I Totally Have A Blog

You probably don't know this, but I have a blog.
I know I haven't said much lately but that's just because I've been too busy and/or too lazy to care. However, I have decided it is unfair of me to ignore your frustrations any longer (and by frustrations I mean the pain and suffering I have brought upon you by not posting for more than a month). So here I am, back again.
I'll start off with a call for human cloning. If you wish to clone me, a certain hospital in Toronto is in possession of my appendix, which in turn is in possession of my DNA. That is of course unless it has been incinerated. You see, I had my appendix taken out last month. 

Pictured above: My appendix before we parted ways.

Calm down, calm down. It wasn't that big of a deal. I got a stomach ache and voila, turns out I have appendicitis. All of this was established within the space of about 3 hours. The plus side is I was well enough to walk myself over to the emergency wing at the hospital and demand someone stick his/her sterilized hand into my body to retrieve the offending piece of tissue. Unless scientists discover 40 years from now that the appendix in fact controls your ability to digest something, I'm fine. Now I have a scar that I regularly tell people was a result of an awesome fight involving samurai and katanas. No one believes me...yet.
In other news, Christmas came and went again this year with nothing more than a whimper. After being bombarded for over a month with Christmas music, imagery and subliminal advertising, I had had enough. All I wanted was for Christmas to be over and now it is! Yay! Now we can all focus on more important things like who and what we will be doing for new year's eve. I mean, I love Christmas and all but there's something about getting so drunk you forget your own name that is just slightly more appealing. I don't know; maybe it's just me. If I had more readers (I blame you for my not having enough; you could at least tell your friends to read this blog!) I'd ask you all what you did for Christmas and what you plan on doing for New Year's Eve, and maybe try and hijack your plans. But as the only people who read my blog are my friends and relatives who just check in to make sure I'm still alive, I won't bother.
Before I go any further, I would like to heap praise on one corporation that, despite robbing us blind, makes me happy all the time. Yep, you guessed it. I'm talking about Apple. 

I was having issues with my phone (carrier issues because of my carrier) that could have either been a fault of my iPhone itself (they weren't because it was my carrier's fault) or my sim card (or my fucking carrier). So yesterday, I had my sim card changed but that didn't solve any of the problems (that my carrier caused). So instead, I went to the Apple store to see if they could help. After fighting crazy Boxing Day shoppers for the last stool at the Personal Setup desk, I made an appointment at the Genius Bar and proceeded to wait for about 20 minutes. Then, like a professional ninja, an Apple employee appeared out of nowhere to tell me a Genius was ready to see me. Yes, these people are very professional (unnamed carrier, I hope you're taking notes). I explained my problem to my Genius and he laid out all the possible problems and solutions. Psych! I'm kidding. He totally didn't do any of that. He just grabbed my phone, looked at the headphone jack and the 30-pin connector then asked me if I would be cool with getting a new phone. Seriously? Like, DUH!!! So he gives me a new phone, makes me sign his iPod (yes, sign his iPod. Apparently they don't use paper any more), and sends me on my way. This whole meeting lasted less than 3 minutes.
Unfortunately, getting a new phone didn't solve the problem (that the fucking carrier was responsible for!). I wonder why... Either way, I got a new phone out of it! Thank you, Apple!
That right there ends my rant. I wish I could continue but I'm typing with my laptop on my stomach and I'm pretty sure my sperm count is lowering as we speak. I'll see you all in the New Year! Remember: don't drink and drive, don't leave your glass unattended and don't throw up on someone's expensive upholstery. The smell alone takes weeks to get rid of and you'll probably ruin the one pathetic friendship you have left. 
2012, here we come! No funny business next December though. I mean it, 2012!

The Potential Relationship & Mating Triad

Have you ever wondered why none of your relationships work out? Why you’re sad and alone? Where all those cats came from?
I was discussing relationships with a friend today (while pretending to write an art history essay) and I had an amazing epiphany – that’s a sudden realization of great truth, for those of you who haven’t seen The Simpsons Movie. I realized why it seems all relationships are doomed to fail: you can almost never get your ideal person. Now before I go any further, let me describe what I think is the perfect partner:

Your perfect partner is:

1. Good-looking (to you at least)

2. Employed

3.  A person who will never cheat

Ok, so maybe I skipped some stuff and maybe I’m being a little superficial, but hey, that’s my opinion so SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN. Either way, those are the three basic things, right? Anyway, for the sake of this blog post, we’re going to call those three qualities the Potential Relationship and Mating Triad (maybe we need a better name...). We will therefore define the Relationship Triad as the three most important qualities your potential partner must have for the relationship to work at its most basic level. So unless you’re like Mahatma Gandhi or Mother Theresa, you bloody live by the Triad.

