The mystery of the Silent Twins

                We all know identical twins are creepy, especially if you’ve watched or read The Shining, and sometimes the real world reinforces this feeling—as is the case with the Gibbons sisters. Lately I’ve been tooling around with the idea to research some unexplained mystery or phenomenon, not in the vainglorious hopes of solving it, merely to expand my own thinking. While this thought was ruminating, I stumbled across a short article about the Gibbons sisters; twin girls from a small Welsh town. Their story caught my attention, and over the proceeding weeks I found my thoughts often returning to them.

                So I began to research them. I read news articles from the 80s and 90s, interviews with the journalist who wrote their biography, and my basic understanding of them grew. And so did my questions.

                June and Jennifer Gibbons were born on April 11, 1963, in Barbados. Their father was a technician for the RAF, currently stationed there. Soon after their birth the family moved to the small Welsh town of Haverfordwest. It should be noted that they were a black family, and as one knows small Welsh towns are not known for their diversity—they were the only black people in the entire community. The twin girls were often bullied and left out of school events (the staff would often let the girls leave early in an attempt to avoid altercations), and several of the psychologists who would later look into the twins believe this had a negative impact on their life. Who would think that racism and bullying could have a negative impact on children?

They began to withdraw from everyone except each other, and they soon had even developed their own personal language to communicate with. They were taken out of their public school and sent to a special education school. They numerous tests done—many of which came back with contradictory results: one test would call them withdrawn, while the next would say they were sociable. By the time they were 15, the majority of their time was spent in their bedroom with the door shut. Their parents worried, but never did anything about it because those around them simply said that this attitude would pass. While they kept themselves locked away, they discovered a creative streak and began to write. They filled numerous journals with personal thoughts, and wrote short stories, poetry, scripts, and several novels—one of which was self-published. Their writing was dark and violent, and filled with the dream of Malibu, the sun drenched opposite of gloomy Haverfordwest. Their biographer compared their methods of inspiration to the Bronte sisters, but their works to A Clockwork Orange.

Their personal life soon became as violent as their writing. Their parents often heard the sounds of violent struggles coming from their room that would quickly subside. June, ten minutes older than her sister wrote this of Jennifer: “She wants us to be equal. There is a murderous gleam in her eye. Dear lord, I am scared of her. She is not normal … someone is driving her insane. It is me.” Meanwhile, Jennifer wrote this of their relationship: “We have become fatal enemies in each other’s eyes. We feel the irritating deadly rays come out of our bodies, stinging each other’s skin. I say to myself, can I get rid of my own shadow, impossible or not possible? Without my shadow, would I die? Without my shadow, would I gain life, be free or left to die? Without my shadow, which I identify with a face of misery, deception, murder.” The words gave way to action with Jennifer attempting to strangle June with a cord, and on another occasion, June attempted to drown Jennifer in a nearby river. After each event, they went back to treating each other as friends, as if the attempted murders never happened.

When they couldn’t get the desired attention from their writing, they turned to crime instead. They would commit acts of petty theft and arson, and would even let the police know ahead of time. Eventually they were caught in the act, tried, convicted, and sent to the Broadmoor Hospital (a high security mental health hospital), a place usually reserved for rapists and murderers.

Whenever the hospital staff separated the girls, they would become catatonic and unresponsive, only regaining life when brought back together. During this time they wrote about how they wanted to become their own people, but they could only live when they were together. They came to the conclusion that for one of them to live a normal life, one of them would have to die.

In March, 1993, the girls, now 31, were transferred to Caswell Clinic in Bridgend. Upon arrival Jennifer was unresponsive. She was soon pronounced dead of acute myocarditis, a sudden inflammation of the heart. The doctors could find no cause for this. According to June, Jennifer’s last words were: “At long last, we’re out.”

Soon after, June gave several interviews, and by all accounts was leading an “ordinary life”.

This is all just preliminary. Over the next while I will be looking more in depth into this mystery, and posting my own thoughts and theories. I do hope you find this interesting. 

Another post about Mass Effect

                There is a very clear guilty party in my becoming a gamer: Bioware. Sure, before I started playing Bioware games, I still played video games, but they weren’t anything other than a distraction. Then I stumbled upon (saw the commercials and fell in love) Mass Effect and Dragon Age: Origins. I had never played games where I cared about the story and the characters before. I used to just skip all the cutscenes because they got in the way of the gameplay, but I couldn’t do that with ME or DA:O because the story had drawn me in. Because of Bioware, I truly became a gamer. Dragon Age allowed me to become the fantasy hero I always wanted to be—but in a way that was so much more meaningful and complex than I had imagined. And Mass Effect allowed me to fulfill my Captain Kirk fantasies—but with blue aliens instead of green ones. I could talk about how the amazing diversity in both franchises have helped me to become more open minded, and to accept myself as I am better, instead I’m going to focus on what is possibly the greatest game ever made: Mass Effect 2.

