Christmas Miracle

Warning: Some serious feels in this article

It's a widely known fact that December is a time for both giving and taking. Not in the sense of gift exchange but in the sense of criminal behaviour. Behind the sugar coated curtain of Christmas glee and affection lies a very select group of scum that target to take advantage of these kinds of people. There are two kinds of people during Christmas Eve. The ones that approach the 25th with the plan to smile a bit more, or ones that approach the 25th, circling the date, and making sure that they're prepared to start breaking into houses or mugging those unfortunate carrying bags filled with presents.

You tend to hear such expressions like, 'Oh their house got robbed on Christmas? That's really unfortunate' or 'Oh they lost their daughter so close to Christmas? That's really unfortunate.' Both those scenarios are really bad but an added magnitude accompanies them when mentioned that it happened in such a close proximity to Christmas day.

Unbeknownst to little Susan, her house was being robbed during her rendition of Silent Night. Better have kept those receipts bitttch

I spent a beautiful Christmas morning stuck in a dark room with someone that was not going to be around for much longer. Because it was Christmas I felt an extra ounce of compassion in my heart for this man that is usually reserved for extremely attractive Asian women.

This particular person suffered from the common ailment of being incredibly unlucky. So it was my job to watch him and make sure that this person didn't spread his unluckiness.

The room itself was just a dark cold room with one single exposed lightbulb on the floor in the middle of the room. Our shadows were cascaded in such intricate shapes that it was like we had silent silhouettes of guardians that watched over the two of us. Two chairs and a table were the only things given to us. We had no source of entertainment other than each other and really that was way more than enough when I got started.

So this John that I was with suffered through the textbook symptoms of facing inevitability. His hands were shaking, his eyes were darting around, and he was blinking faster than an epileptic watching Japanese television. Soon he would tire himself out and then he would begin to ask questions. In this room of waiting, societal norms would crumble and it didn't matter if you were racist, ugly, or a woman. There was one person in front of you and if that person was a young Asian kid then you better forget the fact that your grandfather called my grandfather a gook and begin to understand just how hopeless you are.

 May the gods pity the man who in his callousness can remain sane to the hideous end!

People broke faster than others and this person here broke pretty fast. Maybe it was the added weight of Christmas day or whatever but this John broke fast and he started crying into his large hands.

The first person you experience like this really takes a toll on your psychology. The second, not so much. Then the fifth person and it just becomes a job. Then after thirty it just becomes white noise. Everything they do could have been filled in a questionnaire and I could have check boxes according to how they would act in the next couple hours. You really become dehumanized after so much of these jobs.

This John begins to talk and he tries to regain his sense of dignity by asking for my name. I tell him my name and he tells me his. I don't take any extra precaution to remember his name because really there isn't a point. I've been told that the only two names I would probably remember while doing this job would the first and last. John asks why someone so young like me is doing something like this and I tell him that it's for money. He makes a joke about it and laughs a little too ecstatically and I just smile without changing my eyes.

He tells me his life story and I become good at condensing decades of lives in a short Wikipedia-like  sentence.

A single beautiful moment of death coalesced into one convenient sentence that takes out all sense of beauty.

 And with this he looks at me hoping that I gained some insight from his journey. His long walk through a well-worn path of birth beget into school beget into university beget into career beget into death. And sadly I couldn't lie to him and I simply nodded at whatever the hell he had to say. Eventually his ancient screws that held him up unscrewed after years of wear and his entire body drooped into his chair, a sign of surrender, like the final act of a marionette, discarded and might as well been forgotten.

We both jump slightly at the loud knock behind us and I reach across the table to give the man one last handshake. As I walk away, what he had shared with me was already vaporizing into nothingness. I left and that was it for his story. I get to continue mine.

I stopped by T&T supermarket on the way home and picked up some milk bread that had just the right amount of sweetness in it. I really liked that bread and we needed it to stuff into the Christmas turkey.

Sorta like this but without the chocolate

This has happened so much now that all memories and stories about different lives has become just a single entity of insignificance that I could no longer even feign interest in them. There's a small window of thought that emerges from me after each time I have to spend hours with an unfortunate person's last lap. I wonder if I want to spend my last hour talking to someone who will forget eventually. Is there really a difference between telling a loved one and having it forgotten by them when they too pass away compared to telling a stranger? Or did these people just want to tell anyone because intrinsically we are all selfish and they just want someone to acknowledge that what we did mattered? But eventually I'll just forget and do whatever is next in my life.

So really all I'm hoping that can come out of this is that I don't die during Christmas and when I do die, I don't want it long and drawn out. I think.


