Post Summertime Sadness


As I get ready to head back to University for one last year, I can’t help but feel the angsty teenage girl inside of me bursting to show off her curvaceous figure. In the shortest of phrases to describe my thoughts right now: Fuck. The summer is over.

I never get emotional about the summer. I tend to live in the now with slight tendencies to worry about the future and hardly ever do I dwell on the past. But at this moment, the dust that has barely settled from the summer is swirling around my head, filling my nostrills, agitating my eyes, and messing with my head. I’m at the sink trying to wash the dirt from my face, but I just can’t seem to get fully clean.

My summer has two parts. Part one, exploring the world, Europe to be exact. I’ve had two months to digest that experience, learn from it, and move past it. But the past two months working at camp are still fresh, the memories as crisp as the lake in the morning. What was so different about this summer from all the others? Why do I feel like I’ve lost something now that it’s over? I think the reality that I may never have a summer like it again is kicking in. That this past summer may have been my last summer as a youth.

As I look to my 6 course schedule and start worrying about my grades and my study habits that will affect my future, I begin to realize I miss stressing about things that don’t matter. For the past two months my biggest stresses while working at summer camp were:

  1. Do I have enough footage of kids smiling to make a video montage?
  2. Will the staff play happen?
  3. Does this girl want to kiss me?
  4. Do I want a freezie or a peach flavoured popsicle?
  5. Will this day off of alcohol consumption surrounded by good people be fun?(How did we stress about this?!)

In reflection I sit in astonishment…I can’t believe they pay me to do this.

I miss the adventure. Fourth year University doesn’t seem to be exhilarating to me. By now, school is pretty routine. The summer has an aura that keeps you wondering what stupidly fun thing tomorrow will bring. The care-free vibe that gives us the ability to walk around singing at the top of our lungs, not only not caring if people are listening to the terribleness of our voices in harmony, but hoping they are. Scheming, getting into trouble, causing a commotion…being “bad” without any “real” consequences.

I miss the hope of summer flings. The turmoil of the game, worrying if I said the right thing. Gathering the courage to put myself out there. The ecstasy of connecting with someone, even if it’s just for a moment.

I miss the chills. It’s crazy how people can just enter your life and become staples in your daily existence and then just like that, they’re gone. I could go weeks, months, years without speaking to them, people who I was comfortable enough to share the inner sanctity of my mind, regulate shower schedules with, even be close enough to be upset at. Some of these people I may never see again. I miss these people.

As I mope around my house, silently, feeling as if the world has ended, I wonder if there will ever be a summer like it. I worry that there won’t be. But I guess that’s how you know life is good, when you have something to be sad about. Because it means you had something to be happy about recently.

Two Paradises.

Two Paradises.




Taking Pride In My Prejudice


A few weeks ago I learned of an app called Lulu(not to be confused with the yoga clothing company Lululemon). The gist is that it’s a community exclusive to females, who get to dish their opinions on guys, and the guys are to never know what has been said about them. The application can work as a handbook for girls, who want to get involved with a guy, and want to know other ladies perceptions of him. The concept is clearly natural in our digital age, but I can’t help but hear the feminist screams in my head as I imagine a similar app in a bizarro world, where guys rate girls(as if).

Secrets out: I have a penis. This makes me a candidate to be studied on Lulu. Full disclosure, one of your fellow sisters betrayed the sanctity of the app, and alerted me of my profile(thank you to the noble mademoiselle). Now, I would like to take this opportunity, to evaluate myself and respond to my lovers and haters.

I currently sit at an overall score of 8/10. Pretty respectable. I seem to have many great things going for me, which is fantastic because the only thing I thought had I had going was my friends, exiting  the door of our friendship(bon voyage).


How could a “crush” only rate me a 7? Low standards?

I have never read Pride and Prejudice or seen the movie adaptations, but upon being called #Mr.Darcy, I utilized my high school Sparknotes skills and did some research. I have been told Mr. Darcy is an aloof hopeless romantic, and although he is initially perceived as cold, distant, and narcissistic, he actually ends up being a totally killer dude that would make your daughter happy.  I would consider myself a hopeless romantic- equal parts hopeless, equal parts romantic. Do I sometimes appear full of myself? Yeah, but that’s all for the laughs and to cover up all my insecurities(don’t look at my back). I will never stop self-deprecating myself for your amusement..never(read that in a Michael Caine voice).

