My post yesterday has been one of my more popular ones so far. That's pretty cool. But today I have a major headache, so don't expect anything too profound. Just a little bit of profoundity. That's totally a word, don't worry about looking it up. Trust me, I 'm a person who says things on the internet for... not a living?
I've noticed a huge difference in numbers compared to my vlog and my blog. Which is weird to me, because I promote my vlog way more than this. That being said, watch my vlog: youtube.com/user/shran100. I think it's pretty good every now and then.
As I said, I have a massive headache right now, and feel like crap.
Ok. Alright. Let's do this thing.
I joined a couple groups and liked a couple pages on Facebook about asexuality, and I have started my own specifically for Canadian aces! You can find at: facebook.com/canadianaces! Go check it out and become a member! Lets create a thriving online community for Canadian Aces! And a safe one of course.
Apparently this post doesn't have a coherent theme, Or an incoherent one.
I'm trying to force myself to post daily on here, simply because it's a good writing exercise. I usually enjoy it, and I usually have something to say, but between my head pounding and pets I can't focus on anything at all. Maybe today will be a short post. Or!!! I can cheat today! Here's a short story entitled "Mondays":
Mondays, man, Mondays. I’d say that they’re the bitch of the week, but that’s not PC anymore. This whole politically correct thing has really toned down what I can call things. I don’t know…
Monday! Mondays suck righteous balls. Now, I know everyone “hates” Mondays, and that a fat cat in the 70s made it cool to do so, but come on. Are Mondays really that bad?
Yes. Unequivocally yes.
“But James,” you say, “why are Mondays so bad? Wouldn’t any other day be just as bad?” Now, this is a really odd thing to say, especially since my name isn’t James. It’s Todd. How fricking hard is that? Is fricking PC? Can I say that? Oh well.
But since you asked so politely, even though you called me James, I will answer the question with a story. Not a short concise answer, you guys are jerks so you get a story.
It was seven years ago, on this very day—ok, ok, so it wasn’t exactly seven years ago, this is for dramatic effect ya knobs—that I, Todd Matheson esq., experienced the worst Monday in human history since the one where Joan of Arc decided to take a walk outside. Don’t ask, again it’s for dramatic effect. I, Todd Matheson esq., was at school.
My school was a dreary place full of squares trying to be circles, if you catch my drift. There were the rich hippies on one side, and the poor snobs on the other. And the stoners. Every school ever has the stoners who just don’t give a single flying flip. And since the stoners don’t care, this is the last time I’m going to mention them. Heh, stoners. Wait. I wasn’t supposed to mention them again. I lied to you, and for that I am truly sorry.
My school was mega lame, that’s what I’m getting at. And this particular Monday was even lamer than the all the others.
This was the Monday that I died.
Man that would be a terrible Monday. Obviously I’m not dead. But damn, that sounded hella cool.
Anyways, this Monday started off as a normal, boring Monday. I got off the bus, breathed in the fresh, yet slightly toxic from decades of pollution, air, and promptly fell on my face. The juniors literally walked on me to get off the bus. To top it off, my crush, the babeilicious Jeannette, saw everything.
I walked into the school, my appearance and soul sullied and humbled from my tumble. Rhymes are cool. Crestfallen, I, Todd Matheson esq., put my things into my locker and continued on with my day.
I’m not going to bore you with the deets of my morning, ya’ll aren’t that big of jerks, so let’s skip ahead to lunch.
Mexican Mondays, not to be confused with Taco Tuesdays and Taquito Thursdays, was a cafeteria favourite. There was a build your own fajita stand (wrap, lettuce, cheese, mystery meat, questionable salsa, and three week old peppers), and chili with rice. I made my favourite Monday meal, a fajita with cheese and chili, and headed to my table full of other like-minded denizens of the school. We were the nerds, alright. Just be cool. God. As I travelled through the perilous and fragrant hippie controlled lands, something dreadful happened. Truly dreadful. I was full of dread. Or the dirty hippie who tripped me was. Ha. Oh. I should explain. The guy had dreads. Which led me to making that dreadful pun. I’ll let myself out.
I tripped over his foot like Paula Deen tripping over her mouth. I flew forward. But in a slightly downward trajectory. I landed face first on my chili fajita. Meat and beans flew out, splattering all near me. If anything, it improved their smell, and they should’ve thanked me. Instead they literally tossed me out the door.
I spent the rest of the day, covered in dried chili. With every gulp of air, all I got was chili. Every breeze gently wafting past me held the dubious honour of smelling like chili.
And then the literally worst thing to ever happen, happened. Like. This was an extinction level event. The babeilicious Jeanette came up to and told me that she felt bad for me. And then. Oh boy. Oooooh booooyy. And then she kissed me. Right on the old mouth hole. That sounds weird. She kissed me right on the lips. And as she pulled away, she gave me a little smile and said, “I’ve always liked chili.” She winked and walked away.
My first kiss, and I was coated in beans.
And this is why Mondays are the absolute worst of all time.
What do you mean that’s a stupid reason?
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