The idea here is usually to just write in a glib fashion on whatever crosses my mind, but I’ve had a “disturbance in the force” to some degree. Two of my best friends were married today. These things happen, they certainly do, but one of the hardest concepts to face was that of not being able to be present for the moment that they’d been leading up to for years. I’m gonna assume that between the three of us we’re all gutted that I couldn’t be there. We all begrudgingly accepted the fact that life got in the way, placed us on separate paths and prevented me from taking a vivid mental snapshot. Do I have regrets? Definitely. I know that I would’ve been there standing to attention as she walked the aisle, looked at the pride and affection on his face, my eyes dewy with a combination of satisfaction and hope.

I’ve shed tears at weddings and fuck anyone who thinks any less of me for it. If you’ve got two people who you love and they’re taking a step towards enacting a symbolic covenant of trust between one another, how is that not a beautiful thing worthy of outward emotion? If you hear those words, see those looks and understand the culmination of years spent together, providing support, testing boundaries, learning one another’s inner fears and dreams, then how could you not conceive of the notion of “till death do us part?”

As it stands, I don’t know how the ceremony went. I haven’t heard their vows and I couldn’t experience those stirring moments for myself. I know they would’ve made a handsome couple and that they were surrounded by the people they loved who loved them in return. As much as I wish I was there, I know that what they have together transcends the need for ceremony, but (as Rob Schrab said about his own wedding (and I’m heavily paraphrasing here)), they’d run out of ways to show each other how much they loved one another.

See, I’ve known both the bride and groom since before they were joined in such a union, before the engagement, even before they were a couple. My annals of memory have specific portfolios on both individuals which supersede their connection under a larger umbrella. I remember watching teen movies and playing “spoons” with her, watching her systematically flood anyone who she met with joy. “Holy shit, she’s the best” all of my friends would say soon after meeting her. Sudden close connections with everyone she touched. I’d resent her for stealing my friends if I didn’t recognise exactly what they saw in her. I don’t know how she did/does it so easily, but it’s impossible to be around her without feeling that warmth. He and I used to hang out at the Northcote Tavern and drag back our mate with weaker constitution. He’s one of the best, most honest guys I know. You know exactly where you stand and it’s rare to come away from a discussion without holding a refreshing, previously unconsidered view on any given situation. He has you paralytic with laughter without even trying. He’ll have your back before you could even ask and if you’ve gotten in over your head, he’ll jump into the deep end behind you without a thought. I saw them meet, connect , grow closer and create something together that I can believe in without a second thought.

As much as I regret not being able to witness their wedding, I know that I don’t really need to be there to appreciate its outcome. I would’ve been there without a second thought, but I know them and I know what they’ve been through together. I’ve seen the bond that formed, the feelings they hold, the trust that exists and the tenacity with which these will hold strong. I know of their love and know that beyond the ceremony, it’s something they’ll have together for the rest of their lives.

I know that I don’t have to be there to feel their love and understand it. I’ve seen them smile at each other.

What more do I need to see?

I’ve been overtaken with a compulsion to sing Goo Goo Dolls next time I karaoke. Also karaoke is a verb now.

I just popped a massive pimple right in my forehead, like a biological bindi without the religious significance. That being said, this thing was large enough that some people would probably praise it as a blessed deity. As I’ve learned over the years with pimples I planted a finger on either side of it and pulled hard away from it. Pop! Splat! Right into the sink spat globules of pus. Like a moneyshot of bad hygiene. So disgustingly satisfying. I’m sure I’ve probably put off most readers by now, but I’m fine with that. For some reason bodily functions intrigue me to almost no end. I’m sure on some level popping a pimple can be considered gross by some, but surely they could also understand the joy of destruction, watching it deflate as its content seeps out? Disposing of the imperfection that’s been gestating for days. How could that not be rewarding? How could you not empathise with that? It’s like some kind of fiery purification, going through the flames and coming out reforged. Or else maybe I’ve never gotten over my childish fascination with things that squish and ooze.

