to be or not to be

On our way down to the States last week ("Sea –Hawwwwwks! Sea-Hawwwwwwwks!"), we were joking about a friend’s new baby and how he would probably pose this new bub in teeny tiny fitness poses for the next year (Hi Baker!), because when you’re a new parent and the kid is effectively a Gumby toy, you do this as you please, take pictures and laugh hard. And then they shit mustard out their diaper onto your shirt, ooze snot onto your shoulder and wake up every 4 hours in the night for eight months. Game, set, match turdmonger. YOU WIN.

So, as I figured out loud that in honor of her father we should have set Stella up in front of either a mic with one headphone on, toque over her brow and spitting rhymes OR plunked her in a purple chair surrounded by comics, an iPad, a cup of tea that needs re-heating and 17 pairs of sneakers. Haha, laughter. And then, and then.

And. Fuck. What would I have made her do? How come I'm not easily immediately identifiable in a short sentence? Other than putting a bar of soap in her mouth I was at a loss. Maybe have her stating loudly in the Lacoste store that it was a horseshit factory? Or depict her getting in trouble at work for being flagged as using “inappropriate language” in work emails? But, surely the sum of my parts are more than just being inappropriate with words and shit, right?

I struggle with that mightily. On most days I couldn’t tell you what my favourite colour is. What era of style is the best? What font is the most beautiful? What season do I most adore? What food would be my death row choice? It’s not like I don’t have opinions. I normally have three on each subject matter that I know the least. So, blowhard gasbag it is! Seriously, I feel like I was a punk rock kid in high school and then….myergh. I don’t know.

I am surrounded by people with taste, of taste and taste to spare. I like a little bit of everything but not enough of one to align myself with it wholeheartedly. I know for sure I’m not into steampunk or being a vegan. Bangs are pretty much the shit but dreadlocks, especially the chunky super long ones, make me gag. I just can’t do it. I only see “Heeeeey world – I haven’t washed my hair in 17 years and look how it clumps so nice! There’s probably only 75 spiders nestled in here and they are super helpful and kill ALLLL the flies in my basement suite.”

I do like to talk a lot, especially when I’m around new people. I found myself over-sharing about a) stealing diapers and b) sitting on Lindt balls (to make the insides all warm and runny) to a batch of total strangers last weekend. Ask those folks who I am and they will probably say "batshit retarded." (Although my inspired rant about never again going to a grocery store where I have to bag my own groceries was kind of awesome.)

I like tattoos. I like comics. I like music that isn’t sad. I like muffins. I like large typography. I like table surfaces crowded with matching but not matching curios. I like eavesdropping. I like stripes. But, is that a person?

I’m not really into staring into mirrors with Enya and herbal tea fueled introspective discussions. The best "this is me everybody!" example I saw recently was last week, when I was directed to an old loser co-worker's bio page on a website about transhumanism. I laughed heartily for a long time, and will probably quote some of the deep thoughts he peppered throughout the intensely nerdy spiel. Hold up. I think that might be it. I am... a total asshole.