I guess my obsession with subtext would’ve been kind of a turn off too.

I’ve never really worked out how I feel about social niceties. Obviously I love manners, people being polite and taking care not to trample on the feelings of others (and I seem to have come to the right country for that). I also love words and the rigmarole of niceties creates hoops to jump through, hurdles to leap over and perilous stalactites/mites to make the journey more adventurous. By adhering to a sense of propriety, we create layers of meaning to be decoded, subtext to sift through. Part of me is enamoured with the intrigue of such language conventions, the other part of me abhors the facetiousness of the whole façade. As I said, still undecided.

I guess I’m just trying to figure out how I feel about the sentence “Hey I’m sorry but I am not looking for anything right now but it was really nice to meet you.”

The overwhelming calls from the peanut gallery say “not thrilled” and they’d be correct. If you’re into someone and it’s not reciprocal, it’s a bummer. In that instance, breaking it off is also the best possible thing to do. My logical core has no issue with that. My emotional framework has resorted to beer and newly received New Zealand confectionery. So what did that sentence say?

My instinctive read says that it could easily be rephrased as “Hey, you’re not an awful person, but you don’t pique my interest enough to necessitate further contact.” Once again my logical core breaks it down. Whereas my emotional framework breaks down in a different way. It reads the same sentence as “Let’s be honest, nobody is ever really “not looking for anything right now”, you just weren’t engaging enough to be that person. So I’m gonna phrase it in this way because it doesn’t burn any bridges. It also leaves me with two outcomes which are either a) you’ll have heard this excuse enough times to instantly grok the subtext or b) you’re dim enough to take it at face value, which leaves me with a sterling excuse and coming off blame free.”

Firstly, as much as the ol’ emotional framework wants to apportion blame, there’s none to dole out. I’ve been in her position many times before and that logical core knows full well that what she’s doing is the right move according to these social conventions we’ve constructed. She doesn’t owe me anything, both the logical and emotional side are well aware of that fact. We weren’t deeply entwined whatsoever and deep down in that core I knew the whole time that it probably wouldn’t work out. That didn’t stop the emotional dreamer in me from clinging to some form of hope, hope that circumstances might change, that she might see something in me that she hadn’t before.

Was it even nice to meet me? We had what I assumed was fun conversation, but when you’re engaged with the rush of meeting someone new you’ll often overlook normally obvious signs of disinterest while searching hard for any signs to the contrary. Those subtleties, the subtext falls to the cutting room floor, while your emotional framework lines up the shots it chooses to edit together in the post-date clip show.

If I slip back to that logical core, I can see that my rejection of social niceties in this situation is a thirst to justify any lingering ill-advised outrage. If she was rude I would at least have something to raise my hackles, get mad about. It’d give me reason to formatively reject her for being rude, it’d give me cause to dismiss her and take back some of the mana I lost by being rejected. If she’d said something like “you’re a dick, don’t contact me again.” I’d at least be able to rest on my haunches and say “well, dodged a bullet there.” I could appease my own feelings of neglect by lowering her status in my eyes. “Taking it back” so to speak. Who am I kidding? I’d likely have crumpled into a ball of unwanted and unwarranted neuroticims.

So what did I say in the face of such linguistic maneuvering? Did I show her how we do it back home? Did I stick it to her? Turn up the heat and drop the hammer? Casting aside these insincere social niceties?

How about this sick line? “No worries. If you’re not into it, no use trying to make something work. It was excellent getting to know you.”

Ooooh, check yo’self before yo wreck yo’self there bro’self.

The Venn diagram of this entry excludes people who don’t live in Toronto and drink coffee. So to the three of you left, enjoy.

Today I had a triple espresso mocha and many glasses of Chinese tea at dinner. I noted the caffeine content and my alarming lack of a reaction. No jitters, I was still yawning. This seemed unusual, for caffeine to not be hitting me whatsoever. It’s now 3am and I’m not remotely tired, so I guess that allays those fears a bit. I’ve been drinking a fair selection of coffee over the last few months in an attempt to get to know my way around Toronto. In a culture that prides itself on uninspired global franchise coffee (and uninspired national franchise coffee too, can’t forget Canadian icon Tim Hortons) I figure I want to get to a point where I can find a decent café in whatever neighbourhood I happen to be. My standard drink is a mocha, because it combines the delicate bitterness of espresso coffee with the sweet tones of chocolatey goodness. With each café taking a different spin on a simple recipe, it’s proving a great barometer of the quality of an establishment. I’m surprised most by how little I care for the espresso at Italian bakeries. Perhaps it’s because they care little for the art of a great mocha, merely squirting in copious amounts of nesquik liquid chocolate. It’s cloying, leaving your teeth with an awful residue and it hardly complements the coffee. It seems universal that these Italian bakeries disappoint me, which I guess helps me separate the weak from the champs. So far the places I’ll spill the beans on are:

Rooster Coffee: 479 Broadview Avenue/343 King Street East. A nice hipsterriffic outfit with two handy locales. Okay, neither of them are remotely handy for me, but they’re worthy as destination cafés for a treat.

