It came out of left field. “Do you? You’re my best friend’s sloppy seconds. That’s sick.” What just happened here?

Because I dated this “archer’s” best friend for 15 months, and effectively “stole” his friend away from him, he lashed out after a slight misunderstanding and decided to call me sloppy seconds that he’d never touched. I didn’t even say anything like will you do me or let’s have sex. I was talking about something else like the store in front of the crosswalk we were in and his filthy mind led him to think I wanted to do him?????!!!!! O.M.G. First of all, he’s a half-wit. Second of all, his physique takes on the general shape of an isosceles triangle. Thirdly, I didn’t think of him as a DOME sort of guy. And, lastly, I lowered myself to be seen with him. He wasn’t attractive to me at all. Clear? Loser.

This back-archer aims at the ceiling. He sees prostitutes, but rather than aiming at their sloppy seconds, he gets them help him get off. Why? Fear, that’s all. Fear of what? STDs and general sinfulness.

Why people say things and think they can get away with it, by simply saying they regrettably screwed up, is beyond me. Karma is like a zit. It comes to a head and when popped goes everywhere. Good luck with ever being forgotten by the Internet, Archer.

It was a personal attack that went deep. Oh wait, that’s too melodramatic. O.K.! This is what literally happened…

Ophthalmologist: You seem to have more areas of grey in the same area as the last few tests.

Me: Does that mean I’ll go blind?

Ophthalmologist: Please! STOP the MELodramatic CRAP. PLEASE!

Me: Sorry. I’m sorry.

At best you can say she had a momentary lapse of hippocratic sense. She had poor bedside manners, etc. At worst? The sky’s the limit in the mind for this Scorpio, and she knew that when she said it. I’ve known her since the 1990s and she’s been rude to me and to my mum at least twice each. I don’t consider myself asking if I’d go blind melodramatic. My grandpa went totally blind from narrow angle glaucoma; my two aunts have the same disease. I was told by this ophthalmologist that I have it. It’s a hereditary disease. What’s the problem? Why her melodrama? What soap opera did she just find unbearably believable last night?

Hippocratic oath? The term, “abusive”, just doesn’t exist or apply when dealing with the mentally ill as a doctor of good standing and repute. Bedside manners? Pffttt. Please. Stop the melodrama.

I’d like to see her loved one develop refractory paranoid schizophrenia with major severe depression and generalized anxiety to the 100,000th power times worse than my suffering that will last until their dying day. I hope she worries until she gets carer’s PTSD. I hope the day she reaches out for support, she will find none. As for my relatives that do invest in melodrama who see her too, if they have poisoned her mind against me, may they stay in their private hell and never, ever, get out. Fuck you, Ms. Spade.

He’s been a bit of a joke among my friends and me. I had been eleven years, minus two months, celibate. My friends were aware of my Quest for The Final Last Flings before my 49th birthday. Only, I wasn’t expecting “him”. Or, rather, his Mini in my Backdoor. He couldn’t get in the “prooper” way..so he snuck in the “pooper” way.

I was mortified. I kept shouting, you can’t do that no you can’t do that. Get out of there. Stop it, please! Since he could not enjoy himself while I kept clawing frantically at him behind me, his hand pushing my head down, shushing me, he stopped and told me to get out the lube and do a manual job.

Very relieved, I conceded to a manual. After that, the rest was history; or rather dating—dating anyone—was history. Other than doing due diligence with a fresh bouquet of rubbers in my secret hiding place, I’ve kept off dating sites, however much the attention I got from it may still draw me.

I’ve become a maverick amongst my churchgoing friends, although I do not attend. One gal asked me too many curious questions for a good Christian girl who led a BSF group every month to query, only to thank me for “sharing”. I had to pipe in, “For what? For me teaching you how to be promiscuous and slatternly?” She has not contacted me since.