I thought I would’ve been done with pimples by now. Back in health class we were told that by 17 we’d shed our bespeckled skin and have skin as smooth as the felon that M.J. sang about (later to be resurrected and popularised as a well received cover by Alien Ant Farm. What ever happened to those guys? I always loved that song Movies and I’d probably still love it for nostalgic reasons. I’m not gonna lie, I’m listening to it now. I’m seeping nostalgia rather than pus now. Equally gratifying. AAF really seemed to fade away after Glow. I don’t know if I have a big problem with that.), which my pimple popping predicament proved precisely perverse. I don’t get nearly as many as I used to (and puberty was reasonably kind to me in the pimple department), but I certainly don’t have silken skin by any means.

Thinking back, puberty didn’t deal me a harsh hand. I stayed of relatively average height, I grew ample hair to evoke a certain air of manliness, but not enough that I now need to shave my back. My voice isn’t significantly whiny or imperceptibly deep. A limited amount of inconvenient erections punctuated by pubescent years. I’ve ended up coming out of the process just fine. Enough so that despite certain deep-seated neuroticisms and body image issues, I know that I’ve got nothing to complain about. I’m not gonna curse my endomorphic frame when I’ve been fortunate to have been gifted a working brain, free from learning difficulties and able to navigate the intertwining paths of social interaction with relative ease. I mean, puberty is gonna mark you one way or another and of course there were a large number of formative experiences that’ve shifted who I’ve become. Puberty was a trying time emotionally as it was for everyone. I’ve already remarked on here about my almost palaeolithic courting ritual of hitting that girl with a tree. I’ve talked (recently) about finding my old website from age 17. I haven’t quite delved yet into my diary undertakings.

I guess as you’d expect it was riddled with a myriad of self doubts (Read the site name, I guess some things don’t change.) from I like this girl (I refuse to use the term “crush”. “Crush” is to infatuation what the word “willy” is to a penis. Infantile and regressive.) and I don’t know if she likes me back to dealing with witnessing the effects of dementia in relatives, to a heavy amount (intentionally chosen words) of body issues. If you think I’m bad now, you should’ve seen how I was then. I wrote quotes that I thought were profound and relevant (they weren’t. Some of them came from Magic the Gathering cards.). I didn’t commit to it for very long and was pretty inconsistent. It’s one of the reasons why I gave myself 21 days of continuous writing here before putting the site online. Fortunately for me most of you won’t see it unless you’re junkyard divers. I tossed the book in the trash some time ago, carefully disguising it in a heap of other rubbish. Obviously I don’t have much of an issue dredging up the past, but having hard evidence of who I was emotionally back then is too depressing to comprehend.

I may once have thought of Iris by Goo Goo Dolls as my sad song. Can’t make that shit up.

Is there any time that I’m not talking about sex at least on some level?

A bit that I’m working on. I was planning to talk more about cultural differences and humans as apes, but I got distracted. Clearly writing this project has made me a bit mentally flighty.

Hello Toronto, it’s good to be here.
*Walks slightly across stage*
Here not so much.
*Walks back*

You might’ve noticed already that I’ve got a slightly different accent to most of you. Of course, Canadians (according to almost every Canadian I’ve met) don’t have an accent. You say “Oh, we don’t have an accent, eh.”. In. Your. Canadian. Accent.

Anyway, back to me. Because you’ve gotta be at least slightly narcissistic to come up on stage in front of people and talk about yourself. It’s like therapy of sorts. If it goes badly, then it’s just therapy in which all of your dreams are painfully crushed. Like losing your virginity.

Is there anybody out there who actually had a great first time? Or is it a universal mandate that your first time has to be awkward, clumsy and involve prematurely saying those three words you nervously blurt out when you really care about someone? “Is it in?”

That’s why I don’t really get the whole idea of taking someone’s virginity as a conquest. They’re as inexperienced as it’s possible to be; they’ll be nervous and jumpy and will check in every ten seconds to make sure they’re doing it right. It’s like putting a band together without a drummer, then just grabbing a meth-head off the street because they look like they’ll have the necessary energy. They might well have the energy, but chances are someone’s gonna leave with a drum-stick in the eye, a mess on the floor and the night will end with a girl crying.