Saving Gigi: 859 Bloor St W. My local, if I have one. My Kiwi pal works as a barista and the food here is top notch. Spins vinyl constantly, staff’s choice. Comfy place that’s a great place to write.

The Common: 1028 Bloor St. It’s open at 8am on a Saturday, which is solely responsible for any sanity I’m possessing for an early morning gymnastics shift.

Sam James Coffee Bar: 688 Bloor Street W. I think this is part of a chain now, but it’s a little hole in the wall that used to be a bank vault. Deliciously affordable coffee, simple, quick and smooth. I think they use chocolate milk for their mochas, which puts them leagues above most other outfits. One of my favourites and an essential part of my habitual fruit and vege foraging on a Sunday.

Jimmy’s Coffee: 191 Baldwin St. Wouldn’t have gone here if I hadn’t met one of the baristas. That would’ve been a mistake. Great mochas, a rustic atmosphere. My place of choice in Kensington markets, which is overflowing with choice. A tough coin flip between here and Moon Bean, but the great staff often tip the scales. Preferable to the Portland St location, because of the aforementioned staff.

Moon Bean: Well known as the coffee kings of Kensington. A nice selection of beans, baked goods and room to rest. The large deck out back makes this double as a champion location in summer. It’s renown for a reason, top notch establishment.

Tea Dot Coffee: 233 College St. A relative newcomer, the barista assured me her mocha would instantly make my day the best. It helped. Patrons are free to decorate the bottom of a spare cup and display their art on the counter. If you’re in the area, give this place your patronage. I’d like to see it do well.

Crema Coffee Co: 53 Bloor St E. I’ve only tried the one location, but there are 2 others. In a job interview the subject of great local coffee came up. This place was mentioned. While I left without a job, I gained knowledge of this place as some form of reparations. Worth it?

So many more places out there in which to take time and smell the beans. I’ve heard stellar things about Te Aro, started by a Kiwi dude. Given that it’s an hour away, it’s a good destination for my underemployed down time. When I find a café companion we can make the trek. Everyone has coping mechanisms in place for slow times in their lives. If creating a Rolodex of places worthy of patronage is the thing that’s gonna get me through, then so be it.

Once again I care too much about things that don’t matter. Don’t we all?

I don’t know how people can justify not watching True Detective at the moment. This show is so gritty, enthralling and layered with such strong performances from all of its leads. In recent years cable television has made an effort to stay up on the curve and throwing ludicrous amounts of money (and that’s an old link. I wonder how much the new season is gonna cost) into their shows. Insanely good writing, art direction, production elements and set/costume design. In all these veins, True Detective delivers. The characters are engaging, challenging and well cast. It still boggles the mind that a TV show has Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConnaughey (in one of the most defining roles of his career. I do miss his movie posters though) attached. Not to be outdone, they also had the inspired casting of Michelle Monaghan as Woody’s wife. I do love that woman, I’d been crying out for her to get another good role after one of my long time favourite movies, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, which seemed to fall on deaf ears. Hollywood finally turned on their cochlear implants and the result is wonderful. So much strength to her in a show that’d been lacking for strong female characters. This is gonna be a spoiler free post, so I’ve nothing to say about certain plot developments.

Visually the show is stunning. So many amazing aerial shots showcasing the deep and dirty countryside and borderline bayou environments. The show has a clarity within its dusty persona and it shines right through. They’ve created a show that pulls you in entirely and I’m already considering rewatching the mere 6 episodes that’ve already screened. Dense character development, non-linear storytelling, compelling performances, tightly layered themes and allegories. I feel like there’s so much hidden in the mise en scene that we’ve yet to realise. After noticing one or two Easter eggs of my own I searched out more. Heaps bro, heaps. My Lovecraftian interests have me immediately tuned in for any Yellow King mentions that come to ear and smarter minds than I have picked apart the show like an 8 year old rifling through a well-composed salad. Sprawling fan theories have perked up my enthusiasm for the show, resenting the week or so that exists before the next episode.

