shmiggens

[shmiggens]

They Follow.

I think it’s important that I stress my personal beliefs on ghosts. It’s not that I want to push my beliefs on any of you, I just think it’s important that you understand the eyes that you’re seeing these events through. I grew up with the notion that spirits are lost souls of dead people. Some of them are intelligent and capable of communication with the living – but just like any living human, a dead one won’t try to reach out to someone who won’t listen.

That is, if I’m lost in Pennsylvania, I’m not going to lean on Taylor Swift for advice on where I should be going. She’s a little hard to reach. Trust me, I tweeted some jokes to her a while back and no response. It’s like she’s busy or something.

Similarly, if I’m a lost spirit looking for help, I’m not going to lean on someone who doesn’t believe in the afterlife for help. Even if I was strong enough to literally appear and slap them in the face and yell “yo – I’m a ghost, tell Tom Cruise he’s wrong about the other side!” that person would still grasp at whatever logical explanation they could think of for the answer. I.E. – it’s a recurring acid trip from when I did it at that Taylor Swift concert 3 years ago. So, we can deduce that I am what you would call a believer. I bid thee: judgeth away. I’ve seen enough in my own time and heard enough stories to form an understanding that there will always be things we just can’t explain. And until we get there ourselves, the afterlife is one of them. I remain open to whatever possibilities await…or lurk in the shadows.

We shall proceed thusly: My mother told me about my very first spiritual experience. This was at the very first house we lived in, one I have very few memories of. As she tells it, she was in the living room, sitting on the couch. She had a direct view of me in my bedroom in my baby jail or whatever it is they call those cell-looking things. Shortly after she had puts me to sleep, she noticed that I was on my feet, reaching upward and looking toward the far ceiling. She watched for a brief moment, then came to investigate. When she reached the doorway to my room she says she felt a heavy gust of wind rush passed her and when her attention returned to me, I was seating looking up at her innocently. She says it was my guardian angel introducing itself to me.

Skip forward a year. She’s in the basement doing laundry. As she pulls sheets from the dryer she hears me trying to say something. She looks up and I’m standing on my feet, pointing up towards the wall near the stairs. That’s when I start saying “Ghost, ghost”. I said it like 4 or 5 times. She wasn’t sure where I learned that word but she noted I had a very different reaction then my first supernatural experience.

Fast forward s’more. New home, new digs. Things always seem to progress slowly in places I move into. My first memory of anything ghostly happening in this new place was the fact that our front door would randomly burst open if we didn’t lock it and shortly thereafter the closet door in our front hallway would burst open. Every. Single. Time. It would happen about once a week. The front door – whoosh, open – and about 10 seconds later – closet door – whoosh. I recall having numerous dreams of that house being literally infested with ghosts. So infested that it was like being a cat lady but for ghosts. You couldn’t see them, but poltergeist things were happening everywhere. On several occasions when I would have these dreams, my sister would have a very similar dream and we’d wake up talking about it, shocked that we were seeing the same things.

When I was about twelve, I woke up in the middle of the night and saw a shadow figure standing at the end of my bed. It scared me so badly that I couldn’t sleep in my bedroom for three weeks. When I finally gathered the courage to go back, I woke up in the middle of the night and I swear I saw a man with the goofiest smile on his face leaning over to see my face. It didn’t scare me as much as the shadow figure, but I always felt like it was another type of spirit coming by to say “it’s gone, everything is good.”

Further down the road, I made the basement my bedroom. That’s when shit started getting really odd. The dreams got more intense. Confusing dreams that were more like out of body experiences where when you woke you couldn’t tell if you were still dreaming. I started finding random things of mine in the deep freezer. Pens, notes, game controllers – one time my cell phone. I would accuse my sister but she insisted it wasn’t her. One night I duct taped the freezer shut and woke up to find my socks in there and the tape cut. I still think it was my sister but cannot, for the life of me, figure out how she could ever be that stealthy. I am the lightest sleeper of all time – when you farted last night in Brantford, it woke me up.

I moved in with my dad when I was 17.  Again, the weird things happened slowly. My first memory of anything ghostly happening was during the first week of living there, I was just falling asleep when I had a vision, I say vision but I suppose ‘dream’ would also be appropriate, of a man putting his hand on my bed, leaning right into my face and saying my name. I remember it so well because I remember feeling the weight of his hand on the bed and the heat of his breath. I woke right away and was home alone. I remember coming home from school one day, walking up the stairs to my room and a female voice whispering my name quite distinctly. I searched the house and was alone, but as I searched the bathroom upstairs, I heard the side door open and shut. I ran outside immediately to look around and couldn’t find anything.

If I would shower upstairs in the evening, I would always get an uncanny cool breeze ripple through the shower. Door was shut, window was shut – and it would NOT happen in the morning.

My sister was never comfortable in the basement, saying she felt like something was always eager for her to leave. She felt very comfortable in the small upstairs bedroom, saying it felt welcoming. I was never comfortable in the small, upstairs bedroom. It felt like something was always watching me and judging me. I spent a lot of time in the basement and worked out there – I liked the energy.

I came home late from work one night and was exceptionally hungry. I found leftovers in the fridge and tossed them in the microwave, not realizing there was tinfoil. As I went to hit the start button, a bright flash flew passed the front door and I honestly thought it was a burglar peering in with a flashlight. It scared me so bad that I had to run and get my dad, who mocked me. I think something supernatural stopped me from microwaving tinfoil. And I’m just gunna google what would have happened had I actually done it…okay, I would have burned the house down. Nah biggie.

Dogs are quite good at detecting the supernatural. For a few years before we had to put him down, I lived with my old Cocker Spaniel Bingo. Bingo was a fucking asshole for sure, but if anything was scaring ol’ boy he’d usually run to me. One night as I’m in my room playing video games, he slowly paces in, his tail tucked between his legs and park himself right between my legs, staring at my bedroom doorway. Mind you, I didn’t actually see anything when I turned around to look, but the dog would not leave my room or my side for hours.

Another night, as I’m in the living room watching a Leafs’ game, I look back at my dog who is relaxing in the kitchen to see him watching something move into the dining room. It’s late at night and I’m home alone. I move to investigate the dining room, turn back to see him watch something move into my fucking bedroom. Marvelous. I decide against investigating further and instead close my bedroom door and resume watching the Leafs game. I slept on the couch that night.

Shortly after I moved to college. Then jumped from city to city, apartment to apartment, house to condo, etc. I don’t think I’ve stayed in one location long enough for anything to grow roots.

On a much more personal level, I will tell you that, on the night I lost my mother, my sisters and my brother-in-law were by her side in the hospice. She wasn’t able to speak, just breathe. I was exhausted and my sisters both insisted I go home and get some sleep as I had been there for several days. As I’m battling with the thought of actually leaving, I’m also feeling this invisible weight on my shoulders. It felt like the air was heavier. It felt the same as any time I had a supernatural experience. I remember specifically looking out the window that faced a small park and seeing 4 shadow figures standing there, waiting. I wasn’t scared or really feeling anything except that feeling you get when you know something is inevitable. And I didn’t really SEE them, I felt them and I saw them in my mind’s eye. They were waiting for her. I knew then and there was going that night.

[shmiggens]

The Murderer, The Lost and The Doe

I had moments with my grandfather, but I can’t say I was very close with him.

Not as close as my mother was, obviously.  She used to tell me a story about my grandfather on the rare occasion. She loved to tell it.  Yet, as she got older and grew ill, the story grew exaggerated and confused. There was a point in time when it was difficult to tell what parts were truth and what were her imaginings.  

You see my grandfather was adopted and he never knew who his biological parents were. My mother would fantasize about that fact in her youth.  He came from several adopted families and several orphanages but the real mystery was in what happened to his birth parents.  He was separated from them in a city wide evacuation brought on by a serial killer.  Or so my mother claims.

She would always begin telling the story by reminding me: “Adam, we don’t really know where we come from.  We could be descendants of royalty or fortune or psychic powers…” then she would eventually progress to the two most emotional parts the story.  The day my grandfather met my grandmother and the man she called “Serial G.I. Joe”.  

My grandfather was born in the early 30’s. At what exact date and time, no one knows.  During this time the city he was born in was small to say the least and populated by several former soldiers who had returned from the first world war.

How it came to be I can’t say for sure, but my mother, through stories from my grandfather, swears up and down that one of these soldiers, twisted and demented from years of killing and watching his close friends die, had turned into something malevolent.  I was never sure why she used that word, "malevolent", but she was always sure to use it.