Do we understand each other so far? Yes? Good.

So here’s my theory: from your perspective, any given person can possess either none of those qualities or a maximum of two. You will NEVER find someone with all three! Crazy, right? That means that the person you like is either: 

a) good-looking and employed BUT will cheat on you at some point, 

b) has a job and will never cheat BUT is not good-looking, and finally, 

c) is good-looking and will never cheat BUT is broke as hell. 

Guess  how the Triad can (and possibly will) apply here.

And those are just the best-case scenarios. Things could get a lot worse; for example the person may be 

a) employed BUT not good-looking and a serial cheater (trust me, it happens) or 

b) extremely faithful BUT not good-looking and not employed.

Until I conduct more in-depth research and studies, I am not at liberty to say that this applies to everyone, but it sure as hell seems to apply to me! One of my friends has this theory that the more attractive someone is, the more likely he or she is to cheat on you. At first I laughed the idea off but now looking at the Triad, it doesn’t seem as crazy as it once did. What is crazy, however, was her solution to the problem – “just, like, date, like, unattractive people duh!” Ok, I may have embellished that last quote just a little.

I’d love to know if the Triad applies to anyone else’s life. Misery does love company after all.

Big City Death

Be grateful.
Be very grateful that instead of working on one of my two essays, or my drawing project, or my typography project, I'm instead updating this blog. 
I know, I know. I've missed you too. It's been months since I last saw you! How are you? How's the foot doing? Did you get that weird rash checked out?
Seriously though, it's kind of nice to be writing for something other than school. In case you didn't know (and you probably didn't), I'm back in Canada and attending a rather prestigious art school. Now before you judge me and my decisions, I would like you to keep this image in mind: 

Does this help?

Ok, that may not have worked in my favour, but in my defence, my sticks were hung from a free-standing structure. Either way, I'm studying advertising and it's turning out to be a pretty interesting ride so far. I won't go into intricate details of how much work I have (A LOT) and which classes suck (a few) so as not to offend anyone, but I will say that I'm somehow managing to keep up.

In other news, I am now also a Toronto resident. Yes sir. Exciting as the big city life is, it can sometimes get you down - it's really hard to find a seat at Starbucks sometimes. Also, I constantly feel boxed in and don't even get me started on public transit. I thought small town Canada was weird but nothing compares to Toronto weird; but alas, that's a blog post in itself.

When shit gets real

Ah, Zambia. Gotta love it.

Oh well, it's home.

Have you ever felt like you were single-handedly fighting the entire army of the forces of stupidity? No? Well I have.

After my phone got stolen about a week ago (don’t ask), I drove to our town’s central police station to file a report. I guess I should be grateful that I managed to find the central police station seeing as how it’s located in the armpit of the city, but that’s a very small consolation.

I managed to file half the report before the officer taking down the details (Sidenote: this officer happened to be in possession of a very large and very old AK-47 rifle) asked for my phone’s IMEI number. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t have my phone’s IMEI tattooed on my leg, so I told the officer I would be back with the information needed.

True to my word, I returned about an hour later (this time with my father), phone’s IMEI in tow and ready to nail the piece of shit who had stolen my poor baby right from under my nose. The officer who I had talked to first was no longer there. In his place were two other officers: a man and a woman who looked like they may or may not have had a combined IQ of 95.

With a deep breath, I explained that I had come in earlier to file a report and had now returned with my phone’s IMEI, a crucial piece of information needed to track my phone down. The woman officer listened to my explanation with a vacant expression before proceeding to flip through a gigantic book. After about three solid minutes of searching, she finally found my name next to an entry. At this point, she once again asked me what I had brought in. I told her it was my phone’s IMEI number.

You know what she said then? I wish I were actually talking to you right now so you could take a wild guess. Go ahead. Try and guess.

…

Before I go on, let me remind you that this is a FUCKING (supposedly) TRAINED POLICE WOMAN working at the FUCKING LARGEST POLICE STATION IN THE CITY. And you know what she says?

“There’s no space to write down the number.”

I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that. What did you just say?

“There’s no space left in the entry to write down the number.” She says this without looking up at me or my father. Instead, she’s looking at the book and speaking with a tone that says “Oh well. Tough luck assholes. There’s no space!”

My reaction: ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?!!