I would like to thank you for the hair compliments but you must send your praise to my inspiration, Ryan Gosling, and my hair stylist Fernando, without them I am a mere mortal.

I’m glad that my social media presence has done the perception of me well. My Instagram has proven my culinary skill and my apparent hunk factor. I am also glad that the word has gotten out about my passion for buying flowers on a whim and my ability to supposedly (lucky) charm the pants off of you. I can’t recall this ever happening but I do seem to have a knack for heavy drinking.

drcy and i

Darcy and Me against the wretched hearts of women.

Sadly, like most children of the internet, it’s not the pros that stand out, but the cons. So let’s break these negative factors down and prove I am all benefits.

This one hurts, #PornEducated. I may have a PhD in adult films, but that doesn’t mean that’s where I have learned all I know about sex… Ok, it is. But is that my fault? If one of you ladies want to educate me through other means, I am a great student, with a lot of time on his hands, and a determination to succeed. I always thought of myself as Jeff Bridges- The Giver.

#HygenicallyChallenged. I only brush my teeth on average 1.5 times a day. But come on! My mom would say you are absurd! I currently have four shower products sitting in the bathroom:  Selsun Blue Dandruff Shampoo(can’t wear black without the blue), Dove For Men shampoo and conditioner, AXE body wash, and sweet lemon body gel from The Body Shop for those rough days. I spend (too much) time grooming myself and am in shock and awe at these allegations. I have gone as far as to wear Adam Levine for men, Adam Levine smells nice doesn’t he? The only argument I think you have here is that my onesies could be washed more.

#OwnsCrocs. Yeah I own them, but I SWEAR, I only wear them to shower at camp! If that is a crime, I will gladly do the time and wear the crocs because they are perfect for my use. They have holes that the water drains out of when you walk(that’s what she said?)

Finally, #Belieber. If you asked me if I have had 100 level seats to the My World 2.0 concert, my answer would be yes. But listen, Bieber has gone downhill, I have zero affection for anything post Beauty and a Beat. You really can’t judge my taste in music based on this. If you want a more well rounded view, check out my Last.Fm, I scrobble everything…everything.

To all the ladies that have taken the time to rate me, thank you. The fact that you spend any time on me at all is humbling. To the girl who claims herself a crush, I have these choice words. When I have a crush, I am blunt. I am a man that wears non sleeveless shirts, and on those non sleeveless shirts I wear my emotions. I’m not saying that I can be your Noah Callhoun, but you definitely can’t be my Allie if you don’t speak your heart. Let’s leave the games to the athletes.

In the end I try and pride(not prejudice) myself on being a pleasant guy. I hope when it comes down to it, the women of the world can base their views on me by spending time with me and being real with me, not by my rating on an app. Despite the kind words, no #hashtag can really define me, because for (explicit) sake, I can’t even define me.


Read my last blog about guys inviting girls over to watch a movie


Tinder Poetry


Sam told me that I could Tinder on his phone. Never had I used tinder before so needless to say I was a bit excited to message random women as Sam. I began writing a poem to a match of his named Jessica, whom Sam was deeply in love with. No longer would he allow me to send it though because I had spent what he deemed to be too much time on the poem. I did not want that time to go to waste so I thought I would just post it on here. Although this was entirely written by me, I ask that for the purpose of the poem you imagine as though Sam is saying this to his match, Jessica:

Hey Jessica, my tinder match
I am looking for a back to scratch
A back to scratch you may now ask?
Yes, a back to scratch!
For from our match may now have hatched
A mutual matching of hatching back scratching
Without any strings attached!

So swipe right, yes swipe me right
Let Photoshop destroy your night
I’ll be charming, I’ll be polite
But it won’t really matter what I write
For all the signs are in black and white
If you only rely on your thumb, and on your sight
An emotionless one night stand will be at their might

You see when you cut people off just based on their look
You may stop at the cover of what is life’s greatest book
And instead you’ll be left with twilight, or some crap
The boring type of book that will cause you to nap
With nothing but physical beauty filling that gap
Eventually ended by the reality slap
That this relationship was spawned by a demeaning app

So Jessica, still wanna scratch my back?
We can start up this mutual back scratching pact?
Celebrating all the common virtues we lack
For me its looks come first, and then next your rack
But enough about me let’s hear about you?
Why are you so lonely? And when can we screw?
Here’s some stuff about me that is not at all true…
And if I havn’t asked already, when can we screw?


