A+ For Effort

It's been said that to commit to making the same errors in judgement time and time again while expecting a different result, is the definition of insanity.  Hi, my name is Rhandi.

I went out drinking/pubbing/gallivanting around the town last night.  Again.  I know what will happen when I do this.  I know how I will feel the next day.  I know I will tell myself that next weekend I will be a changed individual who will not fill my body with toxic substances that leave me euphoric, than progresses to a free fall of loneliness, despair and shame.

It's always the same:

The evening begins well enough;  Maybe with a bite to eat, a pint and some female companionship.  I meet a few people, we get our cardio in by walking from one pub to the next and completing silly, half-in-the-bag tasks along the way.  Like karate kicking the air for an entire city block.  Why not?  We're alive, we're buzzed and it feels good to be accomplishing something.  What, exactly, that is...I have yet to determine.  I'll meet a few people and bond with my ladies in the washroom.  All of the worlds problems get solved there over funny urine streams and the inadequacy of the washroom itself.  So many shitty shitters out there.

Music will also be had.  Glorious revel in man's greatest service to himself.  Then, I'll end up with the rest of the wayward souls at the only place left open at that forsaken hour and things descend from there.  Some laughs, more booze, many more trips to the bathroom to save the world...and men.  This is the witching hour of finding a hook-up before things get sad and sleepy.  I will engage those that I know are 'safe'.  The Gays mostly or fellow females.  Then one particularly determined hetero will attempt to stab his flag into my fertile soil and shit gets low.  I refuse the advances made which begin innocent and amicable.  Fifteen to thirty minutes later, my refusal of advances confuses the poor boy and he begins to degrade me to the entire bar.  I think he's either burning the land so no one else can grow there or he believes this to be a brilliant plan to win my affection by appealing to my insecurity and Daddy issues.  Like I don't see through his act.  Through all of the games people play with one another to get a piece.  He'll call me names and attempt to break me down.  I'm already broken fool and there is no lower I can reach.  I will either ignore his childish and deplorable behavior or, level him.  Sometimes I don't have the energy to achieve the levelling an individual male needs in any given situation so I usually choose the former.  Also, the humans around us have labelled him an idiot so I've succeeded in cock-blocking the moron for at least another eve.  This results in insults to my intelligence, character or body.  Then he leaves and I am done with humanity.

At this point, I will guzzle the remainder of my libation and stumble home with one eye on my back.  Some men think a lady at three am is fair game.  Not cool.  Safe at home, I will cook something that should not be cooked so late and set off the fire alarm.  After displacing the smoke from my cooked dinner, I will watch something mindless while stuffing my face with spaghetti with bread and butter, cookies and a bag of caramel popcorn.  Once I've satiated the need to feed, I'll pass out knowing full well the shitty sleep I'm about to endure.  Then the morning comes far too soon and I spend the day regretting the majority of my actions, the amount of calories I consumed right before bed and the fact that I did it again.  I've poisoned my brain and my body for a few brief connections and the feeling that just for a moment, I'm where I'm suppose to be.  

So this is me, writing it down in the hopes that it will be in my brain to not repeat the same behavior that has not served me since my early twenties.  My goal is to take this awareness and slowly chip away at the reason behind my actions so that I can choose more wisely.  I'll let you know how it goes, next Friday.

The Day The Language Failed

I HAVE NO ONE TO TALK TO.  Do you guys find this, or is it distinctly a Rhandi phenomenon?

I have to censor everything I do or do not say to appease the ones whose company I am so keeping at any given time.  It.  Is.  Exhausting.  I have yet to find a person to whom I can be completely real with on one or more levels.  I do admit, I can be somewhat complicated.  I think that is ok.  What I long for is one who can relate to me on more than one level during a conversation without me having to don a Rhandi Façade to get through the dialogue.

Can anyone relate to that?

This evening I wore so many different faces to fit in long enough to not be alone that it tired me to such a degree that I simply walked away.  I left a conversation that I could no longer stomach for the sanctity of my currently quiet abode.

When I was in college, I felt like my most self.  I was always sharing my 'most' thoughts.  Now, I must withdraw my truthiness from those who instantly take offense and run.  They do.  That's what the world does now when you call them on bullshit.  They flee like a flock of scavenger birds at a carcass that is not quite deceased.  Fear compels these poor, vapid souls.  Fear of being found out for the scavengers they are.  It's cool.  Be a scavenger.  Once you're cool with the fact that you're near the bottom of the food chain and have little to offer the world except you're ability to consume rotting flesh at an alarming rate...we'll all be better for it.

I miss the days when shitty people knew deep down they were shitty and just fucked off after a while to the nether regions.  Now?  They wear glasses with no lenses in them and jean jackets that they purposely ripped up to look like they had been thrown from a moving vehicle when in reality they just cut up some clothes their mom bought them.

Where has authenticity gone?  Where has having a legitimate cause gone?  We care about the most inane nonsense now that my stomach hurts after listening to only a few minutes of it.  I try to be a good sport and give my full attention to the subject matter but after a time...I just want out.  Like, throw me from that same moving vehicle that 'pseudo made your jacket', out.