I honestly didn’t know what to say. Imagine you’re running late for an international flight and you jump into a cab. You’re stressed and you ask the cabby to drive you to the airport, but instead of starting the car, he says he hasn’t put his key in the ignition. In fact, his key is still in his pocket. And shit, we all know how fucking hard it is to solve that problem, right? You might as well start rescheduling your 11 a.m. meeting.

So there I am, confronted by the issue of someone stealing my phone and this bitch is talking about how there is no space in a book to write down a number, the one thing they need to recover my stolen phone. Do you understand how frustrating that is?

I was screaming profanities inside my head so vile they could melt her face off, but on the outside I asked her if she couldn’t write it down in a separate entry.

Her reply was no. Why? Because that would be a duplication of entries.

Please don’t attempt to understand, dear reader. Even I don’t want to go into all the possible solutions to this problem. I feel my IQ dropping as I write this…

Then, as if to prove her point, she tells us to come and see for ourselves that there’s no space. At this point I was ready to pass out from severe moronic interaction syndrome (MIS).

“So what do we do now?” I asked her, my eyes glazing over from the overwhelming amount of WTF I was experiencing.

Her reply? Come back tomorrow and talk to the officer who wrote down your entry. She didn’t offer any other assistance, nor did she seem like she wanted to. In her mind, she was doing us a favour by just talking to us.

That was when I lost it. Yes, dear reader. I lost it for real this time and not just in my imagination. I yelled at her and asked why in the blue fuck I had to come see a specific officer at a specific time to complete a task a five year old could do in less than a minute. Was this a brothel? Was my favourite prostitute on vacation and the new one just didn’t cut it? No, this was a police station. A police station in Zambia, true, but a police station nonetheless. The police were supposed to work as a unit (preferably trained) and it wasn’t supposed to matter who I talked to, or when I talked to them. It wasn’t any of my concern who wrote what and where, it was just supposed to fucking work.

After I had my outburst, everyone just stared at me – but they still didn’t do anything.

Although my phone was found a week later, the part of my brain that died in that dingy police station remains dead. I’m sad to say I am disgusted by the incompetence and apathy I have experience at the hands of the police. I have never had much faith in them anyway, but I thought that at least when I talked to an officer, I would be talking to a trained officer and not a high school dropout who failed at English and common sense.

If parts of this don’t make sense to you, I understand. This story has more layers than an onion and I’ve just given you the bare basics. I used to be scared of having something stolen because of its value, but now I’m just scared because I’ll have to talk to the police.

Potty for Pothead Potter

Dear readers (whoever you are),

You have my sincerest apologies for my continued absence. You see, I just haven’t had the time to sit down and ramble about something on paper as I have been extremely busy.

Yours,

Anton.

...

Okay, that’s bullshit. I’ve just been a little too lazy to write. Don’t blame me, I’ve had other stuff on my mind. Good news is, I’m back! Yay! And boy, do I have a lot to say.

Right now I’m in Lusaka – that’s the capital of Zambia for those of you who may be unfamiliar – and I just saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt. 2. I won’t get into the minor details of Zambia only having one major cinema for the entire country that is (in)conveniently located in Lusaka. I will say, however, that Zambia’s Ster Kinekor Cinema was the highest grossing Ster Kinekor Cinema in Africa. Or was it southern Africa? Either way, I’m not surprised. When you force an entire nation to attend one movie theatre, profits there are more than likely to go up.

Anyway, back to Harry Potter. 

Above: The best thing since Facebook.

It was without a doubt the most amazing movie I have seen this year. Argue all you want, but I spent every second of it on the edge of my seat, either yelling triumphantly at the screen or slinking back and shedding a quiet tear. All in all, it was extremely moving. 

I also saw Transformers 3, a movie whose foundations are a super-sexy model and cars that transform into robots that explode and shit. To sum that up in two words – ass and explosions. Three words if you throw in predictability.

Am I being excessively scathing? Well boo-fucking-hoo, I don’t give a shit.

Now, on to Lusaka. It’s a love-hate relationship we have. It appears that certain people who live in Lusaka labour under the delusion that they are better than everyone living in not-Lusaka. I’ll be fucked if I know why; it’s probably because they have the aforementioned one functioning cinema in the entire country, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Lusaka isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dusty, it smells funny and it has its own line of terrible television channels that it thinks the rest of the country wants, but actually doesn’t (MuviTv, I’m looking at you).

Despite all its shortcomings (and believe me, it has many), Lusaka still has a special place in my heart. I mean, it has an international airport for starters. I need that to get into the country. And it has the one cinema; I wouldn’t be able to watch Harry Potter without it. Oh right, some of my friends live there. That’s a plus, right?