Before the police had heard what was happening, this man ("Serial G.I. Joe" she called him) had taken the lives of 12 residents in the span of 5 days.  After 2 weeks he had killed over 30 people.

The police, baffled and in a tizzy to save lives quickly, decided on a poorly executed evacuation.  Poorly executed because in its haste, several people went missing, including my grandfather’s parents.

The evacuation saw people herded to other nearby towns where they struggled to find shelter and food until the police could manage the situation.  They couldn’t do much, unfortunately. They had lost track of who was who, key witnesses had gone missing - possibly becoming new victims of Serial G.I. Joe - and evidence and clues were few and far between.  

However, there was push by the residents to return home. People were not happy or comfortable in their new scenario. So, the police located and returned the residents to their homes just weeks after the last murder.  There were promises of safety and security.  The killer had fled, or so the police believed, and though there was never any official documentation to prove it, the word was that soldiers returning from the war were destined to or had already gone mad.

The government was doing everything in its power to cover that idea up. Homicidal soldiers?  Can’t very well have a panic across the country thanks to one bad egg in a small, backwater Ontario town.

For years there was peace.  The fear of Serial G.I. Joe had passed.  The town dawned a name finally: “Paris”.  My grandfather found a home, never knowing exactly where he came from or who his biological parents were.  It remained a mystery.

Meanwhile, a terror had grown overseas.  It demanded the lives of millions of men and women. A second war, encompassing people and lands the world over.  

It wasn’t until the late 40’s that things began to return to normal for my family. My grandfather, having been too young to fight, was now becoming a young man.

My grandmother had just moved to Paris, Ontario from Winnipeg and was becoming quite accustomed.  Lots of friends, wonderful school grades and a smile that could light up an entire city.

It was around the same time that troops from WWII had begun to return home that my grandmother came across the body of one of her teachers.  Ms. Potsmuth - her English teacher - had turned up along the Grand River.  Her body torn up and butchered, not unlike the workings of Serial G.I. Joe from the past.  

Then another body turned up.  And another.  And another.

Fearing a copycat killer, the police called in witnesses from the current murders and the past murders - including my grandfather and my grandmother.

My mother describes it as fate.  Sometimes she calls it destiny.  My grandfather was sitting beside an officer’s desk and being interrogated facing westward.

My grandmother was sitting beside an officer’s desk and being interrogated facing eastward. So whenever they looked up, they found each other’s eyes. And my grandmother, being as cute and lovely as she is, could not help but smile when she saw him.  And my grandfather, though stubborn and self-righteous, could not help himself but return that smile - even through the grizzly details of the murders.  

Both of them acknowledged the undeniable chemistry. Though they went their separate ways this day, fate would bring them back together again.

They didn’t even know that they went to the same high school.  

My grandmother, her middle name being “Extra-Curricular”, found herself at that very high school later than expected one night.  Since the return of Serial G.I. Joe, Paris had adopted a curfew and it was drawing dreadfully close.  She didn’t realize how late it was until she had left the security of the school and the door had shut and locked behind her.  Though the walk would be brief, she had just lost a teacher and a friend in weeks previous and she was feeling quite uneasy to be alone.

Mom would always take a deep breath at this part. Like she dreaded re-experiencing it in her mind.  

On my grandmother’s walk home she recalled relief in spotting a passing squad car.  The two officers warned her to hustle home, the curfew was looming.  For her safety they offered her a ride home. She graciously turned them down, assuring them that her walk was quite brief and that she would be just fine for the remaining 10 minutes.

Had an alarming, yet faulty, squawk of orders not barked through their radios, the gentlemanly officers would have certainly driven her the rest of the way regardless of what she had to say about it. But an elderly lady had claimed to have spotted a strange man lurking about in her backyard.  The officers moved on quickly.  

Silence crept in, broken only by the patter of my grandmother's falling footsteps.  

The way my mother told this part of the story would have you thinking magic or some higher power was involved.  Or perhaps two higher powers. One sinister and one good.

My grandmother, Dorothy was her name, was the sweetest girl imaginable.

However, she had adopted a nickname.  “Doe” - both short for ‘Dorothy’ and as a tease for being rather slow to react at times. A sort of metaphor for ‘deer-in-headlights’ when times became trying.  

Just minutes after the police had sped off, Dorothy heard the sound of another vehicle approaching.  From which angle or street she could not tell.  As it drew closer it grew louder.  She paused and listened harder.  Dorothy claims the sound was a spell designed to distract her, Harold says it was just Dorothy being ‘Doe’.  Regardless, the sound muddled the approach of a large-handed man equipped with sickening intentions.  He crept up on her, wrapped his arms around her and cupped her mouth.  She couldn’t make a sound.

“Time to join the others.”

The words he whispered will haunt her beyond her death, I am sure.

Teary-eyed and terrified, my mother would continue…

“If not for your grandfather…” she would sputter. Pulling away from the story to stop any more tears from escaping.

My grandfather, having taken a personal vendetta against the series of murders, had formed a civilian patrol to help the police.  It wasn’t much.  Just a rag-tag bunch of high school chums.  On this night luck, fate, destiny, magic - they all seemed to unite. My grandfather, Harold, accompanied by 3 of his senior high school pals just so happened to be on their return trip from a patrol about the neighbourhood.  

In the same instant the man had latched onto Dorothy, Harold, the scrawny yet speedy young man was upon him, wrestling the man away and breaking Dorothy free.  

The remaining 3 of Harold’s party, a bit slower but larger brutes, pursued the man, but in short time he had escaped.

Dorothy rushed into Harold’s arms.  She truly felt as if some power had given Harold both the strength and speed to save her. She felt safe.  She just knew. And when she said the only thing she could think to say, Harold knew, too.

“I thought I was never going to see you again.”

My mother’s favourite part of the story. She’d finish it with a wipe of her moist eyes, a romanticized smile and a “well…you know the rest.”

At least, that’s the latest version.  Certainly the last version from mom. My mother was a daydreamer, so it’s difficult to say how much of each version she’d spin was truth. She saved the story for times when I felt lost in love, and I give it back to anyone who could use a reminder that the world has a funny way of resolving itself.

[shmiggens]

Spirited Christmas

There are three things I love most about Christmas.  Three things that I look forward to every time December nears the 25th.  And yes, I'm going to list them.

1. Wrapping Christmas presents.  Because I'm so good at it.

2. Driving through mall parking lots for hours to find a parking spot and the looks and swears I get while doing so.

3. Walking through that very same mall for hours in a sea of annoyed, bitter people searching for a gift or gifts for people who probably won't even appreciate them in the first place.

And that my friends is a little bit of Christmas sarcasm.

For most of December that's what Christmas feels like.  The consumer-driven fury of gift shopping.  When business owners are giddy with the anticipation of cash registers ringing and children singing on Christmas Day about their fancy new Xbox's or tablets or Tickle-Me Elmo's.  We battle through malls and department stores, swimming through mobs of frustrated patrons with the good intentions to spend money to give gifts to those we care about.

Apparently that's what defines Christmas these days.  Gift giving.  And for some, the more expensive the gift, the more kind and giving you are.

That's not Christmas.

Let me remind everyone that we didn't always have malls.  We weren't always part of a well-to-do society that will spend billions on that gift exchange.  There are people out there who can't get their children what they want, who can't see their families in other countries or provinces, who have lost those loved ones forever or who just can't afford it. Then there are those who just give out a bit of cash and are done with it.  Those who only take part in it because society says it's the right thing to do. 

Personally, I can't afford much.  I never could.  I can't waltz into Future Shop and buy all my friends 80 inch plasma TV's and I probably never will.  But if I could, I would in a heartbeat.

So this nagging question dawns on me as I'm watching a co-worker unwrap a trick-wrapped gift I got her for her Secret Santa Gift: "Is this Christmas?  Is that what's happening right now?"

But then she turned to me and said "Thank you Adam, this means so much to me" and my head and heart both stood up and said "There it is!  This is Christmas!"  I was overjoyed.  I had made her so happy and that made me feel...well...the Christmas Spirit.

When a middle-aged man stopped me and my friend as we were walking into a pub for a quick drink and gave us 10 dollars and said "the first drink is on me - Merry Christmas", my head and heart stood up once again and said "There it is!  This is Christmas!"  When I walked out of the mall in a bitter tizzy and a young boy held the door open for me and quietly chimed "Merry Christmas" much to his Mother's delight, my head and heart stood up once again and I couldn't help but smile.

"Santa has something special for you, I'm sure." I replied, smiling at his Mother - and the same boyish smile pasted on my face erupted onto his face like the 4th of July.

