Foodstuffs #7: Michelada!

You thought BUD LIME was a cool innovation in the beer world? Ha! Have I got a treat for you! I know I should have posted this in the summer, back when it was warm. But I didn’t, sorry!

Anyhoo, this is a pretty common drink in Mexico, but I know people elsewhere are going to freak out as they read along. Just for them, I’ll share an anecdote at the end. Because if there’s something I like more than micheladas, it’s freaking people out. Shall we meet the gang?

From left to right: a lime, Maggi seasoning, Worcestershire (Woostashah!) sauce, Grace’s Hot Pepper Sauce, Tajín, a pint glass; bottom: a plate.
In the real world, you can substitute Grace’s Sauce for Tabasco, and Tajín for regular salt. Tajín is basically salt and chili powder seasoning.

So, the first thing we’re gonna do is pour some Tajín (or regular salt) into the plate. That’ll end both of their participations in our little “experiment”.

Now, rub one of the lime halves along the top of the pint glass until it’s wet, dip the rim of the glass into the plate (a process known commonly as “frosting” the glass), and squeeze the lime (feel free to use more than one, if like me, you end up with really shitty limes).

Now begins the matter of personal taste. Add splashes, to taste, of the other three ingredients. In my case, I add a lot of Worcestershire, and of course a lot of Hot sauce. The result looks, in a way, evil. But worry not. The best is yet to come.

Now,  every time I do the “meet the gang” photo up top, I end up forgetting an ingredient or two. This time, however, the main ingredient missed the photo because it was chilling in the freezer. Oh, who am I kidding, I could have taken it out, taken the picture, and placed it back. I forgot. There, happy?
In any case, top the glass with your favorite beer (or the one you buy because it’s cheap, as I do), and enjoy.

THE ANECDOTE
If this “michelada” thing grossed you out, stop reading immediately. You have been warned.
One time, I went to a bar back home where the special is a michelada filled with either shrimp or oysters. I ordered shrimp because oysters are disgusting, and it actually tasted great! So, if you feel extra daring, go grab a handful of dried shrimp and throw’em in!

The Iceberg

 

For Whom Bell Canada Tolls

So, what’s the latest between me and my favorite phone company in the whole wide world?

Last I told you about was a few months ago, when they cut my service – both the phone and the internet – on the very same day I had told them I would pay, and did. Then, there was the whole deal with having them reconnect my service (having to call from a pay phone, even). Eventually, they did. You must be thinking since I haven’t talked about them in a while, it’s all peaches and cream, right?

Well, you’d be wrong.

On my next bill after that one, I was being charged a hundred bucks for my cancellation – $65 for cancelling my service, and $35 for returning my modem. Total charges for that month were 250 quid, more or less.
I said “huh”?, and I tried calling them. I never got through to them. I did what I thought would get their attention: stop paying, until THEY called ME.
Well, eventually someone did call. I explained my situation, she said she’d transfer me to another department, and my call was dropped. THAT’S HER FUCKING JOB, and she can’t even do that right. Not that I’m surprised, but oh well. I tried calling back. I wasn’t going to waste 5 minutes of my life on “on hold” music. Since I didn’t want to lose my service, I went to the bank and threw them $100.

My next bill arrives, this time for $300. So, they never got around to realizing I still have my modem, and my service has been in fact reconnected. Furthermore, I never cancelled my service, all that happened was that they had suspended it. A bullshit charge – someone capable of tying their own shoelaces would have noticed by now.
I repeat my strategy: I wait for them to call. Eventually, someone does. I explain my situation. This fucko doesn’t even offer to transfer me to the correct department – he just goes on to explain that the ONE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS, including my modem returning fee, are all part of how, since I didn’t pay on time a couple of months ago, THEY decided to cancel my service. In fact, his words were “you have to pay the cancellation fee because your service was cancelled”.
So, Einstein here can’t tell the difference between a $100 cancellation/modem returning fee, and a $25 reconnection fee, which is what I’m threatened by on my bill every month, if I don’t pay on time. I wonder if all he wants for christmas is a Dora The Explorer coloring book and a box of crayons. I hang up on him.

