Teach Me How to Dougie

Well, as promised, I have come back to the marvellous world of blogging a.k.a. making fun of legitimate dumbasses around me. A couple of things have changed for me in the past year and a half:

1. I moved from the big stinking city of Toronto to the small stinking K-W area to do my masters program. You would think that, in a first world country, because the town is smaller it would also be cleaner since there is literally less shit to clean up. Nope. Still the same crazy-ass motherfuckers here to bring confusion and contemplated suicide (Ha! No, I could never leave Oreo cookies for the afterlife) to my daily life.

2. I now attend WLU for a masters in music therapy. ‘Nough said.

3. The rest is none of ya’ll’s business until I make it your business. Don’t be so damn nosy into a girl’s life. Rude.

Since one of my biggest life changes right now is moving from the city back to suburbia, let me set the stage for those of you unfamiliar with Kitchener-Waterloo-Guelph. First off, the whole town is whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite. Like met-their-first-person-of-colour-in-university white. Like thinks-kale-is-delicious white. Like names-their-kids-Susan-and-Simon white. I’m talking Andy Samberg-(attempting)-rapping white.

I actually love him.

I actually love him.

Now, this wouldn’t be a problem if the guy selling fried chicken was actually born in Louisiana like the sign says, and not very obviously born in Karachi. Everyone just ASSUMES that the chicken will turn out okay. It does not. And no one knows any better about the quality of chicken to stop going to that shit hole. What a fucking shame.

Anyway, the area used to be called Berlin and actually has a really large German population. The schnitzel here makes me  so damn happy I cry tears of grease and Lowenbrau.

Trust that cretinous toe jam trolls walk about here as freely as they did in my previous location. Yes, whatever shit I must have done in a past life still haunts me to this day because they all come to talk to me.


One example of such a creature was when I decided to go out dancing with one of my roommates. I know. I’m an idiot. I really deserved what was coming to me because leaving my home is already a fucking land mine. So this is my fault.

My roommate, we’ll call her Farah, convinced me to go out to the scuzziest bar in town. Another one of those this-is-where-STIs-come-to-socialize types. I didn’t mind. I wasn’t planning on touching anyone, and sure as hell they weren’t planning on touching me without giving me their whole arm to take home as a souvenir for my trouble.


Farah said that on this particular night there was really good music: lots of hip hop, soca, and reggae. This night at that particular bar is known as “black guy night” by the locals. Wildly inaccurate since my roommate and I represented half the black folk in the whole bar. Excuse me, I mean the whole town.

I danced with Farah and another friend of ours, who we’ll call Trish, without too much hassle. We were actually having a pretty good time, minus watching the most ratchet dancing I have ever seen outside a rap video, when the predator pounced upon me. It was horrific. One moment I was dancing, the next, this was glaring into my face wide-eyed like a donkey that got surprise sex in the bum:

Ughhhh! Fuuuuuuck.

Ughhhh! Fuuuuuuck.

“UM… I MEAN THIS IN A NON-BLACK WAY…. CAN YOU TEACH ME TO DANCE LIKE YOUR PEOPLE?” she drunkenly managed to scream at Farah and me.

Honestly, that’s probably the stupidest sentence that I could ever imagine saying out loud to a stranger, so I thought she was finished talking. That was evidently my mistake.


Farah was truly in the mood for zero bullshit that night and started grabbing my arm to pull me away. “Let’s move away from this nonsense,” she enthusiastically suggested. We figured that our clear shunning of this girl would be enough for her to recognize that we did not want to talk to her or help her on her quest for negro-inspired dance moves.

This did not help.

“NO, PLEASE! I REALLY WANNA LEARN TO DANCE. BLACK GIRLS ARE JUST SUCH GOOD DANCERS!!!!” she explained as she followed us around the bar for 30 minutes.

Actually? I couldn’t believe this girl existed in damn real life. Like what in the fuck do you not understand about people looking at you and walking away after you open the gaping flesh wound that is your mouth? I get that this heifer of a chick was drunk, but she was making a scene for no reason. To the point where I almost snapped and told her to pull her goddamn gets-blackout-drunk-the-night-before-her-granny’s-funeral-because-#YOLO-and-#TURNUP life together. I mean, come on now. This isn’t a frigging Miley Cyrus video.

