semicolon kind of life

I’m packed and I’m holding
I’m smiling, she’s living, she’s golden
She lives for me, says she lives for me
Ovation, her own motivation
She comes round and she goes down on me

Last summer, semicolon tattoos were all over the internet. People were getting them as a personal reminder, to indicate their story wasn’t over, to celebrate a victory over a struggle, as a symbol of hope in the fight against mental illness. As this article states, they’re not “the mark of a really committed grammar nerd”, but “a reminder of their struggle, victory, and survival”.

As most of you know, I suffer from mental health issues. I’ve struggled, I’ve survived, I’m still here .. so I got a semicolon tattoo to remind myself that I am more than my depression and anxiety.

haha j/k, I totally got the tattoo because I’m a really committed grammar nerd.

haha j/k, I actually got the tattoo because you can’t have a “TL;DR” tattoo without the semicolon.

Also, knuckle tattoos on one hand only is kinda weird and unbalanced, so I also got a “RTFM” tattoo.

Okay so all of the above is actually true: I AM a mental health survivor, I AM a really committed grammar nerd, and I really did get “RTFM” and “TL;DR” tattoo’d across my knuckles because hardcore, but in a really fucking nerdy (and hilarious) way.

Better pictures coming soon. It’s hard to take pictures of your own knuckles.

doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo

the night the cops came

We’ve tried talking to the girls downstairs. We’ve called the building manager, and the landlord – multiple times. Tonight it went one step further, and the cops were called.

They started partying around 10:30, warming things up by singing in their car so loudly it could be heard throughout the entire neighbourhood. The party eventually moved inside, and by midnight, showed no signs of stopping. Ed called the cops at my insistence, then went to bed. Me, I stayed up to watch the fireworks.

Their apartment faces the street, and because they were hanging out their window singing along with Beyonce at the top of their lungs, they saw the police pull up. The music immediately went down, and everything stopped. The cops asked them to open the door, and then the act began.

They’d never had a complaint! They never make noise! There was no party; just the roommates! The music isn’t loud – listen, can you hear it? You can’t! They’re just assholes! They love to complain! It’s not fair – no one has ever said anything to them! I can’t believe they called the police! There’s no noise here at all!

Unfortunately for her, I was hanging over the stairs listening and I couldn’t take it any more – I corrected her, reminding her she had turned the music down as soon as the police arrived AND they’d been spoken to multiple times by multiple people about being FUCKING ASSHOLES in the building. A cop came up to talk to me before I could get really angry and start mouthing off, and he said we should just keep calling the police every time they acted like little ignorant shitheads. In the meantime, the girls were flippant and “charming” at the police, and kept repeating that THEY were the victims – we were making up stories because we have “bitter balls”. I don’t know what that means, but apparently we have them and they are bitter. The cops told them to keep it down, asked Josh and I to keep calling the police if they do it again, and that was that. Soon after, the group left the building to smoke on the lawn. I could hear them talking about us. This is going to be awesome. I’ll be calling the landlord tomorrow, and I almost hope they do it again – who needs sleep when your neighbours are this fantastic?

The very best part about all of this? One of the people downstairs is the MOTHER of the Chlamydia Sisters. Seriously, how classy do you have to be to get drunk with your whorish idiot daughters after midnight on a weekday, making so much noise that the police are called? How proud would you be, watching your drunken spawn try to reason with the police by lying right to their faces? I will never know such joy, but I’m afraid to touch the front door in case their brain herpes are contagious.

I fucking hate those idiot bitches and their douchebag boyfriends. I want the street fighting back.

 

seventeen angry

I never get to have any fun.

At the moment though, this is a good thing – my present idea of “fun” involves Molotov Cocktails, drained cans of tuna, and clogging lessons.

Sometimes fun can be malicious!

I am about ready to put a hit out on our downstairs neighbours. They’re a pair of nurses who do shift work, and have the mentality of a couple of 14 year olds with parents out of town: any time is party time, regardless of what the clock says. They tend to start up around 10pm with the loud music, smoking, and singing. They have terrible taste in music – Celine Dion, Def Leppard, that one song from Ghost – and I want to slap their ignorant faces until someone spits blood.