"There it is.  That's Christmas.  That's the spirit," something said to me and I was so excited for that boy.

Sometimes we get so wrapped up in all of the hullabaloo of this commercial Christmas that we forget why Christmas exists in the first place.  And while that ageless gift exchange has its merits (and quite frankly I selfishly love it - as do we all, I'm sure), there's just so much more to it than that.

So when you're out there battling through that quest of finding the right gifts for those you love, just remember that the Christmas Spirit isn't far away.  Just look to the person beside you, in front of you, behind you - no matter where you are, or who it is you're looking at - and two words with a big, beautiful smile will help guide you right back to it.

"Merry Christmas!"

Holy crap!  I wrote that whole thing without swearing once.  I've got the Christmas Spirit by the nuts.

[shmiggens]

The Pesky Pacing Poltergeist

The legal drinking age in Ontario is 19. So when I turned 18, you can imagine how frustratingly close I felt to getting shit faced. Plus, society pretty much tells the world that drinking is the greatest thing imaginable – even though it is CLEARLY not. I actually fucking hate it. But, when you’re 18, and on the cusp of adulthood, you don’t know any better and…who wants to wait. Thankfully, Ontario’s neighbour, Quebec, is just 100% class and the legal drinking age there is 18. So for my 18th birthday, I gathered two of my best pals and we ventured out to Ottawa – which as most Canadians will probably already know is right on the border between Ontario and Quebec. My pal Cory, our other ‘friend’, who I will refer to as “Dipshit” for the sake of this tale, and myself concocted this beautiful but obviously teenage plan to get a hotel room in Ottawa, hop the border to grab booze and drink within the confines of our room. My two friends were only 17 at this time, so we have to hide while we drink. I’ll rummage through the logistics as quick as I can. We drive about 6 hours to Ottawa, check in to our hotel right downtown (I should note that the Indian guy working at the front desk was awfully ominous when he told us we’d be in room “216”. Not sure the evil laughter was necessary either.), then immediately haul ass to Gatineau where we pick up several bottles of God knows what and ignore the judgemental looks from the cashier lady who is probably thinking “Go the fuck back to Ontario.” So we do. We get back to our room and we drink. Now, it’s important to mention, and may not be a shock to anyone at all, but at this stage of the game of my life, I am hardly an experienced drinker. It’s possible that the boozing had influenced the events that occurred later that night. But I digest… We drink. We get fucked up. Mind you, it couldn’t have been THAT fucked up because I remember things pretty well. And perhaps the occurrence was a bit sobering in itself. Simple math will show you that 2 beds + 3 straight teenage dudes = 1 dude on the floor. So Dipshit being the dipshit that he is claims the first bed closest to the window and we don’t argue with Dipshit because...ya know...he’s a dipshit. I somehow land the bed closest to the door and bathroom and thus Cory is left to a pile of blankies and pillows between the two beds. Teenage homophobia? Check. Dipshit is asleep in what can only be described as nano-seconds. Like he was shot with a tranq. To no surprise, we later find out that this is hardly Dipshit’s first drinking experience. Class, class, class. Cory is asleep shortly there after. I am more of a light sleeper in that you could walk by my house and think my name and I’d wake up. I’m finally dozing off. Finally. When I hear footsteps from about where Cory is sleeping to the bathroom. I’m waiting for the sound of the bathroom light to flick on and for the bathroom door to close because I’m assuming, as any normal person, that it’s Cory and he just had to pee-pee. Strange that I didn’t hear him rustle through his covers in his drunken stupor - Cory’s hardly stealthy. Side note: the spot that the footsteps had stopped at would have been visible to me had I looked up. That is: if I raised my head, I should be able to see Cory standing at the doorway to the bathroom where he stopped. But then the footsteps come back and stop right at where Cory is sleeping. That’s weird. I mean, Cory’s an odd dude but I’ve never known him to imagine he had to pee then decide against it and go back to bed. Now I’m waiting for him to get back into his pile of floor blankies - but there is no sound. After about 5 minutes I pop my eyes open and there he is, snuggled up and seemingly fast asleep. Wow. Okay. My friend is a fucking ninja. Amazing. Thing is, I’m exhausted and intoxicated. My brain at the moment was all “Congrats Ninja Cory. You probably stealth peed from the doorway, too you sneaky bastard.” So I just try to go back to sleep. But then the footsteps return. 5 steps from where Cory is to the bathroom doorway. I look up like “Cory, what the fuck - “ but there isn’t anyone there. Cory is asleep on the floor. Dipshit is in a coma.  As I’m lying back down trying to get my teenage brain around what is happening, the footsteps come back the way they came, ending where Cory is. Suddenly it dawns on me and I’m trying to wake Cory with the loudest of soft whispers: “Cory...Cory....CORY...!” And on that final ‘Cory’ the footsteps take their 5 paces back to the bathroom. “CORY!” Grunt. “CORY - did you hear that?” “Hear what?” Step, step, step, step, step. Pause. “The fuck was that?” We wake Dipshit and we discuss. With the lights on and everyone awake, it doesn’t happen again. Dipshit tries to sell us on ‘it’s probably the ice machine in the hallway”. Yeah, okay. Then our room phone rings. Guys, it’s 3am. Apprehensive as fuck, Cory answers and it turns out to be a confused Asian man. The rest of the night is eventless. Fast forward to night #2. I’m drunk. WAY MORE drunk than I was the night before. God, what a wasted youth. As the three of us decide to call it a night, it dawns on me that the ghost might come back. But instead of fear, I’m feeling rage. Like, now dare you interrupt my drunken vacation. Dipshit is out like a light, refusing to give up his bed. Cory is a gentleman and lets me keep my bed since I did not sleep all that well the night before. Everyone is asleep except for my vengeful ass. The footsteps return. I let them run their little course for a few back and forths, then leap out of bed while it’s walking back toward Cory’s spot. I thrust, kick, punch and essentially launch a full-body assault on....nothing. The air. Satisfied with my barrage of fists, I climb back into bed thinking I’ve cured cancer. I had intercepted this ghost on step three. As I laid my head down back on the pillow, steps 4 and 5 finished. I’m too drunk to be scared. Just...ignore it, Adam. Just sleep. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step, step, step, step. Why is no one else hearing this. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step, step, step, step. Step, step. …okay, that’s odd. It stopped after two steps this time. I hear a chair sliding across the carpet. I hear a beer can sliding across the table across from my bed. After a brief period of silence, I look up. The chair has been pulled away from the table to face me and there is a half-drank beer can on the table beside it. Like someone pulled up a chair and grabbed a drink to watch me sleep. As I get out of bed to move the chair back because I’m terrified, the bathroom door shuts. I enter, it’s empty. The rest of the night was quiet. We had one more night there, but we stayed up and left super early.

I will probably never sleep in Ottawa again.

[shmiggens]

The Folding Man

As one of the few Canadians who isn’t spending 60% of my day apologizing, I’ve had to find other things to occupy my time.

As such, my twisted mind tends to gravitate toward the absurd, obscene or uncanny. The paranormal has always, and will always, spark a passionate interest in me like a well rolled joint.

Perhaps it was my own diseased brain, or circumstance, that introduced me to the world of ghosts and spirits. My very first encounter with a ‘ghost’ was described to me to by my mother. It happened during a time when I was but a wee lad, caged in a baby bed. So like…10 years ago.

That’s…that’s a joke, guys.

Anyway! The way she told this tale always made my skin crawl. She said she was in the living room, but in a spot where she could see down the hall into my bedroom. And there little Adam stood in his jail-bed, staring upwards towards the ceiling and ‘jumping up and down’ excitedly. Curious, she got up and moved to my bedroom. As she reached the doorway, she claims a heavy wave of something cold burst passed her like a strong gust of wind. When her attention returned to me, I was seated on my butt, carrying about like nothing had ever happened.

She claims it was my guardian angel introducing itself to me.

Other supernatural events have occurred since then, like the haunted hotel in Ottawa, my shadow figure visit and the pesky poltergeist in my Brantford home that would take my things and hide them in the freezer. But none stand out like my experience with ‘The Folding Man’.

My parents split up when I was maybe 3 years old. My mom stayed with us and my dad moved back in with his parents who lived in a country home not 15 minutes outside of my hometown, Brantford. Their property included a very large field for growing corn and at the very far end, a small forest that was home to animals like coyotes, deer and sometimes homeless men. I would visit my dad and grandparents every Friday night and I’d spend my nights there sleeping downstairs while everyone else slept upstairs.

On a summer night when I was about 15, I had finished a rousing evening of Final Fantasy 3 and realized it was quite late and I was the only one awake. So, off to bed I went.

