Some things that you do make me angry. Very, very angry, and although I was your age once, I was never like you. Nope. Well… maybe a little, but I have a better sense of humour and I’m awkward, so it makes what you do funnier when I do it.

FOR EXAMPLE,

Wearing a shirt as a dress. This is only acceptable when wearing leggings, or some form of stretchy fabric that covers your butt. I don’t want to see it, and truthfully, there’s only a handful of people that do want to see it, and half of that handful only want to see it to make fun of you. The other half is checking you out, which is exactly what you wanted, so it worked, and well done on that, but please be aware that you’ll never actually make an impression based on the look of your face. No one will recognize you later or the next weekend when you wear a different kind of shirt as a dress with no pants. You’ll constantly meet the same people thinking that maybe this time he’ll buy you a drink, and perhaps he will because you’re easy, (don’t deny it, you’re thoughts are safe as long as they’re inside) but the drink will be tainted. That’s right. You won’t even get the rufies… no no, you’ll have a drink that’s tainted instead ’cause every dude will assume you’re so easy you don’t need free drugs. People like me on the other hand that only wear dresses and heels occasionally, might need the free drugs in order to go home with anyone at the end of the night. You however, would go home with them, slightly tipsy at around 12:30am. And that.. that is slutty. Just like you’re outfit.

ALSO. Get a haircut. Yes, I do covet thy long locks of hair, but what I don’t covet is the split ends that have 18 different colours in it. What I don’t want, ever, is to have long disgusting fake hair. Sometimes girls can pull off the extensions, but most of you don’t do it right ’cause you go to that cheap place on King St that’s still attempting to teach retards how to do a basic wash and dry and get them to clip them in for you. I’ve seen hair extensions that look really good actually, but none of it has been in Hamilton. So stop. For the love of God. What happens if you end up breaking into that swimming pool everyone talks about all summer? Or going to an after party and then an after after party? Huh? What are you gonna do then? Take them out and put them on the same table you’ve been playing beer pong on? That’s almost as awkward as taking out dentures and rinsing them in public.

Bring a goddamn purse with you when you leave your house. I’ve seen chicks take money, i.d., cigarettes and phones out of their bust line and all I can think about is where they keep their keys. (Where DO you keep your keys?) I’m sure you’ve heard of this thing called a mall.. or even a strip mall.. screw it, if you’re on a budget, go to Dollarama.. they have purses at all these places, and I’m sure a couple convenience stores too. They come in an array of colours, shapes and sizes for your fashion needs. I’m sure no door girl, or security guard would want to handle anything that comes out of your boobs unless they’re your actual boobs.

Please keep wearing heels you can’t walk in. You read correctly, there’s no way I’d want that to change for a couple reasons. One, selfishly being that it’s much easier to trip people in footwear they can’t even keep on themselves, and most of the time, you don’t even have to trip them, as the level of intoxication and shady roads and sidewalks let nature take its course. Secondly, I can’t walk in heels either so you’re actually making me look better in comparison.

Stop quoting Jersey Shore. No one cares that you played chubby bunny with pickles cause you thought Snooki would think that’s cool. If you’re one of those guys that wears a beater before the cab gets there, then changes his shirt to an original Ed Hardy one, congrats. You’re gonna get yourself a winner. Pretty much slutbags and cumdumpsters for you my friend, and they’re expensive, what with all their medical bills and children and so on.

I hope this has helped you. I sincerely do. This Friday/Saturday night, I best be seeing a change… and if I don’t, then you’ll just keep fuelling this fire I have deemed as Shmamberley’s Brain Wash. Thank you and goodnight.

Throughout the previous months, it has come to my attention that some of you have misappropriated my intellectual property of my copyrighted face throughout the media format of Facebook. You may not be aware, but I, Amberley B. am the registered owner of the Trademark:

in Canada with the Canadian Intellectual Property Office, (which,I’ve never actually heard of; can’t tell you where it’s located and have no idea what vain of the law made me the owner of such a face).

Isn’t that a ridiculous few sentences? Yes. I think so too, as I actually HAVE seen many photos along those lines posted by various people throughout Facebook, but really, who can trademark a face? A funny face at that? No one, and I doubt even our government under the ruling of one Stephen Harper is stupid enough to allow such a trademark to be had.  I even find it absurd that someone owns the rights to the song Happy Birthday. That’s like owning the rights to the music of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It’s the same friggin’ notes as the alphabet for goodness sake.

