Welcome Back

SO… YOU’RE RESSURECTING THE BLOG. THIS CAN ONLY MEAN YOU ARE EITHER WILDLY INSPIRED OR ON THE BRINK OF A MENTAL BREAKDOWN.

In the past two months, I have…

1) been dumped by one of the few girls in this wretched city who is not a gold digging, entitled princess with an undiagnosed personality disorder for, of all things, going to the club too much

2) watched in numb rage as the Redskins finished yet another miserable season where, just to truly push my tolerance to the brink, Shanahan inexplicably benched Donovan McNabb for Rex Grossman,

3) yet to get my hands on the promised raise and bonus from work – money, mind you, that was not to be spent but placed directly onto my souring credit card, and

4) endured Christmas, the one holiday most likely to send misanthropic bachelors to the morgue with a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Which do you think it is?

SIGH. WILL SEX WITH A FAT CHICK STAY THE RAZOR BLADE?

Not this time. I’m reformed, my friend. No sluts, bar skanks, trollops staffing a beer tub and, most importantly, no fat chicks.

DID YOU HAVE A STROKE?

No, though I did come close after having endured Cop Out in its entirety because I was too hung-over to get up and retrieve the remote. To put it simply, I have decided to aspire for more in this all too long life beyond getting blackout drunk at racist clubs and awaking, limbs interlocked, next to an extra from the Lord of the Rings.

WAIT, YOU WANT A WIFE? KIDS? A PICKET FENCE?

Yep. Looks like it.

I SEEM TO REMEMBER YOU SAYING CHILDREN WERE EVIL AND YOU WOULD TEAR YOUR CLOTHES OFF AND LEAP FROM THE CALGARY TOWER IF ONE MORE WOMAN BROUGHT HER CHILD INTO WORK.

Yes, I did say that. However, I had been just escaped a C-Train where two hell spawns ran amok like chimps on Red Bull for 20 minutes. They hooted, hollered, swung from the bars and screeched at blood curdling octaves. Their noses ran, their faces bore what could only have been the crusty remnants of a hastily consumed bowl of Kraft Dinner, and worst of all, the mother did nothing.

NO MORE URGES FOR A HASTY VASECTOMY?

Not until I have two little shits of my own running around. Seriously, I’ve changed. I’m a new man now. Admittedly, my phone has been eerily silent since I cut out the trailer trash and the morbidly obese but I intend to remain cautiously optimistic.

OPTIMISTIC YOU SAY? HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN THE FROWN PLASTERED UPON YOUR FACE? THE MUSTY CLOTHES STREWN ABOUT THE ROOM? THE DIRTY DISHES IN THE SINK?

Ok fine. I’ve given up completely. But under no circumstances will I return to those who leave their three mixed babies at home with grandma so they can go to the club and secure a rough pounding in the parking lot. Nor shall I touch the overweight, the toothless, the booze soaked unemployed desperate for that elusive porn audition. I shall, forevermore, remain defiantly single.

AND MISERABLE.

Fuck you.

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