Have you recently read something online that made your eyes roll so far back, they might just get stuck there? Today I read an amazing number of things that did this to me.

From absurdly pathetic comments, to the dumbest articles ever. Am I becoming cynical? More importantly, why is there no filter on Facebook to protect me from such stupidity?

I just read a post that was cool : “True or false, Never discredit your gut instinct. You’re not being paranoid. Your body can pick up on bad vibrations. If something deep inside of you says something is not right about a person or situation, trust it.” I personally believe this to be true. You have a right to stick your head in the sand and think that the everything is peachy. That didn’t baffle me. One comment however did. One girl stated that this is false because, and I quote, “Your gut feeling could sometimes be something you conjured up on your own. You can make yourself believe someone is cheating when in reality you’re just thinking too deep and dealing with insecurities of your own”.

Now maybe I misread the post, to me it’s talking about many different situations, bad situations, bad people. It’s probably just me, but cheating is not actually dangerous. It can be upsetting, or hurtful, but that’s it. It’s not the worse thing ever.  A paper cut is bad, being attacked by a number of extremely sharp books would be worse.

Back to my point, this girl read this particular post and, as we all do, made a connection to her own life. Probably to the time she accused her bf of cheating. He, naturally, assured her that it’s all in her head. Whether her gut instinct told her somethings up, or that weird 3am text is irrelevant. The post is NOT talking about messed up relationships. It’s talking about sitting in a bar, and a crowd of bad looking guys walk in, and your gut tells you pay your bill and go. I follow my gut and go. My gut is usually right.

Hell, even if your gut tells you somethings up in your relationship this is true. Your significant other probably isn’t cheating on you, that doesn’t mean nothings wrong. That doesn’t mean everyone is happy and everything is fine. There is a reason you are doubting this person, a good reason.

So what upset me about this kid? The fact that she is so naive, or the fact that she would like the world to know? Neither, my personal pet peeve is people trying to be so smart, so wise, and yet give proof that they are full of it.

In conclusion, I have obviously become cynical and old.


The Girl behind the Bar

The Girl behind the Bar

It was Thursday. She sat on the bar stool waiting. They didn’t arrive yet and this was worrying. Not that something had happened to them, but the later they came the later they went. The later they left, the more they drank. The more they drank, the longer her shift lasted.

Mr. Thursday, the self proclaimed leader, and his gang weren’t dangerous. They weren’t that bad really. They were more like toddlers with a licence to drink.

They were loud, they were demanding, they were uncontrollable. A tantrum here and there, emotions all over the place and constantly admiring women’s tits. Toddlers. She, on the other hand, was a cranky twenty something year old with a poorly placed chip on her shoulder.

For a few months, she hated them, but time passed and she placed her chip down long enough to listen. Those were some of the greatest stories she ever heard. At first they sounded fake. I mean Thursday was a stunt guy? He’s a tech and IT guy now. And little-big man a romantic? If he smiled ever after the first beer.

There was also the nice 30 year old, who was once, in that very pub, arrested by the cops after another guy took a beating. Long story. The thug? He was actually really shy. Who knew?

Time passed and she listened and laughed. Like that one story when they ran over thug with a car and took him to a pediatrician. Well it wasn’t a vet at least. Time passed and she somehow became part of their story. She became the girl behind the bar.

There was a time when they were great friends. It didn’t matter what bar she worked at, they came. When she needed cheering up, they we there. When they needed a beer and a shoulder to cry on, she was there.

But then time passed, and lives changed. She no longer works by the bar. They no longer go to pubs every Thursday. Life moved on beyond that moment. The moment when everything was funny or sad. Life happened, and every day they are getting further and further away from that moment.

It was a moment, just a moment, when she was the girl behind the bar.

Contract Killer

The dark room, the eerie quiet, the light of the cigarette. In his hand a plastic bag for the ashes and bud. Ah-ah Mr. Officer, no evidence here. He marveled at the state of the room, a masterpiece.

The bookcase vandalized, books scattered on the floor. The cupboards ransacked, the wardrobe too. Even a few chairs turned around. The killer was looking for something, but what? No money was taken, the expensive watches intact. The only thing missing was the USB, could that be a clue? Of course, our killer was looking for nothing but his victim. Killed in his sleep, but that simply wouldn’t do.

