Dim Sum made from scratch

I have learnt how to make dimsum from scratch… here’s the first round of dumplings: Shrimp, coriander and mushroom:

I Have Thirty Minutes Left At Work

TWENTY NINE So I have 30 mins, well 29 mins left at work so I need to just smash some time away as there is dick left to do here TWENTY EIGHT. I’m waiting for my mate Panda NO HE’S NOT A REAL PANDA to SMS me back about beers this afternoon as it is a Friday TWENTY SEVEN. TWENTY SIX, TWENTY FIVE, Oh yeah, thankyou random phone call and 3 SMS + replies. Another reason I’m doing this is because TWENTY FOUR I have 3 dollars in coins that I was going to use on the evil snack machine here at work. I don’t like eating shit, and especially when I’m sitting down all day in an office. This will make me a fat cunt. Fat cunts are bad TWENTY THREE.

So this weekend I plan on doing fuck all, probably try and find some episodes of Mighty Boosh that I haven’t seen. I have a TWENTY TWO problem with watching TV shows I have downloaded in a linear fashion which would make sense to do and I’m sure is the practise for most people TWENTY ONE. Unfortunately I have something wrong with the part of my brain that uses this logic and I tend to just click on any episode in the Season cluster. This TWENTY results in anxiety when looking through various seasons of various shows as I need NINETEEN to shuffle through ones I have seen, watching the intro of each one just to see if I’ve already watched it. Fuck it’s annoying. EIGHTEEN, SEVENTEEN, SIXTEEN, FIFTEEN, FUCK YEAH MORE SMS AND A TOILET RUN.

So FOURTEEN that’s pretty much it. Beer and TV Show Episode Search Anxiety is my weekend ahead. Oh, and I’m being Santa at a Xmas party in a nightclub. THIRTEEN This will be fun, I’m planning a Jackass meets Santa meets Drunkgirl type scenario. That will rock. I might wear the hat on my face and beard on my head for a while too TWELVE. I’ve always wanted to be a drunk Santa. Fuck yeah, win. So Beer, TV anxiety, Drunk Santa. That’s ELEVEN my weekend which is beginning to be pretty OK.

TEN Right that’s ten minutes left, awesome, what else? Xmas shopping. I have done none of it. It is going to be a last-ditch effort on Xmas Eve after work in the city. This will give me a time limit and prevent me from putting any thought what-so-ever into the gifts. NINE It’s not because I don’t care, it’s just that I don’t really subscribe to the whole Xmas bullshit and have always taken a half-arsed approach to it EIGHT. I do, however, put some thought into my own present. This year it is a home brew kit. SEVEN.

My friend has one that I am supremely jealous of and I plan on having one of my own. Xmas is a good excuse to make such a ridiculous purchase so that’s the fucken whack. Old fridge converted into SIX keg cooler, taps coming out of it, BAM my own brewery/pub. How awesome is that? I’ll tell you: It’s very awesome. FIVE Hell yeah this actually works quite well, I’m using my superpowers (dribbling shit) to fast-forward time. That’s two awesome points scored in just one paragraph! FOUR Very happy with that effort. Well, I’m gonna wrap this up I reckon as I need THREE minutes to pack up and log out. This must be done in company time.

Have fun, l8trz.

A Matter Of Substance

Excess consumption may have a laxative effect. That’s what is written at the bottom of the 14 piece pack of Extra chewing gum on my desk. Yesterday I ate sushi for lunch and I feel like it’s been sitting in my stomach all night playing Monopoly. I looked at the packet of Extra in a new way today. Today it will liberate the sushi. Today consumption will be in excess. This isn’t what the blog today is about, it’s not even a metaphor. I just thought I would tell you. Welcome to AntiNerd.

So what does it mean to have substance? Does it mean to galavant around the planet emancipating penguins and suturing ethnics? I mean, as opposed to some try hard yuppie that earns $60,000 per year but wears Gucci sunglasses and pretty much anything with a label on it even though he can’t really afford it? Does he have less substance than Mr Rainbow Warrior? I  don’t believe so.

The excruciatingly irritating aphorism “each to their own”, although it makes me want to tear people who say it’s fingernails out and nail them to a hornets nest, kind of holds some truth in this context. What is substance to one person is not to another. Everyone on Earth is a product of their environment, experiences, exposure to parental and social beliefs, habits, ethics and to an extent genetic make-up. So there is no way in hell that any of us will be the same, or think the same, or hold the same concept of “substance”.