Anyways, what this all stems from is a term that I once thought to be at the VERY least a Southern Ontario right of passage as a musician, although I’m sure it spans far beyond even the Canadian borders. But I don’t have proof, so I can’t claim that it’s true.

Battle of the Bands’ for a.. band is, well, one of the few ways to play any shows as an under-ager, and a great way to network as we get older. The high points of these competitions is that a variety of genres can all be put up against the other, making the crowds diverse, unique, and open to bands they might never have heard of otherwise. Not to mention the publicity when linked with certain pubs, or radio stations as well as judges. You’d think that a Battle of the Bands would be accepted as a whole from the artist community and smiled upon to promote up and coming indie acts from across our neighbourhoods, provinces, and country.

Alas, my dream world was shattered as of late. There’s one company from Ontario that claims they own the rights to the term, “Battle of the Bands”. Not only do they claim to have ownership of the NAME, they go further to inform one of my favourite live music venues from Burlington, (The Legendary Red Rooster, http://thelegendaryredrooster.com) that they own the entire IDEA surrounding a Battle of the Bands. Yup. You read correctly, Supernova, and their lawyers, (which remind me a little of Lional Hutz from the Simpsons at the moment for being complete and utter MORONS) are under the impression their trademark is 

“…not limited to the name, BATTLE OF THE BANDS itself. It also includes:

1) Our specific…model whereby mulitple independent bands compete in their performances before judges for various prizing…”

Are you kidding? Where are these people from? I’m kinda confused, as I seem to recall MANY battle of the bands from high school AND college, and this is the first I’m hearing of it considering Supernova has been a company since 1992. Supernova also owns the right to the arrangement and presentation of music competition for entertainment purposes in any form including festivals and fundraisers.

Like hell you do Supernova. As the CEO of the Rooster so tactfully put it, there are 195,000 hits as a result of a search on Google Canada of “Battle of the Bands”. That’s a fuck ton of suing this company has to do, and with a lawyer like Lional Hutz, I strongly doubt that anything will come of it. Besides, the Rooster does not, (and here I’m quoting the response to Supernova from the Rooster) “resemble(s) yours. (format of competition itself) We do not charge our bands an entry fee, we do not sell tickets, and we have a panel of celebrity and industry judges from many reputable firms…who judge…on talent and marketability not on the number of tickets sold.” Well played sir!

I felt the need to inform any of you about this as I feel companies such as Supernova, or Emergenza, (started from a past employee of Supernova itself) steal candy from babies. Their love for music is solely based on a cash symbol on a money bag, which I shouldn’t use, ’cause Gene Simmons owns it. They aspire to rape bands of their hard work, dedication and love for their music to pawn them off with a show at; what may be a great venue, but is held during the afternoon. On a Sunday.  Supernova prides itself on it’s strong business ethic but teaches young bands absolutely nothing about the industry whatsoever. They take a passion from multiple people individually and collectively and exploit their talent for capitol gain. Nothing is lost for the company. They make money, and will continue to make money as long as ignorance continues. I could honestly knock them for a whole day, but I think you’re smart enough to get the point.

I recently partook in a drive in theatre experience. I bought my dream car recently, a wood panelled station wagon that has the reverse bucket seat in the back that is just perfect for the drive in. So we went. Tuesday’s is only a double feature, instead of a triple for only $5 and I was unemployed, broke and bored, so this kind of night fit perfectly within not only my budget but my mental stability. The two movies were Sex and the City 2 and Robin Hood. Let my rant begin.

Sex and the City 2 is possibly the biggest waste of time on the entire planet. This comes above medial tasks like filing, and board meetings, and for those of you that are younger, homework. Seriously can’t stand that movie. There wasn’t even enough clothes and shoes to keep me entertained, and that’s saying something. The part I’d like to focus on though is near the end.. let me see if I can find a clip. While you wait, here’s a funny monkey:

Ok… Screw American piracy laws.

Besides the ridiculous story line that legitimately makes no gosh darn sense, there’s unfathomable lifestyles portrayed for someone who thinks owning a house at 26 is a great accomplishment. Not compared to this woman who has 2 apartments, one that boasts a walk-in closet that actually made me gasp, full of clothes that I can only look at in magazines. Not only will I never be able to afford these clothes, or apartments, I probably wouldn’t even be allowed in a store that sells such merchandise.