The season structure is progressive too. Season 1 is 8 episodes, which you’ll realise is pretty tight once you start watching. There’s only been one investigation in the last 6 episodes and with 2 more before it wraps up, things are gonna come to a head. The idea is to start blank each season, whole new actors, characters, scenario. This explains how they can attract such big names, since it’s such a relatively small commitment in the television scale of things. I just hope the quality of the writing stays where it is rather than getting bloated with praise, reaching for the far-fetched right away in lieu of a gradual reveal towards the arcane. I’ve often had difficulty articulating exactly what it is I like about a particular text. In this case all I know is that it’s so engrossing, that as soon as I step into the show’s world I don’t want to leave. Not many shows are capable of shocking me these days. It’s a rare show that can captivate my attention span in these days of tabbed browsing and internet constantly within reach. At times I even find myself pausing an episode, stopping to breathe and take in what I’ve just seen, before resuming a minute or two later. Part of me thinks I’m trying to digest the subtleties within the show, the more logical part knows I’m just trying to make it last even a little bit longer. Because it’s worth it.

I wish I had one of those memory foam pillows right now, because I’m swaying in my seat here.

I feel like the only things I had to do today were buy broccoli and bananas. I failed at both. You’d think I’d feel disappointed at utterly failing the minimal expectations I’d set up for myself, but I think I’m alright with it. What I did accomplish, which wasn’t expected, was a lunch club shift that came right out of left field. Reading the shift request at 10.50, I managed to make it there by 11.40, right before serving time. I swear I was finished before 12.30, that particular school being so efficient. Earned myself some chicken mac and cheese, mandarins and one of my new flashy IKEA clip containers filled with grated carrot. Also a small tub of poppyseed vinaigrette, which is only notable because neither of the other lunch club coaches wanted to take it home. “Do you want it?” my fellow coach asked. “Sure” I replied “je ne vinaigrette rien.” I don’t know if it works (y’know, actually meaning anything), but if it doesn’t I don’t want to know. Neither of my fellow coaches got the joke, or if they did they were too polite to acknowledge it as one.

I guess I forgot to mention the IKEA trip yesterday, so focused on dancing with lesbians and awkward encounters of the girl kind. I still want everything that store has and I still don’t have the money for it. I kitted myself out for domestic bliss (and maximum workplace leftover efficiency) with some clip containers, those clippy things for sealing bags, some freezer bags and my own special green glass. I’ve always loved having some type of glass that’s exclusively mine. It probably stems from the fact that as a child I had my own cup and I’m pretty much still a child. I tried a bunch of glasses out, but there could be only one. The glasses had to be tested for volume, look and comfort. First of all it was a green glass. Green being my favourite (and the best) colour that was already close to a slam dunk. Secondly the glass was large without being novelty sized. I feel like I could have a hefty vodka drink sitting in there. Could and will. Lastly it was one of those perfect fits. I don’t have large hands (in other words I have small hands), but with my fingers splayed in a comfortable fashion they spanned the height of the glass with just a little bit on either side. This was some Three Bears level “just right”. I love the glass and if it wasn’t an inanimate object, I’d be certain it would love me back. As it stands, I have my suspicions.

There were so many things that I wanted though. I feel like my trip to IKEA was a perfect justification for the elements of capitalism that I love. If I’d been in a better place financially my cart would’ve been sizeable. I’d be sitting on a new leather computer chair right now, slowly righting the shitty posture I’ve developed. I’d be using a new desk (I mean, as much as I love the rickety $20 down from $70 desk I bought and put together without instructions (and with only minimal screws left over) in a fit of DIY self-respect, it does bother me that I majorly fucked up the pull-out keyboard tray and occasionally it rattles a little) and likely feeling more professional in the process. I’d be preparing food with every single one use utensil they had (including the top tier garlic press they have. Satisfying. At the end of the day I’d crash out under brand new duvet covers onto an amazing memory foam pillow. My Favourite Ex has the pillow, I can confirm it’s worth dreaming about while staring wistfully off into the distance, tender ballad playing in the background. I do really miss stealing that pillow whenever we had slumber parties.

Travel is something else that’d be nice on the horizon. It doesn’t have to be anything big or severely international, but I’ve got some specifically excellent United States cities on my doorstep. The concept of taking a week to hang out in New York, Chicago or Boston seems like a great way to blow off steam. The idea that I’d need to blow off steam at the moment seems absurd, considering how little I’m really working. Nonetheless it’s always awesome to have something to work towards. I guess mostly I’m still “travelling” per se, if by travelling I mean experiencing a foreign culture. I just happen to be travelling in a stationary situation. I still have yet to really explore the furthest reaches of this city, what am I looking to foreign shores for then?

Alas, until I subscribe further into the wealth of experiences further capitalism could provide, the bulk of my exploring will probably be done throughout the hallowed walls of IKEA.