There were no blurred lines in regards to our friendship status with this drunk fuck. No means no!

There were no blurred lines in regards to our friendship status with this drunk fuck. No means no!

I feel like one of the worst parts about this situation is that this girl was not alone. This girl had friends who saw us ostracizing the fuck out of her and just kept watching it happen. What the fuck sort of friendship is that?!

I know what you’re going to say. “Timmi, you and your friends could have showed that dumb bitch some kindness, and at least smiled and danced with her for a little.”


She danced like ass. I’m not about to be associated with that on purpose.


What’s good, fams?

I know. It’s been a while. I’m prodigal as fuck. But it’s really for a good reason.

Okay, it’s not for a good reason at all. I was a lazy wench and was applying to grad school. That’s pretty much the end of it. But now I’m back. I’d like to tell you more stories of my life’s nonsense. Trust that plenty of postable and hilarious bullshit has happened to me in the last year and a half.

Let’s take this on another spin, shall we?


Kissed at Camp

Dear baby Jesus. It’s been getting so cold outside these last couple of days/weeks/fuck I don’t even know how long it’s been, that I can actually feel my piss freezing inside of my bladder. No, that’s a lie. It’s like 15 degrees Celsius out right now, but when you are of Jamaican descent and have poor blood circulation, you miss summer like I’m sure Taylor Swift misses all of her 10+ exes as she makes millions of dollars off her deplorable song-writing abilities.

You’re right, Taylor. The only thing I care about is how boys look at me. You just know me so well! I mean, you can totally rely on hormones to make life decisions, right?

Too bad I live in a country where God decided it’s cool for people to have a six-month winter. My summer this year was amazing. I worked at camp again, where I renewed my love of counseling and children. It’s also where I renewed my knowledge that if people live within close proximity of each other for a while, they will want anything between a full-blown and unabashedly unrealistic “The Notebook”-type romance and a no strings attached fling like the ones we see in high school.

This wouldn’t be so bad if the campers didn’t do this shit, too. Sadly, the psychology of us humans and how we are dumbasses is even prevalent in the very young. It’s like being a stupid fuck is linked to some sort of hallucinogen in the water we drink.

One of the campers in my cabin in particular had a habit of developing crushes at camp in previous years. We’ll call him Sid. Normally this wasn’t too much of a problem for Sid because he usually did not do anything about his quickly fleeting feelings and those feelings were always restricted to other campers. No such luck this year. Sid’s tastes had graduated from pre-adolescent girlishness to womanhood.

Mine in particular. God must hate me.

I guess he’s a kid who is attracted to leadership

Because I am an ever kind and tolerant soul, I kept my understanding of Sid’s obvious crush on me outside his realm of knowledge as not to embarrass him. It was even more awkward and sensitive because Sid has a learning disability. I informed the appropriate staff so we could properly monitor the situation and that nothing would get out of hand. Everything seemed to be under control like a well-oiled machine.

The universe did not want this.

On one of the last days of camp for Sid, our cabin was at our out-tripping period making fires and carving sticks. My co-counsellors and I supervised the teenage boys holding knives with a watchful eye as to make sure the little shits didn’t cut off their hands. Or stab us.

Sid was occupied with helping build the fire so when it got started he came up to me and gave me a hug. No problem. However, the hug lasted more than 5 seconds and the rule at camp (so that we can teach them social cues) is to gently say, “1, 2, 3, release!” I executed the child-you-best-get-the-fuck-up-off-me prompt but Sid kept holding on like a Class-5 clinger. A very slight problem. “Sid,” I said. “I want you to let go of me now, please. The hug is over.” Sid did not budge. In fact, the teenaged boy squeezed me tighter. “Sid, I need you to let go now,” I prompted again to his selective hearing, stubborn-ass ears. Sid shifted his head so his mouth was aligned with my right ear.

“I love you, Timmi,” he whispered. And then he kissed my cheek. A teenaged boy kissed me. Christ, what did I do wrong in a past life?

“Whoa!” I exclaimed as I backed right the fuck up from Sid with all the grace of a walrus performing ballet as it takes a shit. “That makes me uncomfortable, Sid.”