Here are some logistical things that need to be mentioned before I continue: the room I slept in had a large window facing the backyard, the fields and the small forest. The room next to where I slept was the dining room – it had a large window that faced the front yard of the house. The house itself was very old. So the doors were large, heavy and the doorknobs were loose – you had to spin them like…67 times to get them to work. Just like all the doorknobs you tried to turn in your nightmares.

It’s around 12:30am and I’m in bed trying to sleep. Since I’m 15, my hormones are like “What up dawg?” and I’m all “Nah guy. I’m at my GRANDPARENTS’ – can we not?” Finally I get things under control and I’m relaxing. Outside, the chorus of crickets, insects and cool summer breezes is lulling me to sleepy time, when some strange scratching sound cuts through the din. Now, it’s important to note that it is no strange thing to see coyotes or foxes on our property. My grandfather, at the time, had rabbits and chickens. The scratching continues, and I, surely being the first to die in any horror movie, get up to investigate. I peer out the window and lo and behold, a very white, semi-large coyote is rummaging about near the fence to my grandparents’ garden. At least I think it’s a coyote.

This is nah biggie. I go back to bed, whilst making a mental note not to go outside. Mind you, my brain is saying “What if it’s a RADIOACTIVE coyote?! What if it bites you and you get…”

NO TEENAGE ADAM BRAIN. NO.

The scratching and rummaging eventually diminishes and I move on to sleep.

Later on, something wakes me. Not a sound, more like a feeling. In the moment, I’m wondering why I’m awake when something barely audible – like a small crash of something hard hitting the side of the house – catches my already suspicious ears. It came from the front of the house. I might die, but I decide, once again, to investigate. I get out of bed and move to the door. I’m spinning the doorknob for the 64th time when the sound comes back again. This time louder. I push the heavy door open and it makes a sound like “HE’S IN HERE!! COME KILL HIM!!”

I peer through the dining room and through the large window. The moon is the only light at this moment. Something very white moves passed the window in a blur. It looked like a man.

Startled, I jump back. I’m thinking perhaps one of the homeless men is prowling around our house. Instead of getting help, I move to investigate further. I tip-toe to the window, peer outside and there is, in fact, a man. An odd looking man, who appears to be drunk in a lab coat. That’s the best way I can describe it. His outfit was VERY white. Top to bottom. He was staggering around a small, young tree. He was walking around it, but it looked like his right shoulder was stuck to it. It’s much easier to show you all what I mean, but if you can imagine it, picture a drunk dude leaning on a tree, walking around it over and over as if it was the only thing keeping him standing and alive.

The next part is boring. I ran upstairs, got my dad, we investigated – it was gone. Surprised? No. Dad told me I was nuts and to go back to sleep. Just ignore the homeless man, Adam.

Cool.

I go back to bed. I can’t sleep. The sounds return. This time my teenage brain is like “Nah – you know what Adam? Let’s deal with this.” So, I return to the dining room and the lab coat man is back. Leaning on the same tree, doing his little drunk walk.

I go outside.

I walk to the side of the house and peer around the corner. There he is, glued to the tree once again doing his drunken walk. I scream “HEY!”

He freezes.

And what happens next is very hard to describe. His head…flings forward, then down to his FEET. The front half of him drops to the ground, and, I shit you not, he bounds away on four legs like a dog into the 6 foot high corn field.

His head folded to his feet and he became a dog.

At that moment I almost threw up – not because of the disgusting bodily change I just witnessed, but because something inside of me recognized that I was looking at something completely unnatural.

I never saw The Folding Man again.

[shmiggens]

Throwin’ Words

The other day I overheard someone say they ‘love Cheerios’. For a writer, that’s hard to swallow without having to chew on it a bit first.

Exaggeration has become so commonplace that it’s hardly noticeable anymore. I’m not even exaggerating when I say you need to over-exaggerate to achieve exaggerating’s desire effect these days. For example, Brenda’s quote of saying she loves Cheerios would have really hit home, like, 50 years ago. People would have been thinking “HOLY SHIT - Brenda’s REALLY into Cheerios. I mean, you can’t love things like Cheerios, so she must REALLY dig them.” This day and age Brenda would have to go way overboard to get people to comprehend just how into Cheerios she is. “I’ve crafted a shrine to Cheerios made of honey nut, multi-grain and body parts.” Confirmed - Brenda loves her some Cheerios.

This is my point, we’ve been using these words for so fucking long that so many of them, even the all-important ones, have lost much of their meaning. And then we get bimbos like Brenda claiming to have fallen for breakfast cereal. You can’t fucking love Cheerios, Brenda you twat. Love is something that’s shared between two living things and I promise you Cheerios would not love you back considering what you do to it. Such a one-way relationship. What do you ever do for Cheerios, Brenda?! You don’t deserve it!

A lot of words have lost their true meaning because we tend to throw them around willy-nilly with the responsibility of a 5 year old on a sugar rush. Mind you there are words that we can do that with - frankly, I don’t give a shit what you do with ‘poodick’ and ‘masturbatenance’. I created them, but they’re there for enjoyment. But big words like ‘love’, ‘hate’ and ‘escondito’ should be treated like they’re parts of ourselves. After all, love and hate certainly take a lot out of us and they’re often things we give anyway. If saying ‘I love you’ were the equivalent of chopping off your finger and handing it over for safe keeping, people wouldn’t be so quick to toss that word around.

If ‘love’ is the ultimate, most epically positive way you could feel about something, do you really want to waste it on Cheerios, Brenda?

Words can be some of the most powerful things we share, we can’t be throwing them around like kitchen knives at a party.

Choose your words, carefully.

[shmiggens]

A Poor Sap’s Guide to Getting Dumped

Oh, woe is you. Woe is us, woe is the world.

Break-ups are a lot like a circumcision. Yeah, it’s probably for the best but nothing will ever feel the same again.

Look at you. Right now you probably feel like Rose from The Titanic, clutching to a floating piece of boat, shivering like a wounded puppy, looking down on your beloved as he sinks down to the ocean’s cold depths. You’re repeating “I’ll never let go!” over and over as tears trickle down your cheeks only to freeze seconds later because it’s the coldest day you’ve ever experienced. However, your beloved “Jack” isn’t really sinking down to Davey Jones’ locker, is he? No, he’s being air-lifted away by a luxurious helicopter and sped off to a remote tropical island full of people that are all better than you in every way possible. Together they share cocktails and orgies and there’s a framed picture of your stupid face hanging from a palm tree. Every day they all take a couple minutes to turn to it and laugh out loud at how pathetic you are while their lives continually get better and better and nothing bad ever happens to any of them. Meanwhile, you’ve been stranded and left to the mercy of the sub-zero world, just trying to tread metaphorical water and the only hope for your rescue is by blowing a whistle despite the fact that you can barely breathe.

Whatever your scenario, a break-up can feel like all the joy in the world has been drained through your anus and all that’s left is hurt, self-pity, ice cream and Cheers re-runs. Not that there’s anything wrong with Cheers.

When someone breaks-up with you, It might feel like you’re on a sinking ship and everyone’s getting rescued except for you.

Most of us have been there and when it happens the world can seem quite bleak and unforgiving. Fortunately you’ve found yourself a friend that’s been through something similar. One thing that’s helped me cope is the knowledge that, while I do feel alone floating in a black void, there are others who have gone through this sort of thing and even bettered themselves because of it. I know – the thought of this horrible treachery turning into something positive seems absurd, but I’d like to share my own, personal rebuttals to some of the thoughts and feelings that cropped up during my experience and might be cropping up for you as well.

Remember, you’re not alone. You’d be shocked at how many people have gone through this.

1. “I will probably be alone forever.” No. Chill. First off, your ex dated you – even if it wasn’t for as long as you hoped. That means, at some point, there was something about you that made them say “okay, I’ll do this!” And though that sounds rather cold, there’s a positive in there that says there are great things about you that someone else, someone who is not your ex, will recognize as more than just a fleeting charm. Right now you might be holding your ex up on some ridiculous, unholy pedestal, feeling perhaps that you’re not worthy of their love, but remember that there was a time when they actually liked you. You’re fucking likeable and loveable. You may have lost your confidence and drive, but it’s only temporary. Remember that there are MILLIONS of people out there – MILLIONS! It is a vast sea and the fish are abundant. There is one, probably even a bunch, of them that would love to have you in their lives for the same reasons your ex did – but they will appreciate you and what you bring to the table so much more. Things may seem hopeless right now, but hope is a lot like the ocean’s waves. At times they’re heavy and ferocious, capable of bringing down a 30 foot ship. Other times they’re lapping at your toes gently like a sleepy puppy.