                The Mass Effect franchise has always been about personal stories. Your Shepherd was always going to be different from a friend’s, and how you handled situations came down to personal preference. Through the course of the first game, your Shepherd became an actual extension of yourself. The Normandy, your ship, became home, and the crew became your family. So Mass Effect 2 begins by destroying the ship and spacing Shepherd.

                The first time I played, this moment was shocking, and emotionally devastating. This was a moment of rebirth though, for both the player and for Shepherd. The story picks up two years after the destruction of the Normandy, and most of the galaxy assumes you’re dead. A race known as the Collectors has begun to kidnap human colonies, and the Council still doesn’t believe in the Reaper threat (and depending on decisions you made in the first game, they may hate you and not give you their support). Your crew and squad is scattered throughout the galaxy, and you’re alone with a shadowy organization (one you fought against in the first game, Cerberus), who wants to use you to further their own gains. You are forced into working with a new team made up of the person who rebuilt you and brought you back to life, and a guy that tries way too hard at the beginning to get your trust.

                Gone is the team that you slowly made connections with, gone is the easy banter. Now you have snarky remarks and an uneasy alliance. This really strikes home in your first mission when you run into an old friend and squad mate: Tali’Zorah. Tali is happy to find out that you’re alive, but she is distrusting of your new squad and refuses to come with you. At best, she is apprehensive of you, at worst she outright distrusts the new Shepherd.

                You don’t feel hurt by this for very long though; the Illusive Man (your new boss) has a nice surprise waiting for you when you return: Joker, your pilot from the first game. This fantastic reunion is capped off with the reveal of your new ship: the Normandy SR-2. Not gonna lie, the reveal of the Normandy makes me feel all the emotions every time I see it. Much like whenever I see the Enterprise on the big screen.

                Here is where the game really begins. With the receipt of your new ship, the Illusive Man gives you a list of the names of potential squad mates to recruit, and from there you’re almost left to your own devices. The list contains some familiar faces, and a lot of new ones. The missions to recruit your new squad are varied and interesting. To recruit Archangel, you join up with a group of gangs that are trying to kill him. To recruit Mordin, a doctor, you have to cure a plague. To recruit Subject Zero, you have to break her out of inescapable prison in space. On top of the recruitment missions, each squad mate has missions that are personal to them and that increase their loyalty to you. From elaborate heists to regain a loved one’s last memories, to rites of passage, these loyalty missions keep things interesting.

                I mentioned some familiar faces? Well, the reveal of Archangel’s true identity, while not surprising, was certainly welcome and pleasing. You sneak up on him as he’s sniping; he motions you to wait, takes his shot, stands up, removes his helmet, and says, “Hey, Shepherd.” And bam, you’re best friend (ever) Garrus is back on the team. He may question Cerberus, but he never questions you. You have earned his trust, and he has your back. Something that doesn’t change throughout the entire trilogy.

                I’ve played Mass Effect 2 so many times, and I know what’s going to happen when I make specific choices, but I still get excited. I still feel a surge of joy as the Normandy weaves through wreckage and takes full advantage of the upgrades I gave it. I still get excited to see Garrus again, and I feel a deep sorrow every time Liara tells me that she can’t come with me. Why? Because of the story. Because of the writing. Because the game makes you invest in these characters and events. I still get psyched up when Shepherd says: “They tell me it's a suicide mission. I intend to prove them wrong.” Bioware got everything right when they made Mass Effect 2.

                Whenever I get tired of other games, I always turn back to Mass Effect. Maybe it’s because I’m a diehard science fiction fan. Maybe it’s because I’m a Trekkie. Or maybe it’s because Bioware made a damn fine game that never fails to make me feel better about things.

                One of these days, I’m going to have to sit down and actually write an outline for an essay about Mass Effect so things will make sense and not jump all over the place. 

Pure and utter dreck

                If you ever wonder where the Kleenex comes from, you’re probably wondering the wrong thing. That’s a saying that literally no one uses, and one that no one ever will. Which is for the best, it’s kind of ridiculous. You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this, and that is a proper thing to be wondering about! Good on you!

                Unfortunately for you, I’m not really going anywhere with this at all! However, if I were to run with that made up phrase, I would probably say something like: It means focus on the important stuff, Kleenex obviously comes from trees. Duh. Not saying that it grows on trees, only that paper comes from trees, and Kleenex is a form of paper. Now that that’s out of the way, it’s time for the main event!

