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.

Dat Ass

It seems that the gentlemen idiotic or brave enough to make advances towards me have a general means of approach: they pounce. Out of fucking nowhere. It’s like they’re part of some ninja rapist club or something. I’m not sure why they want to surprise me like that. I have a goddamn heart problem; that could kill a girl. You know what; I figure as long as I’m still alive to collect the insurance money after I have a heart attack, it really isn’t that big a problem.

This morning I was on the subway with a shit ton of sweaty and sticky Torontonians. It was great. It was like being in a nightclub but homeless people were there, too. I even had my iPod so I could groove to Marvin Gaye like the smooth cat I am. Standard procedure.

Until I felt someone’s hand firmly grab my behind.

I whirled my head around faster than you can say, “Motherfucker, please!” all the while thinking,  Hell yeah! It’s finally my chance to make the front page in the newspaper: “University student goes ‘I Know What you Did Last Summer’ all over dumbass perpetrator for unwanted physical contact”. The title is a little wordy but I think it’s workable. About 20 different variations of Jamaican expletives raced through my mind when I came face-to-face with an elderly man. My next thoughts ran along the lines of:

Jesus Christ with a side of Charlie Sheen, what do I do? I can’t beat the fuck out of him now! He’s old. On the other hand, he’s already on his way out. Maybe if I just break his hand…

As I was making this deliberation, the man nonchalantly returned my gaze, his hand still gripping my rump, with all the God-given “right” to be copping a feel on my divine ass. Yes, it must have been looking pretty divine if he couldn’t control his bloody reflexes.

Before I could even say anything, he sort of pushed off and walked out of the of subway car as if nothing had happened. I looked around to see if anyone else was as outraged as I was. Or at least frigging witnessed that pile of fuckery. Nope. My sexual harassment subway audience were quite impressed.

I really need to start kicking people in the kidneys. For real.


Love is such a funny thing. It makes you stupidly smile to yourself as you imagine impossibly intricate love scenes involving effeminate sparkling vampires whilst listening to Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” on repeat. For some reason you want to pointlessly bust the fuck into song and awkward dance like you’re part of the Glee cast (with or without the vocal talent). Love gives you the compulsion to Facebook creep the hell out of your interest like the motherfucking stalker you are. The amount of oxytocin released into the brain when you’re in love, scientists say, is pretty substantial. Love makes you a dumbass. I’ve watched countless fools drool and trip over their own tongues like dogs in heat. Not that I would know. I’m no expert on the subject. I get too distracted by Star Wars.

Ok, but you can see why. This man is sexy.

Luckily for you, dear readers, I won’t be covering that subject today. I’m about as qualified at being an Olympic swimmer. Or Batman.

Last summer my older (Caucasian) sister and I were required to get our CPR and First Aid certifications for our jobs. Not a problem. We decided we’d take a class together and then high five each other at the end. A brilliant plan, really. The first day of the course, we met our instructor and settled in with the other students around a large table in the classroom. Our instructor was a pretty friendly guy. He went around the table and asked everyone their name and some background information.

Before I go any further I’m going to divulge that I can’t read social cues to save my life, or at least nothing that has to do with romance. I’m serious. On a scale of one to “Sixteen and Pregnant”, I’m pretty clueless. In high school a guy wrote lyrics to a love song in my yearbook, sang me those same lyrics while holding my hand, and told me “I think we’d be great together as a couple”. I smiled and gave him a fist pound. My fool ass didn’t get that he was trying to feel the motion of my ocean.

I told this guy that I see him like a brother

When the instructor came around to my sister and I, he asked with an inquisitive expression, “Are you guys… together?”

“Oh, yeah! Definitely!” I piped up, enthusiastic that I could be helpful.

During the break my sister turned to me and said, “You realise that guy thinks we’re gay together, right?” He asked if we were together and you said yes!”

“Don’t be silly!” I replied incredulously. “There’s no way. He was asking if we came together in the same car. Duh!”

“Oh my God…”

I don’t get what is with people and asking if I’m dating my siblings.

From Behind

I’m going to cut to the chase. Yeah, the title to this story is awkward as fuck. Mainly because it is exactly that.

A few summers ago, I had just finished work and was walking at a leisurely pace toward the subway entrance to go home. It was a beautiful day; sunny and bursting with motherfucking happiness.