A dusty, sun-beaten workoholic cattle farmer would proudly watch his son toiling hard each day to gain the skills of his family trade and think to himself  ”that boy has substance.” Give the same farmer a boy who prances around in tights practising his broadway musicals in aspiration to a career in theatre and this will most probably change pretty quickly. But to someone attuned and with interest in musical theatre, substance will be apparent.

I believe whatever someone strives to be, to feel complete or whole, to have substance, and acheives this, will have gained substance. To others there may be no difference in this person, but to the subject, substance has been gained, a form of transubstantiation almost. I used to look down on materialistic people with heavy contempt, but now I let them be. What’s the point? What’s the point of this blog? What the fuck was I just on about?

6 Extra’s in, and I have to go number 2s. It works.

Dear Tiger Woods

I’ve gotta say, Tiger, you have a fucking cool name. I was going to add that to your “Pros” column until I Wikipedia’d your ass, and found out your name is actually “Eldrick”. What did I just say? OH, I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I JUST FUCKEN SAID, YA READY? I SAID ELDRICK. Did you smack your Daddy in his goddamn mouth for that? Was it Grandma who came up with it? You can tell me dude, I don’t care, I’ll smack her, I got NO shame but “Eldrick” stings my nostrils and makes me mad. The middle name, too, WTF is Tont? Did they mis-spell Tony at the hostible? Your name: 1 point in the “Cons” column.

Now I guess we can’t go much further without tackling this current shit. You been bad, Tiger, haven’t you? I mean even Santa Clause stopped at three ho’s, bro, what’s with 12? People who bang heaps of bitches are already considered a bit of a tiger, what you going for? Liger status? Liger Woods? You thank that’s cool or something? I should slap you in your mouth. Napoleon Dynamite is the only person who thinks Ligers are cool.

I’m not that mad at you tho, Tiger, because let’s face it, it takes two to tango. What do I mean? I mean everyone is bagging you, but what about the 12 slutbags that have come out of the woodworks? I didn’t intend that pun but it’s kinda cool, but I digress. Why are you copping all the flak? Both you and the 12 sluts have one thing in common: you are all involved in the sex scandal. But that’s where the similarities end. I mean, and let’s be honest here, you’re all a bunch of dirty, cheating sluts including yourself, Tiger. But only one of you is a billionaire, one of the highest acieving golfers in history, and highest earning athletes of all time. So if I wasn’t THAT one, then that would just make me a dirty slutbag, which if I had any intelligence what-so-ever would precipitate my mouth to shut the fuck up on the subject, rather than declaring my sluttiness to the world and embarrassing myself.

Agree? Disagree? Oh hang on, it’s my blog so who cares what you think.

So I’m going to give you one point in the “Pros” column, Tiger. I know you don’t care because you have more pairs of Nikes than a powerline in Compton. The next problem is the word “athlete”. Now, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say GOLFERS AREN’T EXACTLY ATHLETES. I mean, my fat, diabetic, quad-stroked Grandfather can play golf, at a good level too. I can’t stand the shit so I have no idea what level he’s at but whatever, bogey 5 under par birdy 3 iron Liger handicap sand-trap Master. He’s something good. So where does that leave us? I know: AT SOME POINT IN MY DIATRIBOUS ARTFORM WHERE I’M ONCE AGAIN CORRECT. It happens a lot, don’t stress it. That’s another Cons strike, take it like a Liger.

I’m going to give you one more shot to even the score, Eldrick, because you fucking need it right now. Let’s have a look at your endorsements…

General Motors
Well, in Australia they make Holden, who make HSV, who make awesome cars that can’t race for shit but make good noises. Point Pros.

Titleist
Have no fucking idea what that is, but can make the word “titties” out of it. Point Pros.

American Express
Credit cards that losers who can’t get a Mastercard or Visa use, or total fucking knobends who pretend to be rich. Point Cons.

Accenture
Gay as fuck. Point Cons.

Nike
Not really for Air Max but still Nike so I’ll pay it: Point Pros.

Gatorade
World’s second best drink. Powerade Blue Blast wins, YOU lose: Point Cons.

Gillette
The best a man can get. Point Pros.

Buick
Shit American cars that can’t go over speed bumps, park or go around corners. Point Cons.

Well, Gandolf, it looks like you have comeout of that one even stevens. I guess your fate is up to you. It’s touch and go at the moment and if anymore sluts come out of the woodworks I’m telling you, it’s over red-rover. If I were you I would probably lay low for a while.