                Kleenex is pretty cool right? Like, it’s gentle on the nose, which is super important for people who have to blow it all the time.

                Not the point.

                Is there a point?

                Remember in my last post where I said that I challenged myself to create some form of content every day? And remember how I said it was hard? Well, this is a prime example of that! This meandering post filled with meandering thoughts is a perfect representation of… well. Me, I guess? Or something else important.

                A lot of writers don’t/won’t showcase this stage of writing because it’s kinda garbage.  That said, all writers will do this. They’ll sit down and write random bits of dreck until something starts making sense. University students call this “writing a paper”, and will oft-times consider it to be a work of pure spirit. Writers, on the other hand, usually don’t want their readers to see this part. They want their readers to see something that’s been polished and “makes sense”. I on the other hand spend no time editing these blogs, and will often not notice mistakes until after they have been read by my regulars. To me, these blogs are intimate in a way that is honest. I let you see the mistakes; I let you see the unpolished writing, not out of laziness or apathy, but out of a desire to be honest. Even when the writing appears to be polished and clean, I assure you that I did not proofread or edit. I’m just good. Or lucky. Then again, we make our own luck, so I guess I am just good. Huh. Look at that.

                If any of this is making sense, I guess that’s good. Or whatever.

                Showing the unthought out with the thought out is important to me. It shows how different (or alike) the trains of thought can be. It also probably confuses the reader a little as to which pieces had been planned, and which had not. To be quiet honest, I feel like several of the unplanned pieces are far superior to the planned ones, but then again some of them are utter dreck (word of the article apparently).

                But I dunno. This one? This one should’ve had a plan.  

Opening Up

I’m supposed to be putting some form of new content up every week day. It was something I challenged myself to in an attempt to hone my skills. Lately I’ve been failing at it. A mixture of work, stress, anxiety, and just not feeling worth it, has basically crippled my creative process. It hurts me when I can’t write, which makes even harder for me to start. All the days I’ve missed posting? I had started writing things that just got thrown to the wayside. I couldn’t finish them, and, hell, I didn’t really want to.

                That’s what happens with depression though. It strikes randomly and makes the things we usually love feel empty and hollow. We still enjoy those things; we just can’t feel that enjoyment at the time. A lot of the time, I lose all my ambition and sit just staring at a blank wall, trying to figure out why. The answer never comes, because there isn’t one. My writing suffers during this, my social life suffers during this, my vlog sure suffers during this, and I suffer during this. My personal suffering takes a backseat to the suffering of my art. I worry more about it than I do myself during these times, because it is usually the thing that makes me feel better.

                I close myself off, usually, and react hostilely to, what I feel are, invasive personal questions. Most often, these are just generic pleasantries, but in my depressed state everything becomes more than what it seems, and I don’t want to share with anyone. And I don’t want people to worry about me. I know everyone has their own problems, so I shut up about mine until they become something way larger than they ever should have been, and it causes me to break down. I’ve had so many times where something small and inconsequential will cause me to simply give up because of all the other shit I’ve pushed down. The phrase, “the straw that breaks the camel’s back”, is one that I often relate to on a very deep and meaningful level. Sometimes the straw that breaks my back is something as small as not being able to find my keys, or not having any clean socks.

                It’s odd, being broken by such small things, when the big stuff appears to leave me unfazed. But you learn to hide things, to keep them out of sight and out of mind. There are very few people that know I suffer from depression. Some of them only know because they started piling stuff on me during an extremely harsh episode, while others know only because they suffer from it as well. Keeping it hidden comes from my need to keep everything buried down. As long as people assume everything is okay with me they won’t treat me differently, but as soon as they find out they start walking on eggshells. Which annoys the hell out of me, and only adds to the many emotions playing havoc inside of my head.

                I’m not writing this now to garner sympathy. I’m merely writing this to let others know that they are not alone. I know that sounds horribly cliché, and to outsiders maybe it is. But to the people suffering from depression, it’s a life line. I never feel more alone than when I’m in the midst of a depressive episode, and just knowing that there are countless others out there helps immeasurably. So I’m writing this now. I’m writing it for the people who look up to me. I’m writing it for the people who look down at me. I’m writing it for everyone, so that they can see that anyone can be affected. And most of all, I’m writing it for me. To get this weight off of my chest. Mental health problems are nothing to be ashamed of, and those suffering them should not be labelled outcasts and freaks. I need to let go of the stigma to be free of it. I need to stop believing the people who think depression and anxiety are fake. I need to embrace who I am, fully, and I need to be open about it. That being said, if anyone reading this reaches out and asks me how I’m doing, my honest answer will be that I am doing fine. That’s not a lie. I genuinely am doing fine. The world is not ending for me.

