Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Write Way
Modern Day Castle has acted as an outlet of creativity for my perpetually surging brain. Every post performs a ritual purging of my soul, and ultimately, drains me for several proceeding days. Now I won't say that I've encountered writer's block, because saying so would climatically conclude irony. How can one write about writer's block? It doesn't make sense. No, it's not writer's block, it's only a lack of something worthy to write about. So, for your reading pleasure, I will write. Write writing.
My ultimate goal in life is to be taken seriously as a writer: for both the screen, and the novel. Now I know this is a tiresome ambition, one that demands countless hours of thought and re-thought, but you know what, so does every other profession. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a chronological list of all the works I've written, or the witty banter I've composed, and if I could, it would be a painfully short list. At this point in my life, only 19 years running, I have yet to really sit down, and take my dream to the next level; to actually achieve it. Like I said, I'm quite youthful, and even so, I'm not worried about it. I'm not taking anything too seriously at this point; I'm taking it all in stride. And ta-da, this is what this website is used for. An extension of the writer I'd like to become: it helps me find a voice.
Not only at UBC, but in Vancouver's entirety, I am surrounded by people who have set out to do the exact same thing as me. I come from a place where culture is prominent, and at the base of that is a very strong literary and film following. I'd be lying if I said that I was ahead of the pact, that I had a better feel for the use of words and ideas than my peers; because I don't. I am beset on all sides by overly zealous author's-to-be, and wannabe film geniuses; people who are half way through their third novel, or their seventh screen play. The only clear attribute that distinguishes me from the vast majority, is that I'm not pretending to be someone who I'm not. I don't have my head stuck up my ass: appreciating my own inner cavity; I'm not stuck in some artsy hipster dream world where my ideas are completely superior to everyone else. My name can't be cast into the thesaurus reference for braggart, nor am I prone to snob appeal.
This being said, there are definitely legitimate young authors around me, ones who do not fall into my negative categorization. People who appreciate the written word for what it is, not for what social group it enters you into. Yet, as I write, I understand that I sound like the very people I am against. All I can tell you is that I'm different. My actions, my open minded philosophy: these are the reasons I am distinct. I do not assort myself by the clothes I buy exclusively at American Apparel, or that vintage store down the street. I am a aspiring bohemian, looking to start the right way. The right way being the destruction of current Hollywood practices. (Is he joking?)
Everyone's an artist now-a-days, everyone owns an expensive camera and everyone enjoys taking pictures with high and low exposure. I'll tell you one thing: I don't have an expensive camera.
But FUCK, do I want one.
My ultimate goal in life is to be taken seriously as a writer: for both the screen, and the novel. Now I know this is a tiresome ambition, one that demands countless hours of thought and re-thought, but you know what, so does every other profession. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a chronological list of all the works I've written, or the witty banter I've composed, and if I could, it would be a painfully short list. At this point in my life, only 19 years running, I have yet to really sit down, and take my dream to the next level; to actually achieve it. Like I said, I'm quite youthful, and even so, I'm not worried about it. I'm not taking anything too seriously at this point; I'm taking it all in stride. And ta-da, this is what this website is used for. An extension of the writer I'd like to become: it helps me find a voice.
Not only at UBC, but in Vancouver's entirety, I am surrounded by people who have set out to do the exact same thing as me. I come from a place where culture is prominent, and at the base of that is a very strong literary and film following. I'd be lying if I said that I was ahead of the pact, that I had a better feel for the use of words and ideas than my peers; because I don't. I am beset on all sides by overly zealous author's-to-be, and wannabe film geniuses; people who are half way through their third novel, or their seventh screen play. The only clear attribute that distinguishes me from the vast majority, is that I'm not pretending to be someone who I'm not. I don't have my head stuck up my ass: appreciating my own inner cavity; I'm not stuck in some artsy hipster dream world where my ideas are completely superior to everyone else. My name can't be cast into the thesaurus reference for braggart, nor am I prone to snob appeal.
This being said, there are definitely legitimate young authors around me, ones who do not fall into my negative categorization. People who appreciate the written word for what it is, not for what social group it enters you into. Yet, as I write, I understand that I sound like the very people I am against. All I can tell you is that I'm different. My actions, my open minded philosophy: these are the reasons I am distinct. I do not assort myself by the clothes I buy exclusively at American Apparel, or that vintage store down the street. I am a aspiring bohemian, looking to start the right way. The right way being the destruction of current Hollywood practices. (Is he joking?)
Everyone's an artist now-a-days, everyone owns an expensive camera and everyone enjoys taking pictures with high and low exposure. I'll tell you one thing: I don't have an expensive camera.
But FUCK, do I want one.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I Don't Do Shit, I Just Work Here
Growing up: I was always told that a hard days work would be rewarded by not only money, but the fortification of one's character. Back then I merely accepted this, believing most of what my parent's said as truth. Obviously, now older, I understand that a lot of what my mother and father told me was parental propaganda that they themselves created. Yet, as I began my first day of work, at the first job I ever underwent: a long day amongst Safeway's finest cut meats, I began to understand that maybe they were right: that work really did fill you with something. Whether that thing was character, accomplishment, or both, I could definitely feel it. Now I'm not really sure what character building feels like, but as I worked longer and longer at Safeway, I began to finally understand: It feels like shit. Mopping up the blood in the back room, picking away at the chunks of raw meat, and sorting the sharp pieces of bone, I could only feel a growing anger that was becoming harder and harder to control. That original moment of fulfillment had vanished; I was no longer a virgin of the work force, but a rape victim. What my parents never told me was that what a "hard days work" filled you with, was nothing more than the long dick of the motherfucker who told you what to do. So much for character building; thanks Mom and Dad.
Since my glory days at Someplace Special, or what should probably be referred to as the "glory hole" of my young life, I have worked a myriad of other jobs...three. Although never as bad as the employment of my local grocery store, I still continue to understand more and more things about the character building my parental oppressors told me about. Working for the man can be a bitch. Being told what to do can be a bitch. Being shouted at and told your a shit head, by a manager who's two years older than you can be a bitch. Overall, work sucks, and your the one that does the sucking. During my four month stint at the movie theatre, practically my dream job, I started to ask myself what my motivation was to come in each day, work three to midnight, get paid $8.50 a fucking hour, and not kill everyone inside a certain theatre where paying customers were watching Eddie Murphy's Imagine That. After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to three reasons:
1. I don't waste bullets on empty heads.
2. Never in my life will I walk into a movie staring Eddie Murphy alongside Yara Shahidi (Fuck that bitch)
3. Fortification of character.
I couldn't help but think back to the very first words my parents ever said to me: "Little baby, I know you couldn't give a fuck right now about the future, and I know your a little busy being born and all, but we would seriously like you to think about the person you're going to become. You need to have a strong moral backing, an ocean of character, and a drop dead smile to get anywhere in this world. A job will help you, it will point you in the right direction."
Then the doctor dropped me; but, oh well. I finally feel as if I'm on the same level as the people that raised me. Well maybe not the same level, but I'm on the fast track to that point. My parents and I can sit around, shoot the breeze, have a laugh. At long last I understand why they're so bitter, and ironically, I relish in that shit.
What I never expected was a job of the opposite properties. All this time I had been breaking my back, stuck in the pits of the shittiest job, building "character." Now, I work as the delivery line for an upscale pizza restaurant, hidden away on the east side of Gastown.