But we have a lot of assumptions about sex. There’s that strange societal expectation that since a person’s good looking they’re automatically gonna be great in the sack. It might work out that way, it really might, but there’s just as much chance that since they’re so pretty, everyone they’ve ever been with has been too afraid to tell them that they fucking suck at fucking and sucking.

I’ve heard more than enough people say “Oh, that Rihanna. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.” Yeah, but what if she started punching your dick? She’s gorgeous and seems like a nice person, but I wouldn’t put it past her to take “beat your meat” literally.

What if Ryan Gosling tried having sex with your belly button? Or kissed like a Rottweiler eating spaghetti? What if Ryan’s idea of going down on you was blowing raspberries and making that creepy baby voice that people use when they talk to kids? I don’t think you’d be getting wet so much as your vagina would be crying.

Thing is, good sex requires communication, openness, honesty, sensuality, touch and trust. Notice that I didn’t use the words “washboard abs” or “a great set of tits”. Those things may look pretty, but they’re not gonna help at all if you’re wanting to engage in a bit of…

Penis in vagina
Penis in bum
Penis in mouth
Finger in vagina
Finger in bum
Mouth on vagina
Mouth on mouth
Vagina on vagina
Penis on penis
Penis in penis?

Of course, those washboard abs might come in handy if Ryan Gosling’s still trying to fuck your belly button.

Would I have been better to say it looks a bit Shaggy? Bombastic that is.

I likely need a haircut. I don’t really have a dedicated hairstyle, I just notice that when I start to strongly resemble a Lego Man, something has to be done. My hair has a quality by which it grows thick and clumps into a near invulnerable mass. Whatever elements unite against it Captain Planet style it holds steadfast and repels all attacks. I’m sure if it caught alight it’d probably just remain so, like ever burning napalm. In a Dragon Ball Z-esque reveal I’m sure the dust would clear to showcase an untouched coif of hair, like Fred from Scooby Doo, except dark, dark brown. That’s always bugged me a little, to be honest. From a young age I thought my hair was black, until I learned that it was merely a smidgen lighter than ebony. It’s like how my eyes were never green, just hazel. Over time they’ve become more changeable. It’s odd, but depending what I’m wearing, my eyes seem almost to change colour. Most of the time they’re a much deeper green than anything else. Some dreams come true, I guess.

Eyes are fascinating, to be honest. I’ve known a friend who had orange eyes, a truly captivating tint. Fiery and smouldering, I was pretty impressed. Looking deeply into someone’s eyes is only a romantic trope because there’s something to it. It’s easy to be lost in such an intricate cluster of functional parts, highlighted by an alluring burst of colour. There’s little in this world more intimate than baring yourself in front of another in such a way that you invite them to drink passionately from what you usually hide from view. The eyes as a portal to the soul works, because they express more in one look than most facial gestures are capable of.

Maybe that’s why dolls’ eyes freak me out so much. They’re a pale simulacrum (I use that word too much, but it’s so great) of the real that bare nothing but emptiness. Maybe I’m so used to delving into the oculus in a search for meaning (I tend to look people in the eye far more often than most do.) that the lack of real emotion chills me to the core. It’s like putting your hand out to reach compassion and touching the void instead. Nothing but dispassionate darkness responds and you feel emptiness creep back towards you. More than anything I’m just creeped out by the thing that happens when you shake a doll and its eyes twitch in an inhumane fashion. I don’t like dolls whatsoever. Child’s Play or no, they didn’t need the Hollywood boost. Dolls and clowns creep me the shit out. Is it even worth mentioning a clown doll? I’d rather not even think of it.

Does it seem strange to anyone else that dolls are used to indoctrinate young girls into developing motherly habits? Getting her used to the impending demands of motherhood, a recreational activity disguising implied gender roles that conflict with potential career development? That might be a bit harsh, because without having been a young girl I’ve got no idea whether the impetus is societally driven or actually self-motivated from the children. Perhaps I’m just echoing the disinterest I’ve felt at pushing a pram at any point during my life and imprinting my feelings and desires on these kids. When these young women look into those shallow, lifeless marbles they have in lieu of eyes do they see anything human reflecting back? I figure kids are quite intuitive, how do they handle something made in our own image that’s so devoid of life? As a child they freaked me the fuck out. I was into gentle, fun things like dinosaurs, Ridley Scott’s Aliens, killer robots and anime involving rape scenes that went over my head. Woe betide any fake baby that crossed my path, that’s some disturbing thing. It made my hair stand on end, which now needs to be cut.