2. “He/She never loved me.” This is a difficult thing to wrap your head around, but try to understand the fact that their love was just different and unfortunately incompatible. Love flows through each individual in different ways, the hope is that, when two people fall for each other, that their love flows together like rivers to the ocean. In the past, I’ve played both roles – the dumpee and the dumper. In no way have I ever wished ill upon those that I’ve dumped. The fact is, had they STAYED in the relationship with you, knowing full well it wasn’t working for them, it would have caused much more damage in the long run. Have faith that they ended it as soon as they knew they had to. Have faith that, in this break-up, there is a realization that you still have work to do on yourself. Right now, it’s all about you. Love yourself and remind yourself why you deserve to be loved by another person every day.

3. “Why can’t I just roll up into a ball and fucking die already?” Because you’re better than that. No member of the opposite sex has the power to bring you down so far that you don’t want to live. I mean, it would have been nice if MY ex had fucking stabbed me to death instead of ripping my heart out of my chest while keeping me alive so she could hold it up to all her friends and laugh.

Actually – funny story. Someone captured the exact moment she dumped me on video. Here’s a look: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mk2E1CoGe98

Oh, and shortly after, I begged her to kill me instead. Here’s that video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7jXoGNPRvM

Finally, here’s what I look like today: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLcuTISVs3s

Yes, it hurts. But there is opportunity here for growth. A chance to see the mistakes you’ve made and rectify them for the future significant other – because there will be another one and you’ll want to bring your ‘A’ game to the next date. So take what you can from this whirlwind of heartache, put the lessons into working order, then move forward and leave the past where it belongs – behind you. Let the pain rise and fall as it will, embrace it when it comes calling and let it run its course. If you try to stifle it or block it, it will only drag out this grieving process. FEEL because some people out there have a serious, serious problem doing that.

4. “Now I will check their social media so that I may continue to stab myself in the heart because they look happy as fuck and completely unfazed by losing me.” No! What?! Are you nuts?! No shit it looks like they’re feeling fantastic without you, dumbass. What did you expect? Every single picture with them in it that you look at will basically be screaming this at you:

“Look at my fucking amazing life! It’s so much fucking better now that that piece of shit is gone! Everyone loves me and my life is so fucking perfect that even if I threw up it would come out as rainbows and fucking lollipops and orgasms! Fuck my ex that person is stupid!”

Now, that might not be what they’re saying. I can’t be sure. Depends on your ex’s level of shitty. Truth is they’ve probably forgotten about you (sorry to have to say that!) But if they’re going to cancel you out of their life, guess what? They don’t deserve your attention. Get a hobby. Distract yourself. Block them. Take them off Facebook, off Twitter, off EVERYTHING. Out of sight, out of mind. And you need them out of your mind like Trump needs some common sense. Even if, by some random, unlikely circumstance that the two of you end up together again, you don’t need to hang on to some whack grudge that occurred while you two were apart and you were social-media-stalking them. It won’t do anybody any good. Let. Them. Go. Treat it like they literally died the second after they dumped you.

5. “Oh look. I saw them on an online dating site. Great. Awesome. Amazing. (Ex) is over me in like 3 fucking hours and I’m still asking the Gods why.” There are things in life you just cannot control. Your ex is one of them. You can’t control what they do, how they feel, how they treat you or anything for that matter. They’ve pushed you out and thus you must do the same to them. They have decided that you are not part of their future and so they are not part of yours, either. If you happen to come across them on your way back to dating in an awkward, semi-infuriating way like I did, consider them like you would consider an old pair of shoes. Broken, dirty, full of holes and raggedy. Push them aside, throw on your flippy-floppies and chill. If this hits you as hard as it hit me, perhaps you’re not ready to move on quite yet. Take your time with this, but remember they are not your problem anymore. Whatever idiot, heartless choices they make are none of your business. Keep it that way.

6. “Everything sucks. I hate everything. All the things that used to give me joy only make me feel hollow and miserable.” This is natural. They’ve stripped you of your happiness – but hold tight because this is merely temporary. There was a time when the sound of the train arriving at the station near my house would make my stomach do agonizing summersaults. I would ride that train every time I went to be with her. It can get that painful. When the sound of public transit makes you weak in the knees, it’s time to switch things up and start something new.

If your go-to hobbies, escapes and memories are not providing you with any positivity or peace, then it’s time to make new ones. Do something you’ve never done before – I, for example, have signed up for stand-up comedy lessons. It’s a little outside my comfort zone, but challenges are the things that make us better. Go somewhere you’ve never been before – travel is a great form of therapy. Expand your mind a bit with new places. Even try going to work a different way. Go to bed a little later, go out when you don’t normally go out, talk to people you don’t normally talk to. Create new memories without your ex – because it’s going to happen sooner or later anyway. Start now.

7. “Destroying something of theirs will bring me great joy.” It’s only natural to feel rage and anger. You may want to puncture their fucking tires, or piss in their fucking gas tank, or shit in their car, or stand outside their place shooting their windows with paintballs while screaming “Fuck you bitch! Enjoy your fucking online dating you fucking unemotional T-1000 robot bitch! I hope you get various forms of gonorrhea or herpes and fucking get hit by a bus – a fucking HUGE bus with spikes on them and the spikes also have salt on them and you get stabbed by those salty spikes like a thousand times and the bus carries you all the way to Kerplakistan and they use your body parts to feed camels and I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore (breaks into incomprehensible sobbing tears).”

For the record, I didn’t actually do any of that. Nor should you.

Unless you can pull it off anonymously. In that case, her license plate number is…

Putting hate and anger out into the world will only backfire. Nothing is to be gained through actions of hate. Do what you need to - vent, write, scream, cry, smoke a shit-ton of weed, talk to your friends, put on a sarcastic, bitter voice while pretending to be your ex like “Ooooh, I’m your ex. I say I want to be with you but then I wake up and I’m like ‘nah, I’m good’ because I’m a stupid evil jerk-off dick who does not feel emotions. I’m actually a robot.” Or don’t, whatever. Just don’t let the rage and anger make you do something you will definitely regret in the future.

To summarize this truly winded message of hope, 1) You won’t be alone forever. You’re just spending time with you until you’re ready to move on (I know that sounds like a slice of swiss, but it’s true). 2) You’re loved. And in time you’ll be loved by another. Whether it’s a woman, a man, a puppy or a gerbil, you will be loved again. Your ex just wasn’t right for you and that person did the right thing by freeing you. 3) Don’t let someone else dictate your feelings. It seems as though they’re not even worthy of such strong emotion so save it for the right one. 4) Don’t stalk them, don’t follow them on social media. Out of sight, out of mind. 5) Don’t concern yourself with what they do. You can’t control them. Let them make their own poor decisions. 6) Give yourself time to move organically through grief. Good feelings will return but in time. 7) Don’t seek revenge or do anything out of anger. Unless you can get away with it.

Writing this has granted me some much needed, grandiose relief and I truly hope you can find wisdom and guidance in my words. Especially considering one true fact that will remain until the days it ceases to exist: love is for everyone. Even the T-1000 robot-ish bitches with only a base level of emotions.

Good luck to everyone.

[shmiggens]

Poetry in Commotion

Historically speakin

I'm a minority tweakin

Popped my last Valium pill on the weekend

Kryptonite to my body like Superman weakened

I’m so Lost I make Matthew Fox look like the boss

But Tony Danza’s takin’ a loss with no more Alyssa Milano to floss

Don’t get it crossed

I still got the sauce

  And that’s just confusion

I’m lookin for fusion from this contusion

Here’s hopin you find this rhyme amusin

  Throw magic on the page like literal Harry Potter

Mix business with pleasure like a pornstar Perry Hotter

  Some muggles make the world so furious

And if you ask they’ll say “bitch I’m Sirious”

  Writin rhymes like I’m doin time for crimes I didn’t commit

Vocabulary so diverse I make you fuckers proud of it

  Don’t spit when you know you ain’t shit

Don’t sip if you know you can’t tip

  Pass the joint cuz I wanna get lit up

More crunch in my cereal than a sit up

  White boy poet and you totally know it

Ladies keep me abreast cuz they got to show it

This rhyme is a cake so I hope I don’t blow it

[shmiggens]

Back at it.

Good day and welcome back to the blog that nobody reads.

Let me tell you why no one reads it. It’s because no one knows about it. In a world where if a person doesn’t like something, they can simply swipe left and kiss it goodbye, no one’s committed to anything anymore. No one finds beauty in stick-to-it-iveness. Not even me. We’re all victims of society. A society that as fickle a teenage girl in a shoe store with only $50.

