I’ve never pretended to be a nice person. I have pretended to be Spanish once or twice to be excused for my public tantrums. I outwardly admit that I don’t like dolphins or pandas. Especially pandas. I don’t find that weird but most people hear that and immediately assume I don’t have a heart. And that I may or may not have a cellar in my basement where I keep stop killing the whales Protesters. They are not wrong. In reality my care level is just not high enough to build a torture room, hunt down the activists, seduce them, bring them back to my place without anyone noticing, probably sleep with them just to really sell it, trap them in the cellar, buy a whole bunch of whale meat and make them eat it until they die or develop stockholm syndrome and join my side. I don’t know how serial killers do it, it’s just too much work.
So what I’d like to talk about today is your personality and if there’s ever a time when you should not be yourself? Should you alter your character based on your surroundings? If you asked me this yesterday, I would probably say fuck you cock sucker, there is no excuse to hide who you are. After all, the more people I make uncomfortable, the happier I am. But yesterday evening, my eyes were opened and then closed, and then my asshole of a subconscious gave me nightmares.
I am back in Toronto for a visit and encountered a neighbour who sparked up a healthy debate with me. This neighbour may or may not be a convicted criminal but who am I to judge. I don’t really care who you are or what you’ve done, I’ll never turn down a conversation. I like the sound of my own voice too much. The debate got heated, which was getting me excited. I was quite impressed at how the criminal was holding his own. About 20 minutes had passed and I wasn’t stabbed yet, so I continued the playful banter and ended the conversation by inviting him for dinner.
I thought we had really bonded and hoped he would give me tips on how to escape prison. I like to be prepared in case I get caught for hoarding whale people. Who am I kidding, no one would miss them. When he didn’t show up for dinner, I was confused. What did I do wrong? Was I not showing enough boob? I stopped for a moment and thought back to the conversation. There was a lot of me yelling and a lot of him, well, listening to me yelling. My revelation was interrupted by the revving of a chainsaw coming from his house. While I was preparing pulled pork, he was preparing his torture dungeon. I am little so a few chops and I would easily fit into pickling jars.
So, should I tone down my Napoleon complex around certain people? Probably. But who am I kidding, if I ever see him again, I’m still going to be my rude offensive self. Though instead of pickling jars I would prefer to be puréed and made into wine.
Over the years I have came to the realization that I can’t take credit for my golden personality. It was passed down from many generations of bitter French women. One of them being my Nan. We watched Iron Chef America and after 40 minutes of silence sitting on the edge of our seats hoping someone will drop something to fuck up their whole meal, she says, I hate that bastard. Whoa. What in this show could possibly rile you up that much? She continues, That fuckin Asian. Why do they feed him? He has no business being there. Her lips curl up as she aggressively repeats, bastard. I turned to her in hopes to see a typical French I spit on you! Ppp! and wasn’t disappointed.
So I say, stick your boobs out, fuck everyone else and rock who you are. Now show me your best high kick. Nailed it. See you soon….line it up!