Sometimes when I can't sleep I think about all those people I've talked to and try to recall all the things they left behind. I pull the blanket up to my nose and I stare past the ceiling trying to see and feel something. Then I start opening doors that I keep trying to close. I start thinking too much and start again on thoughts of the afterlife. I think of the old computer that I had long ago in my early teens that we replaced because the power button stopped working. Then I remember finding it again in the basement and carrying that heavy monstrosity up the stairs and putting it down carefully on the carpeted floor of my room. I stared into the hole that used to have a power button with one eye closed as I inched closer and closer to it trying to see if there was anything special. Then I had the bright idea to go down to the kitchen, grab a chopstick, and bring it back up and inserting it into that hole.

Miraculously, the computer turned on again. It's old and dusty fans started spinning within the bowels of its metal chassis with such volume that it was almost as if I had turned on a lawnmower. I connected the computer to a newer monitor and waited for it to completely boot up. Hearing those hollow beeps and electronic midi's starting up the system brought such a nostalgic warmth in me that I couldn't help but smile. All those late nights struggling with slow dial-up connections and frantically searching for that one cheat code for that extra hard video game suddenly came back to me, a most familiar feeling of recollection filed under 'little things' in the back of your mind.

Even through the incessant coughing and wheezing from caked dust, the computer trudged its little metal spinners and pullers and pushers and started up once again. I understood that this ancient machine was fragile and for some reason I thought I should also be careful in moving the mouse or pressing keys on the newer hardware that I had connected to it. Almost as if this computer could somehow feel some phantom pain from the hard clicks or the exaggerated slamming I resort to now with my fingers when I type (I've been asked if I'm angry at the keyboard when I type). But for this moment in time I grazed my fingers over the keys slowly and gently, almost as if I was running my hand over a sleeping dog, making sure to not disturb it.

I spent the entire afternoon slowly going through all my old files. I enjoyed myself as I read poems and stories unfinished and smiled at the pictures I saved and music I somehow downloaded. At a certain point I had eight windows open, each one a different folder in the computer. Now this was something I regularly did because I always assume that I will need to quickly access something. On my current laptop opening that much was cake, but on this aged hardware? I tried closing one of the windows, still unaware of what I had done and when it refused to close I froze along with it. I stared for a couple minutes at that screen, the happy warm feeling slowly dissipating. I felt every drop of that warm pink liquid called nostalgia as I began over thinking once again. It saddened me when I realized that the moment I turned on this computer, it was in the same state as we had left it seven years ago - except dustier, slower and a lot older. The night we had decided to retire it, it was still pushing itself, making sure that it still did what it had to.
The tower, the skeleton, rickety and so brittle that it needed to be propped against a wall in order to stay up.
The software, so outdated and weak that it needs so much more effort to do things it did with relative ease before.
The memory, parts corrupted and fragmented that you can't really trust it anymore to remember some things.
It's PSU, the power supply unit; chugging, coughing, struggling, beating. The very heart of the computer so weak and fragile.
Fated to not turn on again because of human carelessness.
Nothing really can escape inevitability can it?
It was almost as if this computer had just woken up after seven years of death and it just continued as if those years were nothing. The only thing it has to show for it is its deteriorating body and corrupted mind.
When I stare up at the ceiling during nights I can't sleep, I think back to that day. I sometimes wonder if there is a heaven for computers and if I had pulled that ancient behemoth away from it just for a brief exchange and to catch up. Then I smile because it's so absurd. Then I wonder if there is something after death, a computer human heaven.

Mix them according to preference. Or don't mix them at all

I met a nice girl the other day. She was in a lot of debt for someone her age and for some reason she pissed off the wrong people. This lead her to a sort of crossroads that lead to the same place, if that makes any sense. I took her to the beach very close to the city and made sure to remind her to bundle up because beaches in December are nippy.

I picked her up at her place and we walked in silence to the beach. She wore a perfume that was redolent of funeral flowers. The kind that are artificially enhanced to last a bit longer than usual. We got into public transit and she made her way to the back of the bus where we sat not beside each other but face to face.

I stayed quiet because it wasn't my job to entertain her. There was a quick exchange in glances, both of us waiting if the other was going to start a conversation, a conversational stand-off of the sort. I wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger and apparently she wasn't either. It would be a quiet ride between the two of us. Now she was a beautiful girl there was no doubt about it. A salad of genes that would make any average to below average girl envious. But at that moment of vulnerability, that moment where she had to face her mortal existence, she couldn't be any more beautiful. She didn't bother to wear make up and it was obvious that she was crying the night before. I caught those eyes of hers shaking slightly when the bus stopped to pick up passengers and she would make eye contact with someone for a moment. A fly trapped in a web watching others fly by, living their life. When a person stopped trying to blend and became bare bones, living only to cling onto each day as a blessing, they became something different, something ethereal. Something beautiful.

We eventually made it to the beach, the only words exchanged were commands from me to move faster or telling her that it was time to get off.