At the end of the day, it’s part of my home, and I love all parts of home equally. Also, I don’t wanna piss Lusaka off yet – I have to use its airport in about a month.

How to maintain what's left of your dignity on Facebook

Let's talk about Facebook.

By now, I'm sure most of us can't live without it, and if you can, there's something wrong. Of all the times I've mentioned Facebook in a conversation, only twice have I heard the phrase "I don't have Facebook." (I slapped the speaker of those words both times)
Joking aside though, this isn't about why everyone should have Facebook. It's about all the little things people do on Facebook that drive me crazy. For example:

1. LIKING YOUR OWN POSTS: 

Come on guys, this one is a no-brainer. Doesn't having an entire page devoted to you and you alone give you enough of an ego boost? Why on earth would anyone like their own post? If you posted it, it comes without saying that you already "Like" it. If you didn't, you wouldn't have posted it in the first place. Logic.

2. 10,000 PHOTOS: 

So you just spent the last three hours of your life taking pictures of yourself in a mirror. You made some faces, you used some "cool" effects and you made sure the toilet behind you was flushed. Now that you have 246 photos of yourself taken by yourself, it would be absolutely insane not to post them on Facebook, right? WRONG. In this particular case, sharing is not caring. Don't punish your friends with your face featuring an infinite number of expressions from infinite angles. And don't pout either; it's very MySpace.

3. FARMVILLE: 

Lord, I can't begin to describe the pain that moronic game has caused me. I once fell victim to its not-so-distant cousin, Cityville. I'll tell you right now that it was a monumental waste of time. The only thing worse than Zynga Facebook games are the requests you get from friends who play them. They pop up on your page every other day, talking about "lost cow" this and "chicken shit" that and "I need fertilizer or my crops will die!!" Guess what? I don't give a shit! Go and tend to a real fucking plant. Or even better, go out and talk to actual human beings. I can't believe people pay money for that crap.

4. THE EVER CHANGING RELATIONSHIP STATUS:

Some relationships are rocky - trust me, I get it. We all break up and move on. What we all don't do, however, is change our relationship status after every fight/breakup. It's not so much annoying as it is disconcerting to see someone bounce from "Single" to "It's Complicated" to "In a Relationship" every other week. Should we be worried?

5. HAVING 8,000 FRIENDS: 

No, I'm not jealous of people who have more Facebook friends than I do. I just don't understand it. Eight thousand people? That's the population of a small town. Ninety nine point nine per cent of people with that many Facebook friends haven't met at least 60 per cent of them. Ok, I just made that statistic up, but it's probably true. And that brings me to...

6. ADDING PEOPLE YOU DON'T KNOW: 

Now this is annoying. Every once in a while, I get a friend request from a person my eyes have never had the displeasure of seeing. Just because we have a mutual friend, doesn't mean you can hit the "Add Friend" button. 

"Hi, let's be friends" is the message that sometimes comes with the request. You're kidding me, right? I don't care if we live in the same town or if you know my friend's aunt's brother's sister-in-law. NO. And by the way, re-adding someone as a friend after they've turned you down? Err... think about it.

7. POOR GRAMMAR/SPELLING:

No, I don't care that it's the Internet. Try to write like you have a brain and were taught how to speak English at some point in your life. Facebook is good for many things, but proper grammar isn't one of them. And neither is proper spelling. 

"Wat did u guyz do lst nyt?" 

Seriously? Would it kill you to type in an extra letter? For Pete's sake, S is right next to Z on a QWERTY keypad, and it takes just as many presses to type an S as it does to type a Z on a numerical keypad. Grow up.

8. HOURLY STATUS UPDATES: 

I honestly don't give two shits about what you had for lunch today, unless you ate that lunch with Bar Rafaeli or Ban Ki Moon (in that case I'd expect a photo). But telling the world your every move? No.That's what Twitter is for.

9. FACEBOOK CHAIN MAIL:

If you're dumb enough to believe that Mark Zuckerberg personally messaged you and asked that you forward his message to prove that your account is active and urge others to do the same or else Facebook will shut down, then you don't deserve to be on Facebook. That is all.

10. CRYPTIC POSTS: 

You know what I'm talking about: the cryptically ambiguous status updates that may or may not be about your (ex) lover/crush/sex master. 

"I'm tired of being treated like second-best." 

By who? If you're that pissed about it, write it on the perpetrator's wall instead of leaving it hanging there hoping your lover/crush/sex master will read it and get the hint. Because, guess what? He/she/it probably won't. Listen to the voice of experience.

And that, dear readers, is that. I don't want you to be an upstanding member of the Facebook society just to improve your sex/love/work life (and possibly, reputation). I wan't you to become an upstanding member of the Facebook society so I don't have to cringe whenever I see one of your misdeeds.