Just in case I needed an ego check.

I’ve been scouring the internet and the hollow caves of my mind in search of anything to talk about today, but I’ve come up blank. Instead you’ll be treated to whatever ends up flowing from here on out, because who doesn’t love a good stream of consciousness entry? I’m hoping the answer to that was positive, because otherwise I’m shit out of luck, given that there’s not usually much that’s planned around here. At least with a topic I’ve got some basic focus to direct the outpouring of ideas. At the moment it’s drained down to a trickle. No idea why, perhaps because I’ve been severely irritable today. Shock! Horror! Sometimes I lose my patience and twig out a little. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I’m severely less pleasant and charming to be around. I get kind of terse and blunt, I speak in snipped, stilted sentences and mumble incoherently. When somebody understandably doesn’t understand me it only sours my mood further. So in a word, I’m unreasonable. If I’m in a funk I’m terrible sociably and develop the temperament of a small yappy dog. I don’t get violent, but I affect a certain ineffectual menace. I sulk rather than lash out and retreat into withdrawal. If I don’t get the chance to do so, I enter a vague stupor and I might as well not be there. Anyone seeking a valid response to a query will be treated to a state of perplexity at my inability to respond appropriately to almost any stimuli. I basically become a human turd.

One of the things that hurls me towards this frame of mind is continual indecision. If there’s something I’m wanting or trying to do and the path becomes marred by dilly-dallying I enter my brutal get shit done mode. Maybe it’s just a coping mechanism. At times I become robotic. What is our objective? How do we achieve this? What obstacles are inhibiting our progress? Solution: eliminate obstructions and follow most efficient course of action. It’s these times where my actions often seem incongruous socially, when I’m in fact running on base logic without tact or adherence to social graces. I’m sure friends or family of mine have seen me in this state, where I don’t want to be helped, I just need to achieve something and release my built up tension. Maybe I’d be better served just letting off some steam, but an angry wank in a supermarket doesn’t seem the best course of action to anything but a court date.

I’m not excusing this behaviour, it’s petty and infantile, but it’s truthfully how I react at times. Everyone has different ways of dealing with stress and frustration, I’m just happy that mine don’t involve introducing my fist to others’ faces or unzipping in public. As we’ve established, only good for a vacation in a concrete hotel room. That’s not to say that my actions can hurt people any less, just differently. I’ve no doubt said (mumbled) things I didn’t intend to say out loud or snapped at someone who entirely didn’t deserve to incur my wrath. When I’m in a shitty mood I’m fully capable of expelling pernicious or ruthlessly harsh comments I might’ve held back through social restraint. When I’ve finally cooled down it’s like that moment of clarity after a series of depraved thoughts. The bloodlust abates and regret sinks in, self-loathing for having attacked undeserving targets washes over me.

Of course some times I just get irredeemably shitty during long periods without sex. Things I may or may not have said to people during an extended dry spell include:
“Please stop leaking syphilis on my leg.”
“My life is worsened for you having been in it.”
“You are a waste of DNA.”
“You are a nexus of venereal disease.”
“Your existence is an insult to miscarriages everywhere.”
“The next time you’re about to speak, instead think to yourself “why don’t I just kill myself instead?”.”

I’m aware how unsympathetic and uncharismatic the above quotes are. I admittedly went through a bit of an angry drunk phase, which doesn’t excuse my behaviour one iota. I’m glad that’s over with. Growing up sometimes ends up doing that to you. Wow, that was a sobering reminder of a certain time in my life. I feel kind of hollow. I might withdraw and force myself into bed. Sorry this ended on such a downer, sometimes life does that. Let’s try to aim higher tomorrow.

Taking care of business and twerking overtime.