What I’m really trying to get down to, but can’t because there’s so much more that I hated, yes, hated about this movie was the end when the 4 girls get chased through the city by the men and hidden into a room by woman dressed in burkas. These women then took their burkas off to show designer clothing underneath of the most expensive taste. This had absolutely had no friggin’ point for the movie whatsoever. None. Zilch. Nada. F-IN NOTHING! All it did was take a piece of an entire religion, stomp on it, dig their heels in it, burn it and then take the ashes and mix it with turpentine to further the assault. COME ON HOLLYWOOD! (yes. I’m yelling. You should see me in person rant such things. It’s either hilarious or scary)

How can an entire group of writers, producers and directors assume women of muslim faith aren’t happy the way they are? Seriously. I was utterly shocked to learn that of all the 47 countries where the Muslim religion faith is practiced, many of those woman don’t agree with some of it’s practices. And that may be true, but not because of realistic issues, but because there’s not enough “colour” in their wardrobe; or there isn’t Prada marked across their linen clothes. Give me a fucking break. You failed Sex and the City 2.. Failed. How dare you assume anything about anything. You have no right, and it made me really really really really mad.

I can’t continue. I’m too pissed off. Thanks a lot.

P.S. Robin Hood wasn’t any better.

See what I did there? I got pretty territorial, and vain and slightly argumentative. You know what that must mean?

Yup. I’m a lead singer.

The world revolves around me.

I know what’s best for whatever unit I’m in at the time, whether it’s a band, or my friends.
I rarely give up.

I hardly give in.

Even when I know I’m wrong, I don’t admit it, until a couple days have passed and you’ve forgotten who brought up that stellar point against mine and then I steal it and pawned off as my own becoming the hero.

Yup. I’m kind of a bitch.

Sorta a jerk, but you know what? I get the band paid. I get the better time slot when the most amount of people will be there, drinking; thus making more money.

I’m the one that can insult a crowd full of strangers over a P.A. and pull it off as a joke even though I mean every single word.

I’m the one that writes all those stellar lines that people quote as facebook status’. Ok, fine… only I quote myself, but still, no one can quote a guitar riff, can they? NO.

I’m also the person that’s most worried about image, hair, makeup, and shoes. Stage shoes are very important.

I also have way more people to pick from. (If you know what I mean)

I’m the front person that can order shots in the middle of a guitar solo.

I can sell my soul and buy it back at a deflated price, cause I’m that awesome.

My negotiating skills are far superior than that of a lead guitarist, which brings me to,

The lead guitarist.

Usually this individual seeks the fame and spotlight that the singer normally gets which can cause some uncomfortable friction, OR the necessary onstage entertainment one can’t plan.

Having most of the writing responsibilities and rarely getting the credit for it, guitarists can be moody and possibly more emotional than their counterpart.

Constantly in a state of creating, the guitar is often a third arm, thus girlfriends must be very understanding, if in fact they can keep one. If in some ulterior universe they do, don’t expect them to be good listeners. They tend to keep their ear to their incredibly loud amps causing less than perfect hearing, and attention spans are pretty much non existent. Needless to say, they get confused easily in common conversation.

The bassist however is probably the nicest person you’ll ever meet. Usually docile and shy, they are happy to be the 3rd wheel in any given situation.

Working with both the drummer and guitarist, this dude has a lot to think about on stage and often conforms to the bent over his instrument position with head banging to the beat.

Not everyone will know his name, but those who take the time to learn it will undoubtedly be a fan after buying he buys them a shot or two after the set. You can find him leaning up against the bar solo just because he’s that cool.

Bassists somehow make it out of ever working that hard. No merch time for this guy, no no… he’s more responsible for organizing the gear in whoever’s parents van like a mad game of Tetris and getting it home safely. Also, the first guy to set up his gear and the first to tear it down. This dude is one of the most organized of the band.

Not the drummer though. Not a chance. This guy rarely loads. As soon as the car pulls up to the venue, he disappears becoming one with the crowd, taking names and kissing ladies. That’s right, it’s plural.

A sweaty mess by the end of the set, the drummer is one of the most popular with the ladies for some reason. Why do we woman swoon over gross sweaty men? No clue. But it’s hot.

In charge of keeping the time for the whole band, he can be referred to as a leader of the pack in his own way, which definitely doesn’t go over well with singers. Come one though, even I have to admit that they set the tone and pace for every song and deserve some sort of glory.

In past years, it’s become clear that drummers are very picky about structure, sound and end product. Hard to please, like an over expectant parent.