(Before I go any further, I would just like to say that this is not one of those blogs where my employers read it an I get fired for...I don't even know...negligence? I'm looking at you Delta Air Lines)
I'd like to give you a mental image of a day at the job for me:
Firstly, I stroll in around 4:45pm, say my whatsup's: "Whatsup, man. Whatsup, dude. Miss." I sign in, and then head to the back to sit in my small little office connected to the kitchen. There I will sit until 6:30 doing a whole slew of things: nothing, the internet, homework, talk to employees, leave, nothing. You get the image. But then comes the first phone call: Large pizza, check, pasta, check, 30-45 minutes, check. This cycle will continue until works done at 9:45pm. The most phone calls I've gotten in one shift is around 15, the least amount is 2. Normally the calls hover around 7. This job is great, I get payed to do nothing. Sometimes, I even laugh at the hilarity of it. Seriously, I'll come into work, sit in front of the computer, phone in hand, and just do numerous spins in my wheelie chair bursting with hysterical yelps. This job borders on a sick joke. I never expected the possibility of job that lowered me, that made me a worse person for doing it. A job that would leave me so bored, yet, so happy, at simultaneous times.
If the leader of the Union were Jesus, I would definitely be Judas.
I'm seriously going to hell for this shit.
Since my glory days at Someplace Special, or what should probably be referred to as the "glory hole" of my young life, I have worked a myriad of other jobs...three. Although never as bad as the employment of my local grocery store, I still continue to understand more and more things about the character building my parental oppressors told me about. Working for the man can be a bitch. Being told what to do can be a bitch. Being shouted at and told your a shit head, by a manager who's two years older than you can be a bitch. Overall, work sucks, and your the one that does the sucking. During my four month stint at the movie theatre, practically my dream job, I started to ask myself what my motivation was to come in each day, work three to midnight, get paid $8.50 a fucking hour, and not kill everyone inside a certain theatre where paying customers were watching Eddie Murphy's Imagine That. After much deliberation, I narrowed it down to three reasons:
1. I don't waste bullets on empty heads.
2. Never in my life will I walk into a movie staring Eddie Murphy alongside Yara Shahidi (Fuck that bitch)
3. Fortification of character.
I couldn't help but think back to the very first words my parents ever said to me: "Little baby, I know you couldn't give a fuck right now about the future, and I know your a little busy being born and all, but we would seriously like you to think about the person you're going to become. You need to have a strong moral backing, an ocean of character, and a drop dead smile to get anywhere in this world. A job will help you, it will point you in the right direction."
Then the doctor dropped me; but, oh well. I finally feel as if I'm on the same level as the people that raised me. Well maybe not the same level, but I'm on the fast track to that point. My parents and I can sit around, shoot the breeze, have a laugh. At long last I understand why they're so bitter, and ironically, I relish in that shit.
What I never expected was a job of the opposite properties. All this time I had been breaking my back, stuck in the pits of the shittiest job, building "character." Now, I work as the delivery line for an upscale pizza restaurant, hidden away on the east side of Gastown.
(Before I go any further, I would just like to say that this is not one of those blogs where my employers read it an I get fired for...I don't even know...negligence? I'm looking at you Delta Air Lines)
I'd like to give you a mental image of a day at the job for me:
Firstly, I stroll in around 4:45pm, say my whatsup's: "Whatsup, man. Whatsup, dude. Miss." I sign in, and then head to the back to sit in my small little office connected to the kitchen. There I will sit until 6:30 doing a whole slew of things: nothing, the internet, homework, talk to employees, leave, nothing. You get the image. But then comes the first phone call: Large pizza, check, pasta, check, 30-45 minutes, check. This cycle will continue until works done at 9:45pm. The most phone calls I've gotten in one shift is around 15, the least amount is 2. Normally the calls hover around 7. This job is great, I get payed to do nothing. Sometimes, I even laugh at the hilarity of it. Seriously, I'll come into work, sit in front of the computer, phone in hand, and just do numerous spins in my wheelie chair bursting with hysterical yelps. This job borders on a sick joke. I never expected the possibility of job that lowered me, that made me a worse person for doing it. A job that would leave me so bored, yet, so happy, at simultaneous times.
If the leader of the Union were Jesus, I would definitely be Judas.
I'm seriously going to hell for this shit.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Finally
Well, she's back, she's better, no: we're better. We've worked out our kinks, I don't think she'll ever turn her back on me again. To make sure I got that bitch a hysterectomy...Norton anti-virus, mother fucker.
CATCH YA' BACK LATER
CATCH YA' BACK LATER
Friday, March 12, 2010
It Seems Like Eternal Burning
One of the many perks of having close relationships is the ability to trust someone dearly. The friendship that you hold is so important to both persons that to stray from such loyalties would seem alien. Even the thought of betraying ones own could upset the mental order of an ardent friend. Yet, despite the shear impossibility of such an affair, the horrifying reality is that it still occurs. Children lie to parents, friends back stab each other, and lovers bed tempting strangers. These examples I once considered as preposterous as the theory of evolution. Something so wild, so extravagant, that to even think about it would turn my brain to mash potatoes, my heart to gravy, and my soul to a ladle that would distribute the delicious, bloody gravy to the rest of my body. But no. Reality slapped me hard in the face, and left something so bitter, that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to shake it. Worse than the mark left by an anonymous drifter, the one that burns for a lifetime, and leaves you cursed to spread forever: I have been infected by someone I once trusted.
Why would you do this to me? After all the time spent together just kickin' it, you decide you can turn your back on me and screw me? OR should I say let me screw myself? Damn you straight to hell, you emotionless, inconsiderate piece of garbage! You machine! How could I once have kept you so close for you to do such a thing?! How dare you ever call me your companion, vile temptress! Thou disgust thy self. I can't understand your encrypted code so how can I ever fix the problem between us? You act as if we speak different languages, but in actuality you cloud the very words you want me to understand. I loved you, and you loved me; what happened? You've changed; you've traveled the world and then some and discovered things that don't work me for. Remove thine parasite, you damn virus! Purge yourself till you cough up no more than tangled wires and stainless chips. Then maybe one day I can forget about all you did to me, and perhaps, all you did to everyone else, and then maybe I will forgive you.
(STD's [or what are now being called STI's] are no laughing matter. Unprotected sex is a dangerous game that no one can risk playing. Statistically: one in every two people have contracted at least two STD's in the past year. Why risk your perfect or decrepit health, by dabbling down under with out a condom?)
(As bad as STD's sound, they really do not compare to my ailment.)
Due to strenuous energy consumption, a climax of file downloading, and the festering pussy of the internet, I have contracted...virus and spy ware problems. Anyone who complains about herpes, or whatever the fuck, I have no sympathy for you. You got laid, I stayed at home and got this shit. Virus's and bullshit internet infections are the lamer equivalent of STI's, and my computer is a fucking tragedy: Greek style, before Jesus Christ kinda shit. And unlike sexually transmitted diseases, I can't go get some ointment or medicine to get rid of mine...unless of course I'd like to pay money. I'm dieing over here, this spyware is so bad that it won't allow me to start up free removal programs...it's rough...help me...I need my computer to work properly...
How could you do this to me HP pavilion? We were tight, we were like this...*hand gesture*. You treated me like a piece of meat, computer. Will it ever be like it was?
