It's with painted nails, I begin this tale of verbal abuse, comedic sex, and sobbing socialites. Come join me at this written orgy where, instead of pleasuring all involved, I satisfy only myself, leaving all others dejected and ill amused.

He sat up late.
Listening vapidly for answers that seemed unavailable.
He felt.
At least he thought that he did.
He just didn't know what it was that he was feeling about.
Or thinking about for that matter and...

Things went on.
They always do.

He woke up early.
He did that sometimes.
He yawned, and tried to find out where the roommate's had hidden the coffee and...

Things went on.
They always seemed to.

He ate lunch.
It filled his belly but it wasn't what he was hungry for.
He only seemed to think that it was.
That he was full of something, of that much he was certain.
He went back to work and...

Things went on.
He noticed that now

Things will be,
Good and bad,
Hectic, sad,
Frustrating and balanced,
And all for the taking.

He stopped.
Beside a Willow.
The branches held his thoughts.
A star held his wishes.

He slept then.
Held tight.

He found a dream of a smile.
It broke a heart at paces.
How many?
Jesus, who has time to count?

Things went on.
He knew that they would.

Morning came.
He fought the afternoon.

Afternoon reared.

He prayed for evening.
It invited him for beverages.
Evening sent him home.

He sat up late.

What Can Flowers Say That Handcuffs Can't?

Well, well, well, it's been awhile, hasn't it my friends? (I'm referring, of course, to the masses I imagine reading my all too indulgent entries) Well fear not, I've once again found myself depressed long enough to scrape some sort of inspiration from the underside of my colon, all for you dear reader, all for you. And now, w/only another minute's hesitation...........

We begin this tale about three weeks ago, and seeing as most of my behaviour since then can be reduced, if not entirely blamed, on the severe romantic shit-kicking I received that Thursday evening, that strikes me as good a place as any to start.

It was Thursday morning when the aforementioned kicker of shit finished getting dressed, leaned over to give me a kiss, professed her love and left for work. My day, like most of the week leading up to this particular one was spent doing housework, patching holes in the drywall, hanging photos, taking down blinds, setting up entertainment systems, etc. But when 5 o'clock strutted by, there was I, still alone in the house. After deciding to wait for my wonderful girlfriend to get home before once again cooking dinner, I settled down for an early evening nap. Startled awake by the slamming of the front door, and the high pitched whine of heavy machinery screeching "Wake up!", I took firm hold of my bearings and found an angry, and quite possibly drunk, cohabitant explaining expletively how we were once again finished.

Now, having rehearsed this part of the the play at least once every two weeks for the last seven months, I was finally told that there would be no encore this time. Having grabbed most of my things, I was about to leave when she offered to drive me where ever I needed to go. I declined on the grounds that there was no reason to make things more uncomfortable by sitting next to her and considering she hadn't actually said anything since my rude awakening except: "I can't deal with this" and "Can I drive you?", I failed to see the point in not listening to someone not talk.

On Friday I received a call from my personal Delilah. Still in the fetal position I took up immediately upon getting home from work, I cradled the phone to my newly shaved noggin and asked what she wanted to do to me now. What I got still makes me laugh, it was an apology for her timing in this matter. Not for the heartbreak, the stomach pains, or the crying myself to sleep, but for her timing. Don't be so hard on yourself baby, I said, you waited until I moved your apartment, set everything up in your new place, and only a few hours after saying you love me. Your timing was spot fuckin' on!!

Saturday night came, as it so often does, pulled in a flaming chariot by whores on horseback.

To the bar to drown the image of her in the cheapest pint available, seemed to me the best course of action, and luckily enough, I found a nice little 19 yr old to help ease the pain in my balls, if not the one in my heart.

Things went mostly the same until Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Why not? Wednesday happened to be payday and depression and a thousand dollars do not go hand in hand. Well they might, but it's not a slow romantic stroll on the beach, it's more of an old school knife fight, combatants lashed together at the wrist and neither victorious.

I called in sick for work the next day, explaining that I had spent most of the morning strapped to the toilet and aiming carefully for the bathtub. All I needed was a doctor's note I was told. Well that should be no problem for someone lacking Alberta Health Care, doncha think?