Good luck being in a band. Keeping at least these four, (maybe 3, maybe more) people on good terms long enough to record and play an album is a task all in itself. To see the innards of a bands dynamic is probably one of the most interesting things to come across. Just don’t get involved. A mic stand to the face hurts.

Peter Pan the Disney movie ruined my life. Legitimately, that cartoon screwed me mentally. My entire childhood and in my “tweens” (which is a stupid word) I was subject to Disney movies. Lots and lots of Disney movies. Having a brother 10 years younger than you will do that.

Peter Pan happen to be one of my favourites. I remember watching it and not thinking much of it until I saw a play where Peter was played by a woman, and I had an immediate connection with the story.

After that day, the movie was held in such a higher regard. It made me think  I COULD be Peter. (See how impressionable youth are?) I felt I had a chance to fly; I had a shot at being a leader of an army of underdogs, which sounds like a great theme, but it’s not.

Screw Peter Pan. Screw Disney for making that stupid story available to my ridiculously persuadable character.

I hope someone writes a version of Tink abandoning Peter, and then falling out of the sky and dying upon impact. That damn emerald clad lad fooled my young mind into thinking I never had to grow up; I never had to get a real job, or become responsible or achieve anything at all really! And you know why?!?!? Because when life gets rough, all I have to do is think a happy though and BAM! Never Never Land is some “pixie dust”  away.

Not even Michael Jackson ruined that fantasy for me. No, I’m 26 years old and STILL under the impression that if I coast through life, I’ll end up on some tropical island with people exactly like me, conjuring up food with my mind and sleeping in trees.

If I ever meet Peter Pan, or someone that’s dressed like him, I swear, punting will ensue.

I was driving sans IPod the other day, which in turn forced me to listen to the radio, which I always try to keep to a very bare minimum. During my solo listening party, a commercial came on asking me if I had, or still partake in using a list of drugs such as Oxycontin, (No, but I have a funny story about Ebay shopping while on it by prescription) Codien, (No) Vicadin, (No) Perx, (No) and the list literally lasted longer than I thought the whole commercial should have been.

In any case, it then asked me if I would like to participate in a NEW drug study which I would be handsomely compensated for.

Wanna know what the first thought in my head was? Wanna? I’ll tell you, but I don’t wan any hate mail ok?

It was, “Don’t they have bunnies for that?”

Which, in all fairness is a valid question. If I had to choose between testing a new “breakthrough” drug on a person, any person, or a cute fuzzy bunny, you bet I’d pick the whiskers, and I have my reasons;

1) They’re cheaper to house and feed assuming you would in the first place,

2) They can’t talk, thus you don’t hear complaints.

3) Better them than me, and finally,

4) I’ve always wanted to see an animal high on stuff I’d never be willing to purchase myself.

I’m just saying… I mean, what if something goes terribly wrong with the mixtures and such? This is REAL LIFE. I just can’t see the repercussions of some scientists scientific science stuff being something cool like Spiderman.

Face it Society, we just wouldn’t be that lucky. No no, we’d end up with people deformed inside and out, not to mention still hooked on whatever drug made them a qualified tester to begin with.

(The picture underneath is my guess at what a person MAY end up looking like after months of experimental testing. Scary huh?)

Ever try to rehibilitate someone taking drugs that probably came from a beaker and various types of vaccines mixed with folic acid? Me neither, but I imagine that their body and mind would be shot after that. And ask yourself this: If this new glorious drug turned out to be a vegetable maker, what would you rather put down? A cute little (now super angry) bunny, or a 4.0 GPA student from some ritzy college or university that was just trying to earn money to pay off some of their student debt?

VS.

Yea. Chew on that.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been singing. I was a back up singer in 3rd grade for Bob Schneider. I got all the solo’s in school and never had to audition. I did theater in college and didn’t get into the 3 year program because of my immaturity, which at the time was b.s., but looking back, so true.
I started singing in bands not long after I started my backup diploma and have been doing that since.
I have wanted to be a rock star since the moment my foot hit my first stage.
Since April, not so much. Once I thought about; actually thought about all the stuff I’d have to sacrifice like sleep, my bed, freedom and so forth,  I decided to be a recording engineer…

So I bought a bunch of books. Read up on it. Started volunteering at a recording studio. Started editing and setting up mics and listening to someone that knew better than I did about what works and what doesn’t.
My A.D.D. kicked in right around the 1st hour of editing drum tracks.
So, I thought to myself that I like the music business, why not start a record label?
Again, I bought a bunch of books, talked to other label owners, and was totally interested until I read that I’d have to get a bar code and a name copyrighted, and the company set up so I wouldn’t get sued, and make contacts with other companies to get what I wanted, and how hard it is to get c.d.’s on the shelves…

Then I said, fuck it. I’d rather someone else do it for me.