                To anyone reading this who is dealing with mental health: there is help. There are hotlines you can call. Friends and family who love you. Websites where you can message trained professionals. And there’s probably a cute cat or dog somewhere nearby that you can pet.

Partners for mental health Crisis Centre locator: http://www.partnersformh.ca/resources/find-help/crisis-centres-across-canada/

Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868

There are many more options, but most are for specific regions of the country. You can always look online for resources specific to your area. 

We're gonna be okay

                I’ve written about this before, but now seems like a good time to bring it up again. I, of course, am talking about the invisibility of asexuality and of aces themselves. Why now? I could be flippant and just say ‘why not’, but that’s not an honest answer. I’m bringing it up now because a main character on a successful Netflix original series has come out as asexual. BoJack Horseman, the show in question, had the character come out in its third season, which came out in July. I’m writing this to talk about the show, or give spoilers; the simple act of this happening is the reason behind the article. For those wondering, they handled it very well.

                This is a big win for representation, and helps with visibility. Is it enough? Well, no. But the only group on the planet with enough representation is the straight, white, male community. Thank god that base is covered, could you imagine if it wasn’t? All sarcasm aside, this is a good thing.

                For my newer readers (hi), a brief outline of asexuality:

·         It exists

Well, that was easy and brief! Okay, seriously though:

·         Asexuality is when one feels no sexual attraction to anyone

·         It exists on a spectrum where people can experience sexual attraction on very rare occurrences to where people never feel it

·         Asexual people are not broken, and do not have anything medically wrong with them

·         It is not caused by an imbalance in hormones

·         Asexuality does not reflect upon a person’s romantic attractions

·         An estimated 1% of the population identifies as asexual

·         The first recorded reference to asexuality was in 1896, and not on tumblr as some people like to say

·         Some asexual people enjoy sex, some don’t

·         Some asexual people masturbate, some don’t

In the end, asexual people, aces, are a varied group. The only thing all aces have in common is a lack of sexual attraction.

                That sounds super easy to understand. It’s to the point, it’s simple, and there isn’t any really big word in it! And yet asexuality remains one of the least understood and represented sexualities. With the lack of understanding comes the hate, because we all know the human race will automatically hate everything that it can’t understand!  Studies have been done that show aces are often viewed as less than human—even by others in the LGBTQIA+ community. These same studies have shown that the hate asexual people get can be far more extreme than the other sexualities, simply because we are viewed as lacking. All of my asexual friends who are open have received death threats and threats of rape. I’ve received death threats in the past, and I routinely get hate thrown my way. I know this hate is real.

                It doesn’t help that the media misrepresents asexuals as closeted freaks who just haven’t fully developed yet, or as people with mental issues. And then! Just when we think there’s a somewhat good representation, or if there is a hint of it, something bad happens to the character, or they get told that they just need to ‘get laid’. And of course, there are the countless times when asexuality has been confused with celibacy. I’m sorry, choosing to not have sex with people does not make you asexual, it merely makes you a person choosing to not have sex! Ridiculous, I know. One of the biggest examples of this is from the inexplicably still airing Big Bang Theory with their character of Sheldon. Sheldon, who may be asexual, in the early seasons is more focused on his work and his hobbies than having sex and all of his so-called friends mock him relentlessly for this, and take every opportunity to try and make him have sex. And then, because it’s a prime time sitcom and can’t have good and accurate representation, the writers of the show made the character get a girlfriend and become the person his friends had been trying to force him to become.

                Since I’ve come out, I’ve found this wonderful community to be a part of, where I was able to ask questions and grow. The people I have come to know have become like family to me, and some are now my closet friends and confidants. I have written so many words in so many different platforms about how the asexual community is a family, and it is something that I truly believe. In a world that wants to, at the very least, deny our existence, so many aces have remained positive and strong. So many have become these shining lights of positivity to the rest of the community. When the world continuously steps on us, and grinds us under foot, we remain strong. We do not give in and become bitter. We embrace the world, and we educate. We show the world that we are here, and that we are not broken.

                Whenever one of our community falls down, we help them up. Whenever one of our community breaks down in tears because of the words of their peers, we lift them up. I love this community. I love the people in it. I do not love the lies and untruths that people spread about it. I do not love the misrepresentations within the media.

This community is one that I am proud to be a part of. I am proud to be asexual, and I am proud of whatever good I have done for it. I know that some of my pieces have resonated strongly (several of them have been shared thousands of times), and I get messages from people on a regular basis thanking me, or telling me that I am doing good in the world.

I dunno guys, I think we’re gonna  be okay. 

The missing story

                Once in a great age, a story will come along and change everything. Those that hear it become great heroes, and through their valiant acts, the world becomes saved.