The Time I Saw A Movie Alone


What are the complications of dating your operating system? That is the basic premise of Spike Jonze’s Her. Joaquin Phoenix plays a man in a world similar but a tad more futuristic to ours who has a relationship with his computer.

Yesterday I had plans to meet a friend downtown to see the movie. But, to our chagrin, both of the closest show times were sold out, and due to my friends busy schedule, he could not see a later showing. So we decided to have a quick meal and chat instead. As our man-date was coming to an end a crazy little thought entered my big neurotic head…”What if I went to see the movie alone?” I voiced my thought aloud and the responses I heard were not to encouraging, “Really? You’re going to sit alone in the theatre? You might seem a bit like a loser.” Realistically the only negatives is what other people will think about me seeing a movie alone. I was already downtown away from most people I know, so in the real world, there was no way anyone would ever find out. But of course this is not the real world, this is my life.

My friend and I parted ways and I went off to buy my ticket. When it was my turn at the box office I politely asked for one ticket to the 7:20 viewing of Her. The employee stated there was only one ticket left. My response, “That’s ok, I’m alone.” A sad look seeped over his face as he handed me my ticket.

Please Retain Your Ticket and Your Dignity.

Please Retain Your Ticket and Your Dignity.

There were only 10 minutes to spare before the movie started. This scenario would usually make me anxious if I was with someone. A sold out movie with only 10 minutes before it starts- almost a 0% chance we would find a seat together. But, being a former theatre employee and a social philosopher, I knew there was an advantage to seeing a movie Han Solo. You see, theatre dynamics work as such: people generally see movies in groups. Human beings are uncomfortable sitting beside strangers which makes the seating arrangement somewhat like a game of Tetris. Every group is a different shape filling up spots, but they don’t like to ever connect, always leaving one awkward seat open, forcing groups of two or more in a sold out movie to either sit in the very front or leave. But alas, I was alone and that awkward lonesome seat was for a lonesome awkward me. I walked in and saw an upper middle seat fully vacant. I walked up and exclaimed “is anyone sitting there?” to the whole row. All the heads turned and paused for a moment of silence, they were commemorating the dignity they had thought I just lost. The 20 something guy and his girlfriend on one side of the seat and the grandmother with her family on the other both mumbled that it was available. I slithered my way past 6 people and claimed my throne in the best seat in the house as the pity of the theatre patrons surrounded me.


At least he was with his computer….

The movie experience was incredible. Not only was it one of the best movies I think I have ever seen, but I was able to fully enjoy it without worrying about what someone else thought as I was watching. Also, after the movie I knew right away that I had loved it and my opinion was not clouded by what my viewing partner thought.

I left my companionless movie viewing very pleased with the experience. I was scot free, the only ridicule and awkward glances I had received were from complete strangers, which is perfectly fine by me. But as I said, this is my life, and there was no away this was going to end harmoniously. As I exited the theatre I locked eyes with a girl whom I used to lust after, who was aware of my inner desires, and was seemingly on a date. She walked over and merrily asked “SAM! What are you doing here? Did you just see a movie?” I said that I had just seen Her. She asked, “Who did you see it with?” I confidently said “I actually saw it alone.” The look of pity overwhelmed her face. She then quickly introduced me to her date, we shook hands, had some quick small talk and parted ways.

I was alone, watching a movie about a guy in a relationship with a computer, and was caught in this experience by a former crush who was currently on a date.

Read my last blog about New Years Eve Anxiety


Whats Your Thing?


I do not have many childhood memories. For some reason I just can’t remember much- unless it happened this morning. My theories on this are that:

  1. I had a terrible childhood
  2.  I’ve been in a roofie circle my whole life
  3.  I am dumb.

I don’t have any evidence of any of the three, but my detective skills are more comparable to a salami sandwich than Sherlock Holmes. BUT! One thing from my childhood that stands out today is that 90’s commercial where the kid makes T-Rex noises and the girl yells “MOM! AIDEN CUT ME IN HALF AGAIN!” the commercial fortifies the message of “Everybody’s got to have a thing? What’s your thing?”