Fear And Loathing In Karratha: The Battle Of Awesome Cove

It was 4:50am on that balmy Sunday morning in December when the Landing Ranga and U.S.S. Bush Pig crept steadily toward Awesome Cove in the Burrup Peninsula on the coast of Australia. Captain AP eased thebattleship to a halt and the troops began disembarking for the shore while the Ranga approached in the distance. This drill had been practised before, October was the last time and as far as anyone knew nothing had changed.

The Ranga had arrived and the full compliment of the 32nd Dirty Coasty Sik Cunt Battalion had re-grouped and were in position on the shores of Awesome Cove. The sun began to rise as the soldiers laughed and chatted amongst themselves. A moment turned to a minute of silence as each soldier listened intently at the slowly rising sound that approached. Like a low humming noise, the sound carried with it a sense of danger, heartbeats rose, the enemy approaches.

The silence broke as the first crack was heard at the East end of the battalion base beach rug, it was Sgt. Illusiv from the Ill Ass Action Company he had been landed on by a fly and had managed to slam it with his standard issue hand. Then it was on for young and old. Slapping, waving, swiping, swatting. The entire Western Diptera Air Attack Group had been deployed and were arriving in squadrons of thousands at a time, the force was overwhelming. Realising the futility of standard issue hand swatting, Private Parts jumped from his position, yelling “Cover me!” as he ran toward a rocky outcrop where a few bushes were. As he reached the outcrop he dived under a bush and began frantically stripping the native flora of it’s branches.

As he crammed the branches under his arm he once again jumped into action and ran toward his comrades. Diving again, this time to the safety of the battalion, he began handing out the branches to the soldiers. The advantage was now level, branches of leaves began battering the squadrons. The artillery, a 7 inch Spliff, began firing clouds of smoke into the air dispersing clusters of flies. Deet Armour was being handed out to the soldiers but proved ineffective against the enemy advances.

Another roar was heard from afar and quickly approached. It was the reinforcements. Sik Cunt Battalion split into two groups, one joining the reinforcements in the water for assistance, the rest remaining at base rug. The battle slowly came to the allied advantage and the enemy began thinning. Out of nowhere a command came from headquarters that the hotel pool was now ready and all troops were to be relocated immediately.

Troops boarded the vessels as fast as they could and the convoy began back to safety. The only casualty was Private Waterboy, who got away with a lot less than he should have and was whisked away to safety by the reinforcements. It was a bleak day down at Awesome Cove and will never be forgotten by those brave soldiers from 32nd Dirty Coasty Sik Cunt Battalion.

Lest We Regret.

Fear And Loathing In Karratha. Part One…

It’s 2am Friday morning and my alarm is piercing the very fabric of my nightmare. It’s not a bad nightmare because I was winning. Fuck you ninja zombies, I have a laser uzi with a grenade launcher. 2am means only one thing, that I need to be awake and packing for the epic journey I am about to undertake, and be at the rendezvous point by 3am. My DJ will be meeting me there. I awake, subdue the offending noise that I set not 4 hours earlier. Sleep deprevation already has his beady eyes fixed directly at the throbbing chunk of grey matter at the bottom rear of my skull, this of course was induced by an impromptu session of weed, nitrous oxide and several bottles of 2004 cab merlot with a few of my colleagues earlier in the night.

I arrive at the rendezvous point on-time despite 30 minutes of contrary information provided by my UBD Mapbook telling me that certain streets leading to said point existed when in fact, they fucking didn’t. They were still being built, yet my mapbook is actually 6 years old. Ahead of it’s time? Maybe that is a positive spin on what was really an anxious half-hour of expletives and cheek puffing sighs of mild distress. Lies, Fuck you UBD, you owe me $10 in fuel and approximately $7 worth of valium and codeine.

I arrive at the house where I am to meet my DJ at 3am sharp, I look at my chrome Arnette and it tells me it is 2am. This is possibly, at least in-part, due to the fact I smashed a small hole in it’s watertight crystal face 3 years ago then went swimming under the influence of several anti-social products and it hasn’t actually worked since. The Technicolor swim encapsulated for eternity in it’s face: 2am, AN was fucked up, swimming like a marlin on five metres of 250-pound braided fishing line. Watch = fucked. But, by god, it looks great. My mobile phone tells me the truth, 3:02am.