Fuck being single in a world where the art of conversation has died and no one has anything to say.

Best Sleep Ever

I'm tired of not having anyone. 
I'm tired of being so strong all of the time. 
I'm tired of the empty, shitty pit in my stomach
and the yearning in my throat for words that will never come on their own. 
I'm tired of being the only one who makes any effort
to communicate. 
I'm tired of crying. 
I'm tired.

He Went From...

"Hunni, where's the bathroom?"  ...to

"Hey, BITCH!  Where's the shitter?"  ...in seven point two seconds.

Was it the alcohol or the release of his neocortex to produce the trueness of his amygdala?  The lizard brain shone so brightly it hurt my eyes and my heart.  I wonder what is it truly in liquor that diminishes the ability to be sensitive to others.  Perhaps he is the most wonderful individual when sober.  Loving father.  Productive co-worker(guaranteed he is not the boss).  Tax payer.  I don't know.  What else makes a decent human being.  Oh yes.  I know.  Not relating to a perfect stranger with a sexist and antiquated term and then graduating to outright rage within a few mere seconds.

My place smells like fish.    

My New Favorite Thing

I am keen to imbibe early and people watch.  Have you tried?  You should.  It.  Is.  Incredible.  I've seen so much in between the glass of vino, the pint of distasteful yet local beer and ginger cider.

I was witness to a man wearing full on B.C Lions garb masturbating at the train station.  We don't need any more detail than this.

I watched three ladies sitting on a curb, one vomiting, while the other two carried on a perfectly logical conversation regarding the nights festivities and so forth.  No offer was made to hold her hair or console her in the least.  Fascinating.  As though, this was part and parcel of  a typical night.

I was privy to a young female walking so awkwardly as a result of her tortuous footwear that it made my heart bleed for her.  Not unusual, unfortunately.  I suggest we all unite thusly and toss our sadistic lower half contraptions into the bin so that they may wreak no more havoc on our lives.  It ain't gonna happen but a girl can incite all the revolt she wants in written form!

I saw a man bring his German Shepherd puppy into a rock concert who proceeded to freak the fuck out due to the excessive amounts of noise.  Dogs pick up sound four times better than humans you fucking waste.  People this idiotic should  not be allowed to procreate or adopt/purchase pets.  Though you have the coin to do so, you should abstain if you be insensitive and fucking stupid.

I stared at a dude who was severely over weight, dressed all in black with a hood.  He was carrying a Gucci bag on his fingertips as he walked rapidly down the street.

Then there was me...Pizza and pop in hand.  There was sauce spread halfway across my cheek and a big ol' grin rolling yonder round my face.  I was witness yet ever part of this charade we call Saturday night.  What a time to be alive.

And all before 11 pm.  

The House Party

I am the most considerate house party goer.  I remove my footwear upon entering the home.  I offer my services after said social gathering has expired.

I adore a good house party.

You know the kind where everyone has a splendid time and no drama transpires?  Yeah.  There is something so satisfying about the fact that only positive vibes were shared and everyone left feeling better about their existence.

Canada Day is the Ultimate House Party.  It's our collective house.  We share this planet, this nation, this province, with one another.  It can be an amazing feeling.  Can be.

This most recent of Canada Day's, for which I have been absent from for the last four years was quite subdued.  Positive for all intents and purposes, just quieter than expected for being the big 150.

We are shell shocked.  The world seems in a precarious state and that's okay.  The reflective attitude was certainly palpable.

The problem was not the event itself but the aftermath.  Like any good house party, shit gets fucked up.  The realization of how bad is not fully swallowed until the crowd disperses.

Fuck you Canada on your 150th birthday, is what our wake spoke of.

The newly minted garbage receptacles were overflowing to such a degree that it seemed bizarre.  The grassy knoll upon which I viewed fireworks was so encrusted with debris that it was a shock to the senses.  I was overwhelmed by sadness that this how we treat our home.  On any day, not just on it's conceptual day of day's.  We shit where we ate.  Literally.  The ground upon which provides us with our very nourishment, we've poisoned.  In more ways than one.

So Happy Birthday Canada.  Fuck you for providing us with this much liberty and fresh air.  We'll be sure to prevent any sustainability going forward.  

Do You Know The Mushroom Man?

I have a hole in my ankle the circumference of a dime, can barely stand and have the worst gas I've ever had...this was how the night ended.

This is how the night began...

I ventured out to witness the local drunken creatures of the eve.  I got what I came for.  As the night drew to what I conceived as being its close, I met a man named M.  He had a friend with the handle D.  I smelled a set-up.  M gorged on something fried then buggered off.  D began conversation with me immediately after M bolted by confessing his wife had just left him.  Keep in mind, I did not ask, we had just met and he didn't know my name yet.  So, clearly the man needed someone slightly more sensitive to speak to than a counterpart who fills his face with samosa's then jets.  I invite D to open up.  He mentions that this is a 'having a smoke kind of convo' so he gives a chick with rainbow hair five bucks for one and begins his woeful tale of love lost.