Yeah, I’m kind of angry.

Last night they – the two ridiculous whores and their boys of the week – had another party. I’m long past the point of polite confrontation, as they refuse to answer the door and/or hide the guilty parties in the bedroom when we knock, AND refer to us as “the mean neighbour/s” when referring to us. I stomped on the floor a couple times, but when they started singing along to “Pour Some Sugar On Me” I lost it and had a little temper tantrum, hurting my foot in the process. Their response was to yell “FUCK OFF” and turn the music up, to which I screamed back “FUCK YOU” and had to do some breathing exercises to calm myself down so I wouldn’t stab large knives in their door as a warning. I hate them. I hate them so hard.

I really, really wanted to engage in a little passive aggressive payback this morning – they sleep when we wake up. I was actually prepping my sub woofer for some revenge when Ed stopped me, saying it just wasn’t a good idea. I know that, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to make them hurt – even if it’s just interrupting their sleep like they’ve done mine for the last month or so.

He did call our landlord, who just doesn’t care. He’s losing tenants left and right, and isn’t going to do anything to help one way or another. He’s actually thinking of renting them the Penthouse – an awesome idea, because then they’ll be pissing off 4 tenants and three other apartment buildings when they crank the music up at 1am on a Tuesday morning instead of just us. He doesn’t live in the building OR the area; what does he care? We were told to wake the building manager up the next time it happens, but the guy doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this kind of shit and has a pretty crappy life as it is; we like him and don’t want to make it any worse. So, we’re stuck. They get to party and smoke and generally be assholes all they want because the landlord won’t say boo either way, I get very little sleep each night, and my urge to do something incredibly foolish (but so satisfying) is rising every day.

I know we have a move coming up, but until the conditions are lifted this Saturday, I don’t want to celebrate – but when I do, you better believe it’s going to be loud and in the middle of the afternoon.

are you the legal guardian of john connor

This week has been an enormous disappointment to me. Everything is going wrong:

  • my iPhone woes are further from resolution than ever (read the ongoing saga here)
  • I’m waiting for a bunch of things in the mail that are way overdue and my inquiry emails are going unanswered
  • my plan to scandalize the office has failed because the police haven’t shown up to question me at the office

Sometimes you just need to create a little drama to make the day more exciting.

The police were supposed to visit me at work this morning, but no one has come for me yet. I received a call yesterday afternoon advising me they would be here just after 9am, and I wanted to have some fun with it: I *could* have told the receptionist about it and how it was totally innocent and not to worry, but there is little fun to be found in reassuring people that you are not a criminal mastermind. It is much more entertaining and hilarious to let people be shocked and wonder amongst themselves exactly what I did to cause the police to come hunt me down at work. Things get boring around here sometimes; it’s good to shake up the status quo.

A lovely-sounding gentleman called me up yesterday afternoon, asking if I had reported my license plate stolen in April. I said that I had, and he let me know that my plate had been found.

By him.

On a stolen motorcycle.

That ran him over.

He needed to meet with me to get an official report so he could present it to the Crown Royal (as is my understanding of our judicial system) to prove his case against the criminal(s) that ran him over with my stolen plate. I offered to meet him somewhere, but he said it would be easier for him to come by my office if I didn’t mind a cop in full uniform showing up asking for me. I immediately saw the potential for awesomeness in this situation, and jumped at the chance for a cop visit because I am a shit disturbing trouble maker.

One thing I’ll always be amused at is my need to detail every aspect of my life on the internet for people – but mostly myself – to refer to later. They need to know exactly where my scooter was parked and when I reported the plate stolen. I have all this information – I wrote about it as soon as I got home, meaning I have a very definite time stamp and memory of what happened that day. I would make an excellent witness for all things, and I’m totally not even Harrison Ford.