Especially their meatballs.


Okay, so the Crush party last night was just a 50s themed club night with a pro LGBT crowd. The private rooms really were just that, I didn’t hear or see anything of them all night. I don’t know why I thought anything untoward might have happened. I swear in the back of my mind was some strange neurotic fear of being castigated as a straight guy in this kind of community, which is completely ridiculous considering the overriding mentality is of inclusion and acceptance. I’m kind of ashamed to have even produced those thoughts in the nether reaches of my mind. It did make me realise just how much I like dancing with lesbians though.

Okay, a few points of clarification are probably in order.

1) I’ve never really learned how to dance with someone else. I didn’t get into the club mentality of finding people to grind on, I don’t think I’d even know how to. If my lineage depended on luring in a mate through a physical display of my rhythmic attunement, I would be dragging my formerly proud family line to the grave with me. So whenever I’m in some kind of club or rave culture, “pick up” is the last thing on my mind. Because it’s the last thing that would ever happen.

2) I love getting out on the dance floor and throwing shapes, but those shapes are probably more reminiscent of the throes of a seizure than anything cohesive or fluid. I subscribe to the theory that good dancing is utilising every ounce of enthusiasm and confidence without giving two shits about what anyone else thinks. If you’ve ever seen me dance, you’ll have realised that my “theory” is a defence mechanism keeping what little dignity I have in check.

3) One of the best arrangements I ever had was with my ex’s friend. Both of us loved dancing, our respective partners didn’t. We’d go out to raves together, keep others from hitting on one another and just have a helluva time bobbing and weaving to the beats till the sun came up. Great times.

So dancing with lesbians is a way I get to bundle up all three of those wonderful things into once pleasant package. My inability to dance in a provocative fashion is fine, because she wouldn’t be interested in that any way. This means I get to go all out and let loose with someone who just wants to play with use of physical space. It means I can try ways to interact that distance themselves from grinding culture while having total free reign to try what I want. Ideal. There’s one girl who’s been at both I’d Tap That events and she’s the fucking best. Great fun to play around with, the best kind of dance partner.

The only negative aspect was the same girl who’d made me feel kind of uncomfortable last time. Even that was cushioned by my ability to externally view the situation, while awkward at the time, as holistically ironic. So at the Puppy Love event I kind of discovered for the first time what females face on a disturbingly regular basis, the concept of unwanted attention. There was a girl who’d come over to talk. I think she might’ve been a little drunk or something, but something wasn’t gelling. I didn’t find any kind of connection and she kept trying to demand my attention. Instead of outright dismissing her (after years of being turned down by girls I’d have felt mean doing the same), I tried to make some excuse (grabbing a drink or going to the bathroom) and moved away. Throughout the night she kept moving back to talk to me and I kept making short, uninteresting conversation in the hopes that she’d lose interest and wander off. Inevitably this would fail and I’d make another excuse. After some time she got subsumed into the Truth or Dare game, which I’d wanted to stick around, but figured if she was focused there I’d be able to go around and mingle unimpeded. Success, right? Ignoring problems makes them go away every time!

So fast forward to this Crush party and I’m there talking to some guy. All of a sudden I feel a tapping at my shoulder and she’s in my face. I talk politely while choosing to ignore the fact that she just interrupted a conversation. After about a minute I go back to my old bag of tricks, make an excuse and head somewhere else. I’m on the dance floor a few minutes later and I can see her making her way across the floor towards me. I acquiesce and dance with her a little while trying to move around the floor a bit, attempting to get some distance. She follows. Repeatedly. Exasperated, even though I wanted to stay on the floor, her presence was directly inhibiting my enjoyment. I moved away to grab a drink of water and head somewhere else for a while. A minute or two later, she followed me. This went on for quite some time and I was starting to get agitated. Knowing full well that I’d probably obliviously hounded my fair share of poor girls in the past, I still didn’t want to hurt her feelings. With no experience being an object of want to the fairer sex, I had zero ideas on how to let her down gently. It was getting to the point, though, that her behaviour was directly impacting my comfort and happiness at the event. Eventually she provided me with my “out” when she asked if she could kiss me. First off, props to her, because I don’t think I’ve ever been in her situation and had the balls to ask the same. I replied “I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.” She looked deflated, which provided me no measure of pride or pleasure, then slunk off. I felt kind of guilty, but figured I didn’t really have much other recourse.

It’s alright though guys, ten minutes later I saw her making out with some other dude on the dance floor, so everything worked out.