                The following is what happens when that story doesn’t exist.

                Darryl was an ordinary man, as all men are at the beginnings of stories, who worked an average job, for a not terribly special company. One day Darryl noticed something strange in the sky: it was taupe.

                “That’s strange,” Darryl said to his co-workers. Had Darryl been less ordinary and more heroic, he might have used the word ‘peculiar’ instead.

                Denise, a co-worker, looked up and agreed, “Strange.”

                Robert, always the trouble-maker, disagreed and said, “Naw, I find it more odd than strange.”

                Darryl ignored Robert’s pointless chin-wagging, and went on with his day.

                Darryl had a pattern, as all ordinary people do, for how his day went: wake up, get ready, work, supper, bar, tv, sleep. Work was done, supper was digesting, so Darryl made ready to head to the local pub. He threw on his lucky jeans (they had never brought him luck, in fact the ones that were actually lucky were buried under a pile of refuse), and a t-shirt that went out of style seventeen years ago.

                During his walk to the pub, Darryl noticed something strange that wasn’t in the sky: a crazy, assumedly homeless person muttering to herself.

                “Why isn’t it working? The story should’ve come to me. Why isn’t it coming? STORY! I NEED THE STORY. I need it.” She began to weep, “I need it. Save the world. Story. Save. World.”

                “Strange,” Darryl said as he crossed the street to avoid the woman.  

                There was a crowd gathered outside of the pub when Darryl meandered up. The gathered bald heads turned to Darryl and spoke in unison: “The pubs closed.”

                If this had been a gathering of twins, Darryl would’ve been frightened. Instead, since it was just a group of balding men, he simply said, “strange,” and went back home.

                The crazy homeless woman wasn’t there on his walk back, but Darryl didn’t notice because he’s just an ordinary person, and not the saviour of the world.

                Darryl slept well that night with no dark dreams of the world ending, or thoughts of his own impending doom. Was this a different tale of a different man, perhaps we would see the muscled protagonist tossing and turning under a thin sheen of sweat, as the weight of destiny pressed mightily down. But it’s not, and Darryl slept peacefully.

                If you can recall, the sky had been taupe the day before, and Darryl had remarked that merely strange. Well, today the sky was straight up violet. Surely this would evoke more than ‘strange’ from our erstwhile not hero?

                “How strange is the sky today?” Darryl casually asked his co-workers while they stood outside at coffee.

                Denise looked up at the sky, “Pretty strange, yup.”

                Robert smiled deviously, “I think it’s pretty odd.”

                Denise opened her mouth to call out Robert, but Darryl placed his hand on her shoulder and shook his head

                The pub was open that night, and the crazy homeless lady was dancing a funny jig outside of the main window. Inside, Darryl sat with his friends watching the game, his back to the window, and his hand nestling a cool pint of the local brew. The commentators were remarking on the sky, which was still a vibrant violet, even at this hour. Darryl opened his mouth to say something about it, then decided against it and took sip instead.

                Houston, his friend, had no such willpower, “Mite peculiar weather, we’ve been havin’, eh lads? Mite peculiar, indeed.”

                The other friends nodded sagely, while Darryl frowned at the word ‘peculiar’. Why use a fancy word when an ordinary one will do, was always Darryl’s point of view. He was about to say just that when the home team scored causing all other thoughts to disappear.

                Darryl stumbled home that night, a little worse for wear. He did remember to drop some change into the dancing lady’s hat (if subtlety isn’t your thing, this is just the crazy homeless woman) before leaving though, he still had his manners! He collapsed in his bed, mostly clothed, and was fast asleep.

                The next morning proceeded as usual for about three minutes, or until Darryl looked outside. If you can recall the story started with the sky being taupe, and the next day was violet. Well today the sky was on fire. Literally, not in some figurative manner that poets and lovers talk about, but in a literal, flames racing across the sky manner.

                “Well, fuck,” Darryl said as he sat back on his bed. Even strange was too fancy of a word for what was happening outside now.

                Needless to say, Darryl did not go into work that day, or the days following that. Mainly because Darryl was not a hero, and the earth was not saved.

                Way to go Darryl. 

Some times when I made funny jokes!

I like to think of myself as a slightly humorous person. I’d like to think that my writing and videos accurately reflect that. In honour of how funny I am, today’s post is going to be a list of my top 7 (I’m just being too lazy to find links for the times I was funny in videos) funniest moments (plus I’ll explain why the jokes are funny; always the best part!)!

7: The time I made Spongebob joke

                I’m gonna be honest with y’all: I have never watched an episode of Spongebob 4x90°pants in my life. And yes, that math joke took way longer to write out than it should’ve, but that isn’t the joke this entry is about! That’s right; this article is going to be funnier than the time that Patrick burnt down the whole time in a fit of coke-fueled rage. Again, I’ve never watched the show, I’m just assuming that happened at some point or another.