Now the beach is a very special place for me. No matter how cliched it sounds, the beach does things to an individual that they wouldn't do otherwise. A beach in the middle of winter is a special kind of solace for people otherwise unfamiliar with a ritual like this. The smell, the sounds, the feelings, they all worked together to erode away the final pillar of a person.
When they finally stare into the horizon, their eyes half closed and their white pupils glazed, I begin speaking.
I usually start with something easy like a joke or a fact. For this girl I just started by saying that in this world there are so little things that can be described as epic. The ocean though is undoubtedly one of them.

Things that are also epic: Space and the intro to Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin

She stood there, her scarf wrapping her comely cheeks and those ineffable brown eyes of hers looking out into the water, almost as if she was trying to look across the ocean. Then she began talking.

She talked for a long time. But it didn't matter to me. Right now the two of us had all the time in the world and I was more than happy to listen to what she had to say. She talked about everything she ever wanted to be and everything shes always wanted to see. How she will never be able to have children and how she will never feel true love that she's always wanted. How she will disappoint her family and how she hopes that at least one person in this entire world will cry when shes gone. By the end of it all she was in tears.

Then she asked me if I ever have thoughts of the end and I nodded, lying would neither comfort or upset this girl. Then she asked me what every person asks when they can see the end in the distance. She asked me if I think that there is an afterlife. I told her that I didn't but that shouldn't stop her from believing if there is.


Then she asked me about me and I told her about me. Then she asked me what I thought and I told her what I thought.

I asked her if she knew what nihilism meant. She didn't so I explained.

Then she cried again. There are times where I believe that I'm not the right person for this job.

Thinking about specks.

There are two types of people in this world, both of which can be easily categorized and subsequently referred to as HAM. While trying to think about specks i discovered a theme which persists across many plat forms, and that platform in a plate covered in ham products. That is why ladies and gentle men i refer to everyone by the flavor of speck ham they are (and if you don't know what the hell speck ham is take a gander at the picture below).
SPECK-tacular ham.

 So what are these two people i speak of that are so hammy? Well the first person can be generally referred to as the salt cured ham type. These people are shriveled up shells of their former youthful, liquid endowed selves. They have a little over 1 percent liquid in their bodies and as such are very dry people. After all, salt draws liquid from... I got lazy. Sorry faggots.

Hello, my name is Roland. We're here to help.

Punctuality in life is golden. It's the standard in which evaluates each and everyone of us as individuals in life. If you have a deadline then you are expected to meet the expectations without any complications or excuses. This being said, if I wait in the damn line and order a coffee at Starbucks then I better expect that coffee in ten minutes as promised. If this promise isn't fulfilled someone suffers -a coffee addict like myself- or it can also mean the coffee maker is on the fritz again and I'll have to wait for thirty minutes for Earl the maintenance guy to drop on by and fit it. What ever the case two facts are certain, I'm going to have to suffer until this problem resolves itself and Earl is going to be one busy man today.

Earl the maintenance guy
I brought up the topic of punctuality because this has been something I've been struggling to improve on. For quite some time this has been a growing concern, a common issue I've noticed in many people I've encountered with in life. Even though we all have the capability to produce something spectacular we lack the motivation and the mindset to deliver a creative project in a timely manner. I especially see this in myself, as this is the depending factor that can attribute to the success of Brodinary. If the content on this blog remains barren as it has been for some time now then chances are this blog is likely to fail, a fear that haunts me daily. As I look around the internet to websites that produce material on a daily basis I question myself, as to why I don't possess the drive to produce a site to a similar ability. I can come up with numerous excuses to explain why but this doesn't do much, it only creates a barrier to keep producing sub-par work. With this comes a proposition, a commitment for myself to follow in order to better myself and Brodinary.

1) Keep content updated every week.
I'm committing myself to produce posts and content each week for Brodinary. I am currently in talks with the original founders to create a schedule so content is organized.

2) Redesigning the site
This has been one of the things I've put off countless times. Since I have free time after this semester I'll be devoting myself into redesign the blog to reflect the original concept behind Brodinary.

3) Spreading the word
Networking to a broader audience so our content is viewed by as much people as possible. Having an audience to support us will be a big step.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

Hello, my name is Roland. Jayus is today's word.

Here's a poem that I've been working on. It's been uncompleted for quite some time now but I've been editing it to clarify sections and to fix the flow. Not 100% sure if the changes were for the better so if you have any feedback please leave a comment. 

This poem was for a Creative Writing class in which we had an exercise to list what we did in normal day. After coming up with a simple list I played around with verses to create this poem, as it reflected the feeling I had at the time. It was when I was just in a creative slump, my oldest brother had just moved out and things felt strange around the house. This was also when I spent hours on the computer just finding interesting things. and by coincidence I stumbled upon a site that shared foreign words that carried with them much meaning. From the list I choose two words that connected to how I felt, Jayus and Toska. This being said here is my poem.

