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.


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.

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.


Hello, fellow creepers of the Internetz! I spent my summer in lovely Central Ontario with children who think that shoving baby powder into their nasty-ass rear ends, and then farting, is a good idea. That being said, my three month-long silence is officially over and I’m back to entertain you with more unfortunately fucked up, yet deliciously hilarious, real-life stories. You’re welcome. My return to Toronto was great. The fresh scent of human feces and air pollution stung my eyes and clung to my clothes in a way that only home could. It was a truly refreshing welcome back to the city. Of course, my first order of business was to head straight to the bar. I’m not an alcoholic. I just work with children. I should have probably just done this instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a84IowoW00w Cheaper self-care. My friends and I wound up at this bar that thought it was shat out by God Himself. It had some hipster name that I don’t remember (I’m pretty sure some ‘obscure’ animal was in its title), but also a neat indoor-outdoor concept. My three friends and I were pleased to settle there like pigeons loitering by the lake, waiting for someone to harass for food. About 45 minutes into whooping it up, I glanced across the bar and noticed there was a guy in his late-twenties trying to get my attention. As we locked eyes from opposite ends of the bar, he waved at me. My naive stupid ass thought, “Oh, he’s just saying hi!” So I waved back. Big mistake. “You’re beautiful,” he mouthed to me. My facial expression sank from semi-friendly to what-the-fuck-kind-of-shit-are-you-trying-to-pull? so fast that I’m pretty sure it looked like a Pokémon evolving.

I’m not sure if I prefer Totodile or Feraligator…

You would think that he would stop trying to talk to me at this point. You think that he would shut the black hole-like rupture in face. Logic says he should! Sadly, fucking bullshit prevailed again. He sauntered over to where my friends and I were sitting, eager to pour more toxic sludge into my ear. “I just want to say that you’re absolutely beautiful!” “Thanks…?” “You remind me of Storm from X-Men. You have such authentically African features. It’s perfect. I’m a Marvel Comics artist, by the way. When I found out they chose Halle Berry to play Storm, I was like ‘No!’ She does NOT have African features. You? Oh, just grow your hair out and it’s perfect!” Couple of things I’d like to address: 1. About halfway through this guy’s rant, I realised he was not trying to get in my pants because he does not like vaginas at all. 2. I don’t know what the fuck this man’s drink was spiked with, but it’s clearly stronger than Absinthe. Actually, buddy? I look like fucking Storm, princess of a Kenyan tribe and the former wifey of The Black Panther of fictional African country, Wakanda? Are you fucking joking me? This is what she looks like:

I don’t even look a little bit like this skinny broad

Who, on God’s green Earth, are you trying to fool? The only “authentically African” feature she possesses is her fucking skin colour. She’s basically a white girl with a tan. Not even her skeletal structure could be classified as Negroid. How are you going to come up to me and tell me I look like this?! 3. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right. I don’t look authentically African. Not even a fucking little. Ask other Caribbeans. Hell, ask some African folks and every single one of them will tell you without hesitation that I don’t look like I’m from that continent. At least not recently. 4. You illustrate for frigging MARVEL and you’ve clearly forgotten what a character looks like? Fuck, I hope you were lying. Or quit your job if you weren’t. Useless. 5. You cannot just go up to random black women and tell them they look like Storm. That chick is fucking possessed. Do you see her eyes? She has no pupils. That’s how people get exorcised, dude. I’m serious. That shit ain’t funny.

I warned you

Needless to say, we left shortly after the incident.

Farewell for Now!

It’s that time of year, ladies and gents: camp time. That means that I won’t have very much access to the Internet to give an account of the fantastical adventures of bullshit that I will inevitably endure. I will be back in late August/early September and I’ll make sure to fill you in on all my juicy “WTF?” moments. With that, I leave you with this video very reminiscent of my childhood.

Africa Pt 3: Bollywood Edition

I’m not sure how in fuck’s name I have so much to say about Africa on this blog; I honestly don’t.

Maybe it’s because I keep encountering people who are highly uneducated and ignorant. Or maybe these people just eat Quaker Instant Dumbass for breakfast. Whichever be the case, it absolutely always tickles me pink when a mouth-breather approaches me without warrant.

One such time happened as I was once again pedaling on a stationary bike in the gym. I should have known. Bad shit always happens when I’m on the fucking bike, as you may recall from “Sweat” ( https://daysinthelifeofthesociallyawkward.wordpress.com/2012/02/21/sweat/ ). I should just stop using that machine. It so obviously attracts the wrong crowd.