My brother is on the Big T and OKC. I was about to be pixyish and send him a message and a fake like on OKC, but decided against that in case I’d spoil my mother’s blessings for his dates. She keeps hoping he’d find a good wife on one of his every other weekend nights. All that time, she had been calling me “an animal” and disparaging me for what I supposedly had, cat-like, dragged inside this time with my feminine wiles. Eleven years. Every other weekend night. Wow. Somehow, the two don’t equate and neither do they deserve the correlating responses. My mum is a bit disconnected.

But this is about Bad Rad. Well, ok, it was about Bad Rad, until it became about interpersonal dynamics. What about just personal? I realized my dating years are over. I’m turning 49 in a little more than a month’s time. I’ve rediscovered the library, and then also their unwanted guests like bedbugs and the common thief. As Buddhists say, Life is suffering; I had finally found my home and my nirvana at the public library, only to have to abandon it almost as quickly after concerns that the Bedbug Riddance Project will be “an ongoing process” and not a done deal. I had found the companionship of quiet, polite and intelligent peers to be very encouraging. Its too bad about becoming a sitting duck for bedbugs and thieves when all you want is to enjoy the ambience and read freely.

So instead of buying a hefty power bank for my laptop, I decided to make use of my three metre power cable and then headed to Costco for a lamp and an electric blanket for my home office. The electric blanket is more for luxuriating in after every wearying 2,000 words; the lamp is for my workstation. It also doubles as a SAD lamp. They are admittedly toys because they are cheap goods that will be thrown out once they stop working–and because they are also more convenient ways of delivering already available but substandard resources. Most people would succumb to placating themselves in the purchase of expensive handbags, in the incomprehensible fanaticism for the next vacation, and in the abandon of a spending spree on new designer clothing. Frankly, I don’t smoke, drink, roach, snort, gamble, travel, sport designer labels, get pricey haircuts, get tattoos, collect shoes or jewelry, ETCETRA. I don’t even buy a café cup of coffee when I can make my own. So, nobody has the right to fault me for my vices of loving books, electronics, Coke Zero, and creature comforts to stave off depression, from which I suffer bouts in a very serious and debilitating form, even when medicated. I also don’t have debts from credit cards. I learned to be smart and go without instead of paying the minimum payments on a $XX,XXX limit that is ultimately equivalent to remortgaging your already very small condo.

Wait, about Bad Rad. Two imperfect souls trying to find bliss in a hookup. It could have been a beautiful relationship…had I been the perfect courtesan…and he the chilvarous gentleman. It takes a gentle chemistry to get my inner geisha to come out and entertain. Bad Rad went about it the wrong way, literally. Wrong move, Bad Rad.

So, now the sun is setting and the seasons are changing. Autumn has arrived. Time to think about the reality of things. Fall is when I feel the most alert and alive. I hope it will find no more Bad Rads and instead bring on weightier, more philosophical issues. I think I’ll wisely leave the maiden chase for the young, now.

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I am aborting my attempt at literary non-fiction. It is a worthy, high art, but, oh so boring! Whether I’d be good at it is one thing…but you really can’t excel and enjoy what you don’t do well at, or have interest in. While my writing style was more positive with the stilted, literary style—and a few of you seemed to like that—it wasn’t “me”. It was the “real me” attempting to be what I perceived to be a “better me”, but I simply had no affinity or passion for it. So, without further ado, here I am, the “real me”.

Most tourists in these urban parts don’t see angry Canadians. We’re generally affable and pleasant, even if you scratch the surface deep.

However, don’t get a Canadian angry.

We don’t get angry. We get even. Yeah yeah. You can talk all you like about our sweet, maple syrupopsicles and nice, bedecked Mounties on well-groomed horses. But we know what mettle of which we’re made.

It’s the kind of mettle that got us through Holland and France during WWII. And while our southern cousins like to talk tough, we simply are–even though they might likely use a bigger, faster M-whatever to bolster their bluster.

