https://youtu.be/3sry34AOwlU

I have a very vivid memory of walking into a gas station at 2am with friends, high on mushrooms. We all went our separate ways to grab drinks and snacks, and then stood in a surprisingly long line with a few strangers to purchase them. I was in another dimension. All of us were. None of us were communicating with each other whatsoever. Just standing there in line with huge pupils and snacks in our arms. Then someone started snickering quietly. Then another. Then another. Soon it was psychedelic fucking pandemonium beneath those florescent gas station lights. I think even the strangers may have been having a good time. I’m not even sure how we managed to pay. Great memory, though.

Try to find that cool looking Beavis and Butthead site I saw my brother browsing in the earliest days of our internet access. I had asked him where he found it and he couldn’t remember, so I searched and searched and searched to no avail. I never found that Beavis and Butthead site. I just remember there was a lot of yellow.

All I can say is that my wife could live in squalor for weeks without batting an eye, but simultaneously believes I’m high strung for not being able to chill if my space is dirty. Tells me to leave it. But we both know how bad it gets if/when I leave it, and it ends up being me who cleans it one way or another.

When I first started visiting Canada years back, I would buy cases of Coors Light and attend gatherings. Three beers in would be absolutely fucked. And I mean fucked…

Here in Alberta, young men hatch out of their eggs with a mullet on their head and the keys to a Ram in their hand. It’s basically a social pressure at this point.

“This!”

“Thanks for the gold, kind stranger!”

Why do they have to say the things? People don’t say the things here.

I was a loser who didn’t seek a real job until I was 25, and didn’t get my shit together and move out until I was 30, but despite all that my dad always loved me and never so much as pushed me. Gentle encouragement from time to time, but always just glad to have his boy around. I live in a different country with my wife now. I have a beautiful daughter and a decent, stable job. We flew my dad out a few years ago and I’ve never seen him so proud of what I’ve become. He loved my daughter so much. We took him out to the Canadian Rockies. That trip meant the world to him.

He had a heart attack and died two years ago.

As tragic as it all is, I watched the emotional shit he went through over the way his father raised him, and his father’s suicide when I was too young to remember, and he made it a point to make sure I never had to wonder if he loved me or was proud of me. He was.

I hope his soul is flying through the universe somewhere and has seen how much my daughter has grown, and has seen my awesome new house. I sprinkle his ashes around my flower gardens every spring just to keep him around. I hope he’s around.

Love you, dad.

This was a problem when my daughter was in a private dayhome, but a licensed dayhome has been a much better experience. Seems like they actually prioritize hand-washing and other hygiene practices. My kid gets sick at about a tenth of the previous rate.

While I no longer have the responsibility of collecting carts, I still work in the grocery industry and I appreciate your courtesy. I’ll never forget the agony of rounding up and pushing dozens of them through the snow and slush of a Kmart parking lot. I can’t believe I didn’t do more damage to my body then. Now it’s just the cement floors that are slowly doing me in.

https://youtu.be/H6wl-EyhXl0

Scrungus is my favorite, but he is absolutely not a friend. He is a menace.

I worked customer service at Kmart for a few years and encountered a lot of old classmates. Fortunately I had lost a bunch of weight since I had last seen them, and all of my hair fell out, so nobody knew who I was. I could tell some people thought I was maybe familiar, but I was never identified outright. I felt like a secret agent.

It’s a shitty class to play.

My nephew is one of the worst I’ve ever smelled. Just the overwhelming scent of damp, reused football socks and armpit. How he can’t smell his own smog is beyond my comprehension. I can’t imagine the smell of a classroom.

Da Baer’s aere gonna win it this yeahr, boys.

I have cracks on the corners of my fingers, beside the nail. They run deep and I have to put Polysporin with lidocaine on them to reduce the throbbing sting. It’s due to a combination of biting my nails and working a job that requires constant antibacterial hand-washing. I hate it.

Always fat, stupid fucks that resemble McNuggets.

Immigration Canada wanted proof of my wife and I’s relationship, so we dumped a packet of printed call logs on them as thick as a novel. Skype certainly served its purpose.