                Here’s the real deal though:

Mixing classic tumblr style humour with the playful antics of Spongebob, truly I am a saint.

6: The time Ramsay Bolton nee Snow liked my tweet:

                If you’ve known me for any amount of time, or looked at my twitter feed on a Sunday night, you’ll know one fact about me: I somewhat enjoy the global pasttime that is Game of Thrones. And by somewhat enjoy, I mean that I can discuss the fan theories like a pro, and debate whether or not the interest charged by the Iron Bank of Braavos is fair or not.

                Without spoiling too much, Ramsay was not a delightful person. He did however love his dogs and kept them well fed—by feeding them people. He killed, maimed, and raped often. And he tried to kill fan favourite Jon Snow. Just an all around bad guy. He was even more hated than Joffery, by some fans.

                And then the actor, Iwan Rheon, got cast as Hitler in a production about Hitler’s time as an artist. Everyone was making jokes about this, so of course I jumped right on the ol’ bandwagon!

Bonus points for my awesome profile pic.

5. The time I made fun of Kylo Ren:

                Another thing you’ll know about me, is that I am a huge nerd. Especially when it comes to science fiction. Now, as a disclaimer, Star Trek is better than Star Wars, but this joke is all about Star Wars.

                When we first saw Kylo Ren’s lightsaber, we all had a good long laugh about it. Cross guards made out of lasers on a laser sword? LOLK. After watching the film, we all felt a little stupid for making fun of the lightsaber, because we found out there was so much more to make fun of than just that. Honestly, the saber is like the least funny thing about Kylo Ren. Unfortunately, this joke went for the low-hanging fruit that was the lightsaber.

I mean, it was still a pretty solid joke. Hopefully Disney didn’t take it too seriously though.

4. The time it got a little too real:

                I write a lot about sexuality and gender identity. It’s something that is important to me, and to the entire world. Representation is something that is needed, and is crucial in showing the queer community that there is nothing wrong with them.

                Unfortunately, straight people still think that being straight is the best, and that remembering other things exist is just far too much work. After all, wearing khaki and golfing takes all their energy. Plus, who’s going to watch all the Adam Sandler movies? Too much? Oh well.

                One time, a friend forgot that I wasn’t straight. Moments after I had sent a link to a video chronicling my coming out story. But don’t worry! She had a valid excuse, and I had an even more valid retort:

Ah, the causal sarcasm as I threw her words back at her. While this may not be the funniest thing I’ve said, it’s one of the things I am most proud of. Straight people, am I right?

3. Just to lighten things up, the time I made fun of my sister’s texting:

                Millennials, the laziest group of people to ever exist, right baby boomers? Them and their texting and activism, don’t they know that they should just be cynical and work jobs that they hate so they can buy houses in a market that your generation wrecked? God. Anyways, millennials love to text! I can confirm this because I am sending 243 texts right now! As I type! Amazing!

                Kat, as she describes herself, is a basic bitch. A white girl. And texts like one af. As evidenced by this short and sweet exchange of ours:

I apologize for the appalling language. Everyone knows I only swear while playing Mario Kart and Halo. Blue shells and lag, my language kryptonite.

2: A topical Pokémon Go joke!

                No article these days is complete without at least one PKGo (as the cool kids call it) joke or reference. And by all ‘eevee’dence, I sure am up on the trends. I’d be a piece of ‘trubbish’ if I didn’t squeeze in a few Poképuns. Honestly, I could just start using tree puns, and everyone would think I was making clever jokes about the professors in the franchise.

                My joke might be a ‘jolteon’ the old system, but I think if I put the ol’ ‘charmeleon’, you’ll enjoy it! Okay, I’m done, here’s the original joke. All 151 of em:

Those Poképuns hurt my brain.

1. The time I made an inappropriate joke:

                Sorry mom and dad, sometimes I do make some inappropriate jokes. And sometimes they are hilarious! Other times, they came out during Cards against Humanity, and left me feeling bad. This is not one of those times!

                The final joke contains no pop culture, no vulgar language, and no funny pictures. Just words. Please, enjoy:

So good. So pure. So funny. 

Who we are when the lights go out

                What we do in the dark often betrays who we truly are. When there is no one around to see, when the cameras are put down, and the sun has gone to rest, the truth always comes out. This may seem inherently negative, but I assure you that is not the case! Many times that true self is someone that is more selfless and courageous than some that is selfish and cowardly.

