Real Talk


I woke up to snow falling at a steady pace just on the other side of my living room’s window. It wasn’t like yesterday afternoon where the snowflakes had been wet and the size of my dogs head (that is a pretty accurate comparison by the way) no this morning it was just regular snow, you know, the kind you expect to find in mid-January while you’re freezing and only dreaming of warmer days.

Blankets of the white stuff cover everything this morning. “It will be gone by noon” is what the various people who walk into the shop today will say. Although annoyance will be nipping at the back of their throat just as a small dog nips at the ankles of a human who they want the attention of.

The snow, really, is neither here nor there. Well, actually, from my understanding it is here AND there and just about everywhere. A teeny tiny part of my brain keeps wondering if this is it. Is this the snowpocolypse? Is this how it ends? Snow flurries and cold. It’s like a cruel fucking joke man.

Oh worry not my friends I only tease. I’m sure it will be gone by noon just like my imaginary customers say. I am reading The Stand by Stephen King, so you know, I’ve got a lot of grim and apocalyptic thoughts going on in the ole nog lately.

I keep gazing outside though to find the snow and what I am assuming to be cold waiting for me. For the last two weeks I’ve been walking to work. 4 km there 4 km home. It’s no great achievement, it’s not like, body building or marathon running but it’s something and I’ve been feeling pretty good about it I suppose. I’d like to walk to work today but for previously stated reasons (the impending snowpocolypse if you didn’t quite catch my drift ~boom~) I keep shying away from the idea. Imaginings of an imminent death or serious injury continue to sully the dark places in my brain.

You see there is always the possibility of somehow getting held up in some crazy and outlandish situation that I cannot even fathom right now and freezing to death…You can freeze to death in minus five, right? Well, scratch that, what about the constant worry of pneumonia? It is dreadfully wet out there and a 4km walk in the stuff would only result in the horrendous throes of sickness by the end. Obviously. And we can’t rule out the crazy lunatics that will undoubtedly surface at the beginning of any End of Days. I’m sure that includes the snowpocolypse too.

Ugh, when did I become such a big baby you guys? When did I start worrying endlessly about slipping on ice and breaking limbs? It wasn’t THAT long ago when I was carefree. It wasn’t that long ago when I would throw caution to the wind and do all of the sporadic and random things that now make me cringe. In present time caution is a dear friend who I hold close to my breast with an uncompromising grip.

As I continue to mull over a nice brisk walk to work this morning I imagine trudging my way up the concrete stairs of the walking bridge that connects the Northside of my city to the Southside. With my luck I’d ever so gracefully slip upon the one patch of black ice it holds beneath its snow covered dress and that would be all she wrote folks. Literally. I would tumble down a 20 foot drop all the while bashing my head against not only hard but FROZEN stone. There I would lay on the ground beside my maker, the walking bridge, for hours as falling snowflakes encased me in a catacomb of cold hell.  No one would come to my rescue or even see me because no one in their right mind would be out and about on a leisurely walk in the damn SNOWPOCOLYPSE! And thus it would be sometime after noon when a passerby—safely ambulatory now that the snow had melted—would find me groaning and moaning by the concrete clad staircase in which I had plummeted from hours before. No, today I think I will drive.

Stay safe out there folks, it’s a brave new world now.


An All Hallow’s Eve Spooky Read

On a not so eerie and fogless night you find yourself sitting quietly in the front room reading from a thrilling Stephen King novel (maybe you aren’t as obsessed with Mr. King as I and if that’s the case… SACRILEGE!!!!!)

Ahem, only kidding.

I love you Stephen... *Madcap fan-girl whispers fervently into computer screen.
I love you Stephen… *Madcap fan-girl whispers fervently into computer screen.

Anyway, there you are reading away when you realize how peaceful the house actually is.

A little too peaceful. Things are never this quiet around here.

Your heart begins racing. It’s pumping so hard that you must consciously will it to slow down in fear you may have some kind of a cardiac episode. You’re not sure what kind of heart attacks young and virile people such as yourself have…But you’re sure you’ve heard tell of such incidents occurring.

You shoot up frantically from your spot on the couch. Immediately upon placing weight on the legs you had been foolishly sitting on for the last half hour you tumble to the ground, hard and loud. You let out an agonizing scream and think for a moment that this may well be it. The Charlie horse you are experiencing is currently shooting straight into your ass cheek and you don’t know how much more you can handle.

You begin recalling beautiful memories from the past, like when you finally murdered that pesky fly that was buzzing you the other day and the time you didn’t have to engage in the struggle to get into your favourite skinny jeans.

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Luckily your spouse comes to the rescue. He runs to your side. “What’s happening here?” He yells. He is clearly very confused from the scene he has walked in on.

“Butt cramp! House too quiet! KIDS!” You reply.

After he assists you with a bit of an awkward bum rub, you both realize there is no time to waste.

Hand in hand you move stealthily towards the hallway that leads to your children’s bedrooms. The lights are dimmed making your home reminiscent to a bad 80’s horror flick and you immediately regret installing all of those dimmer switches when you were going through your home renovation phase.

The hall looks much longer than you remember it and in the middle lays a solitary toy.

It is the rubber chicken that your daughter pleaded with you to buy her the last time you were in the pet section of Wal-Mart. You tried to explain it was a dog’s toy. That meant nothing to her so you purchased it anyways. But ever since then you’ve been having wicked dreams of clowns and rubber chickens…Like the two worst things ever to be invented.


Your partner steps directly atop the things inflated belly and it lets out a long and exasperated squeal that makes both of you yelp! You can feel the slightest trickle down your inner thigh and you wonder how old you have truly become.

You turn right—towards the lavatory. You flick the light on without expectation and what you find terrifies you more than any amount of incontinence could explain.

“No!” you place a foreboding hand towards it, as though trying to telepathically push it away from your line of sight, “NOOOOO!!!”

Your husband appears seconds later and joins you in an ominous chorus of misery.

“Why? Oh WHY! What is happening in this house!” He despairs .

There, staring up at you menacingly is a poo that has coiled quite perfectly around the inside of the bowl. Some may ask what is so scary about a coiler. And admittedly it is not the fecal in which you shy away from, you’ve dealt with your fair share of shit before.

Photo credit: Google Images
Photo credit: Google Images

In truth it is the lack of toilet paper accompanying this turd that makes you cringe in the very deep of your soul.

Somewhere in this house there is a pair of underwear stashed away that holds a shart streak to end ALL shart streaks. It must be found, it must be removed.

You and the hubs look at each other for longer than what seems acceptable when standing over a log that is quite possibly the length your daughters arm. You are silently brooding over what to do next.

For a moment you wonder if you have developed the ability to telepathically speak to your spouse so you say, “Can…Can you hear me!?” silently…When he continues to just stare at you with a blank look you realize you haven’t quite got there yet.

So Instead you whisper, “What the fuck do we do now?”

He grasps your hand in a, ‘we’re going to get through this together’ kind of way. You shift towards the children’s bedroom. Again the agony of anticipation creeps to the forefront of your better judgement and you can feel the beginning of an anxiety attack.


You open the door slowly to really articulate the *creeeeeeeak* sound it ever so creepily makes.

There sitting in the dead centre of a clutter filled floor are your children. They are waiting for you. Your partner squeezes your hand a little tighter upon seeing their empty eyes, their vacant smiles.

You begin scanning the room for the underwear in question and you wonder if in fact it could still be located on their person. A slight tang of poop wafts past you in the stale air of the room.

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And in unison your spawns say,

“Hello Mother, would you like to play a game.”