Why would you do this to me? After all the time spent together just kickin' it, you decide you can turn your back on me and screw me? OR should I say let me screw myself? Damn you straight to hell, you emotionless, inconsiderate piece of garbage! You machine! How could I once have kept you so close for you to do such a thing?! How dare you ever call me your companion, vile temptress! Thou disgust thy self. I can't understand your encrypted code so how can I ever fix the problem between us? You act as if we speak different languages, but in actuality you cloud the very words you want me to understand. I loved you, and you loved me; what happened? You've changed; you've traveled the world and then some and discovered things that don't work me for. Remove thine parasite, you damn virus! Purge yourself till you cough up no more than tangled wires and stainless chips. Then maybe one day I can forget about all you did to me, and perhaps, all you did to everyone else, and then maybe I will forgive you.
(STD's [or what are now being called STI's] are no laughing matter. Unprotected sex is a dangerous game that no one can risk playing. Statistically: one in every two people have contracted at least two STD's in the past year. Why risk your perfect or decrepit health, by dabbling down under with out a condom?)
(As bad as STD's sound, they really do not compare to my ailment.)
Due to strenuous energy consumption, a climax of file downloading, and the festering pussy of the internet, I have contracted...virus and spy ware problems. Anyone who complains about herpes, or whatever the fuck, I have no sympathy for you. You got laid, I stayed at home and got this shit. Virus's and bullshit internet infections are the lamer equivalent of STI's, and my computer is a fucking tragedy: Greek style, before Jesus Christ kinda shit. And unlike sexually transmitted diseases, I can't go get some ointment or medicine to get rid of mine...unless of course I'd like to pay money. I'm dieing over here, this spyware is so bad that it won't allow me to start up free removal programs...it's rough...help me...I need my computer to work properly...
How could you do this to me HP pavilion? We were tight, we were like this...*hand gesture*. You treated me like a piece of meat, computer. Will it ever be like it was?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Sonic the Hedgehog?
So I was having one of those dreams that make absolutely no sense, and out of nowhere I sit down and start playing some video games...
No joke, this is what went down.
It seemed alright at the time; no doubt, once I had awoken it didn't seem as natural.
Thought that I would share it with you.
No joke, this is what went down.
It seemed alright at the time; no doubt, once I had awoken it didn't seem as natural.
Thought that I would share it with you.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
(Un)Interesting
March 4th: the Olympics have come and gone; and although I consider the last 17 days to be some of the best consecutive days of my life, I am left with a tormenting realization. Only with special circumstance am I truly shown the extent of how interesting my life can be. Such a major sporting even entering my city, with millions of people coming to experience it with me is an absolute, once in a lifetime affair. There are only a handful of other episodes in my life which I can even consider on the same level: my two month European adventure, as well as a few of my more hectic birthdays. I question how I can write about such trivial occasions like family dinners, and my thought process, and make them sounds like they're actually interesting. I hate to insult my demographic, one which consists of artists and intellects, but Jesus, how do any of you read this? You have a computer don't you? Look up chatroulette or something, that place is filled with interesting people. The internet was not made for reading, books were, leave that shit for the librarians.
Not only that, but it seems that everywhere I turn there are people having more exciting times than me. Look at the characters in movies, literature, and theatre. Although fictional, they still appear to rub it in my face, and laugh at me for my inadequacy. I find it impossible to appreciate such media outlets when all I can think about is leaving the theatre to go sit on my couch at home. Like, fuck, that's really exciting. If I'm lucky maybe I'll come home and find my house robbed, the only thing missing will be the couch, and I'll be forced to sit on the floor. If that example Isn't good enough for you, listen to some rap. Those guys' lives are extravagant as shit covered in diamonds. A line from Ya Boy's first track: Let Me In, off his new album: Kush 2009, gets me about as riled up as...FFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
I was blowin' smoke down this bitches throat,
Nigga, I accidentally blew too hard, nigga, and the bitch swallowed the blunt,
Whats crazy is that when the bitch shit it out it was still lit, nigga,
I told her she was a bad bitch, nigga, and we smoked that mother fucker, nigga,
And it was Kush!
...I'd just like to know why my life isn't inspiring rap lyrics like this. What the fuck do I have to do to obtain such legendary status? It's hard to believe that all these under privileged black people have been selected by the Rap God's to generate classic stories that will reside in the heart of billions. My life needs a jump start. Wait a minute...jump start, hmm. How about this: jumper cables, my nipples, car battery, hmm. That's not actually a bad idea. Wait, fuck!
Tupac Shakur's Changes:
Got love for my brother, but we can never go no where
Unless we share with each other. We gotta start makin' changes.
Learn to see me as a brother 'stead of 2 distant strangers.
And that's how its supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he's close to me?
I'd love to be back when we played as kids,
Nipples attach to car batteries, buts that just the way it is.
Mother fucking, God damnit, fuck you 2pac and your mother fucker genius. If you weren't already dead, I'd smoke you.
Gah, oh well. I can't complain, life seems pretty alright despite its lack of pizazz. I was lucky enough to be in the host city of possibly the greatest Winter Olympics of all time, and I am grateful for that. Little Mexican children probably saw me on T.V., shitfaced, covered in blood and vomit, chanting my national anthem, tied to the side of a moving car.
Yeah, that was fun.
Not only that, but it seems that everywhere I turn there are people having more exciting times than me. Look at the characters in movies, literature, and theatre. Although fictional, they still appear to rub it in my face, and laugh at me for my inadequacy. I find it impossible to appreciate such media outlets when all I can think about is leaving the theatre to go sit on my couch at home. Like, fuck, that's really exciting. If I'm lucky maybe I'll come home and find my house robbed, the only thing missing will be the couch, and I'll be forced to sit on the floor. If that example Isn't good enough for you, listen to some rap. Those guys' lives are extravagant as shit covered in diamonds. A line from Ya Boy's first track: Let Me In, off his new album: Kush 2009, gets me about as riled up as...FFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUU-
I was blowin' smoke down this bitches throat,
Nigga, I accidentally blew too hard, nigga, and the bitch swallowed the blunt,
Whats crazy is that when the bitch shit it out it was still lit, nigga,
I told her she was a bad bitch, nigga, and we smoked that mother fucker, nigga,
And it was Kush!
...I'd just like to know why my life isn't inspiring rap lyrics like this. What the fuck do I have to do to obtain such legendary status? It's hard to believe that all these under privileged black people have been selected by the Rap God's to generate classic stories that will reside in the heart of billions. My life needs a jump start. Wait a minute...jump start, hmm. How about this: jumper cables, my nipples, car battery, hmm. That's not actually a bad idea. Wait, fuck!
Tupac Shakur's Changes:
Got love for my brother, but we can never go no where
Unless we share with each other. We gotta start makin' changes.
Learn to see me as a brother 'stead of 2 distant strangers.
And that's how its supposed to be.
How can the Devil take a brother if he's close to me?
I'd love to be back when we played as kids,
Nipples attach to car batteries, buts that just the way it is.
Mother fucking, God damnit, fuck you 2pac and your mother fucker genius. If you weren't already dead, I'd smoke you.
Gah, oh well. I can't complain, life seems pretty alright despite its lack of pizazz. I was lucky enough to be in the host city of possibly the greatest Winter Olympics of all time, and I am grateful for that. Little Mexican children probably saw me on T.V., shitfaced, covered in blood and vomit, chanting my national anthem, tied to the side of a moving car.
