Life got weird and unfamiliar.

Chaotic?

Perhaps.

Consuming?

More appropriate.

I have found, met, and am attempting to maintain a relationship with a brother I had known about my entire existence yet never really anticipated being real. Mom and Dad participated in some statutory rape in the seventies – Fourteen and Eighteen respectively. Thirty years later and their baby boy just so happens to live in the same small butt-fuck town I grew up in. The town my entire family and extended family maintain a geographical orbit to; my family the epee-centre. The first few weeks were the toughest. Being the middle (wo)man between my parents and he was a bit straining. A heightened realization emerged highlighting the core differences between my family and myself. Turns out I’m less emotional and a heavy participant in rational thought processing – disappointing I’m sure. That being said, time has past and the key parties have met. Things are closer to the rainbows and unicorns one would hope for in any adoption story – No one really accounts for the awkward adjustment period.

Just before the bio-brother situation started up, I stumbled upon a friend of a friend whom I’ve been integrating into my life more and more. I dig him. There I said it. I indulge.

So Although I’ve left out some key events in the past two months (a return of Tegan and Sara) some new responsibilities at work, side projects, drunken birthday parties and basketball games, you’re pretty much up to speed dear internet (and colleagues who undoubtedly read this).

oh.

This morning a bird shat on my head while walking to the subway station. It caused me to interact intimately with a fellow commuter while she poked around in my hair looking for said shit – only in Canada. I then bought a lotto ticket. I’ve booked a trip to San Antonio, Tlyacapan, Mexico. I depart in countable days.

 Tequila anyone?

Yesterday I was seventeen minutes late. I left my point of origin (err, my freezer of an apartment) all of five minutes earlier today. My bat with the Toronto transit commission is on going and today I can’t determine if I won or not. I really could have used said twenty minutes to stay in bed.

 That being said when I arrived at work I had time to grab a coffee and listen to a colleague fill me in on a heart wrenching story about her cat having to be put down. While listening intently with utter concern for her heartbreak I began unraveling myself from my winter jacket, scarf, mitts, hat and rubber boots and laced up my converse and threw on a pashmina. To my mortification I realized that a pair of my underwear had clung to my scarf as it hit me in the face.

Rip. Static-shock.

Shove in purse.

Trying to keep a straight face I began to tune out the story. Something about it was the right thing to do. The cat was old. Every inch of my being was focused on holding back the smirk that was twitching my cheek muscles.

Don’t smile. DON’T Smile!

Day two back at work, the fifth day into 2010 and this is all I have to write about.

Happy New Year bitches, I’ve been too drunk and lazy to report on the last few weeks of 2009.

For those of you who do know me, I can tell you that my impromptu and uncontrollable drunk British accent came out on New Years Eve, (technically probably the first few hours of New Years Day). Just another ‘adorable’ quirk by yours truly (sarcasm – What!) - A quirk that emerged at the most impossible, most humiliating moment known to all vocal emitting mammals.

And that’s all I can bare to share on the topic.

I wish I was kidding.

Having received my bonus last week I can officially say I’ve consumed it all. Thursday night was dedicated entirely to drinking a bottle of red wine and embarrassing myself in front of a table full of new faces, which as a result drove me heavy hearted and hungover into a Friday night with friends from out of town and more drunken debauchery. I woke up Saturday and headed to a sketchy diner on the outer layer of the city to meet Andrea and her brother. The diner which served cheap breakfast also served witness to two drug deals and a bill on a post-it note. . .

Crammed into a truck we headed east to a party full of plumbers at her parent’s place two and a half hours outside of the city. After much wine, a game of ‘bite the bag’ and dancing through windows, I crashed, waking up with what looked to be a long haired ‘my little pony’ in my pocket.

Saturday with great determination we headed to my parents place in a small town an hour away – They were hosting a psychic party.

I went in open minded and excited to receive insight into my realm of future reality. As she went into the basics of work and love, she told me I’ve been spending money “like a drunken sailor.”

True story.

And although this blind observation may have been spot on, she had plenty of positive things to say about what’s to come in the New Year – Such things that should provide a great deal to write about. . .

Or is it?

Rousseau wrote in his Social Contract and I rephrase (it’s been a while so forgive me), “Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains.”