I receive one of those “threatening” letters in the mail the same day I toss them another $100. It is signed by a C. Warburton, who claims to be the vice-president of credit services, or something to that effect.
I consider writing him, since along with hi signature I can see his email address, but hey… I realize vice-presidents of credit services, especially in Bell Canada, don’t have the time or the skill to write a letter. They spend most of their time pinching “ears” on balls of play-doh, and exclaiming “look! I made a bear!”.

I’m already thinking of cancelling anyway, but I know what’s going to happen. As soon as they hear I want to cancel, they’re going to want to charge me again. In any case, I checked my messages 10 minutes ago, and apparently they called me (on a phone I apparently cancelled 3 or 4 months ago, no less!) telling me they need to speak to me urgently about my billing situation.

Really!?? Really, Bell?? What are you going to tell me? That I owe 350 bucks now? Despite having thrown you another hundred on friday?
No, Bell, I’ll tell you what. I’ll let YOU call me again. I’m not willing to be put on hold while you finish watching your Hannah Montana DVD. When you call me, we’ll talk. More than likely, we’ll end up discussing my cancellation. For good.

Have a good day!

The Iceberg.

 

Product Review – Uncle Ray’s Hot Potato Chips

When it comes to potato chips, I’m not that huge of a fan. I mean, I like chips as much as the next guy, but I’m more of a “roasted peanuts” kind of guy when it comes to snacking. I buy maybe 5 to 10 bags of chips a year, at home. At work, I can usually be seen chomping down on whatever I can find at the vending machine, which has a rather poor selection of bland products.
See, when it comes to potato chips, I have learned the following: The big brands (Lay’s, Doritos, Pringles, Sabritas and Barcel in Mexico, etc.) are usually mediocre. They’re typically not bad, per se, but I’m always complaining about their lack of flavoring. But when it comes to smaller brands, there’s two kinds: Some are bad, and some are awesome. Why, the other day I bought a bag of Herr’s Ketchup flavoured chips for 99 cents, and it kicked ass. So much flavouring. While for 2.99 I could have bought a bag of bland flavourless Ruffles.

That brings us to my birthday, a little over a week ago. My sister comes over, and hands me a bag of chips: Uncle Ray’s Hot (Piquante, because EVERYTHING has to be in French as well) Potato Chips. She tells me she’s tried them before, and that they’re really good. A week later, I see the bag and decide it’s time to give them a try.
The first thing I notice is the simplicity in the product’s name. “Hot Potato Chips”. I decide I prefer simplicity over finding bullshitty adjectives all over the packaging, such as SIZZLIN’!, FIERY!, or INFERNAL!. There’s no pictures of chili peppers, either. Hey! no clichés! Oh wait – there’s flames surrounding the word “HOT”. Damn.

Not my actual bag. It's easier to Google than to scan a bag of chips.

I stop contemplating the bag, and proceed to get my fingers dirty, so to speak. I open the bag, and take a sample of the aroma. “Hmmm…”, I say. “This doesn’t smell too bad at all!”.
I take one chip, and place it in my mouth. I press the chip between my tongue and my palate, and suck the flavour out. I repeat the process a few more times, convincing myself more and more each time that these could very well be the best damn chips I’ve had in a while.
I start taking small handfuls at a time, trying to increase the taste experience. It works. And then, when the chips were done, it was time for my favorite potato chip eating ritual: Moistening the tip of my index finger and running it all across the bottom of the bag, gathering all the little specks of flavouring that lie there. And man, did I enjoy doing that!
I placed the bag aside, and continued whatever it was that I was doing. A while later, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed this on the top corner of the bag: CHAPTER 30 – STORY ON BACK. I said “huh?”, and took a look.

