, I mean going to the doctor and GETTING HERSELF INJECTED WITH DRUGS TO LOSE WEIGHT. That´s seriously fucked up. On the flip side, I´ve seen skinny girls pound back steaks, drink shakes and stuff themselves stupid trying to gain weight. Big girl envy thin girls with tight stomachs, thin girls envy big girls with their big ol´ titties. Everybody is miserable. Also, you don´t like the way a girl looks? Ain´t your fucking business, ain´t your decision.
That´s the end of my rant. A lot of boys out there might think I´m kissing ass right now. Truth is, most of my friends are women. I´d rather chill over a glass of wine with a bunch of ladies that hang with a bunch of dudes. I´ve got a group of men I´m super tight with, but the sad truth is that men are hard to find these days. My boys don´t dress and act like clowns when we´re out. Straight up solid group.
One day I´ll get around to writing about where all the real men went. I´ll just say this right now; if your idea of manliness is based on what kind of vehicle you drive, what kind of cocktail you drink or how big your muscles are, then you my friend are a boy trapped in a man´s body and you probably take beer commercials way too seriously. You can fool a lot of people, you ain´t fooling me. But the first step in the right direction is to stop judging women based on what they look like. I thank whatever dead God you believe in everyday that my ass isn´t taken into account when I go for a job interview. And that folks is something, as a male, I get the privilege of.
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. If I ever order a Cosmopolitan at a bar and some motherfucker calls me out on it, the next thing I´m ordering is a tall glass of I´m gonna fuck your girlfriend.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
What on Earth are You Doing?
Many people have been asking me "Sandy, why are you moving out to Victoria?". I've been in Calgary for ten years. Ten years is a long time in any place and that city was beginning to seep into my pores too deeply for me to continue feeling good about Calgary. It's a cold city, both in temperature and in temperament. There was nothing left to explore, which left me surrounded by boors with far too much money telling me how much they've spent on their watch. To summarize, I wasn't moving to Victoria. I was leaving Calgary, as well as numerous, wonderful people that I've grown fond of over the years. My friends are the only thing I'll be missing. That and a couple of fantastic restaurants. In all seriousness, I'm not sure I'll ever find a bowl of Pho Sate that will ever be the same.
Many people have also been asking me "What are you going to be doing for work?". I haven't the foggiest and this response usually shocks people. I've gotten the same look over and over again, the 'You're a complete fool' look. They might be right but I pride myself on being malleable and flexible. Needless to say, employment isn't something I'm terribly concerned about at the moment. I have a pleasant little nest egg saved up and I am entertaining the thought of working in the hospitality industry.
Let´s get back to the big question. Why I moved to Victoria. I moved because Calgary was a safe place where I had a safe job and lead a safe life. I got a safe education that prepared me for work in a safe industry. And people, let me tell you, that fucking life style was killing me a little bit every day. I hated playing it safe. I have no desire to start a family and I doubt I´ll own enough things that would warrant the purchase of a house, so there was no real need to continue playing it safe. I played it safe for so long because it was expected of me. I played it safe because it was easy. I played it safe for way too long.
So I sold or gave away most of my things, packed the rest and shipped myself out west. I hardly know anyone out here and work is hard to come by. It´s going to be a challenge but I´m more than up for it. Besides, seafood is expensive and hard to come by in the prairies and I´ve got the hugest food boner for tasty sea treats.
Anyhoo, that´s the story of why I moved out here. It could be the dumbest thing I´ve ever done but thankfully getting hot sauce on my pecker was pretty fucking stupid. I take solace in the fact that I´ll have to fuck up pretty badly to top scorching my knob with delicious habanero sauce. No need to fret, I´ll one day retell the tale of me burning my weiner. In fact, they´ll be plenty of stories about my penis to both enthrall and amuse you in later days.
In closing, I´ll leave you this thought. When people start talking about the glass being half full or half empty, that´s usually when I crack another bottle of wine.
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. I´m hammering this out on a tiny little netbook. If the layout looks strange, that´ll be why.
Let´s get back to the big question. Why I moved to Victoria. I moved because Calgary was a safe place where I had a safe job and lead a safe life. I got a safe education that prepared me for work in a safe industry. And people, let me tell you, that fucking life style was killing me a little bit every day. I hated playing it safe. I have no desire to start a family and I doubt I´ll own enough things that would warrant the purchase of a house, so there was no real need to continue playing it safe. I played it safe for so long because it was expected of me. I played it safe because it was easy. I played it safe for way too long.
So I sold or gave away most of my things, packed the rest and shipped myself out west. I hardly know anyone out here and work is hard to come by. It´s going to be a challenge but I´m more than up for it. Besides, seafood is expensive and hard to come by in the prairies and I´ve got the hugest food boner for tasty sea treats.
Anyhoo, that´s the story of why I moved out here. It could be the dumbest thing I´ve ever done but thankfully getting hot sauce on my pecker was pretty fucking stupid. I take solace in the fact that I´ll have to fuck up pretty badly to top scorching my knob with delicious habanero sauce. No need to fret, I´ll one day retell the tale of me burning my weiner. In fact, they´ll be plenty of stories about my penis to both enthrall and amuse you in later days.
In closing, I´ll leave you this thought. When people start talking about the glass being half full or half empty, that´s usually when I crack another bottle of wine.
Sincerely,
The Illustrious Mr. Charlton
p.s. I´m hammering this out on a tiny little netbook. If the layout looks strange, that´ll be why.
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