Yeah, that was fun.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Blah
It has been an increasingly long time since my last period, so as you can imagine I'm starting to get worried about it. Then again, it is that special time of the month, and therefore I can't really be expected to take this to seriously. So, not until the Olympics are done will I be writing any real posts. Too much drinking and ass sitting to do. See you all soon.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fam-Jam
Spending time with my family is always an eventful occasion. As I now live apart from them, getting us all together at one time is unusual, but also quite comfortable. When I refer to these moments, I am not talking about extended family, ie. aunts, uncles, cousins; I am talking about the core unit that up until this past year and a half I spent my entire life around. So yeah, this would be the mom: Jane, the sista: J-Hawk, and that bald man: John. Although I still live in the same city as all of these people, seeing them seems to be rather infrequent, but when I do see them it is never a disappointment. As all families are different: the way they interact, and the way they treat each other, I believe that each unit can use a metaphor or simile, a literary function, to help others understand what their family lives are like.
Seeing my family is like finding an old shirt in the dumpster in the ally behind my house. I could have sworn I threw it out years ago once I had outgrown it, but no, here it is, still in the dumpster. Despite it's unfashionable condition I decide to try it on for old times sake. It fits very tightly and reeks a bit of shit, but I endure it because I used to love this shirt. After strutting around the ally in it for about fifteen minutes, large tears have opened up in the sides and it is a lot more breathable, finally agreeing with my matured anatomy. I think to myself: "Hey, this really isn't as bad as I remember, why did I ever give up on this shirt? I love you...shirt." Ten minutes later I've developed a rash; I'm pretty sure there was rat feces in the collar, and I'm beginning to swell. Suddenly, I'm suffocating and can hardly think clearly. With my last ounce of strength I rip off the shirt and throw it in the fire; I collapse unconscious in a bathtub full of ice cubes.
Now, although this may seem like an exaggeration, I assure you, it's not. No one gets along with their family 100% percent of the time and obviously I am no different. I love my parents...yeah, that sounds about right, and despite my palpable lack of association with them, I still like to consider them my own. Their mine, God damn it, mine.
This past Friday was my mother's 56th birthday, and while she may not indulge this bitty of information to others, I have no problem telling the world of her prolonged life. What do I care? I'm not even twenty yet; fuck yeah to youth. Anyways, as any family might arrange, we went out to dinner on the following night. The Sandbar was the desired location; situated on Granville Island directly under the Granville Street Bridge; it is quite a nice play to eat. We planned to meet up around 7:15; I was fashionably late, no doubt. As I sat down I was greeted with warm smiles and a drink order. Yes, finally, about time, fucking Christ. I order a Caesar, of course (On a side note I'd like to mention that anyone who doesn't like a good Caesar is a fool.), and quickly polish it off; I order another. Fortunately, the catch-up game is brief; the members of my family know enough about each other to assume what everyone's been up to. Dad: retirement = cabin reservations, sports, coaching, who gives a fuck? J-Hawk: high school, sports, being a dumb 17 year old girl. Mom: work, dog walking....stuff. And then me: personally, I don't think my parents want to know 50% of the stuff I do: procrastinating, binge drinking, drug abuse, unprotected sex, beastiality, etc. I let them know anyway. Laughs all round.
Now I don't have a problem with a little inner-family abuse, in fact, most times it can become quite funny. Someone poking fun at the way someone looks or the way someone talks instantly becomes a family classic that we can all look back on with no hard feelings. Most notably was the time where we all insisted that my sister sported a most fashionable mustache. Which in turn led to the mockery of my inability to grow facial hair. Which in turn led to the inability of my father to grow normal hair. Which in turn led to the physical abuse of my mother later that night. A haha; that be family classic material.
So we're at dinner discussing one thing or another, and soon the conversation turns to my sister's new crazy fantasy that she wants to pick up ATV-ing and dirt biking. Because of the shear ridiculousness of the conversation I refused to take it seriously, but to my surprise my parents were not completely against the idea. Something about building character, I don't fucking know, I was on my fourth Caesar and was really starting to get a buzz going. The only real concern they had was safety. Apparently falling off one of these moving motor vehicles is quite dangerous to ones own health, who would have known? So my parents start laying down some ground rules; stuff about speed, terrain, visibilty, what time of day it is, etc. But their biggest point was to wear a helmet. Although the idea of survival when one falls off an ATV is almost juvenile, they could not stress the helmet enough. My Dad goes: "Helmets save lives; it can be the deciding factor on whether you live, or you die." My sister nods her head; she's got one of those "I obviously get it, I don't want to fucking die" looks on her face; I laugh into my drink. My Dad contines: "Riding a bike with no helmet is one thing, riding a motorcycle without one is just asking for trouble. Your toying with death." My sister's head completes the motions: up and down, up and down. Finally, my dad concludes: "You fall off one of those things you could paralyze your self for life, maybe die! Or for all we know, even worse! You want to end up like your brother?" I inhale an icecube. There are no smiles on either of my parents faces; are they fucking with me, or what?
Like I said earlier, I'm keen on a good laugh; a sense of humour is definately what brings my family closer together. But if theres one thing I don't like, it's to be fucked with, especially by my parents. I get the feeling that everytime I see them they've been conspiring to fuck with me the whole period in which I haven't seen them. I'm beginning to understand the long drawn out durations in which I spend away from them. Oh well, an eventful dinner as usual; at least they're giving me something to write about.
Seeing my family is like finding an old shirt in the dumpster in the ally behind my house. I could have sworn I threw it out years ago once I had outgrown it, but no, here it is, still in the dumpster. Despite it's unfashionable condition I decide to try it on for old times sake. It fits very tightly and reeks a bit of shit, but I endure it because I used to love this shirt. After strutting around the ally in it for about fifteen minutes, large tears have opened up in the sides and it is a lot more breathable, finally agreeing with my matured anatomy. I think to myself: "Hey, this really isn't as bad as I remember, why did I ever give up on this shirt? I love you...shirt." Ten minutes later I've developed a rash; I'm pretty sure there was rat feces in the collar, and I'm beginning to swell. Suddenly, I'm suffocating and can hardly think clearly. With my last ounce of strength I rip off the shirt and throw it in the fire; I collapse unconscious in a bathtub full of ice cubes.
Now, although this may seem like an exaggeration, I assure you, it's not. No one gets along with their family 100% percent of the time and obviously I am no different. I love my parents...yeah, that sounds about right, and despite my palpable lack of association with them, I still like to consider them my own. Their mine, God damn it, mine.
This past Friday was my mother's 56th birthday, and while she may not indulge this bitty of information to others, I have no problem telling the world of her prolonged life. What do I care? I'm not even twenty yet; fuck yeah to youth. Anyways, as any family might arrange, we went out to dinner on the following night. The Sandbar was the desired location; situated on Granville Island directly under the Granville Street Bridge; it is quite a nice play to eat. We planned to meet up around 7:15; I was fashionably late, no doubt. As I sat down I was greeted with warm smiles and a drink order. Yes, finally, about time, fucking Christ. I order a Caesar, of course (On a side note I'd like to mention that anyone who doesn't like a good Caesar is a fool.), and quickly polish it off; I order another. Fortunately, the catch-up game is brief; the members of my family know enough about each other to assume what everyone's been up to. Dad: retirement = cabin reservations, sports, coaching, who gives a fuck? J-Hawk: high school, sports, being a dumb 17 year old girl. Mom: work, dog walking....stuff. And then me: personally, I don't think my parents want to know 50% of the stuff I do: procrastinating, binge drinking, drug abuse, unprotected sex, beastiality, etc. I let them know anyway. Laughs all round.
Now I don't have a problem with a little inner-family abuse, in fact, most times it can become quite funny. Someone poking fun at the way someone looks or the way someone talks instantly becomes a family classic that we can all look back on with no hard feelings. Most notably was the time where we all insisted that my sister sported a most fashionable mustache. Which in turn led to the mockery of my inability to grow facial hair. Which in turn led to the inability of my father to grow normal hair. Which in turn led to the physical abuse of my mother later that night. A haha; that be family classic material.