“Uncle Ray” has a fucking blog on the back of his potato chips! Is that awesome, or what? In this case, he tells us about the time he jumped a fence to steal some peaches, and later regretted it. He starts telling morals about controlling impulses and whatnot, and basically gets all PREACHY (get it? because the title of this chapter is JUST PEACHY? HA! HA!).

I don’t have a rating system, because I don’t believe in them, but overall I’d say Uncle Ray’s Hot Potato Chips are awesome, and you’d be better off buying these, instead of your typical chips. As for them actually being, um, you know, HOT, I’ll leave that up to you. I’m quite tolerant of spicy flavours, but you might find them SIZZLIN’, FIERY, or even INFERNAL.

The Iceberg.

 

 

The End of Iceberglandia?

Some of you might have noticed I haven’t been ’round here for a bit. To be honest, my mind’s been in overdrive for the past few weeks, making all kinds of life-changing decisions. I have tried to sit down and write, but I haven’t been able to.

One of the things I’ve been thinking about (not by far the most important, but the only one I want to discuss right now) is that as far as my writing goes, it’s time to do something different. Something better (“that won’t be hard, Iceberg”, I hear you say). I mean, I’ll admit I’ve loved writing on this blog for over three years, but with all these things on my mind right now, I’ve seen things with a new perspective, and boy, do half of the things I’ve written here stink. I mean, who really cares if my phone companies suck?

So what’s next?

Do I try to work on my other projects (which I don’t have, yet) and still pop up here every now and then? Do I take all 300+ posts here, go through them one by one, rewrite whatever is rewritable and toss out the rest? Do I just kill this thing once and for all, and move on? I’m open to suggestions.

Whatever I decide, I’ll keep you posted, all six of you.

The Iceberg

 

Epic Post

Number Six…

Will you marry me?

The Iceberg

 

Foodstuffs 6 – How To cook for forty humans

Excuse the Simpsons reference in the title. When it came to titling this “dish”, I had a conundrum. Picadillo, at least where I come from, is simply ground beef cooked with potato and onions. When I told people I made picadillo with a lot of vegetables, some of them told me it wasn’t “picadillo”. And when I said I cooked ground beef with a shitload of vegetables, the others said “oh, picadillo?”. Go figure.
Anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve done a Foodstuffs. Not because I haven’t wanted to. It was only last thursday that I threw caution to the wind and decided to buy groceries properly.
Now, when I say “how to cook for forty humans”, I mean, this ended up being a lot of food. I could have just shipped the entire contents of the pan over to Bangladesh, and voila! Hunger problem over!

Let’s meet the gang:

In the top middle, you can see the puny little pack of ground beef. All around it, there’s cilantro, parsley, baby carrots, an onion, 3 small potatoes, a tomato, a green pepper, a squash, celery, 4 jalapeño peppers, and two big-ass bags of frozen veggies. One is just corn, and the other has even more shit inside, like green beans, lima beans and peas.
Who failed to make the picture this time? Garlic, as usual. And, since I’m a complete tool, it was only until I finished cooking and eating that I remembered I had bought a can of sliced mushrooms to throw in there as well. Had I remembered, I would have had to title this “how to cook for 41 humans”, and hence my Simpsons reference would lose its meaning. So fuck you, mushrooms, I’ll use you in an omelette sometime.

Anyway, time to get choppy:

I’d quote Stewie Griffin on his opinion of broccoli, but enough with the cartoon references. I’m not that retarded, you know? Either way, I hate the fucking disgusting thing. Yet, somehow it’s good for you, so every now and then I eat some of it. I’m not dead, so I guess it’s working.
OK, so I chopped everything and placed it in two containers. Why? Because I’ll be adding them at different times, that’s why. I don’t want my cilantro, garlic and parsley to cook all the way.