He had just purchased a new lawn-mower to landscape his three properties that him and his lady owned together.  He has money.  She called to him from one of their superfluous and somewhat unnecessary porches, to come on inside.  Once inside, she said she wanted to split.  No warning or explanation to the end of an eight year relationship.  Boom.  Done.  Take your new lawn-mower and go fuck yourself.  Of course, this is how he tells it and he's cute and vulnerable so I sympathize.

D then mentions he needs to go home and walk his puppy.  I am invited to attend to such matters and of course I go.  It's 2am, I've had four pints and there is a dog somewhere that needs to poop!  I'm there.  He gallantly pays my bill and off we split.  He apologizes on the cab ride over for the state of his shitty 'apartment'.  Clearly embarrassed that he's not showing me one of his three mansions that the wife now owns.  His 'apartment' is a two storey palatial heaven.  Not what I would ever designate this manor as being an 'apartment' but, ok dude, you feel bad about this.  Anyway, his place is awesome and his dog is adorbs, win win.  He supplies me with an alternate pair of shoes for puppy time as I decided on heels for my evening of exploit.  This guy starts checking some boxes for me.  Chivalrous, caring, dog owning, rich, trained by someone other than myself...so far so good.  After the incorrigible mutt was walked and pooped, we cracked a beer and blasted some tunes.  The first thing he plays is The Beatles.  Check.  Then he asks me if I want to do some mushrooms from the giant bag stashed in his fridge.  Checkcheck.  They were capsules so I took one, not sure on the affect that they would have.  He says he's been popping them all night and he seemed pretty level headed.

As I wait for the awesome high I'm sure to experience (it is BC psychedelics by the by), we chat by one of the three fires in his 'apartment'.  Then shit begins to unravel.  By shit, I mean D.

An Alan Jackson song comes on and he bursts into tears.  I feel somehow responsible for the improvement of his heart situation so I squeeze him tight while he sobs uncontrollably and speaks through weeps of the times shared with bitch-beast ex-wifey.  We've all been there.  Also, for a moment, I wasn't the most pitiful excuse for relationships gone wrong in the room and I took solace in this.

Then the farting began.  Having taken however many mushroom capsules from the six hundred dollar feast on his kitchen counter was beginning to affect his guts in a most inconvenient way.  If you've never done shrooms...they can give you what's so affectionately known as 'gut-rot'.  You are ingesting a poison for which your body now spends six hours or so, trying to deal with on a few different levels.  The capsules were causing some toxic gastrointestinal release.  So through the tears, D farted.  A lot.  It smelt bad.  I didn't want to laugh for he was in an altered and fragile state.  I tried to keep my attention on the cute rescue pup and the fact that we had the same shower curtain.  After a time of mournful country,  loud and oppressive farting, and a perfectly would-be romantic sitch ruined, D jolts up and says he needs to remove his contacts.  He takes off his shirt, for some reason, asks me my name and what I do for work for the third time in two hours then heads to one of  three ensuites to take his eyeballs out.  I ask if I can watch as I find it so satisfying removing things from the body.  He takes out his ability to see, puts on a hat and then tells me the reason he left his wife was because they weren't fucking anymore.  Wait.  Several mushroom caps earlier you said she left you and there was no rhyme or reason.  Kk...I'm a apart of this train-wreck now...let's see how many passengers we find.

He calls me Lacey for a little while, I let him cuz he is now my experiment.  Back on the couch I ask him about his work as he's a producer for a video game company.  Hence the extravagant expenditure of coin.  The guy literally doesn't know what to do with it all so he buys bags of mushrooms and homes he doesn't need for a love that is now irrelevant.  I ask him if he plays vids and he yells, "I'm a MAN!  I don't do such things."  I was asking as there was a play-station controller on his solid oak coffee table.

"Oh.  Well, sometimes I get high and play," he says shrugging off the obvious previous fib.

I'm growing weary of the falsities and the fact that my mushrooms aren't affecting me in the least.  I decide to crash for a bit as it's now four in the a.m.  He takes off his pants, and asks me join him in his room.  He has a pretty alright body but he's morphed into such a gradual douche that I can't even be bothered to sit on his face for which he asks me repeatedly if I would.  He then tells me he can dance and kind of kills it in the center of the room.  He becomes this whirling dervish of fancy feet and killer moves.  Who is this fucking guy?  One minute he seems like such a catch, then he can't remember my name, cries, farts without remorse and removes a piece of clothing.

It's time to go.  I grab my shit and head for the door.  He gets indignant.  True colors are so palpable when you don't spread your legs.

"So it's gonna be like that then?" He says pointed and dismissive.  I say nothing, put on my patriarchal torture devices that make my calves pop(yes I get the irony in this composition), and out the door I head...into the fucking rain at 4 a.m.  I call a cab but the driver's an idiot(story for another time) so I decide to walk the rest of the way in heels with mushroom capsules beginning to wreak havoc on my tummy-tum.  I arrive alive, smelling like a wet dog as I had just played with a dry one for a few hours previous.  My feet are killing me, blisters have formed and popped several times over and the gas is now commencing.  I spend the next five hours with a bloated gut, bleeding feet and a story to tell.

A successful night indeed.