The whole experience really hit home though. I’m not gonna attempt to speak for guys in general here, but having remotely no similar experiences to call on, I’ve always had that smallest bit of difficulty empathising with girls facing these kind of issues every single day. I’ve always had sympathy. I know that many guys can be creepy, too forward or assume too much too soon. This is one of the first times when I’ve felt even a sliver of discomfort due to unwanted amorous affections. It shits me that this activity is so commonplace with flipped genders. The regularity with which I hear about this stuff creates no small amount of internalised male guilt within me. I need to start learning to distance myself from the shitty actions of others, but christ it gets tough at times.

Oh well, as long as there are still lesbians out there to dance with, something’s right with the world.

I got increasingly more drunk as the paragraphs progressed. Did it show?

After yesterday’s risk free risqué entry, it had me thinking. I certainly felt vanilla after seeing the weird and wonderful buffet of fetishes being passed out like hors d’oeuvres at a catered orgy. Like my point of pondering back in Vancouver, I’ve reached another crossroads. I’m wanting to put myself out there, meet more interesting people and generally find out what makes me tick. I had an experience lately that made me realise I’m really not into choking someone during sex. NOPE NOPE NOPE. As someone who strongly dislikes the idea of hurting anyone, the sound of someone I was inside gurgling and incapable of breathing nearly stopped my heart. Call me innocent, but if I’m with someone it means I like something about them and inflicting real pain seems in stark contrast to that. Some fun hair tugging, scratching, mild whipping or spanking is one thing, having an imprint of my hands on someone’s neck is quite another. So that was, if not a misstep, then a step further than I would’ve liked. At least I got there without having to deposit a body in a rug. We’ve only got one and it kind of ties the room together. Cross that one off the list.

So I guess the next step is to discover the other borders of my comfort zone. The group who threw the tremendously fun Puppy Love event on Valentines Day, I’d Tap That is throwing one of their Crush parties tonight. Puppy Love was about as vanilla as that group gets. Craft table, dance competition, onstage dating game, speed dating (which unfortunately never happened), truth or dare and spin the bottle. It was like re-living all the things my teenage years should’ve been if filtered through a Hollywood teen movie lens. It was also a blast and a half. That sounds like it could’ve easily been a lewd phrase. The event was enjoyable, though I found myself supportive but hesitant to engage in any of the same sex smooching shenanigans. Ended up kissing some dude in truth or dare. Afterwards I remarked to him (in an apology that would be easily twisted to something quite frowned upon) “sorry, I did that like I was kissing my dad.” I’d felt uncomfortable, but not wanting to seem unsupportive I went in for a peck on the lips. It was zero big deal, but I’d felt my barriers closing up there.

This Crush event is Grease themed, which should be a glass half full of nostalgic Americana. It’s a sex/gender positive event, which is the kind of thing I want to support happening, complete with drag king collective The Yes Men doing all the Grease hits.  It also has private booths for private things, which is also fine by me. It’s funny, but I’ve got this almost patronising “proud dad” mentality that comes over me when I see non-heteros out there having fun. I remember distinctly back to a night in Dunedin (the trip that inspired me to start this project) when Weezy and I were in a gay club and I was recovering from my torn PCL. I was sitting at the bar with a whiskey in hand, benevolently looking down at the smattering of guys dancing together thinking “isn’t this nice that they’ve got a place to do this away from prejudice?” I mean, missing the irony of this thought itself subjugating gay people as “the other”. A+ for intent, B- for execution. I’m hoping that I’m not patronising enough to see two dudes fucking like apes and thinking “aww, how lovely.” I wouldn’t put it past myself though. I don’t even understand any friction I’d have. For some reason my initial thought of this event would be gross gratuitous hook-ups everywhere, random fucking everywhere the light touches (Simba). The more I think of it, it’s a totally respectful group who prides themselves on consent as essential to all actions. Nobody is gonna try and coerce me into things I’m not comfortable with, I’m just there to meet interesting new friends. Is this almost another type of prejudice? Assuming that people involved in a sexually uninhibited group to be somehow exotic and engaging? Is it an unfair stereotype to assume that gay guys are witty, clever or stylish? Am I a bigot deep down or just subscribing to too many societally held views?

Do I just have far more neuroticisms than eroticisms?

I have never used Urban Dictionary so much in such a short span of time.

Okay, game changer. Someone on reddit just posted this site which lists live searches being submitted in real time. Fascinating. It’s split between straight, gay and tranny and it’s marvellous. The interface needs work, but this is almost as engaging as Twitch Plays Pokémon. Maybe I’ve just been on a hivemind kick lately, but the collective consciousness of humans who don’t believe they’re being watched is unreal. I also like it that someone just searched for “rubbing cocks” in straight porn.