One day I woke up in my tiny ass crappy apartment in Hamilton and thought to myself, “Man, do I hate it here.”
So, I started looking for places to live out West, where the mountains are, and fresh air, and people that seem to be way more relaxed than I was at the present time.
And then I did the math.
2 weeks later, I bought a house in downtown Hamilton.

What. The. Fudge.
Who does that?

I’m way too wishy washy. How can I ever expect people to keep up to me if I can’t even see where it is I’m going?

Things have to be black or white. Easy, or hard. No grey areas. Nothing in between. If there’s any hint of grey than I have to find something easier to accomplish. I don’t know why or where this trait came from, but my step dad has the same thing, which is weird and I could go into a whole other argument of nature vs. nurture here, but I digress.

Know this. Amberley. Is. Confused.
Confusing.
Muddled.
Discombobulated.
Perturbed.
I love google thesaurus.
Until next time.

I’m not too sure what to think about that picutre… I can’t believe people honestly have that much time on their hands, then again, I’m totally writing a anti Christmas blog.

Having no children of my own, (that I know of) and no one young enough to still believe in Santa, Christmas has lost its allure. It’s lost the magic that came with watching my little bro open tons of presents and going for the empty box it came in instead. It’s no longer as fun as being dragged place to place to open countless gifts from aunts and uncles and finally, that one year being able to sit at the grown up table.
But now I’m a grown up. I have to make the turkey. I have to stuff that stuffing up a turkey’s ass. I have to do all that and not burn it tomorrow morning with my mom.
I love my mom, please don’t get me wrong, that’s not what I’m saying. In fact, my mom is the greatest mom that ever lived. I’m so happy she’s mine and you’re unlucky cause she’s not, although I hope you can say the same thing about your mommy too.

I just don’t like Christmas. I don’t. The shopping for others, the opening gifts, the surprises; it’s all so glutenous. Who needs more socks? Seriously, if I needed socks, I’d go out and buy socks. Plain white ones. Not goofy looking striped ones with toes. And I don’t want anything expensive either, cause that just makes me feel bad that you spent all that money and then next year, I’m going to have to out do you with a more lavish gift than the one that came before it.

Chirstmas sucks. You know what I think Christmas should be?

Cheerios, The Grinch, Candy Cane ice cream and some wine.
Or maybe Reefer Madness, Cigarettes and a board game.
Perhaps sleeping through the day and eating nothing but junk food from the dollar store.
That to me would be wonderful. No expectations, no frills, no rules.
No driving, no let downs and no panicking when I get lost trying to find my way to a relatives house I’ve been to once the year before.

Last year I stayed in my pj’s and sat on my couch and friends came over to hang out and we watched A Christmas Story. Some had never seen it before, which was wicked.
This year, after the turkey’s done and I’m full and everyone’s gone, I’m calling you and we’re going to cuddle in bed for the rest of the year. Sorry work, I’m calling in lame.

So, heads up, I moved. I moved to East Hamilton. Well, it’s more East than I was before and far more East than I was before that. Wait.. no… it’s more West than I was before that, but still more East than I was before.

I now live near and around the corner of Steven and King. You know that one. The Pearl Company is on that very same corner and there happens to be a convenience store with an ATM one block up on Tisdale. Oh come on, you know the one! The one with all the pretty ladies standing on the corner. Ok fine. There’s only two. And they don’t stand on the same corner, they stand one on the West side and one on the East side and for all intensive purposes, they don’t like each other. They own their respective corners and no one shall interfere with their money making scheme.

Perhaps that’s not the proper term. To scheme would imply that they are taking something from someone underhandedly. hee hee… hand… Which brings me to my next informational piece:

They. Are. Prostitutes.

(Disclaimer: Everything else in this blog has a sexual content and not intended for some readers, so mom, stop reading nowish)

Seriously. I live by a corner that probably, and assuming-ly makes far more money than my entire block, or at least I hope they do, cause really, if you’re not making a BUTT LOAD (hahahaha) than what would be the point?

I’ve lived here for 2 weeks now and these ladies are busy. The kind of busy that makes the phrase “in the weeds” look bad.  See, the fact is there’s only 2 of them and I’m only around so much so it’s pretty easy to keep tabs on them and their dirty jobs.