No one reads my blog because I’m not a celebrity or a hot blonde with boobs out to Tuesday. It could be the most inspirational, motivational, educational piece you’ve ever read in your life, but shit, that guy’s not Chris Pratt - so why do you care?

Shit, I can’t even stick to writing a blog without bailing on it once every couple years. It’s just so fucking easy to say ‘fuck it’, give up and move onto something different. We’re all spoiled little brats, getting what we want almost instantly thanks to the internet - and never appreciating even a lick of it.

I don’t know where, when or how things went from “Finish everything on your plate or you don’t get dessert.” to “Oh, you don’t like sprouts? Let’s order pizza instead. It’s easier.”

Easier. There’s that word that’s really a short cut to Hell. Easier means we take the escalator instead of the stairs and 25 years later we end up with heart problems and can’t figure out why. Easier is giving up on someone incredible just because they might have a dream somewhere else and we end up alone and miserable and we can’t figure out why. Easier is dropping a dream just because there was a bit of pressure and now we’re unfulfilled and can’t figure out why. Easier is a path to misery, my friends. Easier is what takes a good person and turns them lazy.

These days it’s also extremely easy to get lost in the internet world. A world that doesn’t physically exist, but takes up pretty much all of our time. It’s actually more like a pair of sunglasses that we use to view the world. From here in Toronto I can read and see pretty much everything that’s going on  - through the internet. Kids these takes pull out there smart phones and take pictures and videos of live concerts and performances - while the performances are happening. They’re watching a live event through their phone. That means you’ve pretty much deleted the whole live aspect, and now you’re just watching a re-run while the real thing is still happening.

Does anyone else think this is completely absurd? Are we so caught up in our fake, internet selves that we have to filter everything through our internet sunglasses? Are we completely forgetting how to live in the moment?

I can’t count how many times I’ve been run into by people walking and staring at their phones. Or how many accidents have been caused because of them. I also can’t measure how pathetic it is that our definition of ‘connected’ seems completely disjointed from reality.

In a world where we are more connected than ever, it is next to impossible to be an original, free-thinker. Because 4 seconds after you post your thought, it’s already been judged and dismissed - unless you’re already somebody.

So don’t read this blog. You’ve got Facebooking and Twittering and emailing and online shopping to do. Plus, it’s WAY easier to ignore something than read it.

[shmiggens]

My Resolution.

Here's my resolution: no more resolutions. Ever.

I'm the kind of dude that makes ridiculous resolutions anyways.

"Be a better person", "Be kind", "Be patient", "Don't masturbate so much". You know, nothing that I can actually stop and measure to see if I've made any improvements. Plus, any ol' resolution I make will probably get dumped by January 4th anyway.

Even if I said something that might actually stick, I have a firm belief that life has its own agenda for me. So instead of waiting for the end of the year and the beginning of a new one to use as an excuse to announce my intent on becoming a better person, I have elected to just be me. Life's gunna do whatever it wants to me anyway.

I'm not going to wait. I know, in my heart, I am a decent person. Decent enough to make myself happy, anyway. I'm not going to sit here and sweat the things I didn't do or the things I shouldn't have done. I am just me. And a real resolution should be to stop sectioning your life in years and defining who you are by the things you shouldn't and should do. Every action or inaction has a consequence. I don't need or want any resolutions. If anything, my resolution is to be so happy with myself that I don't ever need to make any resolutions. Y'all should do the same.

Here's something to nibble on: if Life were an actual living and breathing person, it would have absolutely no perception of 'years' and 'time'. Life doesn't give a fuck if last year you got dumped and you lost your puppy. You might turn around and tell life "my New Year's resolution is to find true love." That type of shit isn't up to you - you can't decide when you fall in love or find that dream job. Most of life is not up to you. Life gets to dictate that stuff.

You - "Oh, but Life I had such a shitty year last year."

Life - "What's 'year'? What is that?"

You - "It's a measurement of time."

Life - "What's 'time'? What is that?"

You - "The space between when I'm born and when I die."

Life - "Oh. So...all this 'last year was shitty' talk sounds a lot like you're wasting that time of yours by dwelling on the negatives."

Jeeze, Life. You just don't get it. You're insensitive.

Yes, we all want to be better people. We all want to feel like we're improving. But let's not wait until New Year's to make a decision that makes us better. Life is happening RIGHT NOW - and being a better person can be such a small thing. So don't worry about 'getting started'...just be. And should you see an opportunity to do something wicked, seize it.

Life doesn't care what year it is. And besides...no matter what year it is, it's your year.

Go get 'em Tiger.

[shmiggens]

Pieces of Shit.

People.

People are by far the best thing in this world...and the WORST thing in this world.

People are capable of great, wonderful deeds. However, people are also capable of ignorant, self-indulgent, horrible bullshit - and the sad thing is most of those shitty people don't even understand the difference between the two.

Then those shitty people go and be shitty to the good people and the good people turn shitty. It's like a fucking contagious disease.

It's just so damn easy to be a jackass piece of shit, isn't it?

I could just tilt my to one side right now, at this very instant, and tell someone to lick my nut sack until their tongue goes dry and use the pubes to floss. And I'd laugh because it would be hilarious and I wouldn't give two fucking shits about their feelings - and that's because I'm a piece of shit when I want to be.

It's kind of sad, but I make no apologies. I am a product of my upbringing and my parents. Needless to say, along the way, I've been treated like a piece of shit.

Meanwhile, being good is not so easy. For some reason giving compliments and being understanding is the REAL challenge. I laugh when I tell someone to eat shit, but when I say something like "you look nice today", I hate the awkward moments that follow.

That being said, I have a very select group of people who I consider to be integral to my survival. Every day, I try hard to be respectful, understanding and patient for those people. I give them the best of me as much as I can - because they've earned it.

This world of ours is in a sad state. Liars, cheats, thieves, turncoats and all the sacks of shit in this world have managed to integrate into our society and disguise themselves as real people. And since the day most of us were born, we've been indoctrinated by society to do 'the right thing'. Be the bigger person, be patient and understanding, give them the benefit of the doubt. Forgive and forget and all that crap. To basically give these pieces of shit the break they need to continue to be pieces of shit.

No. That doesn't work anymore. This 'doing the right thing' needs to be redefined. 

I'm too old, too experienced and too fed up to be giving any benefits of any doubts to anybody. EARN my trust, EARN my faith, EARN my friendship. I am not a fucking dog.

We need to understand that if we allow the shitty people to just...be shitty without consequence, those shitty people will STAY SHITTY because they didn't learn anything. Shitty people need to be treated like the shit they are - so they fucking figure out they're pieces of shit. You're not helping your piece of shit boyfriend if he sneaks off with someone else and you forgive him. No. 

Instead, why not do him a solid and let him know that he fucked up for future sake.

"Hey. You're a piece of shit for sneaking off with someone else. We are fucking done cuz you're a piece of shit, but maybe the next time you're in a relationship you'll know better than to be such a piece of shit, you piece of shit."

Guaranteed that piece of shit will think twice about being a piece of shit again.

Sometimes 'doing the right thing' means being a complete asshole. But you need to get that message across. You need to stand up for yourself. We all need to set these pieces of shit straight.

And while someone might be reading this and thinking "Shmiggens is kind of being a piece of shit with this blog...", this blog is actually borne of incidents where pieces of shit showed their true colours in the worst kind of way - and I felt incredibly stupid when they did.

For fuck's sake - we can't even go on Twitter anymore without asking ourselves which one of our followers is actually a real person or not. We've all seen the catfishes - the people who are obviously so upset with their own lives that they have to go and create a whole new one online.

And how would you feel if you overheard your own grandmother telling your father that you weren't welcome in her house for Christmas - or at all. Ever. Well, let me tell you I felt like a piece of shit. I wasn't exactly sure what I did, but I've never had someone so close to me turn on me so dramatically.

Who knows. Maybe I'm the biggest piece of shit of all.

But this blog...this blog is self defense. People will SHOCK you. We cannot assume people are good anymore when some people aren't even real. When some people would rather only consider their own feelings. When some people are too fucking stupid to realize their actions are toxic.

Most of you might perceive me as an asshole because of some of my tweets, or the fact that some of my friends call me 'rude' or something to that effect on the regular.

I am a selective asshole. I am skeptical - because of the simple fact that people are both the greatest thing in this world and the WORST thing in this world.

People can bring you great joy and fulfillment...or destroy your hopes and dreams utterly.