                It was at night, for instance, that I discovered my neighbour’s predilection for dressing in elaborate costumes and cleaning the street that ran in front of our houses. Every second night, at an hour that most should be asleep, my neighbour would appear in the street bedecked with a bright cape, tights, a masquerade-style mask, and an extremely tight t-shirt. He would then walk up and down the street picking up any trash he could find, and would dispose of it in an exaggerated manner. For weeks, I watched this. Sometimes he looked like he was simply doing it out of habit, while other times it looked like he was having the time of his life—the one constant was his costume. It never changed. In his mind, he was acting the hero. In my mind too.

                I worked the graveyard shift at a local gas station when I was younger. I would see a lot of…interesting people come out at night. A lot of drunks, a lot of druggies, and others of questionable morals. But there was one woman who came out at night and just shone. She was the local lawyer, and kind of disliked by large portions of the town, but every night she would come out and bring food and blankets to the less fortunate members of the community. She always came alone, and as soon as she caught people watching her or trying to sneak a picture, she would leave the area—only to come back later to finish. She didn’t want the accolades, she didn’t want fame, she just wanted to help people.

                Here’s the thing: I always have more respect for the people who go out of their way to help others without being seen, than those people who need the cameras to be on them whenever they lift a finger for their fellow man.

                But who am I when the lights go out? Who am I when no one is around to see?

                I watched my neighbour clean the street for weeks before getting bored and moving on to something else. I watched the lawyer give all she could to the less fortunate before ceasing to care about it. I went on with my life, living it as I had for years.

                What did this make me?

                A person who watched others do good in secret, yet did none of my own?

                Or by observing these secret acts, do I give them validation?

                These thoughts plagued my sleep, and gave me waking nightmares. What would I be remembered for? Did that even matter? Even amidst my thoughts of selflessness, I concerned myself with selfish thoughts.

                Who was I when the lights went out? I liked to believe that I was a good person, but did my deeds ever match my thoughts?

                I thought back.

                All my acts of charity had been done in full sight of those around me. All my giving was done where I could be seen. I wanted people to know when I was doing good. I went out of my way to ensure that people would see my kindness.

                So what did that make me?

                Who are you when the lights go out? 

One of my favourite prompts

                A man walks into a bar. The bar is dingy and smells of stale beer and piss. The man, immaculate, stands out from the rest of the clientele. He is wearing a dark coloured suit, not quite black, but impossible to tell in the lighting. He heads directly to the bar, his bright white eyes fixated upon the bartender, who was now nervously wiping down a section of the bar.

                The man sits on a stool, “A beer,” is all that he says, his eyes now nowhere close to the bartender.  Instead his eyes are scanning the shelves behind the bar, as if he is looking for something, and, when he doesn’t find it, he sighs and looks down at his crossed arms resting on the bar. The sounds of the bar, which had trailed off when the man entered, slowly returned as people grew bored of watching the man.

                “Your beer,” the bartender grunts as he places a bottle and a slightly dirty glass down in front of the man’s crossed arms.

                The man grunts in thanks, and, after looking at the glass, takes a drink directly from the bottle. The beer is lukewarm and cheap, and the man suppresses a grimace as it travels down his throat.

                The bartender is still in front of the man as he puts the drink down, “We don’t get many of your type around here. In fact,” the bartender sneers, “we actively discourage it. We don’t like people like you being around us.”