This commercial came to mind because of a conversation I had with two friends last night. We were sitting around, and it came to me that both were pursuing a future that related to the things they were passionate about. One friend has extensive film and cinematography knowledge; spewing off facts about different types of cameras and effects. He’s in film school and the guy genuinely just loves movies more than anything. The other sat playing guitar singing. Playing his music and of the bands he loves. When you go to his room it’s covered in posters of his favorite artists. Basically what I’m saying is that when you think of these two guys you think of their respective passions instantly.

I decided to ask them, what they thought of when they thought of me. If they thought one thing about me and what I would be in the future, what would it relate to? The answer: Coke. I am a beverage.

If Duff Man can do it, so can I?

If Duff Man can do it, so can I?

How the hell did I become synonymous with a drink? My passion is a carbonated liquid!? What the hell am I going to do with that? Can I make money by just drinking coke? Is that a future? Is that even really a passion? Yeah I love Coca-Cola and have many collectibles and such of the product, but that isn’t a skill or something someone does. If someone asks me what I enjoy doing, what I am passionate about, I’m supposed to answer: “I like to drink coke?”

This commercial has really got me going. Everyone is passionate about something. But are they? I don’t know if I’m truly passionate about anything. I’m not an expert on any subject. I watch a lot of movies and TV shows, but I can’t spew off plot points and quotes about the series and movies I love. I listen to a lot of music, but I don’t know every album or the names of all the band members. I made this thought aware to my friends and they said “well you also like social media!” You know what’s worse than being passionate about a 350ml can of sugary heaven? Being passionate about something that is just a means of self-promotion. They basically said I am passionate about myself. Oh the narcissism.

This post doesn’t really have a point. While I go out to discover my passion, I ask you the questions: Do you have a passion? Is there something you as a person are associated with?

Read my last blog about onesies.


Say Hello To My Little Scarf


Tomorrow is the scariest day of the year- Halloween. Like New years, I think Halloween is a time for us to sit back, reflect, and look forward. On New Year’s we contemplate our year past and set goals for the new one. On Halloween we think of our deepest fears, the old and new ones that will creep up on us between now and a year’s time.

Many people fear death, spiders, clowns- to name a few. I, like everyone, have fears that are akin to the masses. But for the last few weeks I have had a larger, warmer, fashionable fear: scarves.

Scary Scarf

I don’t know if it is the scarf itself, or the idea of becoming a guy that wears a scarf that scares me. Possibly both. But the fear is becoming more prevalent in my mind, and I may be going down a path there is no returning from.

Whether we like it or not, the cold weather is upon us. I know this not because I am a meteorologist, but because I can feel it in my bones. As I walk down the street every morning the coldness seeps into my nipples, tickles my neck, and intrudes my nostrils. An idea has been rolling around in my head for a while. The idea that I could…maybe should…even need to get a scarf.
I’m not speaking one of those flimsy scarves you wear indoors. I can’t cross that line. Although I have begun to embrace some hipster tendencies, I need to stop at a certain point, and I think an indoor scarf is pushing boundaries I am not prepared to go beyond…yet. I am speaking of a purely outdoor, heat inducing scarf.

This seems useful

The issue is scarves are also for style and speak a lot to the wearer. In my eyes it takes confidence to pull off a scarf. Confidence I am afraid I may not possess. Yesterday I went to H&M and attempted to put on some scarves. My scarf shopping companions picked some out for me, even wrapped them around my neck in different shapes and knots. Despite being told it looked good, which I obviously knew it did, it didn’t feel good. So many thoughts entered my head. Besides the style factor, there are many other issues. How many would I need? Do all scarves go with all outfits? What do I do with it once I am inside?

Gosling in a Scarf

As I looked in the mirror I saw a version of myself I was scared to embrace. Scarf Sam. Who is this Scarf Sam? What does he enjoy? What does he stand for? I don’t know. All I knew was that Scarf Sam scared me. I decided to hold off on the purchase of a scarf…for now.