So we're at dinner discussing one thing or another, and soon the conversation turns to my sister's new crazy fantasy that she wants to pick up ATV-ing and dirt biking. Because of the shear ridiculousness of the conversation I refused to take it seriously, but to my surprise my parents were not completely against the idea. Something about building character, I don't fucking know, I was on my fourth Caesar and was really starting to get a buzz going. The only real concern they had was safety. Apparently falling off one of these moving motor vehicles is quite dangerous to ones own health, who would have known? So my parents start laying down some ground rules; stuff about speed, terrain, visibilty, what time of day it is, etc. But their biggest point was to wear a helmet. Although the idea of survival when one falls off an ATV is almost juvenile, they could not stress the helmet enough. My Dad goes: "Helmets save lives; it can be the deciding factor on whether you live, or you die." My sister nods her head; she's got one of those "I obviously get it, I don't want to fucking die" looks on her face; I laugh into my drink. My Dad contines: "Riding a bike with no helmet is one thing, riding a motorcycle without one is just asking for trouble. Your toying with death." My sister's head completes the motions: up and down, up and down. Finally, my dad concludes: "You fall off one of those things you could paralyze your self for life, maybe die! Or for all we know, even worse! You want to end up like your brother?" I inhale an icecube. There are no smiles on either of my parents faces; are they fucking with me, or what?
Like I said earlier, I'm keen on a good laugh; a sense of humour is definately what brings my family closer together. But if theres one thing I don't like, it's to be fucked with, especially by my parents. I get the feeling that everytime I see them they've been conspiring to fuck with me the whole period in which I haven't seen them. I'm beginning to understand the long drawn out durations in which I spend away from them. Oh well, an eventful dinner as usual; at least they're giving me something to write about.
Shout Out
Before I write anything I'd just like to give a shout out to my good friend Scott Mason. The guy's been on blogspot since late 2008, and has been writing some interesting stuff on almost anything that comes to mind. This includes music, film, Vancouver, and stuff just going on in his life. In fact, he just wrote a compelling piece on the traumatics of post-party events. If anyone is reading this I insist that you check out his page at:
www.lifeofscottmason.blogspot.com
You won't regret it.
www.lifeofscottmason.blogspot.com
You won't regret it.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Think Tank
Time seems to be passing me by quicker than it ever has, and yet, here I am, still sitting on the couch. Another Wednesday night comes, and soon: it will be gone. Be assured, people; it will. Sometimes, I tend to question where my life is taking me, and how it will all happen. As of late, my life seems to be rather uninteresting, forcing me to take time out of my day to really think about such puzzles. I won't lie to you, I have a set procedure for such times. Generally, I stand with my back against the wall, the top half of my body contorted into a God like pose; the light shimmering off my marble like physique. I figure the best pondering takes place when pretending to seem more important than you actually you are, like a bag of douche would. I arch my eyebrows, and bat my eye lashes. I am silent, and then suddenly, I am animated. I weep, I moan, I croon out to the heavens. I invoke the very Gods I tossed aside years ago to aid me in my conquest...and then something catches my eye.
Because my house doesn't have nearly enough space for all my needs, I have combined the living room with my personal study/ think tank/ pretend I'm a genius room. Yes, this one room has many devices, all of which are drawn on several times a day. Anyways, the T.V.'s on, that thing with the moving pictures, and I can't help but notice that it's reflecting a lot more light than normal. And seeing how it's almost the midnight hour, and there is little to no natural light, nor light created by light bulbs to be found, I find this quite strange. Fuck, I mean seriously, I can hardly even look at it it's so bright, let alone think about destiny and what not. As I'm already wearing a dark pair of shades, I throw on a second, but that doesn't fucking work so I take them both off. You may be asking why I wear sunglasses in the house, especially when it's so late, and my answer to you is this: all those hip young teens in the beach movies do it, they seem to get a lot of attention, so I figure, why not? Also, I once knew a guy, I think his name was something like Matt Pearle, I can't remember, he's not that significant. Anyways, me and this clown were just hanging out at this party one time, he was getting real philosophical on me, laying some heavy shit down. To tell you the truth I wasn't paying attention in the slightest, he was rambling. But at the very end of the conversation, he lowers his head and pulls down his glasses a tad; his eyes were bloodshot, and he had tears welling up. "That's why I wear these." Then he winked, got up, and I never saw him again.
Fuck, sidetracked, back to the present.
I kneel down right in front of the T.V. and start dialing down the brightness. Slowly, I begin to understand why I was having so much trouble seeing before. World's Strongest Man is on. If you don't understand already, let me explain. If you only thought morons resided in North America, how wrong you were. This show compiles all the bald, sweaty, idiots from around the world, hoards them on to some beach in like, Miami, and gets them to lift "practical" objects, and other bullshit items. These guy's heads are like crystal balls, they have the albedo of snow. If a normal human being had the skin tone of lets say, the Earth, these guys would have to be the Sun. Then the Jersey Shore guys would be like Venus...or Uranus. HA!
As I watch muscle bloated men throws kegs over power lines, and squat trailers full of hay, I can't help but start to think about my life again. Funny how life works like that, huh? But just when I thought it couldn't get any crazier, these "fierce competitors" begin to carry fucking sedans across some sort of makeshift road. I ask myself, what in the fuck am I doing with my life?
It's bad enough I'm enrolled in university, but the fact that I'm not lifting some car like fucking Fred Flintstone is ridiculous. Come on, I could be doing this, making something out of myself, but instead I'm out getting some sort of "education," creating a fulfilling future. Please, I know whats important when I see it and this has got to be one of those things. No longer will I need to put away hours of thought into my life, asking the Gods for guidance, and sacrificing small items for answers. I know what I must do. What if my car ever breaks down out on the highway? Sit there and wait for a tow truck? I don't think so. The only thing worth considering is bottoming it out, maybe relieving it of some important parts, and then running that fucker home.
Because my house doesn't have nearly enough space for all my needs, I have combined the living room with my personal study/ think tank/ pretend I'm a genius room. Yes, this one room has many devices, all of which are drawn on several times a day. Anyways, the T.V.'s on, that thing with the moving pictures, and I can't help but notice that it's reflecting a lot more light than normal. And seeing how it's almost the midnight hour, and there is little to no natural light, nor light created by light bulbs to be found, I find this quite strange. Fuck, I mean seriously, I can hardly even look at it it's so bright, let alone think about destiny and what not. As I'm already wearing a dark pair of shades, I throw on a second, but that doesn't fucking work so I take them both off. You may be asking why I wear sunglasses in the house, especially when it's so late, and my answer to you is this: all those hip young teens in the beach movies do it, they seem to get a lot of attention, so I figure, why not? Also, I once knew a guy, I think his name was something like Matt Pearle, I can't remember, he's not that significant. Anyways, me and this clown were just hanging out at this party one time, he was getting real philosophical on me, laying some heavy shit down. To tell you the truth I wasn't paying attention in the slightest, he was rambling. But at the very end of the conversation, he lowers his head and pulls down his glasses a tad; his eyes were bloodshot, and he had tears welling up. "That's why I wear these." Then he winked, got up, and I never saw him again.
Fuck, sidetracked, back to the present.