I wish this was an isolated situation with Sid. It was not. Even though Sid profusely apologized for trying to get his love connection on with me, he continued to do weird shit for the rest of camp. Like calling me “his chocolate pudding”. Why do white people insist on giving me nicknames that involve chocolate? I am a person. Made of carbon. Sid also enjoyed activities like staring at my breasts and trying to prevent me from putting on a sweater when I noticed. Or telling me everyday that I am a beautiful woman. My favourite was when he kept rubbing his face against my arm because my skin is just “so soft”.

Then buy some fucking cocoa butter and yours will be, too. Jesus.

Rub your own goddamn arm

Love Birds

It seems that lately, everyone around is shifting in their romantic relationship dynamics: some are breaking up like crumbly chocolate chip cookies, some are getting together, and others still fall somewhere on the spectrum in between. Maybe it’s because Winter is coming and we will all have to fuck for warmth soon. Whatever the case, it’s hella entertaining to watch from the sidelines as people clumsily stumble from one partner to the next.

All this “thrill of the chase” got me thinking about a time when I thought relationships were a positive life choice: high school. Yes, the time when everyone’s hormones are raging at 200 km/hour, probably because of the additives they put in the chicken. It’s a time when teenaged boys think that the way to impress a girl is to spray the entire can of Axe body spray onto their bodies in the middle of the hallway instead of bathing, producing a cloudy stench that is the combination of gym class and a cheap hotel. On fire.

They were doing it right during WW2

I had a crush on this boy when I was in high school. We’ll call him Jeremy. Jeremy and I had been pretty close friends in the ninth grade. We were both socially awkward people (Correction: I’m still awkward as fuck; that’s why my life is this blog) and enjoyed talking to each other on MSN messenger because that’s just how kids used to flirt back in the day. In the tenth grade, I started developing feelings for Jeremy. Hell, I was so mushy I would put Taylor Swift and her blond white girl-cuteness to shame. However, there was an issue. Jeremy liked another girl who we’ll call Fiona. So my dumb ass listened to him whine about how much he liked Fiona every night as we chatted online. Yeah, I was a really clever 15 year-old.

Eventually, I couldn’t fucking take it anymore. I was going explode if I didn’t tell Jeremy that I had a not-so-secret crush on him. Hell, I didn’t even want anything  past that. I just wanted to tell him I cared about him. So one night I did.

“Hey, Jeremy, I like someone but I’m afraid to tell him,” I typed with all the juvenile maturity I could muster.

“Oh, really? Who is it?” Jeremy typed back, puzzled.

“Um… well… err..” I stammered online(!?). What the fuck? Why the hell did this jumbled pile of shit happen? Ugh! Children…

“Oh, come on! We’re friends! I told you about Fiona. Now, who’s this guy?”

“Well… um… you…” I admitted, so utterly ashamed.

“Well this is awkward.”

I signed the fuck off MSN messenger immediately. A month later when Jeremy finally got his shit together and had enough balls to speak to me again, we had our first conversation after that clusterfuck of adolescence.

“So why was is it awkward that I like you? I mean, Fiona and you are friends and she knows you like her. You guys are still friends. Why can’t we be friends?” I asked.

“Well, I guess I just don’t see you that way,” Jeremy finally produced after 10 minutes of online silence.

“Ok, but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I guess I’m just not really into black girls…”

“What?” (Sidenote: fair enough. There are just some races you find attractive and others you don’t. It’s not a racism thing. It’s a preference thing.)

“I just don’t think races should mix,” said Jeremy of both Japanese and Caucasian blood. Yeah, the kid’s mixed race.

“Um… okay,” I meekly typed back as I went and developed a complex that would haunt me for years after.