Vampires. You know the drill.

I love vampires. Really, I do. I love how fast they are, I love how they have super-hearing, and I love that they are always attractive. I have that last part covered though.
What amazes me is how people are still interested in them. After everything Twilight has done to vampires, and after all the exposure they have received, it's amazing people still bother. I guess vampires are kind of like Rolling in the Deep - refer to my previous blog post.
When I was 10 years old, the word vampire would conjure up pictures of coffins, death, blood and evil. Now when I hear vampire, I think of Edward Cullen. 

Scary in a different way.

When I see a movie or TV show title with vampires involved, I automatically assume it revolves around a love story, usually between a human and said vampire.
The woman is usually the human one (cue analysis of sexism in vampire fiction) and the male vampire resists his evil, carnal urges to suck her dry because they fall deeply in love. But because they are deeply in love, she is exposed to all the dangers that obviously accompany a relationship with a blood-sucking, undead, mythological beast. However, love prevails, and through many trials and tribulations and attempted murders, the unlikely couple emerge at the other end a little shaken up, but all in all, better than they were before they started.
That's usually how it goes. Oh, and there are usually other supernatural beings involved. I'm sorry if I just ruined a number of vampire novels for you. You'll thank me later.
The first vampire novel I read was Twilight. I'll admit it had me hooked. I read non-stop, I dared not bend a page of the sacred book and I even picked a side (Team Edward, if you're wondering). Then when it all came to an end, I stepped back and looked at the entire series without the haze of vampire love clouding my eyes. It was then that I realized vampires had been ruined. I was never going to look at them the same again. No longer were they the creatures that occasionally haunted my illicit drea- err... I mean, nightmares. I thought I'd never be scared of vampires again. 
Before any real vampires decide to instill the fear in me once again, I'll have you know that I was saved by my author-god Stephen King's novel, Salem's Lot. After I read that masterpiece, all was right in the world again.
The moral of the story? 21st century vampires suck, pun intended. Still, I'll admit it'd be nice to be one. Of course, I'd go on the "vegetarian" diet, as Stephanie Meyer so elegantly put it. Or maybe I'd try some friends. We'll see. But just in case, hide yo kids, hide yo wife, and hide yo husband 'cause they suckin' er'body out here.
Wait, that sounds wrong...

Rolling in the Deep. Seriously?

Ok, so you know how every year there's one album and one song that just won't leave the spotlight? No matter what the Hollywood machine throws at it, that one little album holds on to its 15 minutes like a cat that's just dug its claws into your arm. This year, that album seems to be Adele's '21'.

The album cover doesn't quite convey how I feel right now.

Don't get me wrong, I think the album is fantastic. I love(d) the songs, I love Adele. But seriously, I think it's time we gave it a rest. How many times am I going to have to hear 'Rolling In The Deep' every time I turn on my TV? (Here's one more time for good measure)

How long is that very song going to be playing in one of those hip stores all the kids love to go? I don't know. All I know is enough is enough.
I don't know about you, but excessive song playing eventually ruins the song for me. If I hear it enough times I start to hate it. It kinda goes like this:


1st time: Meh, what's special about this?
4th time: Ok, this song is kinda cool.
6th time: I freaking LOVE this song!
18th time: Hey, it's an old favourite of mine! Don't change the channel!
30th time: Yeah, it's cool. Skip ahead though.
50th time: Again??
70th time: Turn that shit off already!
98th time: Seriously? I'm gonna fucking break that CD, bitch!


So that's basically the life cycle of a song. Keep in mind this doesn't all happen in a short amount of time; it takes weeks. Right now, Rolling In The Deep is somewhere between the 50th and 70th marks. Lady GaGa's Born This Way is between 30 and 50, just to give you a better perspective. I love the women, I really do. But haven't you ever heard "Too much of a good thing is bad?" Even though it may not apply to awesome stuff like ice-cream and cake and money and s... yeah those things, it definitely applies to music.
To make a long story short, please quit playing the same shit over and over again. We can only take so much before our brains start to leak out of our ears like guava puree, and I'm too young to die.

Ma-ma-malaria

Nothing feels better than finding out SOMEONE reads your gibberish. It is for that same reason that I am back today. Woohoo! I know you missed me, but I’ll skip the pleasantries and get right down to business.

Let’s start with the basics – I’m in Zambia! I survived my flight (didn’t get to sit next to anyone hot), survived my initial Canadian withdrawal symptoms, and survived a little get-together my parents threw for me. I’m a survivor. Unfortunately, I have another item on my list that I need to survive: malaria.