I kneel down right in front of the T.V. and start dialing down the brightness. Slowly, I begin to understand why I was having so much trouble seeing before. World's Strongest Man is on. If you don't understand already, let me explain. If you only thought morons resided in North America, how wrong you were. This show compiles all the bald, sweaty, idiots from around the world, hoards them on to some beach in like, Miami, and gets them to lift "practical" objects, and other bullshit items. These guy's heads are like crystal balls, they have the albedo of snow. If a normal human being had the skin tone of lets say, the Earth, these guys would have to be the Sun. Then the Jersey Shore guys would be like Venus...or Uranus. HA!
As I watch muscle bloated men throws kegs over power lines, and squat trailers full of hay, I can't help but start to think about my life again. Funny how life works like that, huh? But just when I thought it couldn't get any crazier, these "fierce competitors" begin to carry fucking sedans across some sort of makeshift road. I ask myself, what in the fuck am I doing with my life?
It's bad enough I'm enrolled in university, but the fact that I'm not lifting some car like fucking Fred Flintstone is ridiculous. Come on, I could be doing this, making something out of myself, but instead I'm out getting some sort of "education," creating a fulfilling future. Please, I know whats important when I see it and this has got to be one of those things. No longer will I need to put away hours of thought into my life, asking the Gods for guidance, and sacrificing small items for answers. I know what I must do. What if my car ever breaks down out on the highway? Sit there and wait for a tow truck? I don't think so. The only thing worth considering is bottoming it out, maybe relieving it of some important parts, and then running that fucker home.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Two hours of Sleep...
I was up all last night writing a 2000 word essay...now I'm sitting in class. Yeah, I'm not really paying attention, one could go as far to say I'm fucking around. Big time.
If you haven't seen this before, I made this probably last summer. Originally I made it for a friend's computer background; I then went on to put it on my laptop and perhaps a few other peoples.
This is a new creation. I'm too tired to listen...apparently not too tired to make these though.
Haha, yeah, I'm pretty sure this is awesome.
Yes, consider this my masterpiece.
Feel free to make these your background, I hope you find them as funny as I do.
Then again, I'm on two hours sleep, in that state of mind where everything is fucking hilarious.
Yeah!!!
If you haven't seen this before, I made this probably last summer. Originally I made it for a friend's computer background; I then went on to put it on my laptop and perhaps a few other peoples.
This is a new creation. I'm too tired to listen...apparently not too tired to make these though.
Haha, yeah, I'm pretty sure this is awesome.
Yes, consider this my masterpiece.Feel free to make these your background, I hope you find them as funny as I do.
Then again, I'm on two hours sleep, in that state of mind where everything is fucking hilarious.
Yeah!!!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
I Lost My Train of Thought
Take a walk through Vancouver and there is no doubt that you will be treated to some of the most diverse culture and style worldwide. I frequent downtown almost everyday so I have become familiar with the plethora of different people that call Vancouver: home. Through my exposure to all these different individuals, I have acquired a high level of tolerance. Now when I refer to "tolerance" I am not talking about racial equality, or racial togetherness. I'm over that shit, I get it, the first ten years of the 2000's are over; I'm not some sort of racial bigot who can't tell the difference between an Oreo, and you know, like, Tiger Woods or somebody...one of them blacks. No, this tolerance I speak of refers to my ability to be accepting of people's apparel, mannerisms, and lifestyle. As I have many different social groups influencing how I both dress and act, what kind of music I listen to, and how I speak, I am not one to single out certain sub-cultures. I figure I'm a decent person; I tend not to stereotype or label large groups of people, and never have I outwardly expressed hate towards people that are different than me. I can be a bit of a dick, but really, when has being a dick had anything to do with decency?
Unfortunately, my level of tolerance only goes so far. Certain crowds are slowly making their way to the mainstream, and in retrospect, they've been creeping around for a while now. Now before I tear apart these worthless motherfuckers who dare consider themselves humans, I'll start with a lighter note: a meager circle of people that doesn't actually piss me off as much as confuse the hell out of me: Urban Indiana Jones types.
For the record: I, Hawkins, am a devout supporter of anything Indiana Jones preceding 2008; I believe that Indy, informally referred to as Harrison Ford, is a hero amongst men, and a tribute to anything badder than bad ass. I would also like to include a official statement from the internet: "Any attempt to argue against his greatness is proof of Nazi sympathy, and the perpetrator is to be labeled a kraut and/or Hun." Yes, you heard it people, that quote comes straight off the official doctrine of Urbandictionary.com, therefore, it must be legit.
Anyways, recently it has come to my attention that these apparent modern day, urbanized Indiana Jones characters have been popping up. When I say popping up, I don't just mean here and there, as if it were something to completely disregard like Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. No, I have been seeing a significant number of these inner-city archeologists, even as much as once a week. Seriously, I was walking through Gastown, minding my own business, and out of no where, I hear the sound of a bull whip crack, and this bearded fellow comes running out of a local antique shop, screaming something about belonging in a museum. I don't know what he was on about, but I do know one thing: WE DO NOT HAVE ROOM FOR THIS RECKLESS BEHAVIOR. Look at yourself, man, you've got be in your late twenties at least, your covered in mud and soot, and your running full speed into the street carrying some sort of imitation Sphinx head. Not to mention your seemingly paying homage to the greatest hero/archeologist/teacher/womanizer/Han Solo of all time, and your wearing almost all leather. What the fuck is the matter with you? Your fucking fedora is made of leather, and your pants to? Grow the fuck up you weirdo, you weirdo-beardo, before I call the god damn SPCA. I'm sorry for that outburst, but I feel under these circumstances it was completely appropriate, and if anything: too tame.
Like I said earlier, I am completely tolerant. I listen to weird music, I choose to wear certain distinguishing things, I've hung around with people who dress up in all black, spikes on their shoulders, machetes through their ears, and syringes through their lips, and I have no problem with these people. Even I will admit to dressing a little unusual now and again, but guess what. I save those certain times for October 31st. Or I don't know, sometimes Easter gets a little fucked up and I decide to wear some heinous shit; don't bother asking, it's a family thing. But if you decide your going to reveal yourself to the public, and showcase your tracking abilities or whatever you want to call it, please, I beg of you, track your way into an open sewer pipe, or off of the Shang-ri-la, or even better, into that big pit where their building the Ritz Carlton. No lie, I've heard on numerous occasion that there's an enchanted aquatic Indian burial ground down there; I'm sure you'll be able to find some bullshit to preserve.
Unfortunately, my level of tolerance only goes so far. Certain crowds are slowly making their way to the mainstream, and in retrospect, they've been creeping around for a while now. Now before I tear apart these worthless motherfuckers who dare consider themselves humans, I'll start with a lighter note: a meager circle of people that doesn't actually piss me off as much as confuse the hell out of me: Urban Indiana Jones types.
For the record: I, Hawkins, am a devout supporter of anything Indiana Jones preceding 2008; I believe that Indy, informally referred to as Harrison Ford, is a hero amongst men, and a tribute to anything badder than bad ass. I would also like to include a official statement from the internet: "Any attempt to argue against his greatness is proof of Nazi sympathy, and the perpetrator is to be labeled a kraut and/or Hun." Yes, you heard it people, that quote comes straight off the official doctrine of Urbandictionary.com, therefore, it must be legit.