Suddenly I felt someone’s hand grab mine. No, not brushed against; full on grabbed. So the natural human reaction is to turn the hell around and see what sort of bum-fuckery is happening behind me. Lo and behold there was a middle-aged man attached to that hand grabbing mine and I obviously jumped the shit out of my skin.

Run, run, RUN!!!

“What the fuck?!” I screamed as I snatched my hand away. He continued to walk beside me as my pace quickened. Why in the good Lord’s name would this man not leave me the hell alone? I was staring him down like an angry bull on acid and he still wasn’t getting it.

“No, no! You don’t understand. I’m one of the nicest guys you will ever meet!” he exclaimed, showing me a grin with several teeth missing. “I would never hurt you.”

This man needs to change is goddamn technique because you just can’t approach a lady like that. Seriously, what the hell? The guy was outside of my peripheral vision and his first response was to make bodily contact with me. Now, I’m no stud or anything but I know for damn sure even I can do better than that. Say hello! Damn, fool, you can’t just pick me and claim me as yours upon sight. That’s called prostitution. And even then you have to pay. The world is completely lost in regards to etiquette but I have come up with the perfect solution. I’m going to have printed on all of my shirts the following message:

Completely hostile motherfucker
Approach at own risk
If so stupidly inclined, state your name and reason for disturbing her day
Violators will be shot upon first attempt

For those of you who wish to buy one of these shirts, they cost $20.99 a piece. Sizes from XS to XXXL. For more ordering information, please email me at

Never Before

You know that awkward moment when you’re walking down the street with your best friend when, suddenly, a man holding a bunch of bananas and a box of cookies stops you and says, “Excuse me. I’ve gotta be honest… Would you like to buy some bananas?” No? You must live a sad and sheltered life, then.

New experiences are fantastic. They’re so fucking great, in fact, that it’s innate for people to want to tell others about them. No big deal, right? Wrong. Sharing with your friends that you drunkenly made out with a carved pumpkin on Halloween is a lot different than confessing your life story to a complete stranger. Trust me; I have experience. As the complete stranger who wants nothing more than to shoot themselves in the foot as some random drones in their ear.

A friend of mine convinced me to go clubbing with her and a group of friends one night. I don’t know why the fuck I went. As a woman, being in a nightclub is the worst experience ever. There’s always some creepy guy who dances like a dog in heat following you the whole night, some annoying-ass girl you’ve never met trying to make friends with you because her (intelligent?) friends ditched her there, and several drunk and skimpily-clad girls vomiting in all over the washroom stalls so it’s impossible to pee. By the end of the night you just want to tell everyone to wipe their ass with barbed wire or Falcon Punch them in the crotch.

I digress.

About halfway through our magical and unabashedly drunken evening, a guy approached me and asked me to dance. My logic was that he was wearing a really cool fedora and maybe he would give it to me later, so I said yes. Like a fucking fool. As we danced we made small talk and I mentioned that I really liked his hat, so he let me try it on (mission: halfway accomplished). Two minutes later, he leaned in and said in my ear:

This is fun. I’ve never danced with a black girl before.

Bloody. Fucking. Shitcakes. Are you new? How am I even supposed to respond to that? You don’t tell a girl that you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. “Hmm… I’ve never worked with this model before but I’m sure that if I just use my wrench and tweak…” No, dumbass. Just no. Do you go to your goddamn job interviews and tell them that sort of shit? Yes, everyone lies on their resume but you don’t just straight up say that you have no experience and expect to get the job. How in Jesus’ name do expect me to take you seriously at this point?

The thing is, this was not the first or last time I’ve had some idiot admit that he wants me to be his black girl fix.

I want to fuck a black girl. I’ve never fucked a black girl before. I know I’m no black guy but…

I’ve never dated a black girl before. I think they’re just so much more spirited than white girls.

I’ve never liked a black girl before. I think you’re the first. You’re really pretty for a black girl.

Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to be flattered? Not only is the stupidest man in the room trying to talk to me, but he also thinks that he should win an award for it, too! I do not give even an eighth of fuck that you haven’t had whatever experience with my race before. What makes you real dumb is the fact that you assume it would be so different from whatever the fuck you’ve experienced that you couldn’t keep your lips firmly pressed together. You just had to blab away and ruin it with, “I don’t have the credentials.” Well, then peace out, motherfucker! I’ll find someone who does. I assume dating human beings still counts as having the full credentials. If not, I don’t know what the fuck kind of weirdness you’ve been up to.

As for the fedora guy, I should have hijacked his hat.