No one has come, though. I can’t call and ask because the number is blocked from my caller ID, so I’m left .. waiting. It’s sort of the story of my life. I hate waiting. I’m sad, too – I wanted to have an excellent story to share with you this morning about how the police came and took me away and people were thoroughly flabbergasted by it all, but no. Not even THIS can go smoothly for me. It’s not FAIR.

True to my nature though, I’m now concerned that the phone call I received yesterday was in fact a diversion and there is a 24-esque plot afoot and REAL criminals are going to come get me and beat me to get the secret launch codes, or that I inadvertantly gave the “policeman” my credit card information and Social Insurance Number and now I’m going to be frauded.

Maybe I should go hide.

dolphins are jerks

The Easter Bunny delivered us a gift at the lab – on each desk this morning there was a gold chocolate bunny and a fancy company pen. Neat! I like presents. I can’t help but wonder how the bunny delivered them, though – it seems to me that it would be extremely uncomfortable to lay a bunch of pens as you would eggs. That’s how it works, right?

One of Wikipedia’s “Did You Know” articles for the day is on Traumatic Insemination, which includes a section on dolphin gang rape. While I normally embrace all knowledge with open arms, I both did not need to know this OR need the mental images I now have in my head of a roving gang of Flippers surrounding a girl dolphin and cat-calling (dolphin-calling?) her into group sex. Strangely enough, in my head the whole thing goes down much like a scene from West Side Story – dolphins dressed like greasers from the 50’s singing and dancing in the sea-streets as they heckle their poodle- skirted prey to a snappy Bernstein beat.

It’s shaping up to be one of THOSE Thursdays, I think.

It’s also impossible to find an image of a dolphin dressed like a greaser online. In fact, I daresay it’s harder than the hardest image search I’ve ever attempted to do.

i punched a girl (and i liked it)

The SYTYCDC was really cool. It was a high energy show, and we had fantastic seats. I really liked it – definitely a different experience than a normal concert or the opera, but one I am glad I got to see.

Then there was the issue of the girl sitting next to me.

She and her friend didn’t look older than 15, but judging by the many many beers they had between them they had to have been at least 19 (or in possession of some fairly potent fake ID). Already animated about the show, Girl A (sitting to my immediate right) spent the evening getting more and more excited, loud, pointy and drunk.

For starters, I honestly don’t know why she was there in the first place. She spent the entire show (and I am not exaggerating; the only time there was no scream-talking in my ear was when they were off getting more beer) having a loud, breathy conversation with her friend that had nothing to do with what was happening on stage. It actually made it difficult to hear the music, let alone what the dancers were saying in their little segues between numbers.

Then she started flailing.

She was a hand talker, and although she looked as though a strong wind would snap her skinny ass in two, her personal space bubble grew to incredible dimensions. Over the course of the three hour tour evening, I was hit with her hands, arms, elbows, hips, ass, hair, purse, knees, feet, and shins. I tried to get her attention to ask her to stop, but she was too drunk and too hyper to notice me. I grit my teeth and settled for throwing the frequent disgusted glare her way, and sat back to enjoy the show.

While I’m routinely a mild-mannered specimen of person, I do occasionally have issues with my temper. I’ve mellowed as I’ve aged, but there was a time .. well, it was bad. I was loud and angry and the chip that can still be seen on my shoulder? Well, it was sort of the size of Grouse Mountain. I’m pretty sure I’ve foamed at the mouth before, and I’ve destroyed things in anger. Issues, I has them.

As the night wore on, I was getting more and more murderous towards this little slip of nothing that was insisting on molesting my personal space. During the final number, the crowd was on its feet with the cheering – except for me, because I had a lap full of stuff and nowhere to put it. It was then that most of the girl seemed to end up in my lap, and I finally snapped. After being smacked in the head with her bag three times in the span of 30 seconds, I threw out a high-velocity elbow and made contact with a bony little ass. Okay, it wasn’t exactly a punch, but if I didn’t think the arena cops would be all over me, I would have done it. I am so bad ass.