I’m going to pause this shit for a second. “Um, okay” was my answer?! Jesus fuck, if I ever find out my future kids take somebody’s shit like that, I will neuter them myself. That’s not even a little acceptable. If I could be 15 for that 20 minutes I was talking to Jeremy all over again, my answer should have been:

Listen, you festering sack of warthog dick pus. It’s completely acceptable that you are not attracted to me based solely on the uncontrollable fact that I have a larger amount of melanin in my skin than your cancer-prone ass will ever have. It is NOT acceptable, however, to tell me that I’m unworthy of being with you because you don’t believe in interracial relationships. And you can very well fuck right off with that argument anyway, you tiny-knobbed prick. Your parents do not belong to the same ethnicity. Did you not realise that ever at some point in your life? Jesus, Mary, and shit-cakes, do you ever have a lot to learn.

Now I realise that Jeremy was probably feeling bashful and alarmed by the entire situation and did not know what to say. However, that does not make it okay. Without guidance, that ignorant thought continues. This is not the last time I heard that very remark. It’s exactly attitudes like this which cause problems like this:


Apparently the worst thing in the world for some folks is to date a black person. Or to even have a black person like them! Now, I’m not sure why. We make excellent fried chicken, we dance well, we can sing you pretty songs, and we can run really fast! All of us. No exceptions. So it’s really surprising when I hear of teenaged girls threatening their parents with:

You won’t let me go to the movies?! Fine! Well, I’m just going to go out a date and a big BLACK guy! See how you like that!

What the hell? How is that a threat? You need to come up with better material than that. If I threatened my parents with:

Oh my God. Fuck you! I’m going to go out a date a super scary guy whose skin colour is different from mine! In fact, about 90% of human DNA is identical to everyone else’s, so it’s really your xenophobia that is the problem. I’m obviously going to date someone with whom I have nothing in common in terms of values so that you can worry even more! That’ll learn ya!

They would respond with:

You still have to empty the dishwasher.

21st century child slavery

I would not want to be one of those idiots who believes we just have to keep marrying/dating into the same ethnicity. At least because I’m open to having a non-black partner, my kids are less likely to come out with disease due to racial inbreeding. Or ugly.

Get in the Cab

Happy Hurricane Sandy, everyone! I hope that you all get days days off (especially you American folk) and have hurricane parties and drink lots of beer. Or tequila. Whatever. But seriously, in this weather don’t make yourself a fucking liability and do dumb shit. Stay inside. Lord knows we’re going to hear about some fool-ass tomorrow anyway who decided they were bigger and “badder” than any goddamn hurricane.

Speaking of taking unnecessary risks with one’s life, that brings me to today’s topic: taxicabs.

Don’t fuck with this

I’m not playing. Taxis are a death trap to the next level. You’re getting into a vehicle with someone you’ve never met before. You don’t know where the dick-wad is going to take you. For all you know some serial rapist murderer could be your driver ready to fling your sorry ass into a lake. I bet most of us don’t even think to take note of the license plate just in case. That’s just too much damn risk, if you ask me.

Earlier this month I had no choice but to get a taxi to drop me at the train station because I had a hella ton of luggage to haul. The taxi showed up, the driver got out, and he looked a fucking lot like this guy:

Jesus fuck

I was only mildly sketched out because a) I’m a Torontonian and, therefore,  jaded, and b) I feel like most of my taxi drivers have looked approximately at least this pedophile-like. I clambered my exhausted body into the back of the cab and sighed loudly as I buckled my seat belt, slumping over. The driver confirmed with me that he was taking me to the train station and reversed out of the driveway.

We rode along in silence for a while, which I didn’t mind because I didn’t have a burning desire to engage in conversation with some guy who looks like he would probably buy a 12 year old girl to lock in his dungeon of a basement equipped with security cameras and rope. That didn’t last long, though. This man was jumping down my throat with questions. Just my luck.

“So you’re heading back to university?” he first inquired. Standard question. No problem.

“Yeah, I’m just bringing the last of my stuff back to my apartment,” I answered like a completely normally-functioning member of society.

“Oh ok. So are you in first year… second year?”

“Haha! No, I’m actually 22. Good try, though.”

“Oh… you look young!” he said, surprised.

“Yup! Most people can’t tell how old I am. I’m ok with it.”

In my mind, the conversation was now over. Nope.

“Nice, nice. So, uh, do you got a boyfriend, then?” he asked, trying to make a really bloody awkward question as casual as possible. It wasn’t like I could go anywhere anyway; my ass was already firmly strapped into the back seat tighter than Beyoncé’s clothes, ready to be suffocated with a garbage bag and left in a dumpster.