If you’re not from sub-Saharan Africa, you probably think malaria is BAD. Like “OMFG I THINK I’M GONNA DIE!” bad. Hate to break it to you, but it’s really not. Well, it is deadly but then again so is the common cold in rare situations. With the right treatment, I expect to be up and running in no time.

Now that you know I’m not gonna die (even though that might be a little disappointing for some), let’s move on. There are bigger problems here than malaria.

First? Zambian internet. I know it’s not terrible EVERYWHERE, but I am yet to see an internet connection functioning normally. It’s like ghosts – they probably exist but very few people have seen them, and those that have aren’t usually taken too seriously.

Two ISPs came down to “assess” how well an internet connection would work at my house, and the results were abysmal. And before you ask, no, we don’t live in the middle of nowhere. Just a regular old residential area in a regular old town. But apparently, their base stations are either too far, blocked by too many objects, or facing the opposite direction. Once again before you ask, no, apparently we don’t have cable here.

Secondly? Zambian air. Or rather, the air at my house. I don’t know what’s in it besides the usual oxygen, carbon dioxide and other gases, but it’s giving me allergies. Every night before bed, my nose runs like a leaky faucet, and no matter how soft the Kleenex claims to be, my nose still gets irritated from the constant wiping and blowing. It’s not pleasant. Not at all. Maybe it's the cat...

But besides everything that’s so obviously going wrong, I’m glad to be home. I’m more than happy to see my parents, my friends, and even my dad’s annoying secretary… Ok, I lied. I’m not happy to see her. But you get my point.

By the way, a little piece of advice: don’t fly Ethiopian. They may be cheap, but you find out why as soon as you get on the plane. Honestly, Air Canada wasn’t that great either, and they’re not even cheap. It’s a lose-lose situation.

Ok, think I’m done ranting. I shall now retire to my comfortable bed and medicate my ailing body while sipping on a nice cup of tea. Yes, I think that sounds about right…

Check on it

So I walk up to the check-in desk and there sits this haggard-looking woman who appears to be in the middle of what could only be the worst period of her life. I can tell by the I-hate-my-job expression on her face. Or maybe she just actually hates her job. Who knows? Either way, she doesn’t appear to be having a good day.

“Good evening,” I say politely with a smile on my face.

She eyes me for a split second before responding. “Good evening, sir. And how many bags will you be checking today?”

I look down at my solitary piece of baggage then back up at her.

“Just the one,” I reply, trying to hide the frustration in my voice as I point to the bag besides me. As if she can’t see.

I place the bag on the weighing platform or whatever it’s called, and the scale reads 53 pounds. I bite my lip, knowing the limit is 50.

“Oh dear, looks like you’re slightly overweight here,” she says with an attempt at a concerned facial expression. “You’re going to have to pay for the excess weight.”

Stupidly, I stare at the scales. I knew this was going to happen but I decide to act surprised.

“So how much is that going to be?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “One hundred dollars.”

I blink once, then a second time.

“Ok, so you’re telling me I have to pay one hundred dollars because my bag is three pounds over the limit?”

She replies that I do.

“Are my three extra pounds going to prevent the us from taking off? Or are they going to bring that plane plummeting out of the sky?”

She replies that they won’t – the plane can handle it.

I take a deep breath. “Well then why the fuck do I have to pay one hundred dollars?”

She says it’s the company’s policy.

“Oh well that explains everything then! It’s company policy. I’m flying half way across the world for three months and I’m only allowed 50 pounds? And now that I’m just three pounds overweight you’re going to make me pay $100? You know what? Fuck you.”

Her eyes widen as she exclaims there is no need for such language; she doesn’t write the policy.

Slamming my palm on her desk, I say, “Well thank God, otherwise it’d be even more fucked up than it already is!”

By now she’s too shocked to say anything so she just stares at me.

“Now listen here, bitch,” I say, leaning in closer, “this is what’s gonna happen. You’re going to check my bag like an obedient worker. After you’re done with that, you’re going to have a good talk with whoever writes the policy around here because it fucking stinks. And by the way, I’ll pay you that $100 when you see three pigs flying in formation around your house. That’s not gonna happen any time soon, so until then why don’t you just shut your mouth and CHECK MY FUCKING BAG!”

…

That’s what I should have said.

But instead I just nodded and asked, “Do you take Visa?”

Come fly with me

Two weeks to go. 
Two weeks and I'll be landing here: 

Now I don't know how old that photograph is but there you go - Lusaka International Airport. You know, it's that big thing with "Lusaka International Airport" written on it. Not much compared to Heathrow or Pearson but meh, it'll do. 