Unfortunately, the little idiot was too far gone in whatever fuels her existence to notice. The mini-attacks continued and I got angrier – so I kicked her.

She didn’t notice that, either.

The show was over at this point, and the lights came up. Shan and I shuffled out of our row, and luckily for me the obnoxious twat went in the opposite direction. I was livid though, and I actually uttered the phrase “I AM GOING TO CUT A BITCH IF I DON’T GET OUT OF HERE SOON” very loudly. I followed that up with a furious diatribe full of swearing and unflattering descriptions of the girl, all the while trying to maneuver my way out of the aisle. It wasn’t until we were on the stairs and waiting to head up that I realized that I had done most of my swearing as I passed by some still-seated old people who were waiting for the crowds to disperse before leaving the stands. They looked a little shocked at either my anger or choice of language, but this did little to keep me from expressing my theory that the girl was a disease-riddled crack child who came into this world on a filthy gas station bathroom floor and was perhaps continuing the family business by giving hand jobs to pimply frat boys for nickels and the occasional Coors Light. It probably didn’t help that I excitedly remembered I actually WAS carrying a knife – albeit one with a 3/4″ blade about as sharp as a tuba – and if I wanted, I probably COULD cut a bitch (although it would take a great deal of sawing). While I usually enjoy freaking out the squares, I felt it was probably best that I take myself away from the frightened old people, and made my way upstairs to get lost in the crowd of 11,000.

Safely away from the flailing oblivious drunk girl, I rued that I did not punch her more directly. This is why I do not go out often; I am apparently violent when repeatedly mishandled.

Other then my murderous rage, the evening was very fun. We met up with the gang in Gastown for a late dinner after the show, solidified our plans for today, and called it an evening. The dancers were pretty awesome, Shan loved it, and I got to play with my new iPhone camera lenses to get some pictures:

I’m feeling much better now, though.

boot-hat 2: aquaman’s revenge

Aquaman is a fucking jerk.

Our car alarm went off this morning at 5am. Ed scrambled around for his car keys to shut it off, but didn’t bother to go investigate because it was early and that would have required pants. We forgot about the interrupted sleep and awoke at our usual time to get ready for the day.

Ed stopped to inspect the car on his way to the bus, and discovered that someone – quite possibly the SAME someone – boot-hatted a dent into the rear driver’s side door. There’s a very clear footprint visible on the now-wrinkled metal, but the hat that did the kicking was smaller than our previous boot-hat attack. If I wasn’t already late for work I would have attempted to canvas our neighbourhood looking for similar shoe prints, but duty called and I had to leave for the lab.

Ed is understandably upset by it all, because there was no reason for the attack – just someone being an asshole. I don’t understand the mentality behind wrecking someone else’s property for shits and giggles, but this latest turn of event has Ed thinking about moving. I don’t really want that – I love our apartment – but it really fucking sucks that there’s basically no way to protect your crap from random people who feel the need to do stupid things for “fun”.

Poor Mazdabator, all covered in bird poop and now with a nasty dent in the door. Come spring we’ll be able to move all the scooters from the back and park the car back there, but that’s no real consolation prize – our scooters have been attacked back there so it’s really no safer than being on the street. I need some sort of force field, or perhaps a bunch of bears. Hungry attack bears that would eat anyone who got too close to my stuff. That would be cool.

Anyone know where I can get some bears?

smashy smashy

Things appear to be getting interesting in our neighbourhood again. This is both good and bad: good because I was frankly getting bored with sleeping through the night, and bad because my levels of contempt for certain strains of humanity are reaching staggering new heights and also I like my car windows whole and unbroken.