As Halloween dawns on us, I reflect back on my shop scarfing experience. Fear surges down my spine at the thought of my neck wrapped with a fashionable winter accessory. I was told “once scarf is worn, prepare for the scorn.” These words haunt my every thought. The weather grows cold, my neck yearns for warmth. Yet, I am unable to take the leap from regular Sam to scarf Sam. Outdoor scarves are the gateway scarf to indoor scarves. People always say a scarf is not addictive or habit-forming, but that’s what they always say about apparel.

Similar to Al Pacino in the movie SCARFACE I seem to be quickly changing from an everyman to a monster. Guided by my rise to power and fame, my style and character have been quickly changing. I am close to becoming the unimaginable- a man in a scarf. I see my future now. I am in my hipster paradise playing an indie-rock bands Vinyl on my record player as I eat prosciutto and thickly sliced cheese. I sit there in my indoor scarf. Soon I am surrounded by intruders, looking to take me down for my elegant scarf wearing ways. I prepare for the attack. I run to my scarf closet and once my enemies enter the small metro area apartment I yell “say hello to my little scarf!” As SCARFFACE I shower them with scarves of all sizes and colours, strangling them until their necks are warm with silk, wool, and cotton.

Once you wear a scarf, you always wear a scarf, even when you’re not wearing a scarf.


Read my last blog Ping Me Baby One More Time


How I Became a Psychic and Spiritual Healer


Two months ago, the stars aligned. The cosmos decided it was my time for greatness. Two shooting stars collided and the embers of their spiritual wealth sprinkled down on my face. Like Hal Jordan, one of earth’s Green Lanterns, the mystical beings of the universe chose me to be a savior. Two months ago I became a psychic and spiritual healer.

It was mid-August. I was switching cell phone providers and therefore, changing phone numbers. At the time, I thought nothing of this simple action. But now I realize the greatness of the moment. By accepting the terms of my new mobile contract, I also signed the intergalactic oath and gained the powers of a higher being- I just didn’t know it yet.

Soon after changing my number, I received a phone call, asking for Farah, the psychic. I turned down the call, claiming wrong number. But as I said, I had already accepted the responsibility, the burden, and the universe was not going to let me give up that easy. The phone rang again with another caller asking for Farah; again I turned down the call. This is when the magic began. Like Harry Potter’s Hogwarts acceptance letters, there was no turning them down. Phone calls continued to pour in. My voicemail filled to its limits. There was no escaping the calls- my destiny. I had to accept my fate, in brightest day, in blackest night….


Hesitantly I answered, “Hello”.  The man on the other end asked for a reading from Farah, the psychic and spiritual healer. I told him I would graciously help him over the phone. He was thankful, and we began.

“What can you tell me about my life?” he asked. I told him we needed to connect on a spiritual level. I told him to start rubbing his knees and humming. He obliged. I was skeptical about my skills. I had yet to prove to myself that I was Farah. I asked “Are you by chance a Taurus?” he said he was. 1/1. I asked him to choose his favorite number between 4 and 32. He chose 30. I asked him to close his eyes and tell me what he saw, he said “black”. I asked if he had recently lost his job. He said yes. 2/2. He asked how I knew. I said Taurus were in the milky way cycle of xerxes, and as all psychics know, this is the time of the season when powerful figures, like an employer, in someone’s life would exert unnecessary use of power. His choice of 30 attributes to his rigidity, hence the loss of a job. He asked if he was cursed. I assured him he was only hexed. He recited four tribal chants for me to remove the hex. He asked if there was anything else he could do to improve his luck at finding a new career. I told him to follow the newly finished yellow brick road…at Ryerson University. To look within himself on this walk down the University street. He thanked me dearly, and said he was on his way. I’d like to think I helped this man immensely, and helped the University of Ryerson with a possible new student. You’re welcome.

Yellow Brick Road

I have received 2-3 phone calls daily since that call. I have offered many people free sessions, some that go for over 10 minutes. I have navigated people through heartbreak, life decisions, and other miscellaneous psychic tasks.