I am too fucking old to waste my time on people who don't deserve my good side. And people who tell me I should give everyone a chance should wake the fuck up and face reality - some people DO NOT deserve anything good.

Forgive me if that sounds negative, but liars, cheaters, thieves, turncoats, murderers, and even rapists are out there. Living among us. 

Yes. I am a piece of shit for saying all of this. But at least I am not afraid to admit it. And I know for a fact that I'm going to let myself get caught up in another piece of shit. So defend yourselves people, lest you become another log in a toilet bowl.

Always remember to flush.

"I watch my back and I watch my step and I might forgive, but I do NOT forget." - The Roots

[shmiggens]

The Luckiest Ones are Those that Can Recognize it

These days I'm feeling pretty lucky. It's weird.

You have to understand, for someone like me to feel lucky...well, it's a lot like a homeless person feeling rich or a mother of 7 feeling like she has all the time in the world to herself.

This life of ours has some rather peculiar ways of working. It's a rather intricate machine built on cogs and wheels and gears and every time one of them spins, it impacts another, then another and another until finally every piece is moving and grinding and spinning in unison creating a functioning piece of machinery.

Now, if you take out just one cog, the whole machine could become useless. You've removed a key piece of the puzzle leaving it incomplete. So in this grandiose life-machine of yours built on family, friends, love, moments and lessons could very well be broken - and you'll never realize it until you finally find that missing cog. And to think all that time you were running on an incomplete device.

I just found a cog. A gold, diamond-crested, beautiful and yet oh-so-fragile cog that fit just so perfectly. Perhaps 'cog' is a poor analogy really, but in my eyes it isn't. It isn't, because when that cog fell into place, everything seemed...better. Everything just made more sense. I had more purpose, more fuel to take on another day. I felt like I had become more.

If we all stop and think about the last amazing thing that happened to us, we can break down how it came to be - and you'll be shocked at the tiniest little details that were absolutely paramount to making that amazing thing happen. The cog that was added to the machine, so to speak. It's a lot like counting your blessings.

One time I got a free burrito from Chipotle. It was as if the clouds above parted, revealing a shining glow from the heavens in the form of Chipotle deliciousness. You're probably asking yourselves "how does one score a free burrito from Chipotle, Shmiggens? Or did it really just fall from the heavens?"

Nay, dear friends. Burritos of the free variety do not come easily. Yet, I can recall the day's events quite well. It was damn near October of last year - and at the time I was not exactly swimming in finances. I was visiting the mall, ensuring that my burrito had those beans that are fried with bacon - and more sour cream. I reached the check-out, only to realize that I had forgotten my wallet at home. Fortunately several factors came into play to help me in this scenario:

1. I had been to this location before, and like any good witty young man, had engaged previously in flirting with the burrito girl.

2. I was pretty much a re-re-re-repeat customer.

3. It was really busy.

4. I was wearing a tie.

Now, I can't remember why I was wearing a tie, but I must have looked pretty good because that burrito girl shrugged her shoulders, handed me the burrito and said "I'll see you next time."

Bam. Free burrito.

Now, had those intricate details not been present on this day, I don't believe that burrito would have been free.

Recently someone came into my life and quickly became everything to me. I couldn't be more thankful to have this person. I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out who it is. I've never met anyone in my entire life that fit me so effortlessly. Like the missing piece to a puzzle, or the right car part.  Each of us run on different pieces and parts and every piece and part is unique to that person. She came into my life at the right time and the right way. When I stop to think about it, it feels scripted.  It feels like it should be a cheesy romantic movie that boyfriends are forced into seeing with their girls - like "About Time" or "The Notebook" - basically anything with Rachel McAdams. She is so amazing to me, that I feel like I am the biggest loser in high school and the hottest girl there just asked me to prom.

Not only am I thankful for her, but I must acknowledge all the pieces, parts, cogs and bits that brought us together.

First and foremost: SHE hit on ME first...so I have to thank my parents for making me ruggedly handsome, terrifyingly charming and outrageously hilarious. Cuz if I wasn't, she wouldn't give two flying fucks about me or my overly emotional blog.

JP and Ryan. Because I specifically remember her very first tweet to me. Introducing herself to me and mentioning that I know JP and Beardo so I must be good people. To which I replied "Wouldn't that make me scum?"

And Twitter. Twitter does such an amazing job of bringing friends, family and loved ones close, but it never mentioned that it would be introducing me to one of the most amazing people I'll ever have the chance to meet.

I know this is a long blog, but I can't say enough about how thankful I am for her and for all those little cogs and wheels that were put in motion to bring us together. It really makes me feel like all the bullshit, hurt and heartache of the past serves a purpose.

She is amazing. You don't even know. So to everyone I recommend you find your missing piece.

[shmiggens]

My Mom, the Tea Connoisseur

If I had my way, I’d be making tea right now.

No, not for myself. Truth is I’ve only ever made tea for one person in my entire life. She’d insist. She told me I made the best tea in the world - and I’ll never know if that’s true. All I know is that according to my mother, I may very well be the grand master of Earl Grey, bag out, 1 sugar, 2 milk.

She’d be 56 today. It’s been 3 years. It never gets easier.

Many emotions come rising up, but most are fueled by regret. There were so many things I wanted to say and the worst part is that as the days since her death passed, more and more things popped up. There were realizations as I grew up - which I did a lot after I lost her.

Loss - that was the lesson that was taught to me. Nothing worth having ever came easily - or lasts forever. It’s such a hard lesson to swallow considering in my heart, I really feel like I took advantage of her love. I never took the time to appreciate it or her. Truth is, there is no love like a mother’s love for her child - and it’s only now that she’s gone that I figured that out.

I was NOT the son I should have been. My friends and family will console me and say I did what I could, but I would be lying if I said I did everything I could. I resented her and her sickness - but that was the issue. She was sick and wasn’t fixable or changeable. I just wish that I was mature enough to recognize it for what it was and not resent her. I just wish I could have let her be my mother and let me be her son. She loved me so much, so fiercely. And I can specifically remember telling lies about her - I told some friends she planted anti-depressants in my food. I can remember swearing at her and yelling, avoiding her, staying away from the house. It’s so hard to swallow because she was definitely the only one in my family that understood me - why did I act that way??

Now she’s gone.

I would give anything for her to see me now. More mature, understanding, patient. I don’t believe I was man enough to be her son. The son of someone who dreamed of having 5 sons on a farm out in the country. Instead she got 1 son, a son full of regret. She needed help and I did nothing. Perhaps I was not equipped to deal with the issues she had, but I certainly did little to help or even understand.

It’s such a terrible shame that it took me losing her to teach me to appreciate her. Her love for me was so unique, so thorough and - as she would constantly remind me - unconditional. 

What are we but the opinions of those we love? I don’t know what my mother would say about me if she were still with us, but I will do my very best to act on the lesson she has taught me. I will do what I believe will make her proud and grow through her passing. 

So, I suppose I am left to curse her and thank her. Curse her for leaving me so soon, knowing she’ll never meet the woman of my dreams, never see her grandkids grow up or see me grow to a man. Thank her for making me more through her sacrifice.

I believe I’m too old to cry. But I don’t know how else to cope with these feelings other than to share them with the world. Perhaps I can inspire those still blessed with loving mothers to hug them a bit longer, tell them they love them a couple more times or just let them know that they’re appreciated - and we wouldn’t exist without them. 

Mom…if you can read this, I am so sorry because it feels like I wasn’t there for you like I should have been. I hope that you can forgive me wherever you are because I forgive you. It was not a perfect way to grow up, but you did your best - and you loved me to death.

Now that I think about it, if I had my way, I'd be making two cups of tea. I wouldn't mind trying the world's best tea according to my number 1 critic.

[shmiggens]

I remember I was running.

I was running because running was the only thing that could drown it all out. My feet rapidly slamming against the gravel, my breath pulling in and pushing out, my heart racing in my chest, the wind rushing passed my face...

There was too much going on for me to think. Too much activity for my brain to add anything else.

I remember I was running. My breathing was steady - in and out, in and out, in and out.

I remember wanting to drown everything out. To finally have this short time of peace. Just a few moments away.

I remember a woman running on a different path to my right. She was there for a moment, then disappeared behind trees the next. So I kept running. Only to see her once again, her back to me, standing perfectly still. She stepped forward out of sight.

I stopped, then reluctantly followed.

And so I came upon this woman, sobbing quietly and leaning hard against a thick tree. She had tried to hide herself in the shadows.

All the things that were haunting me in life, all the things I was running from and trying to drown out suddenly came forefront. 