There’s been a rash of smashing on our street over the last week or so. The curbs are littered with piles of sparkling glass chips, yet we’ve never seen the targeted vehicles. I’m pretty sure our car was “tested” – the other evening we heard a large thump, immediately followed by our car alarm. I looked out the window and saw a suspicious hooded character slinking away from the scene. He was far too tall to be a Jawa, so I’m thinking cars in the area are being scouted for future burglaring. I haven’t heard any glass being broken, though. You’d think that would make some noise, even without a car alarm. Maybe they’re just playing a prank to make everyone paranoid – get some glass chips, and sprinkle them everywhere. The first thing anyone is going to think is “OH NO CAR BREAK INS!” and scramble to buy clubs and large dogs and flaming pitchforks – perhaps these people are far more crafty than their meth teeth and fetal alcohol syndrome noses let on.

In addition to the upswing of crime, there’s been some wacky hijinks down at our local crack house. It’s a wretched hive of scum and villainy and our neighbourhood tweaker lives there, terrorizing us all with his yells of WOO! WOOOOOOO! at all hours of the night. The fights usually spill out into the alley, and I can hear their sordid tales of abuse and drugs and cheating and baby mama drama. It’s all very sad, but more importantly, it’s all very loud and never happens in the light of day. No, the crazy only comes out after midnight. What good is having a fight if a two-block radius can’t listen in?

To be safe, we’ve removed anything that might be construed as valuable from the Mazdabator. We don’t keep a lot in there as it is, but I had been keeping two routers and a DSL modem in the trunk for work purposes. Juniper SSG5 Routers are totally hot on the black market now, and the last thing I need is some meth head stealing my routers and trading them in for $1500 worth of asthma inhalers and fishnet stockings.

When all is said and done though, I would really prefer people to NOT break into my car or mess with my scooter. If you could be a total waste of skin somewhere else, that would be just super.

nostalgia

I’ve almost missed this – there’s a huge fight going on outside our building. Actually, the fight is over – we’re watching the cops sort out the bad guys from the stupid guys and also tend to the guy who got maced or bear sprayed or something. Fun! Ed made me shut up though, because I was beaking off – something about my not believing the “we were bringing cakes and flowers to grandmama when we were jumped out of NOWHERE!” story being given.

Now that I’m on a real computer, I can wax more poetry about the situation. It’s the same old story – group of guys innocently walking down the street minding their own business when they’re attacked by a large group of natives for NO REASON. Except I’m more than just a little skeptical at that story – I was awake, and heard the screaming back and forth. “Innocent” doesn’t mean “well yeah I was yelling back and calling them all faggots and shit”, it means being the bigger person and walking away from it. It doesn’t mean starting a fight then running down the street to your buddy’s building, waking up the entire place with screaming in the hallways and talk of getting knives to jump them guys that done you wrong. FUCK those guys. The idiots upstairs – who actually had no part in this; it was their friends (again) – do this all the fucking time, and I am so sick of it.

After most of the drama had ended, we were treated to a long, rambling diatribe by the head boy scout who didn’t seem to have much of a point other than it was everyone’s fault but his. He royally pissed off the native girl who lives downstairs by being a racist asshole, then got pissy at her when she tried to say “actually, not all First Nations people are like that”. She couldn’t get a word in edgewise, so she just walked away while Beaky McInnocent kept spouting out more bullshit.

Fuck those guys. They’re storming down the stairs right now after having told everyone within earshot that they’re going to go after the gang that attacked them – “watch, in two hours it’ll all happen again”. Why’s that, you goddamn moron? Why don’t you just fucking go home and take the fight THERE instead of it always, always being here? You don’t even fucking LIVE here, you son of a bitch. Fuck you and fuck your friends and fuck the whole frat boy “I deserve to be drunk and obnoxious and who are you to tell me otherwise” mentality.

At first I was amused, but now I’m just pissed.

change of heart

Normally I’m highly amused by the public antics of Crying Girl and her Foul Mouthed Pompadour, but today their street fighting (not to be confused with Street Fighting) is just making me sad. I’m sad for him, because he’s so angry. I’m sad for her, because she’s always crying (and he likes to scream that she’s a whore) and because she really, really needs some new pants that fit right. Most of all though, I’m sad for their infant daughter, who has to be raised by these two screaming nincompoops – what possible chance does she have for a better life with parents like those?