My DJ is no-where to be seen which triggers a reflex action of two extra valium. I call his phone and there is no answer, I SMS “Lost, help” and my phone buzzes into action “I’m running a little late, about 25 mins” he says as I turn the engine over and propel my car toward the closest 24 hours McDonalds for an Angus burger and fries to quell the misery of knowing I will be sitting in a car alone doing nothing for at least an hour. 5:30am, my DJ pulls up with all the required equipment. It’s better late than never… or is it?

Perhaps the person who created that defeatist piece of literary discharge should try driving from Perth to Karratha in a car for 28 hours with a hangover and an approaching and inevitable comedown from amphetamines, a 3 hour half-way stop on the bonnet at a petrol station staring at “UFO’s” in the sky, dodging cows, kangaroos and on-coming traffic, “I’m going to die with this guy behind the wheel” anxiety, and doing u-turns in the middle of the desert to investigate trees that look like large pigs. I would rather the “never”option, and indeed I will employ it from this day with the benefit of hindsight.

Before we leave we decide speeding is the perfect choice for both method of transport and mental state so I arrange two large lines which each of us consumes as rapidly as we will drive toward our destination. We need somewhere to stash the assortment of substances we have collected for the trip, the gig and, especially, the after-party at Awesome Cove. My DJ wraps 20 e’s, four and a half grams of coke plus a good helping of weed in a piece of rubber then stuffs it into a pre-made steel box that has three extremely strong magnets attached to it. This is placed under the car in a strategic location as we have been warned there are car searches being performed toward Geraldton, a town about one quarter the way to Karratha.

Once past Geraldton I began to run out of rhymes and my DJ became less and less interested in them. This could mean only one thing, we were coming down. Panic surged into every vein in our foreheads as we searched frantically for a rest area to park and refresh our tired minds and bodies with a thin veneer of chemically actuated enthusiasm. My trusty DJ, a keen driver by any standards despite our lack of them, pulled hard and fast into the next rest stop and scrunched the metal beast to a gravely halt. I lit a cigarette and gave full moral support to my DJ as he writhed under the vehicle moaning at the heat. Suddenly a crack emanated from the underside and a steaming metal box followed by a steaming mad DJ arrived at my feet.

Cursing at the residual heat on his burnt hand he closely inspected the box with a large tool of some sort and a dirty rag. Pulling apart the gaffer tape he pulled the rubber wrapped stash from the box . Inside the wrapping our worst nightmare was revealed, the entire stash was reduced to a single lump of what looked like coal. Hands, clamming fast, eyes blood shot red met in a facepalm of immense force. The “F” word was repeated in a continual cycle like a talentless pop artist on a cheap radio station, colors appeared more vivid, the sky drew closer from all sides, passing road trains sounded like a freight train driving through my eyeballs. Nothing left and it had only just begun. A minute of silence dragged for 10 as we mourned the loss of the army of supplies. The show must go on.

My DJ and I arrive at the venue in Dampier, near Karratha, at 6:30am Saturday with a car full of empty vodka bottles and a head full of pretty much nothing save for a slight numb feeling around the skull and a pair of eyes slightly rear to the position they usually reside. It is already 32 degrees and there are squadrons of flies deployed on kamikaze missions toward my aching face while I stand like a drunken giraffe waiting for my DJ to organise the hotel room keys. A combination of stress, sleep deprivation and illicit after effects have left the two of us with a little less than nothing useful in our cognitive processes. On his return I eagerly embrace the key with what I think is my hand then declare my retirement as I follow the rainbow toward my room number.

Within 2 hours of my head hitting the pillow, my mother has used a mixture of intuition and cunning to place an ill-received Saturday morning phone call to my mobile phone. People wonder why they grow to hate their favorite songs so quickly these days yet I have discovered the answer: Technology that has allowed us to employ them in MP3 form on our mobile phones for use as a ringtone. I answer in auto-pilot

“Hello”.

“Hello, I didn’t know you were in Karratha this weekend?”, my mother announces over what feels like a loudspeaker strapped to my eardrum.

“Just got here, Mother. 28 hours of driving. Sleeping at moment. Need to talk later before wake up”.

“OK dear, how did you get there?”

“Drove with my DJ. Need to sleep, Mother, please don’t wake me”

“Who was driving? I hope you stopped to rest on the way, it’s very dangerous”

“Yes we did Mother, I need to…

IT’S TOO LATE NOW. AUTO-PILOT HAS DISENGAGED AND I AM NOW IN FULL VIEW OF REALITY’S EVIL GRIN

…sleep, I’ll call you when I wake up. Love you”

*bip*

I am awake, and I’m not happy. To celebrate I walk over to the public bar and order 3 pints of beer for rapid consumption in an attempt to lure sleep back toward my aching head. There are words forming into shapes in my head which at first is entertaining but eventually ends in confusion, followed by absolute certainty I am going to be rendered insane forever. After a quick and subtle dry retch inducing last gulp, I stagger back toward my hotel room and again attempt to sleep. This time it works, in she comes, Lady Sleep, arresting my senses and cooling my fears. Slowly she curls up next to me and soon, we are one.