The poor-rich man was carefully pulled out of his bed, a few scratches here and there, a few punches, a sign of a struggle. You’d think that there would be evidence that the marks were made after death. We said no evidence. A silk scarf was placed over the victims face, chloroform, still alive but not moving. When the horrific beating was over, a silencer did the trick.

The empty cartridge delicately removed. Not good enough. So he took a woodworker’s side float, enlarged the exit wound. He then lodged a .45 caliber bullet into the wall where the unfortunate was supposedly killed. Another puff of smoke enters the room.

As our assassin admired his work, he quickly checked his messages, the money was sent. In a week, it should be on his account. Last breath of his cigarette and he took out a small piece of marble. The perfect ashtray. The butt and marble placed in the bag. All done, the last piece of evidence is removed. Perfection.

He then slowly left the apartment, checking no one was around, he turned to the living room, shot one blank in the air, and walked away. As he exited the building, he smirked. What would they make out of it? A robbery? An enemy of the victim?  A secret love affair? Who knows.  Even if they figure out this was a contract killing, it would be way past the essential 48 hours. First they would have to realize that the evidence found on the scene was fake. Then they’d have to see the complexion of the whole setting. By then, our killer would have completed another job, removing evidence just as meticulously. But they won’t figure it out, he knows they won’t, he works with them every day.




Deep in the urban jungle, among the buildings and sidewalks, there lives an endangered species. A female being that comes in many colors, shapes and styles. Unfortunately, PETA is too busy with the fur industry to try and save this poor dying breed. She is close to becoming extinct without you, dear reader, ever seeing one in real life. She is the feminist.

One reason why you probably didn’t spot one is that in order to know a woman is a feminist, you have to talk to her. Not all feminist look like school librarians, unless of course they are a librarian. There is no dress code. A dress code in fact defies what being a feminist is all about. So there’s your first mistake.

Another is that feminism is slowing losing its meaning. Too many woman are claiming to be feminists to seem strong or intellectual. They then go back on the things they claim to believe. It gives people the wrong impression. Gives men an excuse to mock us, to degrade feminism. So maybe you did meet a feminist, but looked at her more like a hypocrite then a person.

Naturally, young woman do not want people to think of them as feminists. Beach blonde barbie is in, Lara Croft is out. After all, what girl wants the cute guy to think she is a lesbian or a man hater? She doesn’t realize that by making herself seem dumb, she has opened the door for people to abuse her, hurt her. No one told her, no one taught her.

On that note, I have decided to clear up some misconceptions about feminists. As I already said, we don’t all dress the same. I guess you figured I am one of “those”, so let me continue. I enjoy putting on make-up and dressing well. I have more shoes than any human truly needs and love them all. I even get really pretty just for my husband. We have a kid you know, the stork didn’t bring him.

As far as chivalry goes, this one most people don’t seem to understand. I am very happy when my husband opens the door for me, or takes my coat. It’s very sweet and romantic. Being a woman, of course I love romance, of course. How did people get to the conclusion that by being nice to a woman, you are taking away her basic human rights? Because that’s what feminism is about, basic human rights.

Don’t know which ones? Being paid equally for example. Better yet, getting the promotion you deserve. I remember my boss once telling me that I wasn’t promoted to manager of the cafe because “people may think there’s something going on between us”. Really? I worked hard, more than most, but I am a woman and pretty so obviously I don’t deserve a raise. Fighting that is feminism, not fighting roses and chocolate.

Heard of Aretha Franklin? Great singer, wrote a song called “respect” listen to it, but with lyrics. Because that is what it’s all about. It’s coming home from work and being respected for it. I don’t mean give your significant other a trophy, I mean don’t tell her how your work is hard and she works because she’s bored. It’s about not listening to people explain to you how raising kids is the woman’s job (and it’s amazingly hard work). If you want my respect, give me yours. Can’t do that because I am ONLY a woman? Then step away, you are not the company I keep.

Want to help keep the strong woman, the feminist alive? Teach your daughters to respect themselves AND their bodies. Tell them life is hard and unfair and they can say “no”. Listen to your wife, or girlfriend, or coworker and don’t laugh away her opinion. Argue with her like you would with any man if you disagree, but don’t patronize her. Go home, make your mum dinner, and tell her “thank you” for teaching you to use the fork and knife. The biggest irony on the planet is that women give life, and half the time the little, beautiful creature born will dismiss her. Don’t do that. We are not pets or playthings, we are women, hear us roar.