Late Night Ninjas & the Goth Clown on the Bicycle Have Yet to Find Their Liquor

The music screams my name; swear to listen this time around, eh? It's the most Canadian thing I could say, the most stereotypical thing that can bury a person – along with the snow, the beavers, and the ignorance of foreigners.

While watching the cows fly by as they ride their musical notes down the Guitar Hero II trail, the porcupine dances on the shelf. 

I know it's short, but if it makes up for it, it did take close to five years to figure out the fucking carpet in this room repeats. 

She Had To Clean The Windows

A combination of Gothic architecture and snow capped mountains provide reason enough for the two hundred dollars wasted at Tim Hortons last week. I didn't ask for a story tonight, same as I didn't ask for a pillow with blue stripes.

I got the pillow anyway, along with the wedding pictures and some bad text message arguments. So I'll drink away the night, no champagne, no marshmallows, no crystal dreams of hurricanes.

Long ago, best friends, lovers, and sex on the side involves conversation and sideways glances. The hour ticks by; glasses are no longer clean. Cut your hair, stupid bitch.

Cut your fucking hair.

A Desperate Cry for Masks and Shadowplay

I saw it behind the curtains of my bedroom window; sucking away the life within me. I can stop breathing for a minute, hold my breath, and feel the cold. The icy air shakes the walls around me, and I've nearly fallen to the ground. Then, I think, I can't take this today. It's another game to play in para-dice.

Fancy world play never meant that much to me, or meat. It wasn't the question so much as it was the answer, the parody on real life provided by your friendly neighborhood cartoon heroes, and lead forth with the vigilance of cardboard policemen and small army men figurines that five year olds shove down their throats.

Cold as ice, it's back again. I back away, because I don't know what else to do. There is a gathering tonight, down at the Conquest Pub, and I shall try to make my way there unscathed. Yet, somehow, through it all I seem to have forgotten my lighter and that scraggly t-shirt I seem to enjoy wearing out on weekends.

Goddamn it, Margaret, I seem to have failed at reading the Handmaid's Tale.

Social Suicide is a Far Cry from World Domination, Germany, and Bad Hamburgers

Backed up with narcissistic tendencies and wit sharp as a tuna fish, pretty boy in the corner is out to conquer the world. He's got newspaper reporters and a broken down stereo. He's got Supertramp records, and a collection of CDs that could level all of Toronto. He's got everything you've left behind, and everything that scene girl he used to date threw out. He's got his lopsided smile, paper airplane pin, and sideways trucker hat. He's got everything we don't.

We watch him; shrink until he towers over us with his ego and his arrogance. He walks above us, high and mighty, only because we allow him. He walks above us, heel to toe, on that steel tightrope thread between skyscrapers and the industrialized nation.

On a plane is where we all feel safest, that beast terrorizing beneath us until the world is his. That beast, the splitting image of my mirrored reflection, my second half. That monster, he's another one of them. He's become my Hitler. My little Hitler, all grown up and smiling to the world through the lens of a video camera.

My little Hitler, his turn to cause mass genocide. 

The Zodiac Lied to the Movie Theatre

You didn't write off-beat songs to be covered by low-rate metal bands of the twenty-first century. You didn't write music to be appreciated or to be slandered. No, you wrote music because you wanted to put your heart on paper -- but look where that paper heart has fallen amongst the great guitar riffs and horrid singing. Ripped, torn and put through the paper shredder only to be taped back together and photocopied as an 'original' for an issue of 'Kerrang!' in stores today!

In the light of advertisement and remakes, there is a name in there, which is to be made. A name built on a loser and a bottle of whiskey, stacked above a pile of stupid songs and terrible ideas. Then there is a ghost, the whisper of a voice that tells you this is your life. You look at me then, because I know you didn't want this. The look is brief, I'm just one of a million that does this trick -- a one trick pony turned into twenty, then a hundred, then a number you don't recognize.

Welcome to Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Berlin, or Tokyo. Welcome to another hotel room, another bottle of shit, and another girl splayed out on your mattress. Welcome to hell, said the devil. Welcome to heaven, said the rock star. Welcome, I said, to the fucking end of the new age revolution, and the beginning of self-destruction through thoughtless admiration and tidal waves of angry guitars.

Gordon Lightfoot Decided My Pages Would Freeze Today

All these goddamn lies have been sitting useless for far too long. I don't like to admit it, but there's always a storm over the edge of the horizon. Some auto-correction and whiteout, and we've got a big mess on our hands. We always thought that the eyes looked the other way when we used that five-finger-discount at the Mac's down the road from our high school.

It was easy as a bag of chips, easy as midnight sex on the cutting room floor, and the cold kitchen tiles against the slut's back. Easy as the gay kid who shot himself in the head, and the bad memories with 80's tunes and upside down goal posts from a soccer game.

Tomorrow is yesterday's story to write. Tomorrow has become us, and then some. Tomorrow, we keep forgetting, is only a mere piece of today, stacked in a pile and shifted four squares to the right.

We're losing this board game, and we're sinking to the bottom of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Death to the Baby, Darlingcakes

Don't forget to exhale when you breathe in the pixie dust off the old school texbooks in your profanity induced stupor. We're all trekking downtown tonight for a party on the corner of Forth and Fremont, where we'll float into cyberspace and dictate the lives of millions across the universe.

It's become a play on words that nobody has skill to comprehend, or the effort to edit.

It's become a wasteland, this one.