This piece of literature (can I call it that?) – Philosophical work – has been one of the most prominent theoretical recollections from my university career. I’ve gone into the Indigo chain at least five times in the past five years with every intention of purchasing it. . . Choices hindered my ability to follow through.

Not the point.

The point is that this one sentence has forever weighed on me. It can be applied to every life situation, every social interaction and internal communication with oneself.

Why is it that I and so many others in the human population enjoy the consumption of alcohol at such a grandiose scale? (case in point Thursday and Friday of last week).

Why is it that a repressed desire or thought tends to resurface in the depths of an alcoholic blur? Words spill from my mouth, actions take over my hazy conscious and bam, I overcome (or at times run straight into) those limitations that otherwise stay static in the forefront of my cognitive thought.

‘Cause I’m in chains.

And today, for some reason social expectations, rules and accepted norms are weighing heavily on me. Granted I know there is a counter to every perspective, but today I just want this one.

So I’d like to take a moment here and think of those things that without inhibitions I would conquer. I invite you to do the same.

. . . Are you blushing?

I need a drink.

We have choices in life and I’m glad I decided to stay in on Saturday and order in Fish and Chips and indulge in a Saturday night of TV and the laziest of lazy Sunday’s. Friday night I went out with an old friend from University. We hit up the Raptors game and indulged in far too many adult beverages post win. Saturday I went for coffee with a pretty lady that I had met the week before. Afterwards I headed back home to my couch, ditching plans to go out.

I’ve realized in my uncharacteristic weekend spent hanging around with people that I don’t know well (and them me) that perhaps I tend to overcompensate for the gap between not-knowing someone and knowing them. In hindsight I think I came off as intense and bizarre. I’m a bit too much too fast and tend to share far too much, all as an attempt at making the other person feel more at ease. This may be counter productive. In one instance, I think this came off as me being really into the other. In my reality, I was simply trying to bridge the gap of six and a half years. And remind said person that the group of people I was once excluded from had missed out on me.

The second instance I was really nervous. I find at times when I have one on one interaction with someone for the first time I tend to get caught up in how I’m coming off rather than just attempting to engage and get to know the other person. I think this happens when I want the other person to know me. As a result I tend to come off as a crazy person trying to give them a well rounded perspective of who I am, all my layers, all at once.

Too much.

But alas I’m grateful. This weekend has taught me something. Perhaps there is something to be said about a bit of mystery. That sleep may result in a clearer perspective on life, and that I’m not responsible for carrying the weight of most social exchanges.

It may be nice to sit back and watch other people squirm for a change.

After eleven long days and eleven evenings out, most of which included the consumption of alcohol I’m finally sat at home on my couch. Thank the good ones for weekends, Law & Order and take-out delivery.

Starting with an afternoon two Tuesdays ago perched on top of a roof top watching Blue Rodeo perform live followed by an after party, dinner and a stint at the Horseshoe I managed to attend two Raptors games, which I am convinced I self handedly won merely by attending. I’ve woken up on a couch other than my own on two different instances  from too much alcohol consumption. A third couch avoided  due to a pit stop at Shang-Hi for 4 a.m. perogies and insisting that I go home. I’ve fallen asleep in not one, but two cabs. I’ve had two dates, one of which I didn’t know was a date – surprise. I went to an art show. I have gone to work early because my mind was cluttered with the list of things to do. I went to the gourmet wine and food show and discovered a new version of the Caesar. I’ve eaten Mexican for breakfast with some of my favourite people. I was blown away on a Wednesday. I’ve pretended to be psychic and I’ve gotten far too little sleep.

I’m exhausted.

The Saturday following the evening of the Flare 30^th anniversary party, where I consumed copious amount of complimentary drinks, and eats and a goody bag to boot, I was treated to a day at the spa by a good friend.

This is where I fell in love with the steam room.

I was there for a full body massage which probably should have been the highlight. BUT David, the non-homo man-handler was a tad over zealous which made for a less than relaxing 50 minutes under his grabby hands. He started off with chit-chat, he asked what I did for a living and followed it up with, “so do a lot of celebrities hit on you?”

Appropriate?