I can already imagine the landing - I won't have to wait in line like all the other foreigners because, hey, I'm not a foreigner! I'll just run on over to whatever desk they have serving us Zambians, get my passport stamped, and proceed out the door. The process literally takes about 30 minutes, and that's counting the landing. See the top of the tree right above the building? That's probably in the parking lot.

What worries me, however, is the actual flying. I'm not accustomed to sitting in one seat (that was clearly designed for a slightly obese child) for periods longer than an hour, so obviously, transatlantic flights really aren't my thing.

And don't get me started on the person who's probably going to sit next to me. Is it too much to ask for someone at least mildly attractive? Apparently it is. I need something to look at when I get bored and rhinos, endangered though they may be, aren't exactly what I like to call pretty. With my luck, that's probably all I'll get.

Then there are the flight attendants. The majority of them are as pleasant as can be, but there's always the one who seems to detest his/her job. Have you ever been faced with one of those? I have. Half the time you can't even tell they're being rude because they're smiling. Then when they walk away you're like "Wait, what??"

After sitting in a children's car seat next to the hunchback of Notre Dame for seven hours, I'm sure I won't be in the mood for anyone's bullshit. No siree Bob.

Oh well, one can only hope for the best. This time I'll be prepared, neck pillow and ear plugs at the ready. My iPod will be fully charged, my spirits will be high and my wits will be about me. And if I do get stuck with a rhinoceros? I'll take a picture and pray it doesn't snore.

Shit a brick

It's been a long while since I had the living shit scared out of me, but I'm proud to say that I am no longer living an adrenaline-free life.
I had the pleasure of seeing Insidious at the cinema today. After a mild struggle with the ticket vending machine (Visa Paywave wouldn't work for one reason or another...perhaps I was using it wrong?) we waited at the ticket-checking counter for a minute or so before deciding to just go ahead. It made me wonder whether purchasing tickets was even necessary.
Anyway, after starting off with the usual previews, I was thrust head-first into the thrill ride that is Insidious. I was literally scared shitless for latter three quarters of the movie. I haven't seen a horror movie that good in a very, very long time. I strongly suggest you see it. Of course, better stuff has been made before but Insidious is a good refresher for any lover of the horror genre.
After I got home, I made sure to turn on all the lights - I was expecting some sinister creature to jump out from any possible dark corner or a face to materialize in a window. Those are the times you both appreciate and regret the fact that you're living in a basement. Appreciate because, like it or not, the basement is a pretty safe place with little to no windows, and regret because if something did happen to me and I screamed my lungs out for help, no one would hear me. Someone would probably only stumble upon my lifeless body three days after I had died.
Yes, Insidious messed me up. But isn't that the point? A good horror movie's horrors stay with you long after you leave the cinema. If they hadn't, I'd consider the venture an utter waste of $7.45, and in that case, I'd rather have purchased an equally thrilling McDonald's meal.

Journalist's journal

Today I made some new friends - a few fellow journalists-in-training. As I listened to the stories of their adventures over a pleasant lunch in the cafeteria, I looked back through the short but colourful time I had spent with my own class.
What struck me most about these memories was how weird they were. It was as if they weren't my own, but someone else's outlandish fictional creations that were implanted into the part of my brain responsible for memory. Is that the prefrontal lobe? I don't know. I should have googled it before I started writing, but oh well. 
Anyway, as I was saying, I have some pretty weird memories. And you know why? Because my journalism class was fucking weird. Like take 20 random people off 20 different streets in 20 different towns (possibly even countries), and throw them into one room weird. But despite our weirdness, we somehow managed to mesh together well, some times better than others. 
As I proceed to the next chapter of my life (Chapter 5, in case you hadn't noticed) I wonder if my new classmates will ever live up to the old. I'm probably in for my share of craziness going to an art school, but I wouldn't be surprised if I never meet a crazier group of people than the ones I'm parting ways with. Must be a journalism thing.
Yes, yes, you're probably thinking I haven't seen anything yet. Well, my dear reader, if you haven't been around me and my class, then it is you who hasn't seen anything yet. And when you finally do, God help you.

Oh, the shame!