As I exercised and listened to the string of expletives that is aggressive rap music, I noticed a woman around my age come into my line of vision. She started talking like I was expecting her, when really I was just trying to live my life and ignore the world. I kept pedaling but paused my music and removed one of my ear buds. She repeated her question.

“Are you from South Africa?”

I should have punched her out for her stupidity right then and there, but I was feeling rambunctiously playful and decided to see how much tomfoolery I could coax from one person’s mouth at a time. It turns out, that’s a lot.

“No, but close!”

“Oh really? Where are you from, then?”

“I’m Jamaican.”

She was sort of close…?

I thought at this point she’d stop talking to me. I figured once I pointed out that the geographical area she guessed I was from was highly unlikely (you know, because of all the white folk that possess enough wealth to travel outside of South Africa), that she’d leave me the fuck alone… I need to stop assuming people will leave me the fuck alone.

“Wow! Neat! Well, I was wondering if you’d like to see a Bollywood film with me some evening. Do you know [insert Hindi here]? I don’t really have a lot to do in the evenings and it would be good if you’d like to go, too.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe that could happen.”

Why did I say that? Did I just agree to a date with this female? Did I agree to go anywhere with this human being?! I will do no such thing. Hell to the fucking no. She thought I was from an African country where white people live. Honestly, you can’t really get any worse than that. I’m not saying I’m a geography wiz… I’m just not Christopher Columbus trying to pass off America for India.

Which brings me to my next point.

If she thought I was African, why did she think I was an expert on Indian/Pakistani/Desi culture? In fact, this girl  was of  South Asian background herself so I didn’t understand her angle at all. The situation was making less and less sense to me, and my brain was starting to shut off. I allowed my mind to wander, hoping that Zeus would strike me down with a lightening bolt, for a few moments when I heard:

“Great! When you’re done here, I’ll get your number!”

You know my ass was out of there faster than this guy’s.

Note: I know that this post is two days late. I’m really sorry. I’m preparing to go to camp. It’s a strenuous ordeal; so much bug spray! Friday will be my last post until September when I return.

N*gger, Please!

Sometimes people follow me.

A person would think this happens because I live in the creepy-ass city of Toronto. Downtown. Sadly for me, that shit has nothing to do with location. It happens everywhere. I mean, goddamn, some guy followed me around the streets of Bordeaux and then asked me to be his girlfriend. I wish I was making that up even a little bit.

“Girl, I’ve known you for 2 years. You haven’t known me half as long but I think I’ll make you very happy. Will you marry me?”

The particular event I’m speaking of did, however, happen in Toronto. I was on my way out of my apartment to catch a subway train around the corner. Obviously this is some sort of unpardonable sin that I didn’t know about because 2 minutes into my short journey, a man in a winter parka started screaming at me. I was listening to my iPod, so when I turned towards him, it seemed very much like he was yelling:

Ooooh! You lookin’ good in them jeans;
I bet you’d look even better with me in between.
I got my mind on my money, money on my mind,
But you’s a hell of a distraction when you shake your behind.

I quickly realised that it was impossible he was saying any of that because a) I wasn’t wearing jeans and; b) That was Ludacris’ voice.

I turned down the volume and listened intently to what he was saying as I passed.

“N*gger! Fucking n*gger!”

Hmm… that is much different from my original interpretation. Normally I like to handle my business, but I don’t like making scenes in public and I was in a goddamn hurry. I moved past him, thinking that this man’s fuckery was over.

I guess I can’t read social cues at all. He wasn’t even close to being finished.

This random started to follow me, the whole time calling me every version of the n-bomb he could think of. “RICH N*GGER! YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE?!”

Obviously I’m better than everyone to you. You’re the one following my ass around like a groupie, screaming shit. All I need is some music and I’ll feel like a frigging rock star.

Conversely, I do not have the moves like Jagger.

I continued to ignore this fool, looking straight ahead. In my peripheral vision I could see people with expressions on their faces that read, “How the fuck isn’t she giving him one bitch kick to the face right now?” Eventually I got to the subway. I guess he had no money because he didn’t follow me. Oh well.

Looking back on the situation, I feel sorry for this man. Truly and honestly. He obviously doesn’t have even ONE black friend. That’s so fucking sad. He has no one to make him quality fried chicken. And with me he’d get jerk chicken! Poor, poor soul.

You catch more flies (also black!) with honey than with vinegar, I say. I should have probably let him know.