Okay, let’s have a look at what people are searching for:

“Shits”. What does that mean? Does “shits” even involve people or just the excrement alone? This is making me waaaay too giggly.

“Granny abused”? Really? I don’t know how giggly that makes me feel. More slimy than anything.

“Let’s make a baby”. Actually that’s kind of sweet and adorable.

“Home alone”. Wait, has Macaulay Culkin fallen so far?

“Stop time fuck”. That’s a thing? That sounds almost fun. I wonder how big superpower porn is, or am I just laughably naive?

“Sexs turbaned”. I wonder if that’s a fetish for the clothing or a cultural thing? Is sex prohibited or heavily restricted in Sikh culture? Now I just feel ignorant.

“Fucking the bride dress”. Does this involve the bride too? Or is it dress up fun?

“Laser”. I don’t know what that is, but I want to know more. There’s a bar here called Sex Laser, cheap drinks apparently.

“Humping table”. Anthropornmorphic?

“Lesbians pee while hump”. I can’t tell if that takes bladdar control or not.

Well that’s 10 minutes or so, let’s see what they’re searching on the gay tubes:

“Omar”. Please oh please let this be a reference to The Wire.

“Drug addicts being fucked”. Trying to rationalise this to myself I guess this is taking advantage of someone in a desperate situation, a power exchange kind of thing?

“Young girl gets stabbed”. Is this porn? Has Guro grossed over to the realm of IRL?

“We both cum”. Again, something that seems really sweet found in the bowels of the internet.

“Naked fat guys”. Well isn’t this nice? Naked fat guys need lovin’ too. Good to know I’ll have a demographic if I ever let myself go.

“Thugseduction”. Why isn’t this a hit RnB album?

“Bearcub”. So a bear is a hairy dude, is a bearcub an aggressively hairy teenager?

“Fur uggs”. These clothing fetish ones are my favourite. Like that time at work I had to watch a foot fetish porn. Gal comes in, starts peeling off layers all sexy-like, starts going down on her dude. The camera takes this moment to pan away to her feet and settles there. So you’ve got all this typical porn action going on while the disinterested camera man instead focuses on the one possible framing with nothing happening. I wonder whether this even started as a foot fetish porn or if they looked at the footage they had and thought “well, let’s roll with it.” Still, does anyone find uggs sexy? I’d think gay people had better taste.

“Face sitting farting”. Anyone up for some cakefarts?

“Otter bareback”. Full disclosure, I’ve got no idea what this means in sex terms. What does urban dictionary tell me? That makes sense, so how is that different from a Bearcub? So it’s like some kind of Pokémon style evolutionary line? If it wasn’t evident by now, I only understand concepts if they can be translated to Pokémon.

Okay, another 10 minutes have passed. Time to advance to the final boss, live Transexual searches:

“Prolapse sauna”. Okay so I’m assuming some kind of prolapsed anus, which would have a person looking like a baboon. Add extreme heat to that and it’d probably swell like a baboon with a balloon for a bum. I don’t get why it’s sexy, but I’ll defend to the death people’s right to find it so.

“An poop”. An LOL.

“Squirt” Doesn’t this seem less remarkable in a transexual porn situation?

“Lion fuck girl”. I knew zoo was a thing, but I didn’t know lions were in high demand. Unless that’s a sexual term for an archetype? Urban Dictionary says no. Well then.

“Transporter 2”. That was unexpected. Do people occasionally mix up pornhub and The Pirate Bay?

“Wild cougar”. Okay I know this one. Everyone knows what a cougar is. I’m sure I’ll be entirely wrong though and in lieu of sexually aggressive older women it’ll actually be some kind of snuff of someone being savaged by a mountain cat. I’ve never felt so vanilla as I do right now.

“Robot fuck”. Now we’re talking. First lasers now transexual robot fuck. We’ve got a stew going.

“East african porn”. Well I’ve always said specificity is important.

“Dicklet” PLEASE let this be a Pokémon thing.

“Real housewives of Mumbai”. Somehow I find this concept more exploitative than porn.

“Absorption hentai”. KANEEEEDAAAAAAAA! TETSUUUUOOOOO! I really need to rewatch Akira.

“World of Warcraft”. Does it strike anyone else that none of these seem transgender specific? Do people even know that they’re searching under the wrong section?

“Grandpa gets pegged”. Well if I felt bad about old people being coerced into sex, at least I know it spans all genders.

“Urine party”. Ain’t no party like a urine party ’cause a urine party is good to the last drop?


Well that was a fulfilling use of 30 minutes. It certainly piqued my interest, but that’s about all it piqued. I haven’t felt less turned on in quite some time. Once again if anyone is bored of their typical searches and wants suggestions, here’s that site one more time.