I don’t care about Miley Cyrus. I say this not in a malicious way, but simply that she’s irrelevant to my life. The internet seems to think otherwise. People seem to be going double-flipping apeshit over her performance at an irrelevant MTV gathering. I couldn’t really care less. I’m not sure if this is just a symptom of ageing, but it seems like the same thing we’ve seen again and again, just pushing the boundaries that little bit more. It seems obvious that oversexuality in society is going to be beaten into us until it reaches a breaking point, then it’ll probably invert and modesty will become the ideal (once it becomes a financially viable idea. Just think: more clothing = more fabric = higher prices.).  Yeah, I watched the performance of the video. She comes out, twerks a bit (and as an aside I find “twerking” to be a hilarious word. No idea why, but there’s something highly comical about the colloquial necessity to mash the words “butt work” together with an ebonic twist.), strips down, does some simulated masturbation with a large foam hand and twerks some more on everyone’s favourite rape culture advocate Robin Thicke. I get the feeling like this is where I should be expressing some kind of moral outrage at our eroding standards of decency, but really I find it hard to really feel strongly about it. Without having kids (and the thought being so far from my current objectives) I’m having trouble empathising with screams over bad role models. She probably is, or something. That’s the extent of my analysis here.

You know what? I figure teenage girls probably masturbate. If they don’t, they should look into it. It’s pretty awesome. I heard a great story on The Indoor Kids podcast about a little girl who discovered masturbation at a really young age. (Stay with me here, it’s not as seedy as it sounds.) So she was probably in the 4-6 year range. Apparently she did it all the time, got lots of pleasure and enjoyment from it. Sometimes she’d openly do it at her parents’ dinner parties and, not wanting to shame her sexuality or treat it as a bad thing (and thus develop sexual hang-ups, etc) they asked her how she knew when to stop. Her reply (and this kills me even writing it) was “I stop when I see the flowers.” I don’t know what your views on sexuality and propriety are, but that’s fucking beautiful.

Sexuality seems to be so condemned and it’s wrapped up in all of these contrary messages that’re thrown at us endlessly. We know not to sexualise kids (because it takes a certain amount of emotional maturity to deal with concepts of intimacy and consent), but we’re regularly assaulted by media oversexualisation of barely legal women made to look even younger (because forbidden fruit is apparently the most desirable). There’s a department store advert for jeans, tops and other apparel that plays at Cineplex theatres here. I figure if it was screened during the 70s it’d almost be considered soft-core porn. This is being sold to tweens/teens. I’m sure I’ve often remarked about how unnecessary I find it to see 13 year olds walking around with visible bras and how this is more a reflection of nostalgic reverie for my own childhood devoid of sexuality. Women are sold clothing that accentuates assets, we attach validation to presenting oneself as a sexual object, then society turns around and shames them for wanting to express their sexuality. It’s fucked up in a big way. I’m not gonna wade heavily into the mire of rape culture, because more intelligent, capable people who are better feminists than I am regularly do service to the subject and I’m not gonna add anything valuable.

I guess I’m just interested in sex and sexuality. I read an article the other day about a father with the (disappointingly) contrary belief that he wants his daughter to be having awesome sex. I don’t see how or why this view would be outside the mainstream. Surely we all should prefer that people everywhere, if they’re having sex, should be having fulfilling experiences leading to increased self-worth and mutual respect? You want to hear something “fucked up”? I hope my parents still have sex and if they do, I hope it’s great. (Hi mum.) I don’t need to hear about it (because it’s not my business) but if two consenting people capable of making mature, informed decisions love each other and want an outlet to pleasure one another, how is that anything less than awesome? I’m firmly of the belief that it’s a basic human need and denigrating a group for wanting to enjoy it says more about the person who’s throwing stones.

Once again, I’ve bitten off a subject far larger than I can delve into in 30 minutes. So let’s clean house a little bit. What Miley did is just the next step of what Rihanna, Christina, Britney, Kylie and Madonna have all done over the years. It’s executives wanting to create a furore because it drives publicity and in turn pushes their product. If anything the main thing that disappoints me about these displays of ostentatious sexuality is that they usually just raise the hackles of reactionary conservatives who get the coverage instead of encouraging discussion of healthy sexuality and how to educate the youth about the importance of consent, agency and respect for self and others.

Get out there and fuck. Have a good time and care for one another. Am I asking too much?