Anyway, that day I ended up chatting with someone who found my profile info funny:

I'm a 6 ft tall, 29 yr old musician, working as a bartender, who spends his off time talking to walls, sleeping in books and used coffee filters, tracking the elusive Quadraduck, and smelling the backs of postage stamps. I'm just looking for a nice girl that will let me duct tape her to the wall, and test her for food allergies. Hmmm perhaps that's a little much. How about someone who doesn't bug me? Too general perhaps.... hmmmm, let's try this: I'm looking for people that are a little less than normal, a little more than interesting, and somewhere between a bus and the colour orange.

She responded to this by telling me that she's allergic to chocolate.

My kinda grrl!!

We made a date to grab a beer and I went to buy some sort of a greeting gift. Hmmm... what would someone with a similar sense of humour appreciate? Flowers are right out, too much money to spend on someone I don't know. Her nickname is Twinkle, maybe I should get some glow in the dark stars for her to look at while she's on her back? Naw, that's just childish and crude. What else is there here at the dollar store? AHA!!!!! Handcuffs!!! Perfect.

Walking into the dark, dank, disheveled local, she stood out immediately. Tall brunette, great body. This is gonna be good. Grabbing a table and a couple pints of Grasshopper, we started chatting. Laughs all around, good times to be had and handcuffs to be given, I did just that.

Perfect, she said, what can flowers say that handcuffs can't?

Perfect indeed, that is until I found the wheels on the bottom of the chairs. How did I find them? Well, you may already have an idea, but let me enlighten you. Better yet, let me impart some free advice: don't lean backwards in a chair on wheels.

Things kinda went downhill after that.

The bartender cut me off, and girly suggested I get a cab. This would all be hysterically entertaining if I had been drunk, but as I'd only had a pint and a half, sad is probably a better description.

I'm sure there are other dangerous and debaucherous things that have happened over the course of three weeks, but I've either decided to not include them or they happen to be too mentally scarring and I've simply blocked them out. Whatever the case, that's it for now.

Take care all,

Fishbait

This Is Disney Land

I'd like to share a story with you all, this is assuming of course that anyone reads these self indulgent writtings of mine, about the ten or so months I spent in Banff as a Steward's Labourer. To clarify,in the hotel industry, a Steward's Labourer is basiclly a fancy title for a dishwasher or garbage man. But that's really not the point that I'm trying to make, so we'll continue now, shall we?

I was 18, had lost my virginity to a girl I loath and had recently noticed that, whilst naked, I could actually see my penis instead of a fat roll, when my roommate at that time, nameless by his request, said to me during one of my frequent breakdowns, that we were living in DisneyLand(tm).

At the time, I thought: wow, wasn't that fucking profound.

Now though, I think to a point he was right. He just forgot to mention that we're all just waiting in line for an illusionistic view of excitment that will never, ever, fulfill our overblown expectations.

That may seem fatalistic, but I'm of the opinion that the above statement represents a nice balance.

Let me explain, it may the most wonderful place in the world to some, but there is always a line between you and euphoria. There are choices of course, you could butt in front of people, push your way to the front, perhaps even pick a different line but, as with every choice, there are concequences to be considered.

This is the part that bothers me I think. The idea that in order to move forward, you will hurt, step on, back stab, and try to forget about those affected by your selfish pursuit to be at the front of the line. What I wonder about is whether or not this ride I'm standing in line for is even operational.

Don't get me wrong, there are nice,interesting people in line with me, but really, what the fuck are we waiting for?

Those ahead of us just got there first, and those behind chose not to pay attention when this the event was announced. (That's assuming that there was an annoucment at all).

What the fuck is he getting at, you may well be asking. Hell, not sure I know myself, but given enough time I'm bound to figure it out.

Hey, I'm almost willing to pray to some invisible being what controls destiny in order to figure this all out.

fishbait.

The Game Has Been Tied! (But Then So Have My Hands)

Ya know looking at that title, I think that one day it may make a good lyric. Well, maybe not a lyric, but a half decent epitaph, or a variation of that at least: The Game Was Tied, But Then, So Were His Hands.

Anyway, as I sit down to microwaved hotdogs and a very stiff drink, I give myself time to reflect on what a long, strange trip it's been.

And where have I found myself? Comfortable? Content? Of reasonable mind? Perhaps, but does any of that really amount to a hill of beans in the greater scheme of things? Who the hell knows, but I have decided to have as much fun in this time, that I'm probably just imagining anyway, before I have none left.

Have I found myself happy? Well happier than I've been in years to be sure, but just as scared, lost, confused, and entertained as ever.

