I've been slightly enamored with the "Best of Craigslist" section. This is one of my favorite postings I've seen lately. I enjoy how it makes me feel so...liberated. And I especially enjoy the use of the word "fuck." Such a wonderful find!
I don't care what color you are. I don't care where you're from. I don't care what you do for a living. I don't care what class you are, how you dress, what you smoke or drink or who you know or whom you've fucked.
I hate you all. I hate every last living, breathing, snot and feces producing, promiscuously copulating, celebrity obsessed, opinionated one of you. From right here in Toronto right around the planet and back, coast to coast, nationwide and internationally. Every. Single. Last. One. Of. You.
Fuck love. Fuck your insipid grasping at some abstract concept of chemical imbalances and reasonless actions, fumbling around in the crowd trying to find some cinematic supposition for real human interaction. Fuck lust, too. Fuck you all, from the lowlife dirtbags that think dropping trou and waving the little soldier in a sloppy arc is a pick-up line to the sniveling of the desperate 'nice guys' who never get the girl due to a total lack of testosterone-grown stones. Fuck you all, from the crazy, under-dressed sluts that judge a person's character by the price of their shirt, right down to the fat, flabby chicks that think personality is enough.
Fuck you drivers, for thinking that a yellow light is a sign that says 'step on the gas'. Fuck you wheelmen and women that think it's okay to sit in a left hand turn in the middle of morning traffic, even though there is a protected left in the intersections before and after where you need to make your turn. Fuck you too, cyclists - you're not exempt from the traffic laws just because your peddling, you miserable spandex-covered, neon-reflective fucks. Fuck you too, pedestrians. Use the fucking crosswalk if you don't want to get hit, and use it before the little countdown clock says '3'. You don't have enough goddamn time to lope across four lanes of traffic.
Fuck you chick on your cellphone. Fuck you attitude packed minimum-wager that makes my coffee. Fuck you cops that spend all their time handing out speeding tickets. Fuck you douche bag doing ten over the limit in the passing lane on the highway. Fuck you lady using exact change at the counter at the grocery store. Fuck you kids having a conversation in the doorway. And fuck you also for not getting the fuck out of your designated handicapped seat when a pregnant or elderly person gets on the fucking bus.
Fuck taxes. Fuck welfare. Fuck the whole selfish, over-politicized and party-driven government system. I'm sick and fucking tired of policies and new laws with seven hundred bylaws that nobody but you and your cabinet reads. Fuck you councilors and your stupid 'district improvement' plans. Fuck you unions, for asking for so much and giving nothing more that what you already give. Fuck the whole process that allows people who are supposed to be working for us work for interests that only benefit the next campaign. Fuck your short-sightedness, your rush to the bandwagons, and your incessant arguing over fuck all. Fuck the parties, fuck the conventions, and fuck your campaigns. Do some real fucking work for a change.
Fuck you bottles of water. You're water. You're not worth two fucking dollars.
Fuck you trendsetters, fuck you fashionistas. Fuck your little dogs and and your idiotic outfits. Fuck your high heels in the snow. Fuck your five dollar coffees and your fifteen dollar veggie burgers. Fuck your health kick, your diet or your fucking new interest in kickboxing or sushi.
Fuck your culture. Fuck your race. Fuck your sense of entitlement. Fuck your sense of uniqueness. Fuck you all for the belief that you have something unique and interesting to contribute. Fuck you for filling the internet with your useless garbage. Fuck your blogs, your wikis, your forums. Fuck your name calling. And most of all, fuck whatever you believe. It's all wrong. Fuck it.
Fuck your complaints. Fuck your addictions. Fuck your dependencies. Fuck your pain. Fuck your tears. Fuck selling whatever it is you sell. Fuck your manipulation of others. Fuck movies. Fuck fucking. Fuck everything you own. Fuck your allergies. Fuck your stupid commons sense. Fuck your spelling and fuck your lack of education, or your ignorance, whatever is applicable.