Occupied streets that seems empty. 

This morning
working on a poem
the mouse clicks
as animals do,
while my weary eyes strive
to finish.

The microwave beeps
And fills the room,
with the reward
of left-over Chinese food
while the T.V shows
reruns of CSI, as promised.

Plastic champagne cups
are filled with water -
a sudden shiver,
as spilt ink forms faces
on the ghost white futon
and coats my fingertips.

I take a shower,
like waterfalls showering over
to refills the prayer cups.
A faded frame sit
as incenses are lit.
Waving once, twice,
thrice with thoughts of family.

Lie down
on the stained futon in malaise,
with my thoughts
of my older brother
moved out. Starting
to print a few poems,
with void voices echoing
around the table covered with
worn-out newspapers and dusty books.

Seconds turn into minutes, then hours, and
days start to nullify here. Caught
in routine, with plagued tasks.
But maybe. maybe
it’s necessary,

to stare
at oneself in the mirror and
get dressed, just
 to sit with Toska.
the oncoming day.

Stay tuned for the next episode.

Hello, my name is Roland. This is The Joy of Painting.

It was like taking a plunge into ‘literary’ waters. I quickly fell into a deep depression losing all sense of my surroundings and found comfort in alcohol . Days were spent binged on anything accessible. At one point I even resorted to armed robbery of a 7-11 convenient store with my shitzoo dog named Dr.Goldberg JOO-stien to feed my habit. Sufficient to say I was living a feeble life. Things didn't go as planned and I cracked. I was a failure. The mental struggle had owned me and I was reduced to nothingness, now in an apartment complex somewhere down town, in and out of reality on the decayed sofa that was in the living room. I had just ordered a batch of pills from my dealer Sven of the East Side Dough Boys and eagerly waited. Remote in hand the channels flickered between one another when the room filled with the soft angelic voice of an angel. “Talk to the tree, make friends with it” said the afro’d man. His words pierced through me and had awoken me. I shuffled through the stack of paper and started writing. Once the show was over I gathered my belongings which consisted of ten sheets of writing, my lucky red yo-yo, a photo of me at burger king, and headed back to Kwantlen with a sense of achievement. From the sheets I created my first poem. P.S my friend Travis is a literary ‘God’.
Bob Ross in his natural habitat
The Joy of Painting

White Shells wrapped with stripes
     waiting, to see the day.
The paint brush releases,
     sweet dispositions
as beau blue drifts over the beach

He smiles at the camera, happily
praises the newbies. says
“Let’s paint,
                a cloud above the sea
whichever works with you”

as splashes of bright cerulean
touches the tips of tides and
showers the sands,
     shadowing over
the beach are hands of waves
waving back,
      happy accidents

Stay tuned for the next episode.

Hello, my name is Roland. Konguru is I

Sorry for the delay in between posts, as I’ve been busy with term papers and assignments. It’s just one of those times when there’s always work to be done, that busy period in life we go through that tests us to our fullest capabilities. Stress increases and all that matters is just producing something we’re satisfied enough to hand in. We as university students know this as finals, and to be completely honest with you I haven’t been telling the truth (I’ve lied and it only seems fair to come clean). I’ve been browsing Youtube for the past few days, something I’m not totally proud of, as this was a habit I’ve mentioned that needs correcting. However, as bad as this setback sounds there's some positive. The word “Konguru” has been introduced to me, although a foul slang for some, I’ve found it quite fitting.

I discovered this word “Konguru” when I was watching a production on Youtube, called K-Town. To spare you all from this drunken drama fest of an Asian version of Jersey Shore (you can watch it of course but I’ll be silently judging you) it’s about a community of mid twenty individuals who have semi interesting lives. One of the cast members Scarlet first used this word, as a replacement to the commonly used phase “FOB”, an insult to immigrant orientals which stands for fresh off the boat. Although not as bad to the latter term, “Konguru” means a fobby male or female who just came to America and acts very shy. Compared to a direct insult which makes fun of a person's adaptation to a foreign place, “Konguru” talks about the mannerisms of a foreigner, as they have common courtesy in their actions. These are individuals who maintain their polite considerate nature. I found myself fascinated with this word, as I investigated further into it’s origins I  soon saw myself as a “Konguru”. These were people who were timid, compared to the outrageous clubbers in the show who had no common sense. What I found surprising in the show was how offended others were when they were called this, as they would protest in vulgarity to the insult. Myself I found the term “Konguru” to be quite the compliment, a title I’d be proud to hold.

This is where this blog post comes in, as my last post I left off with the thought of finding a tag for myself. I’ve considered this as my online user name, Konguru. I’d like to get some feedback from you guys and see what other possibilities were

Stay tuned for the next episode.