Does this grant me wisdom? Does it matter? I'm still here to ask these questions. I would assume that this place, if any, would be good for a start. Then again, I'm a traveller without a map and wouldn't know the start even if I were at it, would I?

Probably not, but as it's been said before: Buy the ticket, take the ride. So be it then, don't bother holding onto the bar in front of you, it's just for show, and pray that you learn to fly before the whole damn thing flys off of the rails, crashing to the ground with you thinking that you werestrapped in to begin with. Scary, eh? Well get used to it bubba, cuz the fun ain't over yet. Not by a damn site.

Not that I'm complaining you understand, I'm just trying to make sense out of this mess of a life I've created for myself. Yes, that's right, I take full blame for the position I'm in. In the end, regardless of advice or teachings, I make the final desicion. Not a very comforting thought some days, but as all seem to do, these days too will pass.

Where to, I sometimes wonder. Does the time and thought of yesterday decide to leave? Float around in the colective unconscience? Turn itself into plant food? Do it matter where it goes?

Wow, it looks like I really need some answers before I continue. Answers or some peace of mind at least, wouldn't you say? You being, of course, person(s) I imagine taking the time to actually read this drivell.

On the up side of things, Ihave a new job, a new girlfriend, and a new guitar. So in the outward areas of my life, things have the appearance of normalacy. And to a certain degree, I would have to admit that things are. And honestly, that creeps me out a little. And I think that fear can sometimes be a great motivator, it doesn't always push you in the right direction, but there's no denying it's push. Oh let the good times roll. That's all for tonite I think,

fishbait

Is Death A Gift?

It is this year I guess.

How can Christmas be merry when The Godfather of soul leaves us that morning?

At the same time, how perfect is that exit for a true showman? What does everyone see on the front page of every newspaper in the world see come boxing day? James Brown, Mutha Fugga!!!

With that in mind I bid farwell to the only man I would let stand four feet away whilst grunting and sweating on me, anyone else, or any other situation, would strike me as more than a little creepy.

Thanks for makin' us dance, shuffle, shake, and feel good. Send Soul Brother # 1 out in style and give the man a "Heh"!

fishbait

Ha Ha!!!

Here's to everyone I love.
Here's to your happiness.
Here's to a day I would wish out of existance if I had the power.
Here's to sitting alone on that day.
Here's to the joy that I wish for others.
Here's to another late sleep.
Here's to being with family.
Here's to wanting to die.
Here's to fighting for life.
Here's to being frustrated.
Here's to being thankful for everything I have.
Here's to having what I need.
Here's to missing my friends.
Here's to being lonely.
Here's to pain.
Here's to drinking it away.
Here's to everyone who cares for me.
Here's to your dreams.
Here's to them coming true.
Here is my wish: Everything for everyone.
Here's my name:

fishbait.

Fifteen Bucks? No Chance!

So here's my situation: I bought a Bell mobility quality product whilst residing in the greater Vancouver area and, since moving to the Island, I've been putting off changing the phone # to a local one. Now, about two weeks ago I called the Bell support line to change said number and was told that it wouldn't be a problem as long as I could provide the # and recite the address that the company has on file under my name. I don't know my address right now, for-fucking-get where I stayed for three weeks six months ago, but hey, I'll just look it up and I'll call back.

Today I get the information that I need to change the number and I call the closest store, because the offices out east are closed on weekends, and I'm gently told that there will be a thirty five dollar in store charge for that particular service, and could I please hold? Sure.... I'll hold alright, I'll hold your goddamned head in the toilet until you stop squirming you shifty little fuck!!!! As it turns out, I'm overreacting... it's not thirty five dollars after all.

It's fifteen.

I beg your pardon?

Sixteen and change with tax.

I'm sorry, you'll have to give me a minute to wrap my head around this. So... if I call out east and change the number over the phone it's free, but if I spend the time and energy to get myself to the closet local representative of the company, it costs me money? Why would I pay to stay with the company? I would think that this type of loyalty from a customer would be rewarded, not punished. In light of this wholly depressing revelation I've come up with a response to Bell Mobility's customer service practices.

Twice a day I'm going to call a Bell location at random, and once on the line with a living, breathing, poop throwing monkey trained to answer the phone, release a long, steaming, frothing, bleeding stream of unnecessary obscenities.

I realize that taking this type of action will not result in getting what I want, but hey, I don't have fifteen bucks.

Sorry, sixteen and change.

Fishbait