I don't give a fuck. Shut the fuck up and just get on with it.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
"I Was Bit by a Shark!"
Lately I've been having exceptionally strange dreams; last night was no different. The strange thing about last night's dream is that I couldn't stop thinking about it today...it keeps following me around. There were several elements/sub-plots to last night's dream, but the part that really stands out to me is where I am bitten by a shark.
I am on vacation with my family in some remote beach area surrounded by crystal-clear water and randomly occurring sandbars. On the biggest of the sandbars is a series of booths carved into the sand, identical to the booths you can find in a restaurant. However, you are sitting chest-deep in the water on sandy benches. I'm sitting in a booth with my parents, and swimming amongst us in the water are various tropical fish and three-foot sharks. My father decides that he wants to see the shark's teeth, much to my complete surprise and inevitable panic. My father corners a shark, reaches over, and pries open the shark's jaw. He examines the relatively undeveloped dentistry of this particular shark, which only has a single row of seemingly dull teeth. My father is not impressed.
Throughout all of this, I'm sitting in a corner of the booth, silently crying to myself and begging my father to stop. He won't listen. He corners shark after shark, becoming reckless in his quest to examine their teeth. He becomes completely fearless of them and begins placing his hands and arms inside their mouths; he now wants to experience what a bite feels like. Several of the sharks bite down on his arms and hands, but none cause any damage. At this point I am crying hysterically, incapable of forming any words, pulling helplessly at my father and trying to get him away from the sharks. Suddenly, a shark swims directly up to my father and stops inches away from his torso. My father leans down and looks the shark squarely in the eyes. Instantly, the shark lunges forward, rows and rows of sharp teeth exposed, latching on and baring down on my father's left shoulder.
My father is taken aback by this unexpected attack. He reels backwards, stumbling through the soft sand, and looks at me with sadness and a realization of imminent death. The shark swims away in a triumphant glory, satisfied by his damage done.
The next few moments are a blur, but in a sheer force of will, I am able to take my father's injury on as my own in order to spare his life. I knew that I would be capable of surviving the injury, whereas my father, in his old age and poor health, would not. He is instantly cured, not the slightest mark on him; I now bear the full extent of his injuries. I feel little pain. I slowly make my way to the shoreline, holding my gaping wound with my right hand, blood pouring through my shaking fingers. I am alone with my ordeal.
The dream continues on in ways that make even less sense. It was one of the more disturbing dreams I've had lately, which is probably why it's so fresh in my mind and why I can't shake it. And, like I said, it's been following me around all day today. Tonight, when I happen to turn on my computer, the first thing I see on Yahoo! news is this: Ryan Seacrest: "I Was Bit by a Shark!". I thought it was a joke. Seriously. What are the chances?
Here's a bit of the article:
On his KIIS-FM radio show Monday, Ryan Seacrest said he decided to take a dip in the ocean over the weekend when, he said, "I was bit by a shark!" Alas, the American Idol co-host, 33, wasn't hurt too badly, as he still went on the air to blab about it. But he's bitter. Asked by his radio co-host if anyone else got bit, Seacrest lamented: "No, just me, of course! There were like 1,000 people in the ocean, and I get bit by the shark!"
My favorite part? "But he's bitter." Really. I can't stop laughing.
UPDATE (8/5/08): I found out yesterday from a Facebook update that someone I went to high school with, Travis Kvadus, was bit by a shark over the weekend. That, grouped with my dream, Colleen's dream, and Ryan Seacrest's experience, I must say that Iamfreakingout.
I am on vacation with my family in some remote beach area surrounded by crystal-clear water and randomly occurring sandbars. On the biggest of the sandbars is a series of booths carved into the sand, identical to the booths you can find in a restaurant. However, you are sitting chest-deep in the water on sandy benches. I'm sitting in a booth with my parents, and swimming amongst us in the water are various tropical fish and three-foot sharks. My father decides that he wants to see the shark's teeth, much to my complete surprise and inevitable panic. My father corners a shark, reaches over, and pries open the shark's jaw. He examines the relatively undeveloped dentistry of this particular shark, which only has a single row of seemingly dull teeth. My father is not impressed.