I called Fido, by communications provider explaining the situation where Terry from customer support said “with great power, comes great responsibility.” I continue to help people free of charge. Why do I keep taking strangers phone calls and offering them spiritual healing and psychic advice you ask? The answer is simple. I am Farah and I was given a gift by Fido, subsidiary of Rogers Communications.

You can find me on Yelp here:  http://www.yelp.ca/biz/psychic-farah-spiritual-healer-and-advisor-life-center-toronto

 Read my last post about overusing twitter


I’m Bringing Hairy Back


I’ve always been hot. No I don’t mean sexually attractive (although I have been informed on Twitter that that is also the case). I mean warm, temperaturically speaking I am hot- and yes I said tempuraturically. This heat can be attributed to my abundance of body hair.

For as long as I can remember, I have been covered in hair head to toe. As an adolescent, I was known as the hairy kid. True story, when I was in grade six, at recess one day I was hanging out in the schoolyard. These three guys a few years older approached me. They said “hey, we hear you’re the hairy kid.” I nodded in agreement, owning my title. “We heard you’ve got armpit hair” said the leader of the pack. I said “yeah what’s it to ya?” I was a bad ass mouthing off to the older kids. “I don’t believe you, let’s see it” he exclaimed. Clearly armpit hair was scarce among these kids or a major sexual turn-on that or I was like the lochness monster- a mythical creature of the school yard. I had no choice but to flash them. I seductively pulled off my shirt in the middle of the playground and showed off my armpit hair like a female French model. In that moment, I was infinite.

For a long time I have owned my hairiness, embracing my inner man, flaunting my chest hair like a guy in the 60’s going to a club. It has been the topic of many creative outputs of mine. But recently, I have been under attack. Society does not want me to be hairy.
I went to a bar last year, and was wearing a normal button down shirt which exposed some chest hair (as all my shirts do, not by choice). A girl approached me and said “you need to shave that.” Taken aback by the wretched witch’s comments I said to her “real women like real men.” She did not take to that too well. As she began cussing at me, her noticeably hairless beefcake boyfriend appeared and asked if there was a problem here. I walked away, but for another time in my life I was vulnerable. Soon after this incident, while watching TV, a Gillette commercial came on. It was for the Gillette Fusion Pro Glide Styler. The ad featured 3 models, Kate Upton, Hannah Simone (New Girl’s Cece) and Giselle (not to be confused with gazelle, an animal of the antelope species in the genus Gazella). A handsome man asks the viewer “What does a woman want?” Kate likes a man with, “a little” hair on his chest, but “definitely not his back.” Fuck. I have a lot of hair on my chest and a fair amount on my back. But that’s ok, Kate Upton may be attractive, but she’s not really my type. Hannah likes a man with a smooth stomach to show off a six pack. Fuck. Again, I have tons of chest hair, but I do have some solid abdomen definition…it’s just covered by the hair, I swear. Then we get to Giselle, she likes men completely hairless and no, she doesn’t think that’s weird. Fuck you Giselle. I’m 0/3.

The marketing worked. I felt self-conscious about my hair, and I bought the damn Fusion Pro Glide Styler. I trimmed my chest, had a friend shave my back(yeah it was weird), and gave into the pressure of society. For the last while I have continued to maintain the manscaping of my chest and back. But I think it’s time to fight back. Despite the hilarity of having random people shave and/or wax my back, enough is enough; it’s time to own it. If a girl doesn’t think I’m hot like the girl on Twitter said, then she doesn’t deserve my manliness and should date a naked mole rat. It’s time to change the meaning of bringing sexy back. A hairy back is a sexy back!

Why should ladies reconsider their stance on hairy men?

1. Cuddling. Close your eyes and imagine cuddling with someone. Now imagine they have a nice, conditioned, patch of hair for you to run your hand through and play with as you cuddle. Not only is it hot, it feels good for all parties involved.

2. Superman and Wolverine have chest hair. Yeah Bitch! Two of the coolest dudes in the world are rocking chest hair, and still effectively show off their bods! Suck on that CeCe!

Man of Steel Hair

3. No suction. Imagine you are underneath a dude.Your movements cause suction on your skin which can create uncomfortable fart noises.