I ran over A DOG... IN SPACE. Almost.

Sometimes i drive my space dog mobile into the dog planet "dog-place" and i run over space dogs in my space dog driving car. In this space dog driving car, where is dog pictures and various dog related things. These things can include dogs, and space dogs (but mostly dogs). When i dress myself with dog skin and explode from my only semi habituated dog lacking planet (known as earth) i make sure to try and drive over as many earth dogs as possible with my dog crushing dog car. I call my dog car Dr. Dog Destroyer the second. Dr Dog Destroyer the first was broken into by a gang of space dogs. They stole my car lighter. Those damn dirty dogs. Anyways, my Dog driving dog destroyer was speeding through dog space time when ALL OF A SUDDEN.... i drove over a dog... IN SPACE. Almost. I guess it's a dog eat dog car driving fender world.

Hello, my name is Roland. Please stand back while I redefine the circle.

We can all agree that my life has been great but it can be better. Strangely it only took a simple class exercise for me to discover this.

Let me introduce myself, I'm just an ordinary guy trying to make the best out of life. You could say I'm living the hedonistic lifestyle. While this consists of sleeping in late, which is good, it means I don't do anything productive, which is bad. The times I am up are waste on YouTube and games, which is good, it also leads to time being wasted, which is bad. To sum up the majority of my life, it consists of sleeping, playing games, and amusing myself with cat videos. I think it's safe to say about a quarter of the views have been from me on keyboard cat. While this lifestyle is ideal, it's something that I'm fed up with. In light of this need for a positive change I'm setting forth a plan, one of which will either fix me, or cause my own demise; either way you guys have the privilege to be up front and centre.

Debut music
Before I go into the details of my wonderfully planned outline, I feel it's necessary for me to explain why this post was created. This all started in creative writing class. We were being taught about the technological side of the industry, as the physical part of publication has decreased over the years and online presences are the norm. What I speak of are blogs, which for an emerging writer we're given the opportunity to showcase our works to a broader audience. The main problem with this gift is that we're in competition against one another as writers, we try to get ourselves noticed by the internet; a mad dash to create an interesting profile for others to connect and familiarize themselves with. This is where the exercise comes into play, as a way to further develop the reasoning behind our blogs. Oddly enough in our writing class this exercise didn't revolve around what the main subject was, writing. Rather, we were indulged in an activity that had us visually represent who we were or how were were feeling with paints. Now for any person who had to represent themselves visually comes challenges, one of which I did encounter. Like if I was a duke blue or princeton orange, as the choices of colours were many. In the end I finished the exercise and this is was the result. Now for the plan.

Step one is to figure out the key things in my life, and as the list stands it consists of sleeping, gaming, and overall anything fun. While the idea of becoming a professional sleeper is one I'd love to pursue, sadly there's no demand for this occupation, yet. Perhaps the sleeping industry would need more time to sleep on it. This then leaves me to ponder about my other options, especially the gaming aspect. It's safe to say I play games constantly, who doesn't nowadays. For the longest time it's been a dirty habit I've been embarrassed about, but as the first step of addiction treatment states, one must accept their disease before they can change for the better. Myself, I'm just getting around this curve. But to admit this seems to have negative connotation surrounding the habit itself, the complete opposite of what I've seen trending around the web. This is clearly evident as YouTube persona like Robbaz, Videogamedunky, Psystarcraft, Niichts, SomaZ, Purge, and others who thrive as the community gamers people spend hours watching, myself included. Now to make a long story short, after spending a considerable amount of time thinking things through I've decided to throw my hat into the ring. Only once I get a better nerd machine (computer) to handle the task ahead. For the time being I'll be planning the ground works and letting you folks into the thought process behind so.

Step two will be figuring out my online profile. Stay tuned for the next episode.

Painting for class exercise       

Bribing homeless people for their clothes

     Sometimes I wonder how much easier it would be to be homeless. If I really give it some thought, and naive reasoning, a homeless person is essentially living THE life; the true 'thug lyfe'. I can't imagine a time when being homeless isn't better.

     Here is a hypothetical, imagine you are on the bus going to an ostrich party or something and some homeless guy gets on (for free) and sits next to you. Now this homeless guy smells like a potent syrupy concoction of sweat, mostly dry liquor, and maybe poop. From your angle that guy might be the worst thing to ever assault your sensitive nose holes - sensory rape if you will. He not only smells bad, but kind of ruined the idea of going to an ostrich party. He looks just as bad, his face and hair look like they probably got stuck in a car engine (for at least a few days). Not only that but it appears he only owns jean jackets and military surplus clothing. This guy is perhaps the epitome of homelessness; at least in your eyes. So here is the question, how do you feel about this man?