The Legend Of Big Scary Applecrumb Face

Long, long ago, in a far away place
Lived a big scary monster named Applecrumb Face
With eyes like fireballs, hands made of steel
Teeth made of diamonds and an old steering wheel

One night in the forest of this far away place
A fox went to find the famed Applecrumb Face
As light became dark and the moon faded black
Deep in the forest now, fox couldn’t turn back

By the river he walked when he heard something snap
“Come out” yelled the fox, “I got face punch on tap”
And out of the shadows came a dark figure, small
It was a young boy, Tommy, only four foot three tall

Young Tommy said “hey, nice to see you again Fox”
“You gave me a fright!” Fox said “Bless your small cotton socks!”
“Are you here to find the monster, so grim?” said the boy
“I am” said the fox “I’m not scared”, sounding coy

So off went the pair along the dark river’s edge
Two strong, were they now, on this fearsome pledge
When all of a sudden, a shadow emerged
The two halted fast as their blood pressure surged

“Awright?” came a call, “Wot you geezas up to?”
It was the Magpie named Russel, the duo both knew
“One guess” said the fox “why we came to this place”
“I know” said the Magpie “You seek Applecrumb Face”

“Do you know where to find him” said Tommy to the bird
“I do” said the magpie “haven’t been, but I’ve heard”
“Deep in this forest, down by the black pond”
“past the old hollow oak and the rocks just beyond”

“Would you join us?” young Tommy said, “To find such a beast?”
“Of course!” said the magpie, “there’s three of us at least”
“But eyes made of fireballs” he warned with a grin
“And teeth made from diamonds, sure trouble we’re in”

The trio set off at a quick but sure pace
To find the feared creature named Applecrumb Face
In time the stream ended in a pond black as coal
A deep shiver drifted through three a brave soul

Tall and imposing, tangled and broke
Stood the massive ancient form of the old hollow oak
The fox motioned forward, no one would respond
As they stared, frightened stiff, at the rocks just beyond

“Can I help you?” said a voice just up where they gazed
The three trembled with fear, each their eyes over, glazed
“A long journey” the voice said, “That you three have made”
“I won’t hurt you” once more spoke “please, don’t be afraid”

And out of the darkness, a small figure made forth
A cold wind chilled the sweat on their face from the north
His eyes shone like diamonds, so brightly, and kind
A creature so cute, more than any you’d find

“We seek the famed monster” said the magpie to him
“Ah the monster” said the creature “I hear he is grim”
“With eyes like fireballs” said Tommy, “Hands made of steel”
“Teeth made of diamonds, and an old steering wheel”

“A wheel?” said the stranger, tilting his head
“That’s what Gran told me” said Tom, “one story time in bed”
“Well” said the stranger, “I’m not sure of that”
“But I can tell you one thing, he wears a red hat”

“A hat?” returned Fox, “I’ve not heard of this tale?”
The stranger stepped forward, the moonlight shone pale
Through the branches and leaves came soft beams of light
A red hat on his brow, he came into full sight

“So long has it been since I’ve talked to someone”
“No one will come near since these bad tales begun”
“For so many years I yearned company”
“And today I am happy, for I met you brave three”

“You know of the monster?” Young Tom firmly said
“On his home” said the stranger “You currently tread”
“And how do you know that we stand on his place?”
“Because” said the creature, “I’m Applecrumb Face”.

The friends stood aghast as the three words sunk in
“But the legend?” Said fox “and the tales within?”
The stranger laughed hard, so much he did tear
It’s funny how people believe everything they hear

Stop Fucking Whinging About Christmas

OK, so we’re all pretty clear on the fact Christmas has absolutely nothing to do with the birth of Jesus Christ. If you’re not familiar with this fact, look it up. Nobody knows when the guy was actually born, the date 25th December wasn’t established properly for almost 1500 years after the dude was killed, and hardly anyone who celebrates Christmas today actually gives a shit. So apart from the name, which is also out the window because from here on in I’m calling it Xmas, it’s pretty much a mish-mash of pagan symbolism (mistletoe, christmas trees, winter solstice, etc) and a fat guy in a red suit invented by Thomas Nast in 1863. There’s also an emerging sense of contempt, it seems, in modern times toward the commercialization of Xmas and the way it exploits the act of giving.