So I asked the woman why she cried and I believe she saw a similar grief within me. She had lost her husband to cancer. Lost after 5 years of marriage. 

As she wiped maddeningly at her eyes, I told her that the reason I was talking to her now was because I believed it was what mother would have wanted me to do. I act in her memory, in how she taught me what kind of man to be.

I told her that I believed I was there to ask her the same question I had asked myself when I came upon her crying.

I told her to ask herself what he would want her to do.

She wiped a few more tears away and looked up at me with a weak smile.

"He would want me to move on and be happy," she sniffed.

"Everybody wants that for you," I added.

She stood, smiled a bit brighter and pushed tears away from her cheeks.

She took my hand and said: "Everybody wants that for you, too. Especially me."

And she ran off.

Then I remember running.

And I remember finally wanting that for me, too.

[shmiggens]

The Monkey on My Back

Normally I don't talk about this stuff because I'm terrified of being judged. But in truth there's really nothing I can do about it.

See, I've got this friend. I hesitate to call him a friend because in truth he's a giant asshole.

He only comes around when I'm at my worst and he spreads emotional turmoil like butter on toast. When he comes he won't leave me alone. He won't give me 5 minutes of peace. It's like he sits there and whispers all this negativity in my ears and no matter how hard I try to drown him out with music or weed or writing he stays right there.

See this guy is me. He rose up after years and years of being alone. His voice is louder than any Eminem track, his hold is more potent than any rolled blunt and his words strike me harder than anything any other person could ever say to me.

You're not good enough. You're such a bitch. You're not worthy. No one can love you. You're too skinny, you're a freak, you're a waste of flesh, you're emotional like a woman, you're crazy, you need help and so on and so on and so on until I will do just about anything to be free from him.

Not an option. 

He's a part of me just as much as my gigantic nose. Just as much as my personality, just as much as the flesh clinging to my bones.

He's a goddamn waking nightmare.

I've learned to accept it. The fact is I know hundreds of people who wouldn't be able to handle this. I know people who would let 'him' win. I could be a bloody mess of brains and bones right now, but I'm not. He's been with me for decades and he's never won. As much as I'm cursed with this horrible, life-sapping 'dark passenger', I am also blessed with the most stubborn passion. I'm pretty sure I have more passion and defiance in my fucking pinky finger than most people will ever experience in a lifetime.

What I'm saying is that this challenge was tailored for me and me alone. So I will gladly shoulder this curse if it means the people I care for never ever have to experience this kind of waking nightmare. 

Despite his attempts, I've come so far and defeated him at almost every step. Yes, he's won some battles, but nothing can compare to the pride and admiration that I feel for myself when I think back to all the times he's tried to win...and failed.

Now, I welcome him with open arms. Do your worst. Because when it's over I will be that much stronger.

My greatest challenge in life will always be me. And so long as he's there to try and test me, I will always be growing, strengthening and becoming more and more self aware.

Only a fool chooses to see a challenge as a negative. So when I stare into that mirror, I say "bring it, asshole".

And to anyone else that tries to bring me down...good fucking luck.

[shmiggens]

Why You Think You Suck.

Let me begin this blog by talking about Will Smith.

Do you guys have any idea how sick and fucking tired I am of seeing Will Smith save the planet? Independence Day, I, Robot, Men In Black (1, 2, 3), I Am Legend, Hancock - I fucking get it, Will. I remember when it was cool for white boys to do it.  

There are more Will Smith world-saving movies coming. When the zombies or aliens come we will all call upon Will Smith to save us from extermination.

I'm SO sick of Will Smith. The only person I see more of in this whole world is ME.

Read as Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park: And there you have it.

Did I go too fast? Was I over your head? Because that's the answer to the subject of this entire blog right there. It's why you think you suck. 

Take a second to chew on this: Familiarity breeds contempt.

Let's look at this mathematically. I see Will Smith maybe once a month, for a couple of hours at most and I get sick of his black-boy charm and non-swearing rapper swagger after about 5 minutes. Same ol', same ol' with that guy.

Now imagine if I was Will Smith. I'd have to multiply that by infinite and always. How much would I hate myself if I was Will Smith?? I'd see Will Smith ALL THE TIME!!!

You with me yet? You following?

I have days. These terrible, terrible days where absolutely nothing goes right. I fuck up the most simplest of jobs and say the most offensive things to people I don't want to be offensive to. Days like these make you wish you were someone else. Days like these make me wish I could be Will Smith for just 5 minutes so I could transfer funds back to my white body. These are the days where I want nothing to do with myself. 

Familiarity breeds contempt.

There is nobody on this entire planet that we see more of then ourselves. There's nobody we know better. No greater foe. No more challenging opponent. We hate on ourselves and put ourselves down because we are witness to every single fucking mistake we make. And not only are we witness, but we have this awesome tool in our head that records everything we say, do, hear, see, feel, taste, smell, etc., etc.

Our old pal, the brain. And for some reason it's much better at recording the bad then the good. For some reason our bad actions leave a lingering stain and our good actions are often forgotten the same day. And it's only natural to hate on someone who you can only remember doing shitty, immature, fucked up, selfish bullshit.

Sometimes we see others and we only ever see them in the best. Celebrities, athletes, friends and family - we're not around for their fuck-up moments. We're not around to smell their dirty shits, hear their evil thoughts or mock their poor choices. So they go on this pedestal. They become icons of how we're supposed to be.

But you...you see you all the time! There's no stupid mistake that you've made that you didn't witness. You can't escape you!

So is it any wonder that we all hate on ourselves sometimes?

You hate you because you know you so fucking well. And when you make a mistake you know better.  But be easy on yourself. All of us suck in our own way. It's part of being human. Our stupid brains only want to hold on to the negative, but I invite you think of people who are closest to you and remember the times when you made them laugh, helped them out or made their lives a little better.

We are all of us what we do - and we are all of us rounded people. 

So when those days attack and nothing is going right, RAK, RAK and RAK again until the morning light.

Don't dwell, don't hate. Treat yourself like your best friend. The benefit of the doubt. Take from mistakes what you need to - the lesson that they are. 

You do not suck. You are just as the rest of us: totally unique, totally bad ass.

[shmiggens]

How the Ants Broke my Heart

My night was shattered by a group of pesky, tiny invaders.

Ants - and not the kind you invite over for Christmas dinner, the kind that'll carry away your pic-a-nic basket while you're not looking.

Tiny little assholes who have no perception of time of day. Really you guys, it's midnight and I have to work tomorrow. This is all pretty inconsiderate. Now I have to subject myself to the late night Toronto streets to walk to the 24 hours grocery store - and Tom Cruise only knows that kind of horrors await me.

Before I continue, it's important to note that I am a firm believer in 'things happen for a reason'. So when a horde of scavengers change my usual nightly routine, I choose to look at it like a blessing and an opportunity for adventure.

I set out. Though the sun had departed, it had left its stain of humidity making the air sticky and thick, but a soothing breeze kept it from being too much. Up in the sky, the white moon was casting a half-gaze in my direction. 

It's one of those nights, folks. I'm breathing it in and I already feel it in my heart. 

This night was made for romance. And if you couldn't already tell, I'm single.

So this night, this beautiful night of sweet smelling lilacs lining my pathway, the few visible sparkling stars in the sky, the wind brushing its cooling touch across my face...this night has found my memories. This night is a time machine.

My eyes are in the sky, but my heart is beside me, where you used to sit. The moon is staring back at me and I don't want to look away. If I do I'll come to realize you're not there. My hand in your hands, your head on my shoulder, your kisses just for me.

You're not there. That was a long time ago.

My mind is on the ants, but the breeze is caressing my cheeks, giving us the cool comfort to stay out, hand in hand, intoxicated by each other's every word, every hold, every touch. And when the breeze dies, the memory leaves me like bloodshed.

You're not here. That was a long time ago.

And when the humidity and sweet scent of flowers mix, I am powerless. I'm closing my eyes and breathing deep. You're in my arms again. We're in a sea of people watching the sky explode in a flurry of flashes and colours - fireworks. You're so close you're an extension of myself. You're as much a part of me as the air in my lungs.

The sweet scented air is grabbing hold of a memory and dragging it back before my eyes. Forcing me to re-live.

You're not here. Pick up the Raid. That was a long time ago. Debit card. You haven't been here in ages. No plastic bag, thanks. This is a memory, nothing more. Ignore creepy guy outside store. It was years and years ago. Close the front door and lock it. I'm alone - I'm alone, just like I was yesterday and the day before that.

Just me and the ants. Ants that had no idea of the power they had over me.

Ants that reminded what a broken heart feels like.