Alas! I could have cooked the meat WHILE I chopped everything, but it’s been a long work week. And I’m at about three beers at this point. So my brain’s kind of loosened up. Anyway, I cook the ground beef in a splash of beer (and how it hurt to splash it in the pan, instead of drinking it), some cumin and Worcestershire sauce.
After it’s half-way done, I add the veggie squad.

The fucking pan is almost overflowing. I cover it and let it cook for a while. I don’t count the time, I go by my gut. I “improvise”, so to speak. My mind wanders into other matters, and by the time I realize everything is almost fully cooked, I exclaim (out loud) “Pendejo!”, which is vulgar spanish for “You Idiot!”. It seems I forgot to add the garlic, the cilantro and the parsley. And salt and spices. I run over to do just that.

Peace at last! Cilantro, parsley, garlic, more cumin, coarse sea salt (I need to read boxes better at the supermarket), pepper, and oregano.
I let it all cook for a while longer. In the meantime, I struggle to open my bag of flour tortillas. I take sour cream and home-made salsa from the fridge.

Food’s done!

As luck would have it, Casa Mendosa brand employees have a hard time counting to ten. The bag distinctively says 10 Large Flour Tortillas, but I only count 7. Fuckers. Oh well, I’ll deal with them later. For now, I only need 3. I heat them up on my comal, and proceed to make my “flautas”. I add sour cream and salsa, crack open another brewski, and dig in.

Turns out, that was way too much food for one sitting. I feel like an anaconda after devouring some large prey. I sit there, motionless, for the rest of the night. Of course, there’s always room for more beer.

I realize the pictures don’t look that appealing, but believe me when I say the food was great. What do I mean, was? I still have enough leftovers for the rest of the week! Of course, by now I’m out of flour tortillas, so I’m on to the next best thing: making rice and eating like a human being. With a fork. Do normal human beings mix up their picadillo and rice? The mind wonders.

The Iceberg

 

A Very Crappy Weekend (Literally, and Figuratively)

FRIDAY
I left work, finally, and got home. Took a really long hot shower, and out of two options, made a decision. I could take a nap (I could have really used one), or, I could cook. It’s been a while since I’d bought groceries, and was sick of eating off the coffee truck at work. Well, I decided to cook. I guess I’ll post that soon.
I ended up eating at around 8, 8.30. By 10 PM I was fucking done. I fell asleep on my computer chair, some red gothic-style chair I had to employ when my previous chair gave up on me a few months ago. The phone woke me up, and I was happy.

SATURDAY
Again, I was woken up by the phone. The nature of the call was regarding an inquiry as to what was the capital of Portugal. Half-asleep, I managed to get it right. I guess all those books I read when I was 3 finally paid off.
10 minutes later, I was in the bathroom, for the first of oh-so-many times. Whenever I’m under stress, my body reacts that way. And currently, I’m under a lot of stress. So many things to think about, nobody to listen. Oh well, story of my life. Good thing I bought toilet paper on thursday.
After the 5th or 6th time I visited the toilet, I had to go to the library, to return some books. I took a peek outside, and saw it was raining. Oh, well, I’ll go later.
I’m sitting at the computer, trying to figure out what to do, since apparently my hard disk is full. I’m talking to a friend on Messenger, and she informs me there’s just been gunfire where she lives. I panic, because by this time, I’m expecting a phone call which never comes. I find out everybody’s OK. Knowing the damn phone’s not going to ring, I end my conversation by saying I’m off to the library, since apparently now it’s sunny outside. I make it half-way to the corner, and it starts raining again. I have a backpack with 5 books, and an iPod loaded with 4 albums I was really hoping to listen to on my way to the library and back. I finish my cigarette and go back inside, half-wet.
I check my phone for text messages or missed calls. Nothing. I check my email. Nothing. I change my clothes. I have the afternoon to myself, I can finally catch up on my housekeeping, and making space on my computer. I don’t feel motivated to do anything.
I sit in front of the computer, and watch a couple of episodes of Corner Gas. I watch Monday Night Raw from 3 weeks ago. I listen to 3 hours of podcasts. A friend from back home logs on. I ask him if he has Skype. I could really talk to somebody. He says yes, and calls me. Bad thing is, we can’t talk. He’s with another friend, and we end up discussing random trivial things. We hang up, and I’ve nothing else to do, nobody to talk to. My sister had left a message, that they were going out to dinner, but by the time I wanted to reply, she was offline.
By this time, everybody in the world was having a party. I was sitting like a fucking asshole, in front of my computer, reading mexican soccer scores. “Enough of this”, I said, and watched a couple of movies. Drag Me To Hell was allright, despite it’s ridiculous ‘Beetlejuice-esque’ scene. But I didn’t quite like District 9. It felt too “Disney” for my taste.
The phone never rang, so I went to bed. I couldn’t even listen to a podcast, since I had listened to all the ones I had loaded on my phone.