Now I might take a shower, for unrelated reasons.

Just be thankful I never thought to call it Scatalogical Musings or something.

Okay, enough procrastinating for tonight. Simple attempts to distance myself from this task (that I wanted to accomplish so I could sleep) have proven quite distracting. Which is why I’m actually typing about an hour after I’d intended. Accursed blessed internet and its horrifically terrific addictive ways. I wish that I had anything exciting or relevant to share, but my continuing malady has cut down on social interactions. It hasn’t stopped me wanting to figure out some kind of maladjusted pun for the previous sentence though. Bad. Well it’s sort of “bad” in French. French is a language I have rudimentary to no skill with. I can read some really obvious stuff, but anything auditory (whether I’m listening to or speaking it) is doomed to the same kind of inevitable failure as the Jamaican bobsled team. To the chagrin of everyone who enjoyed John Candy comedies in the 90s, they came away with last place despite the generous donations of dogecoin it took to get them there. So far “Cruel Runnings” has been my favourite caption. It’s alright, they had Cool Intentions anyway. Does that even work? Kind of? So it’s like me then, with my partial employment?

I’ve been hearing a bit from CAMH again recently. I’m currently involved in a quit smoking study as a healthy participant. So as someone who doesn’t smoke, I’m required to take either a minuscule dosage of the drug/placebo and undergo transcranial magnetic stimulation, paired associative stimulation and memory tests involving an electroencephalography cap. I would’ve resorted to acronyms, but I figure only a select niche of my audience would know what I was talking about. Then again, they’re probably the same part of my audience who understands what those words mean when they’re not anacronymically bound, so it’s wasted effort anyway. Yesterday, literally in the middle of saying farewell to my supervisor for one study, I was called by a supervisor for another. Word travels and decent participants are hard to find as far as I’ve been told. A lot of their subjects are often opportunistic random Craigslisters willing to lie for a quick dollar. I’ve built up a reputation as trustworthy and competent, therefore I’m kind of in demand. As evidenced by getting yet another call today for a sibling-study to one I’d already done. Anyone remember the social drinking study? Looks like round two could be a month or two away. It’s all extra money in the coffers, which is always welcome but especially so with the warmer months approaching.

One of the central reasons for this is the pure glut of live music and festivals that’re gonna be heating up soon. Much as I melted while watching Neutral Milk Hotel at Kool Haus, it seems like they’re tipped to headline most any North American festival in the next few months. It’s alright, I could easily see them again. Other artists floating around include Broken Social Scene (and maybe I won’t burn my legs this time while watching), Interpol, A Tribe Called Red, Austra, CHVRCHES, Local Natives, Deer Tick and a bunch of other bands I’ve never heard but could probably strike a chord with me. Obvious pun, obviously intended.

I realised just now that with the obviously drunken stumbling way my mind seems to trip through a stream of consciousness swagger, I probably could’ve called the project Speaking of Which. I mean, I definitely could’ve called it that if my mind had stumbled over it in its meandering wanderings. As it stands, I Have my Doubts works well enough. Could do with a bit more self-loathing though if I really wanted to be true to the name. What am I doing knocking the name? It serves its purpose and does it well.

I mean, I still have yet to figure out what that purpose really is…

Thankfully I managed to stay soft for marshmallow porn.

I apologise that for the second day in a row I am infirm and as such the quality of my writing (unlike that of mercy) will be strained. I have some kind of hacking cough, weak limbs and a mild headache. I feel feverish and wan. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that I was undergoing the first stage of some zombie contagion. Truth is, I don’t know any better, so I may well be undergoing the first stage of some zombie contagion. Fortunately my flat is pretty enclosed, so at worst I’d devour my poor unfortunate flatmate (though she’s a gymnast. She could probably kick my ass Gymkata style. Somehow I knew installing that pull up bar would be my undoing). After that we’d probably just wander around, bumping into walls for a while. Eventually we’d just tire of inaction and start watching something. Do zombies feel infatuation? I’m sure if I searched “zombies rule 34” I’d find some ungodly amount of undead in undress. Surprisingly there were very few results, though one of them was this NSFW Stay Puft Marshmallow Woman. Dear internet, please never change. My heart, living or undead, couldn’t take it.

