So a new year begins and I still find myself eating Chef Boyardee noodles out of a can. The sauce is cold, not because I don’t have a clean pan, but simply because I know I can’t put metal in a microwave. IF I could, my ravioli would be a delicious lukewarm right now but I’m old enough to know that this rule isn’t just some mode of social control. Nope. Doing so could actually cause serious harm to me and my microwave. I have grown much in my 30 years.
I am bearded and I can’t remember if it’s because I like being bearded or that the beard just happens to be there because I forgot about my face. My Donkey Kong t-shirt reminds me that I’m still only 35% complete in Batman Arkham city, which is a striking number when placed against my 12% dishes completed, 7.3% hygiene and 0.003% ambition to complete anything with a percentage.
I’m tired but that’s my fault. I haven’t really been sleeping. Or eating well. Or drinking in moderation.
If my life was a videogame, my laundry gauge would be in the top right corner of the screen represented by underwear markers. When the underwear gauge reached zero, you’d have to do laundry or its game over. Packs of Fruit of the Loom socks would increase the gauge by 3 underwear markers and for every day you went with an empty laundry gauge, you’d go down two points on the casual sex meter conveniently located underneath.
Speaking of video games, I have started to hate Nintendo Wii because it makes me get off my couch, which tends to get ashes all over the floor as I play. It also makes spills and breaks all the more common. In fact, it has already claimed two martini glasses this week, which I’m sure makes the cashier at Dollarama wonder why I’m collecting them on a bi-weekly basis. It also hurts my wrist which has begun to fail me. I assure you it is not due to chronic masturbation but rather that I stumbled drunkenly onto the Queen Street pavement while buying Belmonts from Coffee Time, where I tripped and fell due to wearing no belt on pants one size too large. On second thought, it would have been more admirable to say I was masturbating. Yes, let’s say that.
I’m still not a famous actor. I know, it’s shocking really. I keep getting called in to audition for Rookie Blue, which many claim defines a generation of generic cop dramas in its sexy depiction of real life urban street crime and the steamy salacious sex that everyone knows is really happening at our local precinct. I am currently on my fourth audition, this time for a slimy street pusher. My previously auditioned roles of slimy drug peddler and slimy stadium drunk let me know that my agent is well aware of my acting range.
I am also running a business. I wake up every day to emails from artists looking for rehearsals and performance times. When I send them a quote, my artist brain thinks about how expensive theatres are, how expensive rights are, how expensive costumes are, how expensive sets are. My artist brain reminds me how time consuming the line studying is, how exhausting the rehearsals are when coupled with a part time job. It reminds me of all the anxiety and thanklessness that goes into making theatre, my artist mind does.
So my artist mind looks at the price quoted for my space and artfully waives a tech rehearsal here and knocks down an hourly price there. Smiling, my artist mind manipulates my artist hands over the keyboard and clicks “send”, gently pushing a quote out into the cyber ethers that's probably less money than it ought to be. “Art over commerce”, my art riddled brain thinks. "Changing the world”, it murmurs. That’s when my artsy-fartsy brain fashions a big ol’ artsy-fartsy smile across my face.
An hour later, someone else’s artist brain sends me a message saying they want it for $300 cheaper.
I’m not good at business. I feel like it’s wrong to ask for money unless it’s my dad or some dick whose being “the bank” when playing Monopoly. Taking money from a theatre artist is like walking up to a panhandler and asking for their coffee cup. If you took either away, neither could continue with their occupation it would seem. I would know. Without my coffee cup, the Johns would have nowhere to fling the used condom as they short change me out the ally.
Another strange side effect of NOW is that my self-deprecation has never been as astute or lethally tasteless. I’m quick to make it seem like I’m on the verge of alcohol fuelled death or at the mercy of a jailhouse glory hole with little provocation. As to why this is I’m not certain. I suppose it could be said that I have no shame, but this has always been the case. Somewhere with the passing of time, I’ve become completely willing to sell the Fernandes name two meters too short. Simply put, I have no fight left in me to claim that I am awesome anymore. IF someone wishes to disparage me, I allow it. Fuck it, y’know? If it gives them some hope, let ‘em have it. Who doesn’t need hope these days?
For example, when someone calls me homosexual in jest, rather than protest, I simply offer to suck their dick. Nine times out of ten this leads to them going, “yeah, see?” and then I say, “Exactly. So you want me to suck your dick?” Which prompts them to turn to their friend wearing the TAP OUT muscles shirt and Von Dutch hat and go, “What's with this guy?” and the muscle shirt /Von Dutch guy goes, “Well, you said he was gay. So now he wants to suck your dick.” Seemingly challenged, the guy who called me gay gets angry saying, “what, you saying I want a guy to suck my dick?” Von Dutch, unable to stop himself from taking a swing at his buddies masculinity given such an opening (and still pissed that he’s losing in the office hockey pool) goes, “Well you’re the one looking for gay guys. Why’d you start asking him if he was gay if you didn’t want it?”. This logic, airtight, forces the guy calling me gay to admit in some dark corner of his mind (which rests next to last night’s MMA match and step by step instructions to his “alphabet” cunnilingus technique) that he was indeed turned on during that scene in BAD BOYS when Will Smith was running with his shirt open in slow motion. From this mental vantage point (a mere 2 millimeters off the ground for those mathematically inclined), truth is in some way achieved, which suddenly manifests itself into physical action as the two men begin to punch each other in the face. When the dust settles, and the blood dries on floor of The Loose Moose, the two men will laugh about the fight as they throw back Jager bombs, neither acknowledging the other’s hand resting in the ass pocket of their Point Zero faux torn jeans.
I’m sorry what was I talking about again? Oh yes, I’m self-deprecating. Yeah, I just don’t give a fuck.
I’ve recently started to see a girl who makes me very happy, which is exciting, as the last few girls I dated made me want to give up on women altogether and start picking fights at mainstream clubs by asserting my desire to perform fellatio. You could say I had a rough go on the women front throughout 2010, dating a Christian teenager who didn’t really like me and a girl who treated sex partners like Pokémon, trying to collect them all. I shouldn’t blame either of them for being who they are, just myself for getting so wrapped up in the drama of it all while still mourning the loss of a previous relationship. That, plus losing my studio, put me in a weird headspace you could say. The biggest loss was my blog writing, an act that provides me with such a lovely public arena in which to air out my dirty laundry, currently sitting at two underwear markers on the gauge.
But all that has changed now. Now I know not to put metal in a microwave for example. And I have two packs of socks ready to get me through the boss battle at the end of World three. Small steps yes, but giant leaps when looking at it with nothing else to compare it too and a fantastical world view that sees my life as an electronic entertainment.
I grow tired, so let’s recap. My career is barreling ahead. My love life actually exists. And my attitude still kinda sucks but offers a few moments of amusement for those taking a dump with an Iphone.
And I’m blogging again. So there.
Such is being 30 in 2012. I hope we learned something here today.
Seriously, I’ll suck your dick,
That Blogging Bastard