There are infinite reasons of why hair is care. We as men need not be ashamed of what evolution has deemed necessary growth on our bodies. We are man, we are hairy, we are perfect. If any girl ever says to you “hey your body hair is sickening” ignore her and remember “You is kind. You is smart. You is important”

Side note: I guess I really enjoy talking about hair. As they say, the more the hairier.

Read my last blog: I Cheated on My Hair Stylist


I Cheated On My Hair Stylist


Relationships always start the same way. Two people meet, and they feel a spark, a connection. The feeling of happiness and satisfaction fills you like a total euphoria. You make each other better. You can’t imagine life without them; they can’t imagine life without you.
But after a while, sometimes, the spark can fade. The happiness evolves into a state of being content. You walk around the streets and someone else may catch your eye. The excitement of something new tempts you, to shake you from the rut of what is now habitual, customary. Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I was desperate, and I was tempted. After a healthy, committed relationship of two years, I cheated. I went to a different hair stylist.

Two years ago, I decided it was important to start grooming myself after seeing the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love (shout out to David Lindhagen). My mom set me up with Fernando. He was the hair stylist at the salon she went to, and I decided to give it a shot. Fernando cut my hair, and made me a new man. People always ask “how do you know when it’s the one?” I knew from the minute his hands massaged my scalp with dandruff treating shampoo, that he was the one. If this were a movie the song “Fernando” by Abba would be playing to a montage of shots of Fernando cutting my hair, us laughing together, swapping stories. Magic.

I was happy with Fernando. He made me feel good about myself. He always styled my hair the way I liked it. I liked Fernando, maybe loved. Things got serious- I introduced him to a few of my friends. When you introduce someone to your friends, you know it’s serious.

I continued to visit Fernando. It’s not that I was bored with Fernando. He was safe; a nice guy, reliable and consistent. Last Saturday I called Fernando to see if I could swing by for a quick visit. It had been 7 weeks since my last cut and I was feeling not so fresh. My hair was long, it couldn’t be styled properly, and I was feeling like a non-groomed dog (cute, but too shaggy). He told me he was all booked up; I asked if he could see me the next day, he responded a quick no.  He said he could squeeze me in in a week’s time and I agreed. But it didn’t feel right.

Monday rolled around and as I sat at work, snapchatting selfies- it hit me. I needed a haircut, and I needed it now. My date with Fernando was a week away, I was tempted, could I wait a week? Thoughts of adultery ran through my mind. But I repressed them, until I was washing my hands in the washroom. I looked up to my reflection. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the hair standing up at the back of my head. But at that moment I realized, I was going to cheat on Fernando, and I was going to cheat today.

After work I walked around the Fashion District of Toronto, seeking my mistress. I walked into “The Original Grooming Experts” I asked how much a hair cut was. They told me hair styling comes in part of a package called “The Alpha Male” which involved a Shampoo and Conditioning, Paraffin Hand wax, Hot Towel Treatment, and then a Haircut and Style. All of this would cost me $55. If I was going to cheat on Fernando it wasn’t going to be with an expensive whore. I didn’t want all this glitz and glamour. I wanted a respectable partner who knew the situation, no questions asked, in and out. I walked out and saw a barber shop. I walked in and an elderly man greeted me and said take a seat. I silently obliged. It was an S&M scenario, I was a naughty boy who was about to be DOMINATED!

He blanketed me with a fancy apron. He draped a towlette around my neck. He said “nice day isn’t it. Nice and hot.” I knew it was the heat of the fiery hell I was about to be damned too. “How do you want it?” “Tender, loving, and quick” I thought. I was nervous, not only was I cheating on Fernando I was letting an unknown touch my hair. My neuroses kicked in. I explained the cut “tapered around the back and sides fading from short too long. Leave it so I could side part it.” I didn’t have my picture of Ryan Gosling to show him. All I could think about was Fernando’s smile as this man was let loose to possibly butcher my hair. I was vulnerable.

The Gosling Cut

He began to cut. I trembled like I had just come out from a cold lake.  As hair dropped from my head on to my lap, the nausea kicked in. The all too familiar feeling I have every time I drink alcohol or eat a large meal. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out. He could sense my unease. “First time?” he asked. I was too ashamed to respond. Every hour every minute seemed to last an eternity.

I was so afraid Fernando.