      I guess that most people would be disgusted by this man, they might feel a moment of remorse for judging him so harshly, but that's just how it goes. If you disagree you're probably trying give yourself a big ol' pat on the back for being such a morally righteous cunt. Now think of the scenario from the homeless mans perspective. From this homeless guys point of view he just received a free ride, but this is no ordinary free ride. This free ride is full of people who simply smell fantastic. Everyone on this bus is so worried about looking like an idiot and smelling like a body odor anomaly that they cover every inch of themselves with some cosmetic or another. This man probably spent about 6 whole dollars on all his clothes and somehow this doesn't trouble him. You on the other hand have spent at least 70 dollars on all your clothes. Finally his looks, he looks like a sack of dripping puke, but you look fantastic. What better way to have a nice day than to look at nice things all day. Thankfully for this homeless man, the streets aren't littered with mirrors, only other comparatively beautiful people, so he doesn't really have to worry. You meanwhile are having terrible day, because all you really have in your world right now is this homeless man burned into your mind. Thus if we were keeping score right now it would be Homeless Man 3 - You 0 maybe even -1. This homeless man is now enjoying a wonderful day. Truly a grand victory and when you're homeless there are only grand victories.

     What I am trying to get at is that no matter how great of an ostrich party, breaking all social conventions comfortably may be one of the greatest feeling a person can feel. So when you see a homeless man, bribe him for his clothes. And when I say bribe him for his clothes, I mean ALL of his clothes. Even if you can't wear his clothes because it hurts, sleep easy knowing you've made the streets a little more awkward until he's found the nearest Salvation Army.

This might just be a regular Russian man and his dog.

The Beauty of Technology

This is a story of my personal adventure under the influence of foreign substances. I'm not condoning this shit and all that so shut up about that. This is just a little log of the silly things I did. Take it as a story and nothing else. I use very excessive language in this article, a lot of fucks, so just skip this article and don't bother reading it.

I for one embrace the technological advances that we as humanity develop and hope that we suffer no hindrances in our plight for absolute sentient artificial intelligence. Technology itself is something that should cherish instead of take for granted. We are left with messages and images from long ancient times from their own set of advances. Limited by their lack of camera mounted phones and cloud servers they resorted to cryptic and murky recollections of events passed and are left to decipher them with a mindset that would find no friend in the times that it was recorded.

Today I experienced first-hand our advantage over the less fortunate ancestors of our past.
The following events were recorded using three identical blue pens, a blue pen that belonged to a beautiful Asian woman that I stole a pen from accidentally, a notebook,  a Smart phone, and a 1st generation iTouch.
Let my personal recordings be an example of the vast ability that we have in the field of recollection.

The story begins at July 24 2012, a Tuesday. It would be my second time taking the express trains to my work and I still had that fire that burned for those with a new job, a sense of new purpose.

I had worked for these people for four months now but I was training my ability to talk on the phone and I wanted to experience personally how my boss and colleagues did their salesmanship. This work consisted of talking to people on the phone and convincing them to switch to our more environmentally and more lucrative offer. I won’t bore you with any more of the details for that’s not the important part.

The important part is that my boss and colleagues are very experienced veteran salesmen and smooth talkers so they are very good and relaxed with their work. They are so relaxed that they indulge themselves in some weed during their peak work ours. This concept of smoking drugs was not a new phenomenon for me. It wasn’t even new that my boss smoked, I had smoked with him before but not during important business work.

The work day started at 9:00am and by 12:10pm I was in a whole different state.

I was mentally mushed to the point where my most basic facial controls were left to the mercy of my giddy mind (I was told later about how much my facial expression changed into various shocking degrees).

“My throat is so dry”
“Can I pretend to call you because I can’t talk to customers like this OMGGGGGGb
“I can’t work like this, fuck man”

I went for an hour sitting on my chair trying my hardest to look like I was occupied with my work. I even attempted to call a customer but they had hung up on me due to my painful silence after they had picked up.
It was by this time that I had decided to make an excuse and try to ditch early. I was starting to sense that my colleagues noticed that I was doing no work and thought I was in huge trouble.

"I'm in trouble"

I had looked at the laptop begrudgingly before looking down at my cellphone pretending that I had gotten such a disappointing text that I was forced to groan.

 I announced that I had to “Go turkey” and started packing up my stuff. Then my boss and my two colleagues agreed and said bye to me.

This was when the fun began.

I walked 20 steps from the door of my boss’ place in the middle of rural Burnaby before grabbing my cellphone from my pant pocket and asking four friends what I was supposed to be doing to “go turkey.”
It was then that I realized that I was not acting normal and my scribbles began.