                The bartender is reaching for something under the bar when the man speaks. His voice freezes the bartender’s movements, “That so? Let me tell you a story about another man that once spoke to me in this manner.” The man’s voice grew louder so that the entire room could hear. “I was in another town once, at another bar, much like this one, drinking another beer that tasted of piss, again, much like this one, when another bartender spoke some similar words to me. I ignored them. I passed them off as mindless hate. Later that night, as I walked back to my hotel, I was jumped by several of the patrons and the bartender.” Several of those listening shoot looks of awkward worry at each other and the bartender begins to sweat. “They beat me bloody, and left me on the sidewalk once they were done. I was able to pull my phone out and call an ambulance,” at this point he pulls out his phone and places it on the bar beside his beer. He takes a swig before continuing. “I spent two weeks in the hospital, and another couple months in physio. Those men tried to break me because I wear a suit for work, but it didn’t work. After my physio was done, I began to train. And then, two years later, I returned to that bar. The bartender didn’t recognize me, nor did the patrons in the bar, but they were all there. All the men who tried to break my spirit. Again, the bartender said to me words much like yours. This time I smiled at his words and ordered a rye and coke. That detail isn’t important to the story, but I will take one now,” he says, looking the bartender in the eye. The bartender jumps slightly, and makes the drink. The bar is silent as they wait for the man to continue. The drink is placed in front of the man by the trembling hands of the bartender. He downs it in a single gulp. “I stayed at the bar until it closing time, and all that remained were the people who brought me harm. I think they were nervous at this point, there was a lot of grumbling and cursing and muttering. But, by god, they had a duty to teach me the same lesson they tried teaching me years before. I stood up, as if to leave, and one of the drunks got a little too excited, so I smiled at him. I said, ‘I remember you. You were the one who broke my nose,’ the entire bar grew silent after I said that. An uncomfortable silence, much like this one. The man still didn’t recognize me, and I realized that they never would because they didn’t see me as worth remembering. I remember smiling sadly, and telling them to just get it over with. I’ll take another rye and coke, if you would,” the man pauses his story as he waits for the drink. The listeners are fidgeting and growing more and more uncomfortable. The drink is placed in front of the man, who smiles and takes a small sip. “They rushed me. All of them at once. Scared, and drunk, and angry, they came at me swinging. Letting their emotion control their actions was their first mistake.” The man pulls a bundle of cloth out of the inner pocket of his jacket, and places it on the bar. He unrolls it to display six strips of material that appear stiff and dark in the light of the bar. “The fight didn’t last long. I took them all down, and then took a strip of cloth from each of their shirts that had been stained by their blood. These strips,” he gestures to the pieces in front of him. Some of the listeners have begun to step away from the man. He takes another sip before continuing, “This is much better than the beer, by the way. My compliments. Now, whenever I tell this story, there’s usually one poor bastard who decides to test it. And I let them. Keeps me focused and trained.” The man rolls up his bundle of cloth, and puts it back in the inner pocket of his jacket. “My hotel is five blocks away, and, incidentally, I will be leaving in five minutes should any of you wish to leave before me for whatever reason.”

                With the story obviously finished, the listeners drift back to their seats. None head to the door or even look at it. The man finishes his drink in silence, and, five minutes after finishing his story, he gets up and leaves.

                No one follows.    

What connection does Justin Trudeau have to Preacher?! None. This is a mess.

                I really need to be working on my article, but instead I’m typing out a blog because I didn’t post at all while I was on holidays. Sorry, I guess.

                I came across an interesting article the other day over on the paragon of news, Buzzfeed, which told of a family’s chance encounter with the Prime Minister while they were out on a hike. Now, instead of the article focusing on how down to earth the Trudeau family is, or how polite and genuinely nice they are, the article focused on the fact that the Prime Minister was not wearing a shirt. Yes, he is an attractive man with great hair (thanks for pointing that out Steve), but he isn’t some sex symbol. He is the leader of this country. And instead of mentioning how he is finding time to be with his family all the while leading the country through this very turbulent time, the article just repeatedly mentioned how he wasn’t wearing a shirt and how lucky this family must have been to take pictures with him because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Honestly, a too vocal minority in this country already belittles the Prime Minister and only sees him as a pretty boy! Articles like this just add to their fire. I get it, it was just supposed to be a fun little piece that humanized the Prime Minister, but he already is humanized. He proves that with his actions every day! We know he’s a PM for the people, because he shows us that. But thanks, Buzzfeed, for reminding us that in the end, he’s still only a sexy body to be looked at.

                Well, got that out of my system. Honestly, didn’t think it bothered me that much. Apparently it did. Sorry to anyone reading that who was confused, the rest of this post will be much less confusing! Maybe.

                I was at the lake for the majority of my holidays (all of it), and it was very relaxing. I had brought my laptop to work on some writing and to edit my next video, but I didn’t do either of those. I just relaxed. I read, played Pokémon, caught up on Killjoys and Dark Matter, binged the first 8 episodes of Preacher, and watched a lot of Food Network. It was great. For my readers who haven’t watched Killjoys or Dark Matter, you really should. They’re too amazingly well-made Canadian sci-fi shows both written by showrunners from the Stargate franchise (SG-1 and Atlantis (the good ones)), and only in their second seasons, so you can catch up! Season One of Dark Matter is on Netflix, and Season One of Killjoys is available on Crave. Look at me go, someone wanna sponsor me? Free lifetime memberships are fine!

                Preacher. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Preacher, and 8 episodes in, I still don’t know what to expect from the last two. The first season is serving as a prequel to the comics, with the finale supposedly ending right where the comics begin, and as an introduction to the major characters. Through the season, we watch as Jesse Custer, the titular Preacher, goes from a son fulfilling a promise to true believer and leader to a slightly power mad madman to? I don’t want to go too much into the show, but the acting is wonderful, the writing is great, and the cinematography is beautiful. You can tell that the creators and showrunners (which include Seth Rogen) really do love the source material, and are trying to do it justice.

                Talk about disjointed.

                Anyways. That’s a basic update on what I’ve been doing.