SUNDAY
Come hell or high water, I had to return those books to the library. I had to, since friday. And at 25 cents each for every late day, I already owed 2.50. Hoping it wouldn’t rain, I walked over. It’s a 40 minute walk downtown, and I quite enjoyed it (except for the moment some teenage kid rammed the front wheel of his Harley Davidson-like bicycle into my left leg. He apologized so profusely, I didn’t even consider killing him. People who apologize are cool. Hey, things happen). I like walking, when there’s something in my ears. I returned my books, and pondered where to go from there. I ended up walking another hour to the Future Shop, to see if there was something I could spend my gift card on. I walked out empty-handed, but I know what I’m buying. I just need to go back at a later time. I went to Staples, and saw a box of 96 (96!!!!!) crayons. The only reason I didn’t buy it is because I promised I’d wait. From there, as I was close by, I went to the liquor store. I hadn’t been in a while, and I wanted to see if there were any new beer cans I could buy for my collection. I walked out with six of them, including a fucking Bud Light. I’m curious as to how the “Estrella” one will taste like. I’ve never had beer from Spain before.
I walk into the mall, with no particular intention of being there except to catch the bus. I see the schedule, and the next bus comes by in 15 minutes. Or, I could just walk over to my sister’s place, but when I walked by before, her car wasn’t there. I walk around the mall like a stupid idiot. I walk by HMV, and I feel tempted to go in and see how much it costs to purchase something. After all, there’s a new Alice In Chains, a new Megadeth, and a new Behemoth. I don’t consider Pearl Jam, because the biggest PJ fan I know told me two days ago it’s nothing to write home about. I go over to the “New Releases” section, and see Disturbed’s “Indestructible”, which came out over a year ago, and Korn’s “Greatest Hits, Vol. 1″ which came out in fucking 2004. I walk out immediately. People still wonder why I download stuff instead of going to fucking record stores? Of course, I saw no AIC, no Megadeth, and of course no Behemoth.
I didn’t carry my phone, bacause it might rain. I’m nervous that it might have rung. I need to get home. I buy my weekly cigarettes, and wait outside for the bus.
I get home at 4.30 PM. I could have sworn it was later than that. I check my phones, my Messenger, my email. Stupid me. I do some housekeeping. I YouTube some music. My friend from last night logs on, and tells me he had a great time last night. Well, other than me, who didn’t? Some people have even posted on Facebook about what a delightful Saturday night they had. Me? on a Sunday night at 8 PM, I just wish I could go to bed and have the shitty weekend over with. But I can’t. I’m still waiting. I have feelings too, you know?

The Iceberg

 

An Unflattering Conversation

It’s 10:30 PM. I’m fucking tired. I’ve spent 7 hours working my ass off, and I still have another hour to go. I decide it’s time for a smoke.

I’m outside, and the weather still sucks. I’d rather be in bed. Out of the corner of the building, the lunch truck rolls up. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to grab a coffee. As the lunch lady opens up her truck, I remember I don’t have any food at home, so I guess grabbing something for supper is not a bad idea. I settle for a “sheperd’s pie”. Then, before asking for my coffee, I try to get her opinion.

