"All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story"

The Internet has long acted as an echo chamber for thought. A place for strangers in strange lands to seek out and explore their passions. Sites sprang out of the dirt, muck and mire to become refuges to the disenfranchised; homes for the hopeless, places of light allowing people to grow and become greater than they thought possible. In the dark, away from prying eyes, the most lascivious discourse imaginable was being spewed fountain-like into the void in the hopes that the shadow laden creatures who thrive on sinister thoughts and feelings would too grow into a force to be reckoned with. Both sides seek understanding. Both sides seek to share their ideals. Both sides believe they are right.  One side is wrong. Many years ago I hosted an unpopular but listened to podcast, a highlight among Canadian titles that were bland and properly curated. It was a standout beside shows where a gimmick or a theme drove content as We couldn't be bothered to talk about just any popular subje...

Not everyone can handle small talk. For me it is one of my circles of personal hell, this bizarre game of who can say the most without saying anything. "There were so many birds on my lawn today." I remember staring at her waiting for closure that would never come. There was a pregnant pause that might have lasted seconds but felt like minutes. I honestly couldn't understand the statement; what exactly was the point: Are you mad, sad, glad? Where the hell am I in all of this and what do you want from me? Should I be amazed? Do you take a bow now that you've told me this? I mean, that isn't an anecdote. There's no takeaway from that statement apart from you noticing that there were birds on your lawn. You didn't even tell me what type of birds they were, what colour, were they eating, mating, etc. What did other people do when you said this? Did they fall out of their chair in shock and amazement? The modern Bill Burr-enhanced version of me feels like ...

I imagine people would find it hard to believe that I was heavy for years. Heavy is putting it lightly; I was fat as hell. Portly by way of obese. Truly a fat fuck. Not anymore. It has been years since I was overweight: gone are the days of my thighs rubbing together as I walk and I make semi-regular eye contact with my undersized penis, which are really telling signs that you've hit a point of concern: If chapped leg skin and disappearing genitalia doesn't raise a red flag then what does? There were a couple of incidents that opened my eyes to my problem: 1: It was a Sunday and I was going out to lunch with my Father. Nothing upper tier, no tie required. I remember I was wearing a red polo shirt, sunglasses and uncomfortably snug pants and for some reason I noticed myself in the highly reflective glass of a Subway sandwich place. I looked fucking terrible. Really quite bad. First off, my mouth was open as I was gulping down air to prevent a black out from the little b...

Too many Gavin's in t he world "Mmm. Jack? Jack. Remember, Jack, when we said we'd shop quietly ?" These two kids run up the aisle past me as Medicated Mommy ambles by, eyes focused on anything but her two asshole children screaming and flinging themselves onto tables and carefully piled peppers. "Jack, are you watching Audrey?" You have to give it up to her, those are pretty decent names for kids. The only shame of it is that they are attached to two dipshits with no sense of how to behave in public. Can you blame them? When you have a parent that clearly doesn't give a shit and would much rather be at home drinking wine and slipping into unconsciousness in front of a television, a little hyperactivity is a given. You've got to run those fucking kids. Tucker them out. When dinner is done, when the sun has set and the cork screw is a'calling, you can put Fuck Face 1 & 2 to bed and curl up in front of the latest overwrought mess Net...

What does your name mean to you? For some it is an identifier packed with meaning, something to live up to, a legend to build upon. For others it is simply one of many reasons to hate your parents. Adam Greene. Neither top of the heap nor the best hand you could be dealt, it falls squarely under the inoffensively bland name, a beef consomme of monikers. It's a name jam-packed with a's and e's and none of those sexy, exotic consonants from the latter half of the alphabet. It's a basic bitch of a name. Owing to an unshakable connection to the Bible a lot of folks put more meaning on the name than they should. People really assume a lot from those first four letters; either my parents are super religious or I am/should be. "Ooh, 'Adam'. The First Man! Have you met your Eve yet?" Actually, no, on both counts. The person I owe my handle to is the legend himself, Adam West. Hellooooooooo, Mr. West! Now there is a man. Arguably the peak of Adams ...

Originally written June 10th, 2011 Modified/Edited February 6th, 2017 Something happened years ago at a school event that first lead me to question what was wrong with me. I noticed a numbness. Not a loss of feeling in my extremities but an overall sense of emptiness from my mind, through my chest, down to the pit of my stomach. It is summer. It is nighttime. The wind is blowing gently. It is not overly hot. I am walking through the hallways of my school. I am moving past lockers and classrooms, making my way towards the gym. The loud music reverberates through the walls, through me. I move with anticipation. I am meeting someone. I come to the double doors. Someone stands guard. They demand to know my name. I give a fake one. I place my hand against the door. The music is very loud now. I push into the room. It is solid darkness, broken up by intermittent flashes from the overhead strobe lights. There is a throng of bodies moving in sync with the bass. I start moving towards t...