I’m naked and you’re massaging the little fatty part on the inner portion of my upper thigh.  I’m finding myself holding my breath. Any higher up and this would be a whole other kind of massage parlor. In between gasps for air, I find myself praying I did an accurate shave job. It’s been so long  since anyone’s been down in the Van Netherland that I’ve failed to care.

It’s two days later and I have bruises on my ass cheeks.

But my skin, my skin is sex worthy.

. . . Steam clean anyone?

It’s Saturday night, sometime after midnight,  I’m at my parents place out of town and this is the text message I get from a guy I once slept with…alright, twice slept with.  Lord, forgive me.

Back story?

There really isn’t one.

Who says “brrrrap brrrrap” and makes reference to someone they want to sleep with, by following up their name with the term “dawg”? (I kid you not!)

Cringe.

I always think that we can go back to being friends, but every conversation we have he reference sex, sex with me, and him hinting at wanting it to happen again. I am completely avoidant and reluctant to ask him once again, “What is wrong with you?”

The second and last time it happened, he avoided me for months. Months! That being said, he hit on my five months later, (the first time seeing each other in person since the deed went down) at a time when I thought it was safe to reenter ‘friends’ territory.

Aren’t Dogs suppose to be man’s best friend?

Why can’t Brrrrap brrrrap get past the sex, keep calling me dawg and be friends?

Really?

Being that I get all of three envelopes once a month, I’ve gotten into the habit of checking our shared mailbox on Friday’s. This works for me. I went to visit my parents out of town over the weekend and as such didn’t get around to it.

The note instantly infuriated me. My mail annoys him that much that he’s asking me to change my routine so he doesn’t have to look at a couple of envelopes?! I desperately wanted to write on the back of the same envelope “Please remember to fuck yourself daily” and shove it back into the mail box. But alas I withdrew from the temptation and instead called my landlord to tattle.

 Adult status, hindered.

If my mail is issue enough to mention, then I am sure-as-hell brining up his smoking habits and inability to indulge in his repulsiveness in the great out doors. Instead my vents are filled with smoke and my bathroom ceiling is yellow with tar. I physically can feel the affects daily, and the smell is obvious and somewhat embarrassing when I have company. Such an issue is certainly worth a mention if he’s going to bring up my mail checking habits.

Situation escalated.

I’m nothing more than a chameleon.

Shamed.

Keeping company of those that you idealize, idolize and full on adore is probably one of the biggest (and rationally speaking, one of the most ridiculous) dreams any one person can have. Most often those we place in such high regard are well known in the public eye. So last Thursday when my boss mentioned in passing that I was invited to have drinks with his boss and the alternative pop duo Tegan and Sara, I shat.

I can associate most of my formative university and college years to their music, locked up in my room, writing essays, drinking, dancing around, and listening to them on repeat while I trapped myself inside my thoughts and rationalized and attempted to make sense of myself in one of the most transformative periods in my life. My admiration for their music, and lets be honest them as persons, has continued and grown in the years following convocation. Straight up – I think they’re fucking rad.

So I went for said drinks with bats in my stomach. And for about an hour and twenty minutes I sat on my hands. There was a lot of conversation that, out of sheer terror, I mainly observed . . . and then it was over.

But here’s the thing. No one ever really tells you what happens after a perfect situation has been actualized; A sheer (surmountable) sense of dread (i.e.  it passes). After leaving the hotel bar I mourned for the moments that had just past, and then I experienced a flood of sheer discontent – not with what had just occurred, I was truly thankful for the opportunity, but discontent with myself. I held these two people in such high regard for a reason, they were so much cooler than I am and have ever been, they are far smarter, and wittier, and whole heck of a lot more attractive, more creative and they posses talent that I’ve never even fathomed possessing. So bam! I realized I suck.

What the hell am I doing with my life?

Insert panic mode, here.

And cue the self hate.

But thank the good gypsies, five days later that negativity has past and I feel an overarching momentum behind me to be smarter, wittier, more creative and straight up a hell of a lot cooler (. . . er, successful).

So thank you T&S. You unknowingly kicked me in the butt to be a better me.

I’ve even started wearing less make-up. What?

 Go buy their new album, SAINTHOOD, it’s out today.