Throughout all of this, I'm sitting in a corner of the booth, silently crying to myself and begging my father to stop. He won't listen. He corners shark after shark, becoming reckless in his quest to examine their teeth. He becomes completely fearless of them and begins placing his hands and arms inside their mouths; he now wants to experience what a bite feels like. Several of the sharks bite down on his arms and hands, but none cause any damage. At this point I am crying hysterically, incapable of forming any words, pulling helplessly at my father and trying to get him away from the sharks. Suddenly, a shark swims directly up to my father and stops inches away from his torso. My father leans down and looks the shark squarely in the eyes. Instantly, the shark lunges forward, rows and rows of sharp teeth exposed, latching on and baring down on my father's left shoulder.
My father is taken aback by this unexpected attack. He reels backwards, stumbling through the soft sand, and looks at me with sadness and a realization of imminent death. The shark swims away in a triumphant glory, satisfied by his damage done.
The next few moments are a blur, but in a sheer force of will, I am able to take my father's injury on as my own in order to spare his life. I knew that I would be capable of surviving the injury, whereas my father, in his old age and poor health, would not. He is instantly cured, not the slightest mark on him; I now bear the full extent of his injuries. I feel little pain. I slowly make my way to the shoreline, holding my gaping wound with my right hand, blood pouring through my shaking fingers. I am alone with my ordeal.
The dream continues on in ways that make even less sense. It was one of the more disturbing dreams I've had lately, which is probably why it's so fresh in my mind and why I can't shake it. And, like I said, it's been following me around all day today. Tonight, when I happen to turn on my computer, the first thing I see on Yahoo! news is this: Ryan Seacrest: "I Was Bit by a Shark!". I thought it was a joke. Seriously. What are the chances?
Here's a bit of the article:
On his KIIS-FM radio show Monday, Ryan Seacrest said he decided to take a dip in the ocean over the weekend when, he said, "I was bit by a shark!" Alas, the American Idol co-host, 33, wasn't hurt too badly, as he still went on the air to blab about it. But he's bitter. Asked by his radio co-host if anyone else got bit, Seacrest lamented: "No, just me, of course! There were like 1,000 people in the ocean, and I get bit by the shark!"
My favorite part? "But he's bitter." Really. I can't stop laughing.
UPDATE (8/5/08): I found out yesterday from a Facebook update that someone I went to high school with, Travis Kvadus, was bit by a shark over the weekend. That, grouped with my dream, Colleen's dream, and Ryan Seacrest's experience, I must say that Iamfreakingout.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Are you putting up a BerLynne wall?
The past two weeks have intricately woven my life with that of two men - Jonathan and John* - and their cohorts - Kelly and Kelly* (this is not a joke, just a sick twist of fate that makes telling these stories to my closest friends devastatingly annoying and confusing).
Jonathan
This story is one that wholly and completely sums up my "romantic" life. Simply put, the life of "the other woman." It seems that I continuously end up in situations with men where I am the (and I quote) "awesome, down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is, don't give a fuck, hassle-free, unattainable woman of their dreams." And the thought that runs through my head every time, accompanied by a sickened smirk? Toobadyouareinafuckingrelationshipyoufuckingasshole. And his oh-so-smarmy retort? Oh, but it's okay, really, I swear, because if I wasn't with so-and-so, you'd totally be my girlfriend. Bullshit. So, after Jonathan decided to woo me with his endless wit and charm, he dropped this bombshell on me. And by "endless wit and charm," I mean "about $100 worth of martinis." Yeah, so I was semi-tanked. Which meant we made out. And now, to be quite frank, I can't stop thinking of making out with him again. Which can mean one of two things: he got to me, or, I'm just that horny. I think it's the latter.