See, creepy shit like this happens to me a lot. Dudes who were undoubtedly born in the Jurassic period try to “subtly” ask me to be their girlfriend. I would not mind so much if they did not initially think I was in high school. What the hell does that say? I attract grown men who think that fucking children is as good a life choice as applying to university. That is not only so disgusting that I want to vomit into my own mouth, it is also a great opportunity for me. How?

See, the thing is that I’ve always dreamed of starting my own television series. The show would be called Get Your Shit Together, You Perverted Sick Fuck. It would feature me living my daily life and posing as a 16 year-old. Apparently I can easily pass for that age. Then when degenerates talk to me, I’d call the cops on their worthless asses. Not only would I have my television series, I would also be able to put throbbing bags of dicks of people in jail, where they will most definitely be bum-raped.

Anyway, I experience this sort of inappropriate attention often and you’d think that I would have a well-rehearsed response such as:

Oh, yeah! I actually have a boyfriend who is named Jamaal. He’s a hulking 6’8″ and weighs well over 300 pounds. What a man! And he’s such a great pro wrestler! Usually when I go to watch his matches, I need a ladder to be able to wipe the sweat off his brow. I mean, my waist is only half the size of his biceps. Did I mention that Jamaal is just sooooo spiritual? One of his favourite pastimes is hunting wild moose and killing them with his bare hands to sacrifice to the Brazilian Orixàs of Candomblé. He smears their blood on a drum and pounds his chest as he ferociously howls. He told me he does this particular tribal ritual to keep me safe from harm’s way. Isn’t that just SO sweet of him, looking out for me like that with the gods? I love him so much!

Jamaal back in high school. Isn’t he dreamy?

Like I said. Taxis are a precarious life experience. I need to find me a Jamaal for real.

Dancehall Queen

Happy Canadian Thanksgiving, everyone! And also a very happy birthday to myself this weekend.

Yep. Another year older, another year wiser, another year of random bullshit people try to pull.

One of my very oldest and closest friends, we’ll call him Rob, insisted on taking me out on the town to celebrate my age being a palindrome. Obviously I said yes because you can’t say no to Toronto’s gay village. Or to Rob. Let’s be honest, the boy has skills like a lawyer.

I got myself casually dolled up for the occasion and we met up with 2 of his other friends for dinner at a sushi restaurant. I swear to God our server had never seen black folk in her entire life before. She was so excited when we finished all our food and paid the WHOLE bill. Seemed like some kind of paranoid/post-traumatic stress disorder shit to me. That sushi was fucking delicious, though.

I’d be a liar if I said this was what we actually ordered

Our peachy little friendship crew headed over to the club, which filled up quickly half an hour after arriving. We were having a great time dancing away when a man who was dancing in close proximity to our drunken tomfoolery approached us. He first spoke to the other girl in our group and then came up to me.

“Hi! My name is (Dave)!”

“Oh hey, Dave! It’s nice to meet you! I’m Timmi!” I danced to the blaring club tunes as we exchanged conversation. Ain’t nobody getting in the way of me shaking my groove thing. I assumed he was gay anyway. I am yet to see a straight man walk up into a gay bar alone.

“I’m Colombian!” he gestured to himself as I noticed his heavy accent. So he was. “What is your background?”

“I’m Jamaican!” I screamed back over Rihanna’s auto-tuned wailing.

I figured that because this man also shared a non-Anglo Saxon North American background, he would just leave it at that. What in fuck’s name he said next I still can’t believe.

“Oh that’s cool! You don’t dance like you’re white!” he said with a big stupid grin smeared across his face.

Hold the fuck up. What?

“HIiiiiiiiiiiiiii! I’m Jenny!”

Ok, I know I don’t take a lot of photos but I know for damn sure the girl in the image above is NOT me. I don’t dance like I’m white? What the fuck is that supposed to mean, you dirty sack of shit? Was the light glaring from my teeth so much that you couldn’t tell I’m not white? It’s not like my name is Beyoncé Knowles or anything.

Listen, Dave. Sharpen some pencils and fall on them. Best birthday present ever.