I knew at some point our paths would cross. Not really. I don't even know you mister, so stop asking for change. Regardless if you wanted to or not you've stumbled onto this little slice of venereal disease which has been hastily poured into html. I told myself when I started making this page that I would update it everyday. Ha! I don't even change my undergarments everyday, see if I will keep this up for even 48 hours.
I actually thought of doing this while walking home from IGA, the shittily overpriced grocery store that I thought was not as shittily overpriced as Provigo. How wrong I was. I was carrying my oh-so-valuable groceries home, which comprised of meat, eggs, and other things which will slowly kill you in your sleep, and I passed a young woman wearing a t-shirt. Nothing special about that really. You see it everyday. It is not everyday, however, that I pass women walking on St. Catherine street without shirts on. It has happened though.
Now I know the male readers, if there are any, at this point are silently nodding their heads in approval. Let me remind you, kind gentlemen, that these were not breasts that were proudly displayed publicly at some sort of a wet t-shirt contest or induced by the influence of way too much alcohol and the promise of a trucker hat. These were breasts shown to inmates at Abu-Ghraib to extract information. I'm off topic again.
So I pass this girl with a t-shirt on. She walked past me defiantly, as if to say "I'm getting to where I'm going no matter how much you don't interest me." As she staged her small rebellion facially, I read the print on her shirt. It read "Born to be a Bitch!!!!1!!". Without the one in the middle, in fact I think there was only one exclamation mark. I added the extra to demonstrate the outpouring of attitude this Chinese sweatshop labor t-shirt threw in every unsuspecting pedestrian's face. So during the rest of my walk home, I thought to myself "What a stupid fucking shirt. I hate that person and any person who was involved in the production of that useless piece of clothing." What is a shirt like that supposed to tell people about you? That you're an intolerable twat? Well her arrogant sway combined with her face, so wrinkled and snooty that I temporarily confused her for one of the Californian Raisins, really did a better job than your stupid shirt.
I turned my head to convey my disgust to my friend.
But no one was there.
I then thought about how many times a day that happens to me. When I have something to bitch about or some life changing comment to quip, only to find that it is wasted on myself. So like an asshole I put my finger in the air as if to proclaim "Eureka!", and the entered my apartment, totally forgot to refrigerate my groceries, and made this abortion.
Now I know what you're thinking, if you know me. For if you know me then you know this little farce won't last for more than a few days, at most. I know this too. I'm not going to do this everyday. Nor is anyone going to read it because my life, at present at least, is so unbearably boring that my walls are bleeding. Or that could just be the poltergeists. I put water in the freezer and time it to see how quickly it freezes. "Woah, 20 minutes, NEW RECORD!!!"
But I am going to try to do it as much as possible. I will because I think it is a bit therapeutic for me, it kills time, keeps up my writing chops a little bit, and it is pretentious to say "my blog" in conversation. I love pretension. Its so tense. Anyway, heres to my creative organ growing back sometime soon!
Kindest regards dear readers.
Darren.
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