Most of us aren’t confrontational nor do we subscribe to the notion that we will only be as nice as we need to be. We are nice. We look for ways to help the underdog, fight for universal rights to be free from abuse in any form. We give you the benefit of the doubt, until you prove otherwise–then we don’t give a hoot if you’re yelling that the wolves are coming after you–that’s the way the Universe gives payback. We also do not pay our kindnesses to meddlesome, selfish neighbours, or neighbours who may have dishonest motives; and, if we did, they’d better get ready to shit their pants–sometimes even literally.

Even the police are nice here, for the most part. A knock on your door means they want to make sure everyone is safe. They have an often thankless and demoralizing job as they encounter quiet, inner resistance, and some residual apprehension, to their goodwill. We’re not afraid of what the police will do. We’re afraid of what the next door neighbours will think. But aside from the occasional, bellicose call-handler at the non-emergency police line, where you’re supposed to get “help”, our force is among the finest and most progressive in the land. I say this with pride and with first-hand knowledge.

Oh yeah, right, back to the topic. Don’t get us angry, eh? Figuratively speaking, and not at all literally, Canadians have a long fuse but a big bomb. I’ve been using a lot of euphemisms. We do wait, and have a long memory. And we’re not gullible. You may think you’ve cornered us, but we always find a way out. Short of tasering us to death, you won’t win. Even then, you won’t. Why not? Because for every one Canadian who is unjustly treated, there will be ten to a hundred or more who will rise up to champion that person’s rights and lifeblood. You won’t win. Some even have stood barehanded in the way of a sudden cougar attack to protect a stranger or a child, to the death.

You won’t win.

So really, you’re not very smart to make Canadians angry. If we don’t express it right away, we’ll wait. And wait. And….well, then you’ll see. No, I don’t think you’ll want to see. Good luck.

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The glib teacher when addressing a convocation of high school graduates, would say, “The sky’s the limit!” This is rhetorical, yes. But, very airy-fairy. The truth is that while we still have so many decades of work ahead of us, the field of possibilities is larger, but not limitless. Despite our best and varied talents and gifts, we really, when we’re finished with school, have a narrow and limited high straw-like conduit through which to channel our talents and energies. The extremely capable ones can may have a pipeline. But a bounded channel going straight up with all of our specialized training, is the only way up. That is the only piece of sky we see. And even then, our age, our physical and mental limitations, give us a cut-off point. By the time we’re 48, we decline to a less active self. We don’t have the same emotional energy, nor the same amount of certain hormones, nor the same ease and grace of body, that we had at 18. The skies grow narrower. Anyone telling you otherwise is giving you false hope.

Listen, the story of Tower of Babel is the perfect illustration. Men, all of them who were powerful in deed, word and spirit enough to build this tower that was to reach to the heavens, were confused by certain spirits that gave them a bitter taste of displacement in the human family. But that tower, is ironic. It was also a cylindrical object whose builders boasted they could reach the heavens with. The sky’s the limit…sound familiar? The God of the universe, or gods as there was the Trinity in One, said, “If Man can do this, he can do anything. Let us go down and confuse their tongues so that they scatter abroad and abandon,” (my paraphrase). Since then, there have been collective efforts to build things, such as space stations, the Hubble Telescope and its successor(s), particle transporters, etc. But humanity still wars and quibbles. Why? Because despite our technological knowledge, we are narrow-minded. We still stigmatize, racialize, shun our elders, ignore our children, abuse our pets, victimize the homeless and disabled: our attitudes have not changed. The sky isn’t our limit; but, the earth is. We can send all the fucking robots to fucking Mars as we fucking want to. Just watch. Within 50 years we will have had discovered little that will help us as we have had in the last 50 years. Even if we should determine that Mars had lifeforms, it will change little of our dealings with other humans. In fact, the new elite will be more unforgiving of the new have-not’s. Human nature never changes.

So the sky’s really the limit. As soon as we colonize Mars, we’ll bring the same shitty baggage we lugged around while on earth. Another planet of ecosystems to destroy, yay! Congrats, boys, you really outdid yourself this time.

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I had all the time in the world

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