Usually, when you start your day by tripping and almost falling flat on your face, things are bound to go downhill from there, right?
I woke up this morning feeling better than I had the night before. My cold seemed to be under control thanks to an intensive home treatment plan I had executed before going to bed, and I felt like everything in the world was going to be all right. 
A few minutes later, as I walked up the stairs to the kitchen to grab my bowl of cereal just like Rebecca Black, my slipper got caught on a step and I was sent hurtling into space like a poorly launched rocket. I shudder when I imagine the expression I must have had on my face. I tried to keep my balance but to no avail - in less than a second, I was on my hands and knees, my mind reeling from the fall that was probably heard in the next-door neighbour's basement. Oh, and did I mention all of this happened in front of onlookers? Yes, dear reader. It was embarrassing.
My elbows and knees ached like a bitch but I just got up and tried to act like nothing had happened, my usual reaction to public mishaps. At worst, I carry on without a word, but I thought this occasion warranted some kind of expression of surprise/shock. Needless to say, the incident didn't do my ego any good.
The situation reminded me of several other embarrassing moments I've had before. One time I walked 15 minutes to school in jeans that still had the size label attached. I'm now convinced half the town knows what size jeans I wear and is conspiring to ensure it's never available.
Yes, I've had my fair share of embarrassing moments. I wouldn't be me if I didn't regularly get myself in awkward situations. So if you're ever around me, I'm gonna warn you right now...

Diseased Monday

Thrilled as I am to have survived another long day, I think I am coming down with something. For months, I have watched my friends drop like flies on Facebook and succumb to one of winter's worst punishments besides -20 degree weather - the common cold. 
Try as I may, it seems I am utterly unable to stay disease-free every winter. Despite this being only my second cold this year as compared to the five I had last time, it would be nice to not get sick at all, don't you think? 
I felt it this morning when I got out of bed, that slight tickle in my throat and a slowly increasing collection of phlegm. Disgusting, yes, but diseases are never pleasant. I kept feeling it when I left the house and it only got worse as time progressed. The bus was late as usual so that gave me a few extra minutes of standing in the cold. Whoop-dee-fucking-do.
So by the time I was sitting at my computer at my co-op placement, I had grudgingly accepted the fact that there was no way my throat would magically get better. It was then that I realized I had to ride this sickness out till the end like a brave sick person. 
After battling a mild depression, I said to myself, "Fuck this shit" and started looking forward to getting better. I guess that's the moment people call acceptance. Whatever. I can't spend my time worrying about being sick. Not that I have too much to do, but you know what I mean. I just wish there was some kind of medication you could take to make it all go away in an hour. I'll take two, please!
And that brings me to my other point: Why the fuck isn't there a cure for the cold? Surely, if we can transplant an ear onto a mouse, we can discover a cure for one of the smaller inconveniences of life. I'm sure if I bothered to carry out extensive research, I'd discover the answer to that question, but remember, I'm sick now.
The plus side to all of this is the relief I will receive once I finally recover and the knowledge that, hopefully, I won't get sick for quite some time. Life usually works that way; slaps you in the face and then gives you a kiss. Bad metaphor, I know. 
Anyway, I'll concentrate on regaining my health. Until then, I'll just fucking hate being sick.

Welcome to Chapter 5

Having watched Julie and Julia for the second time, I have decided to start a blog in the hopes that I shall one day get a book/movie deal, assuming the world doesn't end in 2012. My previous attempts at blogging haven't lasted very long, but I hope this one is here to stay.
You may be wondering why this blog is named Chapter 5. If you are, I'm going to explain it, and if you're not, well, I'm going to explain it anyway. 
Chapter 5 is just another transitional stage in my and many other people's lives. Chapter 1 was grade school, Chapter 2 was high school, Chapter 3 was the time after high school and before college, Chapter 4 was college, and Chapter 5 is what comes next. For me, it is going to be university; for others, it could be getting a job or having a baby. Chapter 5 is unique to everyone, so make of it what you will.
So, with this record of my life in Chapter 5 and all other subsequent chapters, I will provide you, my soon-to-be loyal reader, with unparalleled insight into my turbulent life. OK, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean.
I shall soon be embarking on a summer trip to my home in Africa and that will serve as the kick start to my new life, which will include, but will not be limited to, employment, independence, financial responsibility, higher education and being an all-around better person than I was before.
But before I undertake this seemingly perilous journey, I am to complete the 120 hours of a co-op placement required to graduate from my current program of study - journalism. Yes, I am a trained journalist (I've waited four years to say that). If you think that makes me opinionated, loud-mouthed and inconsiderate, you are correct.
So here, my dear reader, is where our story begins, with a 20-year-old journalist sitting at his computer, excited to finally be done and on the next plane off the North American continent. The coming weeks could be fascinating or absolutely mundane, I can't tell for sure. But however they turn out, and we shall soon see, I want to formally welcome you to my Life's Chapter 5.