Especially when they get dropped off at MY corner from a beat up Oldsmobile that looks like it was found in someone’s front yard near Kennilworth and Barton.

OR, when I pull up to their place of employment and stop at the stop sign, and they take that as a sign that I’d like to wang chung that afternoon. That’s right, you read it, the freakin’ afternoon. I worked at 10am the last two days and both of them just glared at me with lust in their eyes.

Even when I am sitting at that stop sign when traffic sucks cause now enough time has passed that their inching forward in hopes that I’ll take both of them instead of just one and some dude saves me by offering her a cigarette. Next thing I know, they’re on their way to an apartment off King St. for a jovial time, discussing politics I’m sure.

If that weren’t entertaining enough, I happen to be having a smoke, (ew, I know Trevor) on my front porch, so happy that I finally can say that I have finished painting ONE room in my house and how satisfactory that feels, and also how excited I am to watch the season finale of Dexter on my laptop in a very comfy bed. .. where was i ? Smoking… right…. so, yea, anyways, I was smoking on my front porch and along came one of those… working girls, and she turns down my street and is on the other side, and walks up the path to the dudes house that lives across from me and rings the freakin’ doorbell.

Like… really? How much do you have to pay them to make house calls? I know that a veterinarian is about $120 flat fee, so.. like… what does that make hers? And how did she know what time to go? Is it like a set schedule? Can she rely on that money month per month to save for vaccines?

Sorry.. no, we’re talking about people, not cats… right…

But seriously.. Prostitutes make house calls? I find that rather ludicrous! Doesn’t that defeat the whole thrill of the cat and mouse game? I mean, I’m going to assume here that hookers aren’t that hard to pick up regardless, but still. I thought part of the fun for them or you was to have that whole, awkward moment before the business meeting.

And how much does that creepy lazy eyed man over yonder spend per month on frivolous activities? He’s wasting his money on whores just like I’m wasting mine on a monthly membership to Premier Fitness.

I’m not really looking for answers here people, no no. I am merely stating what I see and my opinion therewith.

And don’t think I’m keeping a career change in mind in case I loose my job, or my bank account implodes. That’s gross.

Think about it, compare Ikea crap to Pier 1. One will fall of the wall in about a month and the other will hang gracefully for centuries if you let it. Trust me on that one… my walls look like swiss cheese due to the many hangings and re-hangings of Ikea shit.

So, I bought this house. REALLY good deal and let me tell you, it’s everything I could have ever wanted and then some. I mean, 3 bedrooms, PLUS a loft AND a basement and the kitchen is retardedly amazing.. I would sleep there if I’d clean the floors, but I won’t…. OH! AND the best part… Pocket doors. Yup. I’m spoiled.

I moved in last Saturday with the gracious help of many of my friends that made my life so much easier. It didn’t take very long and the beer was plentiful. Upon waking up in my brand new, new to me house, the first thing I did was make coffee, and oh, how the smell was 10 times better than it was in my 1 bedroom apartment. As I was pouring my first cup in my first home, I heard an old man cough in the basement. Now, that would have been understandable had the house been attached to another, or …. if I had a tenant…. or… something, but no. The house is completely empty and I swear to God I heard a man cough.

If that had been the only weirdness, I totally would have pegged it as house noises that I’m just going to have to get used to. However, that is not the case. That night, as I lay my head down on my giant pillow (name that movie, I’ll give you a skittle) I hear a small group of children laughing.

It was 4:30am

Now, I know this is Hamilton, and the parental skills may or may not be lacking in my neighbourhood, but I don’t even think crack heads would let their kids out at 4:30am. Creepy no?

I had almost forgot about these instances as it’s almost been a week and I’m A.D.D. so my brain pushes things out to make room for more things; until this morning that is. (Side note, my coffee tastes like perfume. ew)

I woke up in my very comfy new bed, under my very comfy new down comforter and all I had to do today was to put some pictures up in my office and mend some curtains downstairs. That is all I had to do until I saw the mess in the office. The C.D. tower had “fallen” over with c.d.’s strewn about like someone had thrown them with force. I alphabetized those bitches too! Where the tower had fallen was on my desk, but if it had fallen with force, there would have been a mark, or a dent, or something, but alas… nothing…. just a bunch of c.d.’s lying uncatalogued all over  the floor.

Seriously… I’m weirded out. Thank goodness I have a chick moving into the loft this weekend, or this ghost would be getting me.