“What do you think would give me enough gas to last an hour? Coffee, a coke, or chocolate milk?”. By gas, I meant fuel. Energy. Whatever would wake me up for the hour I had left.
She even replied with a question of her own. “Do you have an upset stomach?”. “Um, no”, I answered, wondering what having an upset stomach had to do with wanting an energy boost. I grabbed my Coke Zero, and went inside.

Suddenly, I realized. “D’oh!”, I exclaimed to myself as pangs of laughter and shame came rushing to my head. I guess she thought I really needed to fart a lot. Gas, after all, has many meanings.

Oh well, I’ll explain tomorrow.

The Iceberg.

 

Better late than never, I guess…

I have no problems complaining about the quality of both the telecommunications companies I employ. You may have noticed I hate both Bell Canada, and Rogers. Bell Canada offers, for the most part, excellent service. It’s their credit and billing departments that seem to be run by retarded flying monkeys. In the case of Rogers, it’s almost even pleasant to talk to their customer reps, but it’s the service that is a piece of shit.

“Hey, Rogers? Why can’t I place a long distance call to Mexico, despite being charged 7 dollars a month for my Long Distance Saver plan?”
“Uh… it must be the phone companies down there”, they’ll say. Even when I tell them my sister’s shitty $15 a month Koodo service has no problems establishing contact with “the phone companies down there”.

“Hey Rogers, why can’t I send text messages, but can receive them?”
“Uh… you should be able to…”
“Yeah, I should, technically, since I’m being charged for the service, but I can’t. Hence, my call.”
“Yeah, uh… you should be able to…”
“Thanks, asshole”.

So yesterday, the following happened.

“Your text message woke me up last night”, I was told. For the record, yesterday was Monday September 28th.

“Huh?”, I wondered. I had no recollection of texting anyone for the last couple of weeks, let alone Sunday night. I know my mind’s been acting weird lately, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember texting. Or maybe not? Maybe I did send out a text message, and my mind didn’t register the event? Perhaps I texted in my sleep? I even checked my phone to make sure I hadn’t. I felt like I was insane, having to double-check if I did things I was pretty sure I hadn’t done.

I got home from work, and investigated. “What message?”, I asked.
“The one you sent me at 3.15 in the morning, but I only got the second part”.
Now I felt even weirder. I was pretty sure by 3.15 in the morning, I had been asleep for at least 45 minutes. “Are you sure it was me?”, I ask. Should I just call the men in white, already?
“Yes, I’m perfectly positive it was you”. I was shown the image of what appeared to be my text message. I noticed the words that appeared on said message. I grabbed my phone and investigated further. Question marks were floating around my head like a swarm of killer bees.
Then, I saw it. A text message I actually did send, where the last words matched the words I was shown on-screen. I saw the date on that message, and laughed. It was a text message I sent out the night of September 6th., three weeks ago.

It all made sense. Well, except for the fact that it took 3 weeks for Rogers to transfer half a text message. But at least I could put the phone down. The men in white will have to wait another day.

Thanks, Rogers, for making me doubt my sanity! And for not letting me communicate! For crying out loud, I’m paying nearly a hundred bucks for my service, and I have to use the email function on the iPhone because I can’t text, and I have to buy long distance cards because I can’t call directly.
Shit, typing that just made me feel stupid. Why am I even paying these cretins?

The Iceberg

 

(not so) Deep Thoughts: Self-Consciousness

Sometimes, I’ll look at myself in the mirror, and think “I don’t look that bad”. Not that I’m vain, or anything, I don’t spend hours staring at my stupid reflection. It’s just one of those things. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m inches away from my own image, and I can’t see the details. Then, I’ll look at photos of myself, and recoil in disgust. The wrinkles, the structural deformities of my face, the gloomy, droopy way my eyes seem to express that I’m dead on the inside… there’s hardly an expression in any picture of me, from the last 20, 25 years.
The way my hair appears to hate me, the paleness of my stupid skin, the freckles, the malignant tumour on my arm, the lump on my chest, the chicken pox scar on my forehead… they all jump out at me in every photograph I’ve ever seen of myself. Not that there’s any picture of myself shirtless… I just feel the lump on my chest is visible, because I know it’s there.