Anyways, recently it has come to my attention that these apparent modern day, urbanized Indiana Jones characters have been popping up. When I say popping up, I don't just mean here and there, as if it were something to completely disregard like Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. No, I have been seeing a significant number of these inner-city archeologists, even as much as once a week. Seriously, I was walking through Gastown, minding my own business, and out of no where, I hear the sound of a bull whip crack, and this bearded fellow comes running out of a local antique shop, screaming something about belonging in a museum. I don't know what he was on about, but I do know one thing: WE DO NOT HAVE ROOM FOR THIS RECKLESS BEHAVIOR. Look at yourself, man, you've got be in your late twenties at least, your covered in mud and soot, and your running full speed into the street carrying some sort of imitation Sphinx head. Not to mention your seemingly paying homage to the greatest hero/archeologist/teacher/womanizer/Han Solo of all time, and your wearing almost all leather. What the fuck is the matter with you? Your fucking fedora is made of leather, and your pants to? Grow the fuck up you weirdo, you weirdo-beardo, before I call the god damn SPCA. I'm sorry for that outburst, but I feel under these circumstances it was completely appropriate, and if anything: too tame.
Like I said earlier, I am completely tolerant. I listen to weird music, I choose to wear certain distinguishing things, I've hung around with people who dress up in all black, spikes on their shoulders, machetes through their ears, and syringes through their lips, and I have no problem with these people. Even I will admit to dressing a little unusual now and again, but guess what. I save those certain times for October 31st. Or I don't know, sometimes Easter gets a little fucked up and I decide to wear some heinous shit; don't bother asking, it's a family thing. But if you decide your going to reveal yourself to the public, and showcase your tracking abilities or whatever you want to call it, please, I beg of you, track your way into an open sewer pipe, or off of the Shang-ri-la, or even better, into that big pit where their building the Ritz Carlton. No lie, I've heard on numerous occasion that there's an enchanted aquatic Indian burial ground down there; I'm sure you'll be able to find some bullshit to preserve.
Looking back over this post I realize that my feelings towards these people may be a bit stronger than I had originally predicted. If I were to summarize, which I won't, it even seems that I hold negative connotations towards them. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to add them to my list.
But, I must trek forward, on to the very reason I began this post.
Recently, a television show has been brought to my attention, and apparently it has created quite the buzz. Basically, the characters on this show, whether their real or fictionalized , have been asked to act like fucking tanned babies, who most-definitely were dropped after birth, and not just once. I'm talking like the doctor dropped the child during delivery, the mother dropped the already unconscious baby on her first attempts to hold it, and then on the car ride home the father dangled the baby out the car M.J. style and dropped it under the car's tires. If you hadn't already guessed, the babbling idiots I speak of spend most of their time on their time slot called Jersey Shore. These beefed up, sun-burnt, Italian-American assholes are creating their own little anti-culture originating in New Jersey, but its quickly going global. I can't imagine why anyone would want to follow suite with these morons, but that is the thing, people are. I guess it all started with Ed Hardy a few years back, but now this fad is more mainstream than ever.
Fuck, to tell you the truth, I'm pretty ranted out. I got all worked up over Indiana Jones I'm pretty tired of being pissed off. I'll say one more thing:
I was taking a stroll down the street a few days ago, and I guess school was just getting out because all these little kids started walking towards me. Anyways, when I got closer I could make them out a bit better, and leading the pack was this stupid fucking 10 or something year old decked out in Jersey Shore fashion. This white kid's hair is gelled directly up, he's wearing a beater and has several silver bracelets. I brush by this kid, and as I'm walking past I hear: "Watch it, nigga." I stop, I can't believe what I'm hearing; he can't be talking to me, can he? I turn, and what do I see? This little mother fucker staring me right in the face. Right then and there I didn't give a fuck that he was 11; I walked over to him, gave him the ol' death eye, and then shoved him over. Yeah, that shut him up. Then I leaned in real close to teach him a lesson, I whispered "You have to figure out who you are. Can't you see that you look like a fucking idiot? A young, white kid dressed up in douche bag clothing, speaking like you aren't supposed to be speaking, I mean come on, your from Vancouver, not New Jersey, you fool. Show a little self-respect." He was silent, his eyes were a bit glazed, tearing over from a lesson learned. I decided to finish him off: "Figure your shit out."
Then I flashed him with my solid gold teeth, and spat a little diamond out on him.
Bitch.
Fuck, to tell you the truth, I'm pretty ranted out. I got all worked up over Indiana Jones I'm pretty tired of being pissed off. I'll say one more thing:
I was taking a stroll down the street a few days ago, and I guess school was just getting out because all these little kids started walking towards me. Anyways, when I got closer I could make them out a bit better, and leading the pack was this stupid fucking 10 or something year old decked out in Jersey Shore fashion. This white kid's hair is gelled directly up, he's wearing a beater and has several silver bracelets. I brush by this kid, and as I'm walking past I hear: "Watch it, nigga." I stop, I can't believe what I'm hearing; he can't be talking to me, can he? I turn, and what do I see? This little mother fucker staring me right in the face. Right then and there I didn't give a fuck that he was 11; I walked over to him, gave him the ol' death eye, and then shoved him over. Yeah, that shut him up. Then I leaned in real close to teach him a lesson, I whispered "You have to figure out who you are. Can't you see that you look like a fucking idiot? A young, white kid dressed up in douche bag clothing, speaking like you aren't supposed to be speaking, I mean come on, your from Vancouver, not New Jersey, you fool. Show a little self-respect." He was silent, his eyes were a bit glazed, tearing over from a lesson learned. I decided to finish him off: "Figure your shit out."
Then I flashed him with my solid gold teeth, and spat a little diamond out on him.
Bitch.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Saturday Afterthought
Having just become a blogger, I've learned that commitment is a crucial factor in your success. Whether you can't find the time, or can't even be bothered to write consistently, your blog loses any chance at gaining credibility, and through that, no one will choose to follow. No one wants to read blog entries that entail an entire person's year worth of thought or experiences in one post. The authors ideas need to be fresh; they need to flow in a way that random internet folk won't have problems finding time to read them day-to-day. I don't have a problem with my dedication; I am willing to take a couple of hours out everyday to write a coherent article, throw in a bit of humour, and then fix it up so it's not just some piece of shit rant. Or so I'm hoping. No, my problem lies in the quality aspect of my writing. Creating original pieces everyday is hard, there is no way in fuck that I'm that creative. And sure, I could probably think of one thing a day to write on, but in reality those ideas would probably start turning to subject matter I might have written about in grade 7. Mole people, for instance. I use to write about those blood thirsty fuckers day in and day out. Going into great detail about their ritual sacrifices, their strange hierarchies, and the way they would burst into classrooms to teach life lessons right before brutally massacring everyone inside. Yeah, I was definitely in my own element back in the day.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Turn That Frown Upside Down
With only a few minutes left before January 22nd, 2010, I thought I would throw up a quick post. The picture was originally taken from www.vancouverisawesome.com, but I took it, modified it, and made it my laptop background. I will mention, these trees have proceeded to enter my dreams. Believe it or not, they're actually quite friendly. Don't worry kids, they won't rape you...Yeah, sure; don't believe everything smiling trees tell you.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Please Direct Your Attention to the Front
Would you please shut the hell up and listen to me? Thank you. Yes, I said thank you, kind sir. That's what blogging is all about, is it not? To allow people to follow the ideas and or life of an individual. Generally, if that individual is not writing about themselves, they choose to write about music, movies, or any other sort of thing that interests them. I've also noticed that people tend to use humour or "shock-tactics" to draw attention to themselves. All I can say to those people is: a fuck you. A comedic edge to any piece can be positive, but only if executed properly. But purposely being disgusting or crude is a vile strategy at earning respect and viewership. You know what I once did? I once glued my hands to my dick so I was never not jerking off, this was right around the time i discovered the internet, so yeah, like a week ago. See? Now, some of you may think I'm being a bit of a hypocrite; some of you might be asking, "But, Hawkins, I thought you said you hated shock-tactic bullshit, and all the scum that use it?" Well, Mr. Idiot, you can just leave your opinion to yourself. The difference between the festering perverts on the internet and me, is that my story is true; it is fact. My hand is stuck mid shaft, and let me tell you, it hurts, a lot. At first I was like: holy fuck, best idea ever! Yeah, after about 15 minutes, I passed out, woke up a few hours later, dick still in hand. Unpleasant stuff. Anyways, the point of this seemingly barbaric story is to give an example into what I find appropriate, and what I don't.