“Guy behind me I think is following me. He has a dog and I tried to kill it using snickers bar.”
“[unsure what I wrote here]”
“How do I turkey?”
“The park has no end. its looping omg”

I had stopped at an intersection after talking briefly to a friend and stared deeply into my closed book filled with the phone numbers of restaurants. It was during this time I had realized just how incredibly hot it was today and I was wearing a long sleeve business coat fully expecting it to at least be windy or slightly raining. The beams of the sun were pelting upon the cotton fibres of my stylish coat and liquefying themselves into a veil of uncomfortable sweat that wrapped itself generously along my flesh.

I began walking through a park when I had noticed a man walking his dog. Now let me be clear that I love dogs and I would never hurt one, maybe verbally I will crush their feelings by muttering softly in their ears that they are stinky, but never physically.

Paranoia began rearing its disgustingly eager head and I started to believe that this man was following me and trying to kill me for some reasons unknown to me. I reached deep into my jacket pockets and grabbed from its depths a blue pen and a half-eaten snickers bar that was supposed to be my lunch. In an attempt of distraction I split the snickers bar in half and threw it over my shoulder increasing my pace. Yes, I tried to distract the dog by giving it my snickers bar but I realized seconds later that chocolate was poisonous to dogs. I hope that dog is okay; he probably wasn’t even trying to kill me, let alone trained to kill a man.

I grabbed the pen and started scribbling down the frantic thoughts in my head. After looking back above my shoulder for a fourth time I retreated back to my intense pondering about how exactly “to turkey.”

I briefly noted that every time I would look up from my notebook it appeared that I was at the same place in the park even though I was briskly speed walking away from my pursuers.

“I can’t feel my sweat I’m not waiting and [unsure what I wrote here]
“I tripped and fell [contact number] she gave me a contact

 By this time I was out of the park and walking aimlessly around the skytrain station (It’s called a skytrain where I’m from because it’s in the sky)

I vividly remember paying for a ticket with my card and quickly running up the broken escalator, tripping quite badly half way up.

Luckily a nice lady saw and gave me a number after I tripped, telling me to call her if I needed any help. I remember wondering why she seemed so concerned and then wondering how to exactly call her.

“Some guy saw my journal. He’s looking at me like a fucking idiot. Fuck him!
“Teal shirt, Asian guy”
“They all think I’m gunna bomb the train, fuck dude this is scary”
“I can’t feel my sweat”
“This is bad”
“That guy is moving seats”
“He thinks I’m gunna kill him”
“Oh my god dude who is dude who am I talking to?”

I was writing the previous page while walking onto the bus. I caught a glimpse of an Asian man’s judgmental look upon my journal and quickly jotted it down on my way to my seat. I was so infuriated by him that I wrote down his specific characteristics in hopes that maybe later I can exact revenge upon him.

My paranoia began escalating at an all-time high and I realize that I’m mumbling to myself while viciously writing down everything I’m both thinking and mumbling.

Half way through finishing the line “They all think I’m gonna bomb the train, fuck dude this is scary,” a man seated in front of me who might have heard me mumble the word bomb got up and moved to the other side of the time, this time facing my direction. I wrote down my thoughts on that.

“He’s looking at me,”
“My sweat really hurts”
“I’m bleeding”
“Help help help help… help help help… help help help”

For those unaware of the dangerous of not using aftershave, let this be a quick lesson. Being a man gifted with gratuitous facial hair, I find myself being lazy and shaving very rarely. During the morning before, I had decided to make myself a lot more presentable and shave, unfortunately I was in a hurry and I did not have time to apply aftershave. The result became a sharp hot stinging on my face when exposed to my sweat. The stinging became so intense that I clawed at my cheeks and wiped my sweat vivaciously, a man tearing off his pain.

Long story short I ripped open a cut that was healing on my jaw and I began bleeding, this added to the pain.

The pain was so intense that I wrote help over and over with my right hand while scratching my face with my left hand. The whole event was exhausting.

“I’m still at Royal oak”
“This ride is not going to end”
“It’s going to Edmonds”
“I wrote this in 20 seconds”
“Was Royal oak to Edmonds 20 seconds or am I losing my perspective (perception?) in time”

“Hi, I’m not who you think I am, I am a normal, you think I am not,”

Time began feeling slow and I had thought that the train was not getting anywhere, even though it was moving.

It was during this time I noticed that someone was looking at me from a chair across from me. I wrote a message clearly at the bottom of the page in hopes that it dispels all thoughts of my sanity, or lack of it.

“I’m sorry for not being able to talk to you because my lips are really lick (dry?)”
“That guys eyes are still on me. This is not good. This is not good”
“He knows I’m staring at his eyes, he’s going to fucking die. Fuck this guy he’s looking down”
“Fuck him-”
“The girl next to him is really hot”
“Wow she looks a lot like Annabella”
“When is she leaving?”