But seriously, who gives a fuck?

For one, Xmas time appears to bring out the best in people. People are much happier, besides miserable people which, to be honest, no-one cares about. It is a way to bring families together, and community spirit is elevated to the point where you can’t find anywhere in a major city to volunteer for the homeless as all the spots were filled a month ago. Is there really any harm in celebrating something that appears to promote good-will towards each other for no real reason other than just being jolly and nice? I don’t think so.

On the commercialization tip, I fail to see how it is a bad thing. People always complain about something when it becomes commercialized, why the fuck do people do this? Are they worried they will no longer be “crucial and edgy”? “I celebrated Xmas before it was commercial” I mean what the hell? COMMERCIAL ISN’T A BAD WORD PEOPLE. Xmas time in our country is the single biggest economic stimulus each year for Australian businesses. It provides jobs and it is healthy for our economy. Nobody forces you to buy anything, there’s no gun pointed at your head, and if you wear anything that is made by any designer label house in Europe you’re not really in a position to judge anything, wouldn’t you say?

Xmas time is also a good time for the charities to make you feel guilty about the excess you and your family indulge in each year. This is what I find most powerful about it, and is possibly it’s best feature. It encourages people who usually don’t give a shit about homeless people, or people in otherwise dire situations, to pretend they care. I’m thinking if it’s going to make someone do something nice to help others less fortunate, who cares, right? Well kind of. Unfortunately it’s usually something quite useless for someone who is homeless, like a hamper, which would be great if a homeless guy had a family and a car. Unfortunately tangible, useful charity isn’t the point for some people and a superficial token to give themselves a warm fuzzy is pretty much the only motive.

What ever you think about Xmas, whatever you do, however much you spend, don’t think too much into it. It’s not the holocaust, so quit complaining and go have fun.

Khaos in K-Town Xmas Mashup

If you are going to be in Karratha this Saturday, 12th December, you need to be here. If you aren’t, you need to get up there. You have no idea what you will be missing…

Do You Have A Bus Buddy?

A bus buddy is someone who catches the same bus or train as you every morning to work and always seems to be a morning person. If you’re a morning person, you’re probably someone’s bus buddy. Don’t feel good yet because, bus buddies, the rest of us have a big problem with you. The bus in the morning to work is ME time, I’m thinking about stuff like how shit the fact is that I have 8 hours before I can be drunk without getting fired, wondering how the pandas in quarantine are doing, and how cool the next tune on my iPod is about to be. I don’t want to talk to you. It’s the same conversation everytime.

“Hey, how’s things?”
*takes headphones out*
Yeah good, you?
“Yeah I’m good, how’s work”

WORK IS FUCKING WORK, IT HASN’T CHANGED SINCE YESTERDAY, AND I CAN’T BE DRUNK THERE AND I HAVE TO WEAR PANTS WHEN I ATTEND.

I resorted to taking a book with me and looking for seats next to complete strangers so I don’t have to sit next to you. Sometimes I pretend I don’t see you, actually, I always pretend I don’t see you. It’s not that I don’t like you, I just don’t like you between the hours of 6am and 9am. This includes a 30min window once I’m at my desk to log-in, check my email, delete it all, and drink coffee. Coffee is a stimulant that contains a drug that allows me to talk inane shit with you about your new house, your wife’s home made yogurt and your visit to the zoo last week without stabbing a fork in my eye.

It’s not you, it’s me, but I really think we need to end our bus buddy relationship. It’s just not working for me because I want different things to you. There’s plenty of morning people out there that will treat you much better than I do because really, I’m just rambling a scripted reply to each of your questions and not really listening to you. You don’t deserve that, bus buddy, you deserve someone who will reciprocate your unnatural ability to like people at 7:45am. I just can’t and I don’t feel like myself when I’m around you in those pre-caffeinated hours of the morning.

I’ve made changes and I’m moving to a different service before I hurt you, I don’t want to hurt you and that’s why I’m doing this. I’m seeing another service. I catch the train now. I’ve moved on and you need to as well. We’ll still see each other around the office it’s not like I’m going to be out of your life completely, just not on the same bus anymore. The people on the train have been good to me and let me have my freedom, I need my freedom. I’m sorry it had to end this way, I really am, bus buddy, but I just couldn’t live a lie anymore.