Sorry, back to the narrative. I figure I can give a little bit of insight into who I am, briefly touch on my life so far, and where I've grown up.
I was born on June 8th, 1990, at the Lions Gate Hospital in Vancouver, Canada. Like some sort of hell spawn, I arrived on my father's birthday. I guess in a way I was some sort of sick joke, a permanent reminder of the mistake he made 9 months previous. I mean, it's easy to completely disregard your child from their birth onward, but when your reminded every year that you share that special day with someone, they get a little harder to forget. Living the first few years of my life in North Vancouver, I moved on to West Van once I hit the age of three. I lived out the next 15 years in the Eagle Harbour area, forging many lasting friendships, and ridding the world of Neo-Nazi bastards. Yes, life in West Van was tough, it kept me on my toes, I never really knew what to expect. Growing up - weapon of choice: hedge trimmer, mostly. If not hedge trimmer, fuck, i don't know, brick? I'm not all that creative, mostly I tend to use whatever is in arms reach. I never really minded school; I attended three different grade schools: Eagle Harbour Primary, Caulfield Elementary, and finally: Rockridge Secondary. Like I said, I didn't mind school. What I didn't enjoy was tools, condescending teachers, any sort of school work, and attending class. Yeah, it wasn't all that bad, only qualities that seemed to get in the way of my full enjoyment. The last two years I have been attending the University of British Columbia; I am currently living in Kitsilano, and let me tell you, it is far more enjoyable than anything West Vancouver has to offer. Other than the high population of pirates, and door-to-door homeless beggars, I really have nothing to complain about.
Sorry, back to the narrative. I figure I can give a little bit of insight into who I am, briefly touch on my life so far, and where I've grown up.
I was born on June 8th, 1990, at the Lions Gate Hospital in Vancouver, Canada. Like some sort of hell spawn, I arrived on my father's birthday. I guess in a way I was some sort of sick joke, a permanent reminder of the mistake he made 9 months previous. I mean, it's easy to completely disregard your child from their birth onward, but when your reminded every year that you share that special day with someone, they get a little harder to forget. Living the first few years of my life in North Vancouver, I moved on to West Van once I hit the age of three. I lived out the next 15 years in the Eagle Harbour area, forging many lasting friendships, and ridding the world of Neo-Nazi bastards. Yes, life in West Van was tough, it kept me on my toes, I never really knew what to expect. Growing up - weapon of choice: hedge trimmer, mostly. If not hedge trimmer, fuck, i don't know, brick? I'm not all that creative, mostly I tend to use whatever is in arms reach. I never really minded school; I attended three different grade schools: Eagle Harbour Primary, Caulfield Elementary, and finally: Rockridge Secondary. Like I said, I didn't mind school. What I didn't enjoy was tools, condescending teachers, any sort of school work, and attending class. Yeah, it wasn't all that bad, only qualities that seemed to get in the way of my full enjoyment. The last two years I have been attending the University of British Columbia; I am currently living in Kitsilano, and let me tell you, it is far more enjoyable than anything West Vancouver has to offer. Other than the high population of pirates, and door-to-door homeless beggars, I really have nothing to complain about.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Welcome to my castle.
After many years of parental oppression, which in turn led to my severe ignorance of anything remotely technology based, I finally have access to this wonderful thing people call: the internet. Yes, it's been about a week since I accessed this superhighway for the very first time, and I must say that it has been quite the event. I mean, after being introduced to both the telephone, and the television on the very same day, I thought nothing could top such marvels. How wrong I was. The internet is by far the most intriguing thing I have ever laid eyes on. Normally, I'd go on to say what other intriguing things I've seen prior to this, but really, who gives a fuck?
This internet thing seems pretty legit, what with all the pictures and videos, and instantly streamed data; it really is redefining the way we live. But is anyone aware of the amount of pornography on this thing? After I first logged on it took me about three minutes to run across my first porn link. I'll tell you, my eyes lit up like, shit, I don't know, jack-o-lanterns on Halloween; wait, no, it wasn't like that. They lit up like Van-City on 4/20...4:20a.m. and p.m, well, actually like whenever. Anyways, i clicked on the link, and there I sat watching a bukake session for about fifteen minutes. This poor Asian girl was just getting wrecked by these massive studs. Yeah, my dick practically exploded. I've been on the farm a couple times, but I never realized that breeding horses had a thing for defenseless Asian chicks. I was completely stunned; there was Black Beauty, Hidalgo, Shawdowfax, My Little Pony (Why God, My Little Pony?!), and Tobey Maguire beating off into this girl's face. The internet is a fucked up place; I wonder if this is where Mr. Gore imagined his creation would be in 2010. I had the privilege of seeing his two daughters Karenna and Kristin getting freaky with each other; I think i caught that one on the Democrats website, some sorta political pump up. Shit, pump up indeed. Bravo, Al Gore.
Well, I think I've successfully missed the point of my first post. The point, what was it again, I don't even think I covered it. Anyways, this is my blog: Modern Day Castle. I really have no idea how often I'll be posting, the quality of said posts, or if anyone will even read them. I'm not even sure if I'm right for the internet, or if I'm ready for the criticism. We will see! A week ago something great was revealed to me, maybe some day I will be able to reveal something great to all of you people.
"WELCOME TO MY CASTLE."
This internet thing seems pretty legit, what with all the pictures and videos, and instantly streamed data; it really is redefining the way we live. But is anyone aware of the amount of pornography on this thing? After I first logged on it took me about three minutes to run across my first porn link. I'll tell you, my eyes lit up like, shit, I don't know, jack-o-lanterns on Halloween; wait, no, it wasn't like that. They lit up like Van-City on 4/20...4:20a.m. and p.m, well, actually like whenever. Anyways, i clicked on the link, and there I sat watching a bukake session for about fifteen minutes. This poor Asian girl was just getting wrecked by these massive studs. Yeah, my dick practically exploded. I've been on the farm a couple times, but I never realized that breeding horses had a thing for defenseless Asian chicks. I was completely stunned; there was Black Beauty, Hidalgo, Shawdowfax, My Little Pony (Why God, My Little Pony?!), and Tobey Maguire beating off into this girl's face. The internet is a fucked up place; I wonder if this is where Mr. Gore imagined his creation would be in 2010. I had the privilege of seeing his two daughters Karenna and Kristin getting freaky with each other; I think i caught that one on the Democrats website, some sorta political pump up. Shit, pump up indeed. Bravo, Al Gore.
Well, I think I've successfully missed the point of my first post. The point, what was it again, I don't even think I covered it. Anyways, this is my blog: Modern Day Castle. I really have no idea how often I'll be posting, the quality of said posts, or if anyone will even read them. I'm not even sure if I'm right for the internet, or if I'm ready for the criticism. We will see! A week ago something great was revealed to me, maybe some day I will be able to reveal something great to all of you people.
"WELCOME TO MY CASTLE."
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