I continued my conversation with the man looking at my journal from across the train with writing and apologized for not being able to say anything coherent to him.

I looked up at the man who moved seats again and he was looking at me with what I remembered to be a grin on his face, I could have been wrong.

Paranoia once again as I contemplated killing him, absolutely normal.

Then I suddenly noticed a girl who was seating in front of him, idly staring at the window and minding her own business in a set of her own white earphones. She looked hauntingly similar to Annabella, a whole different story all together, just know that she was a lost love that I still had feelings for (D'AWWW).

“Fuck Fuck! Annabella (stupid fucking heart) ”
“Noone is sitting next to me”
“They think I’m crazy. Oh fuck she really looks like Annabella”
“22nd street”
“Hot girl”
“Oh crap she looks like her”

A potpourri of emotions began coalescing within my mind and I began panicking, still scratching at my sweaty cheeks.

I quickly noted down the station name that I was on before continuing my ramblings

I noted again that she looked like Annabella.

“When she’s getting off I’m getting off”

A devious plan began forming.

[unsure what I wrote here]
I think she’s going to fucking leave”
“Shes going to”
“I’m really [?]”
“How this is really bad”
“Fuck Fuck is she Annabella?”
“Leaving hot”

The next couple minutes consisted of me intensely staring at her and waiting for her to leave so I can leave and talk to her. Yes, even though I was quite aware that I was not exactly 100% at the moment, I still found that it was absolutely necessary to talk to this person who looked like Annabella.

“Oh fuck I’m in VCC clark”

The Skytrain system in Vancouver is very straightforward and easy to use. The only one thing that makes it a bit tricky is the fact that there are two sets of trains going back towards my home in one set of rails, skyrails. That's why you have to know which train you are on. 

It turns out that I was on the wrong train and I was headed farther from home, the Annabella-look-alike was also. In the diagram I had taken the Millennium line instead of the Expo line.

“I took the pictures pretending”
“But it had flash”
“Holy fuck I’m dumb”
“This is fucking stupid of me”

I was so entranced by her likeness of Annabella that I needed to take a picture of her.


Sadly I was fucking stupid at the time and took a picture of a pole that was so adorably obstructing her face from the picture, but luckily not from the blindingly obvious flash that I had forgotten to take off. I could almost feel the proverbial spaghetti building up in my pockets.

We had stopped at a station and she got up quite quickly, avoiding my eye contact. I quickly followed.

She stopped and looked at me from afar while I slowly approached her, my book open to blank pages.

Holy crap just thinking about this makes my teeth hurt from the sheer awkwardness that she must have experienced.

Words were said, only from her and all I could do was look at her with tired eyes and she sighed.

In absolute surprise she reached into her purse and took out a blue pen. With one fluid motion she grabbed the book from me and wrote her number down on an empty page on my book.

She handed me the book back and I grabbed from her hands both the book and her pen.

Holy fuck right? The amount of fucks going through my mind were astronomical

“She last station she doesn’t know the last station”
“Lake City Way”

She quickly went on her way after asking if I was okay and if I needed help, all I could do was look at her sympathetically and nod. She told me to be safe and to call her and quickly went off.

It was here I realized I had no idea where I was and I quickly jotted down the first sign I saw, which was Lake City Way.

(I ripped the page before with her number on it after I took the picture and stuffed it into my wallet for future use)

“Help I’m”
“taco bell”

I learned to love and embrace such clich├ęd acts of fate when I wandered down an elevator and walked around until seeing a taco bell…

Glorious glorious ambrosia…

The next couple hours consisted of my aimless wandering and getting a haircut and tipping 200%.

If you’re wondering how I remembered this all quite so vividly, the picture before you is but one page of eight notes that I wrote while I basked in the glorious air conditioned barber coupled with the rhythmic calm of the snipping and buzzing of various hair cutting tools.

If the barber had read what I was writing then it sure didn’t affect the fantastic job he did on my hair.

As I regained a small sense of coherence, I corrected my mistake and headed home, this time fishing my earphones from my pocket and resting them in my ears, mentally shutting me from the world and into the world of Biggie Smalls.

I wrote various poems on the way back, trying very hard to completely isolate and occupy my mind.

I also drew a nice lady and she complimented me on my quick sketch of her. If you see this feel free to contact me for this drawing, I would feel quite uncomfortable if someone had a sketch of me listening to music contently.

So in conclusion, if it wasn’t for my pen and paper and my phone, I could not have recollected all these memories of my absolute fucktardedness, thank you technology.

Also, can you show me a more troubling text?

I received the text 4 hours later, contrary to his usage of the word "just."

Ended up being PCP..


The pictures are taken from the safety of my own room

Thanks to my fucking friends for their amazing memory when it comes to stupid shit I do, and not when we’re lost for directions and it’s your fucking job to remember.