A Dramatic Reading

One of the richest treasures I have come across in my internet adventures is this DRAMATIC READING of a break-up letter. You may need a tissue or a towel handy for the crying that will most likely ensue.

Childhood memories and vacuum cleaners

So today Drew mentioned that there was a contest going on to win tickets to see Fred Penner. What a dreamboat. The only catch was, the contest involved posting your funniest childhood memories. Funny? Knowing myself so well, I knew this was going to be a tough one. There are just so many memories to choose from.

I mean, should I go with the time when I killed a baby duck egg about to hatch at the age of three? To further lighten the mood, the mother then took her aborted child into the water and gave it a solemn funeral, watched in disbelief and utter rage by much more civilized French people who had only been looking for a nice patch of grass in the park on which to rest their much less violent children. I still maintain it was an act of mercy and that mother duck was probably single, and hardly able to take care of six children all at once; look what it's done to Kate (and Jon) Plus Eight.
Or maybe I should tell them about the time my older brother kicked a soccer ball in my face, or the time when he slammed the door on my thumb so hard the nail fell off, both incidences warranting a piercing scream compelling enough for the most horrific of the I Know What You Did Last Summer series of quality films?

I should probably think about telling them about the silent wrestling/kicking matches my little brother would have when my mother was teaching piano. Sure, we hated each other with an undying passion, but silence was key. Who wants to involve a third party? Even the vacuum hose I choked him with was dealt with very little sound.

And don't ever tell me your arm is broken, because I simply won't believe you. Throughout my childhood, people, including my little brother, have broken their arms and each time I adamantly refused to see things from their shattered-bone perspectives. It wasn't because of my violent tendencies, but because I honestly couldn't see how things just couldn't bend that way anyways. A doctor I shall be not.

Then there was that beautiful summer evening that my older brother was hunted down with his friends by the local police helicopter. And that especially romantic junior high day when a boy tried to tell me he liked me, I shot him down, and he hit me with a volleyball and gave me a black eye in retaliation. And how about a boy in gr.6 who masturbated with a ruler in the middle of class. There's a real winner - I'm sure the judges would appreciate a good childhood sexual liberation story.

Or, possibly my favourite, the time when my little brother told a friend I had never met that I had Down's Syndrome and I for some reason felt the need to play along, and the friend greeted me with that signature deer-in-headlights look I have come to recognize so often. Fred Penner's wiki page also tells me that his sister actually has Down's Syndrome, so how could he not relate?

I think Drew has since regretted informing me of this contest because he knows I'm going to win. Step aside kids, this ray of sunshine is about to get two tickets to the best night of her life...

*Edit: Drew has since won the tickets and will be appearing at Fred's show tonight for free, whereas I will be staying at home in a corner contemplating razor blades and the belt on my bathrobe.

Facebook Help Part II: The Bane of All Existence

So as you faithful readers know, a little over two weeks ago Sanbula lost her profile. This was an utter disaster, so, over the course of this period of time, she sent emails asking for help. In the beginning, she was not as desperate, and her letters remained normal:

"I have been trying to access my profile page, but it keeps loading blank."

Which swiftly turned into poetry:

"Blank Profile: A Haiku"

To speak face-to-face
Is not a way I know now
I need my profile

And finally, after comparing herself to the Biblical Job, her letters became one lengthy missive, punctuated with thoughtful commas and well-used dashes:

Are you there, Facebook? It's me, Sanbula.

I hope you can hear me. It's been a really tough two weeks. I've been trying to be strong, but it's been hard. I was reading about the Rwandan Genocide the other day, and I burst into tears. Not because of the despicable extermination of a marginalized, ethnic group -- though, I suppose that's important. Whatever, I guess. It was because it reminded me of my own pains, and the adversity I have been encountering. This is MY Vietnam, Facebook.

Facebook, are you mad at me? I keep trying to talk to you, but you always seem so mechanical, almost inhuman. I thought we had something going on. I let you in on my deepest thoughts, thoughts that I would only share with three hundred of my online friends. I let you live vicariously through me as I traveled the world and showed you the pictures of palatial monuments that I go see just to appear erudite and worldly, when all I want to be doing is gargling with gin. You always looked out for me. You reminded people to send me birthday wishes. You let me learn more about people I barely knew, as in they had just eaten breakfast, and how they were out of toilet paper. How will I now learn the mundane details about people who don't care about me? The residual practicality and grip on reality I shockingly still possess tells me to stop believing in you, but the devout part of me cannot live a life of apostasy. I'm clutching onto the hope you will answer my prayers, and one day, fix my profile, so I and others can view it. To make matters worse, Jack Dorsey, better known as Lucifer, with the aid of his aberrant creation, Twitter, has been Tweeting about how I should join his network via a 140-character limit, poorly constructed message: "Lolz Facebook is for chumps join us u can learn abt the gud life. also we have celebrities. SHOW US YER TITS N FREE YERSELF FROM TYRANNY!" Normally, I would find this verbal excretion -- littered with poor syntax and appalling grammatical errors -- repulsive and combat it by pleasuring myself while looking at a dictionary. However, I'll admit it, Facebook, in my hour of need, I felt... temptation. Then I remembered the first divine imperative from The Ten Commandments of Facebook: "Thou shalt not have any social network mediums before me". I knew I had sinned for even entertaining this thought, and immediately reprimanded myself by flogging myself with a cat o' nine tails, and chanting, "Dislike! Dislike! DISLIKE!" O Facebook, it is you that I lay prostrate in front of, trembling before thy glory. Why have you forsaken me? I keep trying to reach you through my messages. I hope you hear me, Facebook. I really need you right now. I fear to see what lies in the future. Laughing at Lolcats? Longing for Farmville?!! Facebook, give me the strength to resist the banality of the cyber wasteland that is trying to lure me from believing in you.

I always enjoy our talks. Thank you for listening to me, or letting me think you are. Now that my anxieties are assuaged, I'm going to go throw cabbage at the neighborhood children from my front stoop in my caftan, and think of how the steps I can take to pursue my true calling as a cat whisperer. Peace

I for one would have rather shot myself in the foot rather than miss a moment of advertising for Pioneer Village. And to miss 24 weekly invitations to CRAZY PARTY BONANZA!! at any one of the local guido-infested clubs?? I would have lost my soul in the madness.
You are a shining beacon of light and hope for us, the masses, in this tumultuous time, for we have no willpower save for what Facebook gives us. Thank you Sanjob, for you are truly the inspiration that guides all narcissists with access to the internet. Amen.

Sanbula has now regained full access to her profile and is no longer considering becoming a suicide bomber like her brown heritage dictates she should in all stressful situations.