Perhaps my room should be a shrine to Steve Buschemi in turtlenecks.

I think I’d like to tackle tangential idea to a subject that came up in yesterday’s post. Partly because the first verb in that sentence is the closest I’ll get to my country’s national sport and because I think it’s an interesting idea at this stage of my life. When do we start letting shifting priorities get in the way of how we present ourselves? Does that make sense? After spending the day at Fan Expo I’m no longer of the opinion that the associated hobbies are things that don’t interest me. I sat through (and came third in) an Anime Music Video game show. I walked the floor and marvelled at the array of costumes (could almost be a pun in this context) and the sheer amount of work that people devoted to their passions. I saw some cool indie video games and played through a quick pen and paper RPG (hint: not a Rocket-Propelled Grendade). I saw many items I’d love to own, but am currently choosing not to because I’m not willing to make space for them in my life.

So here we are at the first hurdle. Do I not have the space or am I not willing to compromise my surroundings in some fashion? A massive slavering bust of Venom would be pretty cool to look at sometimes, but I don’t want to have to erect a dais to showcase it. I also like the idea of having sex (wait for it, not as low hanging fruit as it seems. I’ll come back to it.) and I feel like having an alien symbiote clad anti-hero overlooking my bed might inhibit my chances. I would love to be able to cover my walls in everything that twangs a chord inside me, but I also appreciate minimalism and a lack of clutter in my vicinity. I’d willingly adorn myself with apparel slathered with slogans, characters and references, but I’m not willing to deal with the insinuations people would make upon seeing a 26 year old male garbed as a teenager.

We’ve hit upon something here; how much of it is my own designs on myself vs the perceptions of others? Being liked and receiving validation is obviously a big part of most of our lives. Protestations of expression of individuality aside, most of us deep down just want to be wanted. If these are things that I like, then surely anybody worth their salt who I wanted in my life should be on board with them too, right? Am I compromising myself to be viewed as having more substance by the majority and as such increase my chances of people drawing favourable impressions about me? Let’s go back to the idea of people not wanting to fuck the guy who has spent $400 on a small statue of a comic book character. Does this reflect on them? Maybe, but I also don’t want a crazed alien vigilante staring at me while I’m engaged in horizontal gymnastics. I don’t blame them for feeling the same. If I’m willing to pay that much for a depiction of my pop cultural passions, what does that say about my values and priorities? If I care this much about that kind of material good then it obviously reflects its importance in my life.

I’m sure to a lot of people having an interest in comics is fine. Wanting a statue larger than a baby in the corner of your room means that you’ve got a stake in this intellectual property to a significant degree. It probably means more to you than certain human interactions. In a way you’re prioritising having this expression of fandom over consideration of the values of others. It’s in your face in a way that is hard to ignore. I’ll put it this way, if I walked into a gal’s room and was greeted by a life-sized cardboard cut out of their celebrity crush, I’d be questioning their ability to be present with my gender while an everpresent comparison of some idealised male stared back at me with soulless eyes. That seems like resorting to a cheap gender stereotype and I’d like to find a better comparison.

You know what? I can’t, so I’ll go for shoes. If I saw a showcased rack in her room populated with what I considered an abnormal amount of shoes (and as someone who owns about 4 or 5 pairs (dress shoes, sports shoes, sneakers, slippers and jandles) I may have different perceptions of this.), let’s say 30+, that would be unsettling for me. I don’t know if I’m stepping (boom, pun) on a landmine here (one-two pun-ch.), but that seems excessive. It’s not a functional amount and having that level of devotion to something I’d deem unimportant (from her position, prioritising her level of interest over consideration of the values of others) makes me question what her priorities are. If I’m talking to her about the human condition and she’s mentally scanning the catalogue of (insert popular shoe company here) instead, how true is her presence within our communication? If I’ve got a superhero bust overlooking my bedroom, am I gonna be paying attention to her emotional struggles with co-workers or friends? Or will I be mentally travelling the Marvel multiverse?

Sheeeit, there’s so much more to this but I’m out of time. Let’s consider the idea partially processed at the moment. My shifting priority towards being functional tomorrow is inhibiting the progress of this thought.