The sound of my voice, to myself, is terribly awful. I sound like a very drugged-out Steven Seagal pretending to be Kermit the Frog, I have no intonation, no rhythm to my speech, and I hate being so damn monotonous. And that’s when I do happen to speak. If there’s anything I hate more than talking, because of the sound of my own voice, it’s not talking when I feel I have something to say.

Sometimes I don’t say the things I want to say, or even do the things I want to do, because I’m too self-aware. What if they think I’m too “this”, or too “that”. It’s happened a couple of times. Even in situations wherein my friends and myself are saying stupid shit to outgross eachother, I’ll throw something in, and I’ll get looks that say “ooooh! you went too far”.

Other times, I’ll say something I consider relevant, and it’ll go unnoticed. Then, a few days later, someone else will reflect my sentiment, and he/she will be seen as a visionary. So, I think to myself, what’s the point in opening my mouth?

Then, there’s the traumas from my past. A few incidents have fucked my psyche up, big time. This is the first time I’m ever discussing them.

Once, we went to my grandparents’ house. My grandfather was busy collecting wood for the fireplace, and he asked me for my help. When I couldn’t carry a bundle of branches, because I was fucking eleven years old, he said to me “You’re too feeble”. Really, old man? All I wanted to do when I was eleven and went to my grandaprents’ house was to play soccer with my cousin, go build our fort, and eat as many potato chips as I could. I wasn’t there to haul fucking wood, and I tried to help, but hey, thanks for the little tidbit!

Once, years later, I failed a final test in 8th grade. The reason I failed was that, during the previous two weeks, I had undergone a severe case of typhoidea, and at the same time, chicken pox. None of this mattered to my dad, who upon receiving notice from the school that I had failed, limited himself to telling me “You are a failure”.

During that same school year, I was bullied into believing I laughed – and smiled – ridiculously. I guess that’s the reason I don’t smile all that much, since. It’s no surprise I chose to repeat that schoolyear in another school, than spend another year with these people bullying me.

And finally, there’s the myriad of “I’m the bad guy?” scenarios, wherein people tend to ignore other people’s wrongdoings and focus on my reaction to them as if I were the most evil of demons. Like when I call my sister a piece of shit because other than the suitcase I arrived with to Canada, she disappeared all of my possessions, people will be all “dude, she’s still your sister”. Or, if I referred  to my ex-wife as a whore a couple of times because she cheated on me in several instances, people will confront me with “you shouldn’t talk like that”. Really, fuckos? I’m the bad guy?

One thing I found really amusing, and in a way, a reality check, was a couple of months ago, when I created an email acount, spent hours organizing my contacts, dividing them into “family”, “friends”, and the like, and then proceeded to email everybody, reaching out, trying to establish (or reestablish) contact. Out of the fucking hundred people I emailed, two or three replied back. None of my fucking family, and none of my closer friends. Just a couple of people saying “hey thanks for emailing me, and considering me your friend”. I’ve yet to hear back from them.

And finally, there’s the whole “under-appreciated” thing. Be it at work, or with my sisters, or with friends going through trouble, despite my hardest efforts, nobody ever takes the time to say “hey, Iceberg, thanks for being there”. It’s always more like “um… yeah, you did your best, but it just ain’t good enough for us to consider you worthwhile”. Yet the instant somebody shows up to kiss their ass, they have a new BFF. Fucking retards.

Of course, none of that matters now, because stupid or not, I’ve had a huge smile on my face for the past few weeks. Life’s been great, and I have the feeling it’s getting better every day. Who cares about anything else?

Ancora Imparo,

The Iceberg.