John
This story essentially sums up the forced nature of my "dating" experiences. One of the reasons I don't usually like online dating services, blind dates, or the I-know-the-perfect-person-for-you-you-have-to-meet-them scenarios is that itisjusttoodamncontrived. I HATE the added pressure of desperately trying to make it work because you both realize that you are getting older and it's time to begin thinking of settling down, so hey, let's meet, say some stupid shit, and just be in this forced relationship because it's alright to settle. Well, what if I don't want to settle? What if you're not my dream man? Does that make me a terrible person for not wanting to just say "Fuck it, you're hot, I feel great, let's get married"? I may be slightly exaggerating here, but it just seems sometimes when I'm not that into a guy, he takes it so fucking personally. Which is the epitome of what John is doing to me. In his gutless demonstration of his "interest" in me, he sends cryptic text messages, ignores me for days, and relies on Kelly as his source for communicating with me. So, inevitably, this makes me like him less and less. I don't have the time, patience, or personality to deal with this ambiguous behavior. I just don't care that much about it. So, after letting Kelly know that I was unavailable tonight, I get a text message *gasp* directly from John after DAYS of silence, "Are you putting up a BerLynne wall?" Whatthefuck? I only wish I had a witty response for him...
*Names have been changed to protect my innocence.
UPDATE (8/5/08): So, I messaged John through myspace to let him know that right now may not be the best time for me to commit to anything serious, but that we (meaning Kelly, Chris, John, and I) should still hang out. His response to me? He removed himself from my friends list on myspace. Wow.
Jonathan
This story is one that wholly and completely sums up my "romantic" life. Simply put, the life of "the other woman." It seems that I continuously end up in situations with men where I am the (and I quote) "awesome, down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is, don't give a fuck, hassle-free, unattainable woman of their dreams." And the thought that runs through my head every time, accompanied by a sickened smirk? Toobadyouareinafuckingrelationshipyoufuckingasshole. And his oh-so-smarmy retort? Oh, but it's okay, really, I swear, because if I wasn't with so-and-so, you'd totally be my girlfriend. Bullshit. So, after Jonathan decided to woo me with his endless wit and charm, he dropped this bombshell on me. And by "endless wit and charm," I mean "about $100 worth of martinis." Yeah, so I was semi-tanked. Which meant we made out. And now, to be quite frank, I can't stop thinking of making out with him again. Which can mean one of two things: he got to me, or, I'm just that horny. I think it's the latter.
John
This story essentially sums up the forced nature of my "dating" experiences. One of the reasons I don't usually like online dating services, blind dates, or the I-know-the-perfect-person-for-you-you-have-to-meet-them scenarios is that itisjusttoodamncontrived. I HATE the added pressure of desperately trying to make it work because you both realize that you are getting older and it's time to begin thinking of settling down, so hey, let's meet, say some stupid shit, and just be in this forced relationship because it's alright to settle. Well, what if I don't want to settle? What if you're not my dream man? Does that make me a terrible person for not wanting to just say "Fuck it, you're hot, I feel great, let's get married"? I may be slightly exaggerating here, but it just seems sometimes when I'm not that into a guy, he takes it so fucking personally. Which is the epitome of what John is doing to me. In his gutless demonstration of his "interest" in me, he sends cryptic text messages, ignores me for days, and relies on Kelly as his source for communicating with me. So, inevitably, this makes me like him less and less. I don't have the time, patience, or personality to deal with this ambiguous behavior. I just don't care that much about it. So, after letting Kelly know that I was unavailable tonight, I get a text message *gasp* directly from John after DAYS of silence, "Are you putting up a BerLynne wall?" Whatthefuck? I only wish I had a witty response for him...
*Names have been changed to protect my innocence.
UPDATE (8/5/08): So, I messaged John through myspace to let him know that right now may not be the best time for me to commit to anything serious, but that we (meaning Kelly, Chris, John, and I) should still hang out. His response to me? He removed himself from my friends list on myspace. Wow.
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