Every now and again I’m struck by the thought that our predecessors couldn’t fully comprehend where these technologies would really lead. Watching old 80s sci-fi films, the communicative technologies often seem significantly less advanced than those which fill our pockets. I remember the feeling of awe I felt at the Huntsville Marshall Space Flight Center, looking upon these hulking vessels that took mankind through the stars to other planets. My surprise was palatable learning that the amassed processors of these rockets had less computing power than the phone I photographed them with. How far we’ve come, right? Things were different in those days though. I get the feeling that we were less reliant on technology in general. People in our contemporary society take so much for granted, feel so entitled with the things we should almost revere as gods. Remember when fire was totally The Tits? It didn’t get much better than that. A nice warm blaze to heat the tribe, storytellers would enthrall the community with tales of things witnessed only in dreams. It was a different time plagued by its own set of problems, but they appreciated what they had for what it gave them.

Now things seem to be expected. You don’t consecrate yourself before the bringer of heat until it no longer works. We don’t revere the things that add convenience to our lives. When we achieve a certain socio-economic stage in the First World we’ve forgotten what it is to want. I’m not talking about craving material products, the newest Veblen Good (amazing word. I’d forgotten what they were called but a quick Google of “goods that are desirable because of their cost” (Google? Another convenience I doubt we properly praise) solved that quick-smart) or luxury experiences. I’m talking clean water, public transport, affordable sweatshop stitched garments and the electricity making our lives of progress and comfort possible.

So right now I’m gonna throw myself down before the mighty Helix Fossil and praise the technological advances that’ve brought us such amazing things as Gymkata, zombie rule 34 and NSFW Stay Puft Marshmallow Women. I acknowledge how mundane my life would be without the constant surprise, delight and disgust you bring my way. Because without that which provokes, we’d have no reason to strive for change.

By sabotaging Democracy, Anarchy is accomplishing a hell of a lot more in this game. Does that work for real politics too?

Wow, I feel awful. Not because of anything I’ve done (though knowing how I like to run my mouth off, I’m sure you all saw that as the most plausible justification), but because I’ve got some sudden illness that’s sprung upon me like a lion savaging a gazelle. I felt a little tired this afternoon, which I thought I could put down to a large lunch. Thing is, as soon as I arrived at work it became apparent through that ol’ scratchy throat, shortness of breath and aching muscles that something more sinister was afoot. I barely made it through my classes and home on the TTC, shivering all the way. Now I’m in front of the computer, a live stream of Twitch Plays Pokémon to my right, slouching in a bathrobe, hoping to sweat it out. I’ll beat this thing even if it kills me. Which is to say that either I’ll get healthier or die. Seems like those are the obvious outcome, but I’m leaning towards the former.

Speaking of which, I saw some guy today walking with the most crooked Gangsta Lean I’ve seen in some time. That was some Tower of Pisa shit right there. The smart-ass part of me wanted to ask him if he was drunk or otherwise had trouble walking, with such a severe Gangsta Lean, but I figure hassling random teenagers who’ll know better in 10 years seems unnecessary. It would’ve felt good right then though. I guess that’s how people usually justify shitty behaviour, they cover it with that sounded like a good idea at the time umbrella. I think that’s something I’ve found to have improved slightly with age. As I said, I still shoot my mouth off, but when I do I at least attempt to aim my shots carefully. I also try not to fire blanks. I think in general I just talk a lot less. You wouldn’t think it if you’d met me, but I at least put some form of thought into what I’m saying instead of trying to force my mind to catch up to my mouth.

I’m not gonna lie, getting these words out right now is a struggle. I’ve gotta sleep, I have testing in the morning. I’m hoping that tonight’s chicken soup and sweating bullets will cast out any vile spirits inhabiting my body. If only I had the Silph Scope I’d be able to check. Twitch Plays Pokémon almost had it. After getting the whole way through Rocket HQ, defeating the formidable tile puzzle and giving Giovanni what for (the battle involved much consultation of the Lift Key for its ineffable wisdom), the 80,000 viewers decided it’d be much better for Digrat (a Rattata with Dig, dig?) to get the hell out of there. Seems like one of the nefarious schemes of the False Prophet Flareon, right? Except that the False Prophet was cast out as a charlatan by the collective earlier today. I think we can pin this Rocket mishap solely at the base of the demonic Dome Fossil, enemy of all that is holy. The number of these events that I’ve actually been witness to, it’s becoming evident that I’m spending altogether too much time watching this stream.

Oh sorry, I’ve got this problem where I sometimes write “much” instead of “little”. Also I feel like, in describing the occurrences of Twitch Plays Pokémon so much (actually meant “much” that time), I’ve become one of those incessant bores who constantly describes the convoluted plot lines of soap operas you don’t watch.

“So then OAK said to RED “RED – THIS ISN’T THE TIME TO USE THAT” for the 18th time in a row. Can you believe that bitch?”

Thank Helix they don’t have HM02 yet.