30 minutes later I opened my eyes. What I saw in the mirror scared me. I liked it. I wanted to hate the cut so badly, to prove to myself that Fernando was my one and only. But I loved it. I looked dapper. “A new man!” he exclaimed. The elderly barber was a professional, a natural; he’d been cutting hair since a time that pre-dated electricity. He knew to take his time, be gentle, and help me through this- a professional adulterer. I thanked him, paid, and left.

I still haven’t called Fernando to cancel my Saturday appointment. I’m not sure if this is the end of our relationship, if he would even have me back. Do I even want him back? I don’t know yet. My infidelity is something I am going to have to live with for the rest of my life.

Though we never thought that we could lose, there’s no regret.If I had to do the same again. I would, my friend, Fernando.

 Read My previous Blog: Nuit Blogched.


Nuit Blogched

This past Saturday I decided to have a social life and attend Nuit Blanche. For those unaware, Nuit Blanche is a street art festival in Toronto where the city basically shuts down for a night so that high school kids can get drunk and look at art. I have never attended Nuit Blanche before, so I was going in a street art festival virgin. I decided to dress the part, collared shirt, sweater, I even wore boots-it was heterosexual.

You could not tell where the sidewalks ended and the streets began. The smell of weed, alcohol, and cigarettes filled the dirty Toronto streets like potpourri fills a smelly washroom. As expected, I felt like I was in the casting call for an indie movie about angsty young adults trying to find the meaning to their life. So many artsy couples walking around, sharing cigarettes, and explaining how they felt about the randomly placed objects by A Wei Wei (pronounced a wee wee, like a child urinating) to each other. Half of me wanted to be in that movie, the other half was thoroughly convinced most of these people were full of shit.

So I began prowling for art. The first piece I saw was a performance piece, it was called “Barfing Bus” it was a youth vomiting at the bus stop. I enjoyed the message of this piece: the Toronto transit system is puke-worthy and we the people won’t stand for it anymore.

Barfing Bus

Barfing Bus

The next piece I saw was titled “The Thigh Gap”. The piece was about the allure of “what is under the gown?” At Jewish weddings it is customary that the bride’s hymen be inspected, to make sure it is intact. To do this, her large gown must be lifted. I interpreted this piece as such. The lady had a large skirt representing the big question. She towered over us viewers like the bride towers over her groom, she has the vagina, she has the power.

The Thigh Gap

The Thigh Gap

Next I saw a man who claimed to be an Adviceologist, and he also claimed to be offering free advice. I asked him general questions about dating and relationships, “how do you get a girl to like you?” he said “all girls like you, keep doing what you’re doing” I agreed. Here was the kicker, he asked me for money! He wanted a donation, after claiming this advice was free on his sign! Fucking artists. I paid him.



Another piece I saw was “Blue Balls.” 4 blue balls were placed among two pink balls. This piece represented the transformation from typical testicles to blue balls. I learned that blue balls is the medical term for the pain a man feels when he is overly stimulated and not offered sexual release. This art installation spoke to me. It reminded me of my primal self, and the struggle between my id and ego. It also reminded me of an unfortunate event in grade 8- but that’s for another time.

Blue Balls

Blue Balls

The highlights of my night were the impromptu rave and the wine tasting circus. I followed the sounds of loud beats to find a rave happening in the streets.


I then entered the #YellowTailWine(I can win $2000 for hashtagging) circus tent. There, I received plenty of wine including but not limited to merlot, Pinot Grigio, and Sauvignon Blanc. I felt like Paul Giamatti in the movie Sideways. As I sampled my wine and the wine of many strangers around me, I enjoyed the performance of a lady spinning in a suspended hula-hoop to Rihanna’s “Diamonds.”


In the end, I learned a lot about performance and street art- especially, that I don’t understand it. It was a fun experience though and I would definitely soak it in again. Gents, this is a great date idea if you can get someone to go out with you (I got a man friend to go with me, we didn’t kiss). I have a year to find a girl to go with me for next year; you can leave your name, number, and favorite movie in the comments below to be considered.

You just got Nuit Blogched.

Pickup line of the day: I don’t need to pick my nose to find gold, I already struck gold by seeing you.

Other Art:

Tree Of Life

Tree Of Life

Dragon man

Dragon man