I couldn't fall asleep one night and tried to write a poem. I was thinking maybe a poem about romance, sort of like that real hunky firefighter guy on Bachelorette wrote, but this is what leaked out of my head...

Through closed eyes I search for solace
From the worries that every new sun brings
A lonely place is this worldly speck
That festers uneasily in greedy hatred

Contact lens are convenient. I'm not sure how people used to live in the olden days wearing clunky glasses all day long. You don't have to keep adjusting them on your nose and you don't have to worry about them being in the way. But really, that can't be all that they're about because they admittedly do add some confidence to the wearer in a way that conceals his / her visual handicap. Oh, and you don't ever see me wearing contacts when I'm just sitting at home by myself (keke, that can never be verified... I'm clever) so that must mean that somehow the presence of others affects my decision to put them in. Does that also mean that all articles of clothing outside of sleepwear are worn by all with others in mind? It would then seem that from our dressing habits alone, much effort is spent to persuade the way others perceive us. In most cases, that's probably a good thing because some people should not be seen naked in daylight. But you can't help but sense a degree of misrepresentation in the whole arrangement because we are all trying to 'upgrade' ourselves in the eyes of those around us. I know that that probably sounds foolish, but somehow it makes me feel uncomfortable that everyone is out to deceive everybody else. And the clothes we choose to wear is just an accessory to whole new identities that we assume every time we leave our homes.

Graduation never meant so much to me as it does now. It's happened before and nothing would really change. This time was different. I suppose if I actually started work the day after convocation, everything would have been as it always has. Interestingly, that didn't happen. Faced with the task of filling my waking hours, I panicked. Many would say, "Dave, how about finding a job you lazy bastard?" Sure enough, a job sounds just about right. That's what I should do, find a job to support myself. But, wait a minute, why? That is, aside from the minor detail that I need money to feed myself. I need food to live. But why do I want to live? Why bother with life?

To answer this question, I poked around a little and have come to the gruesome discovery that many have asked the same and failed to answer before me. Show me one who knows what it's all about and I'll show you a fool. That's really the way I feel. There's no real way to know for sure, I don't think. There are as many answers as there are people. There's no one-size-fits-all answer. Each must find his own reason to be. But what if one day you turn 70 and find out you were wrong? That's what's scary to me. I see others and I envy how they go about their lives so. Perhaps they know something that I don't. Or perhaps I have it too good. Many have enough to think about with health, personal, family or financial problems to deal with. One could also make a case that life is too short to try and answer something that has no answer. So abandon the thought and assimilate the good life as best I can? Work steady job Monday through Friday, visit a friend/ go to a movie/ do some laundry/ take the car to the shop Saturday, grocery shop/ spend time with family Sunday and look forward to the following weekend. That's what most people do, right? Is that the good life, or maybe someone somewhere who really likes money just made that one up to increase profit margins? Or, is it even more important that we try to answer the Question for ourselves because life is so short? I don't know. I feel like an angry, paranoid teenaged misfit trying to skirt work. What I wouldn't give to be 17 once more. Oh, it'd be so much better this time around.

What is the nastiest thing you've ever eaten? I suppose some would list an insect of some sort. Maybe a fried caterpillar or a roasted locust. Or maybe some sort of testicular burger as is a delicacy somewhere in the world. But what does it mean when you say eat? Is that the same as ingestion? As in placement in the mouth, chomping with the pearly whites, softening with saliva before swallowing? Or is eating just the last part, the swallowing part? That's eating, right? I mean, that's the most important part that facilitates our survival. This suggests that the yellowish-brown, sticky phlegm that passes between your nose passage and the back of your throat when you are half-dead with a cold is actually being eaten. Myself, I'm amused at how eating that warm cocktail of disease doesn't just kill you. I guess that's pretty gross. But I can't really help it. That's what I think about when I'm trying to fall asleep at night.

I think about odd bits. Like how to avoid the rude, cold splash from the toilet when you're executing a #2 in the midst of the brutal Canadian winter. Nothing like an icy wake-me-up to break the monotony of winter blues, you say? Comes with the deal? Can't avoid it? Well, I say Nayyy! So I asked myself, the engineer, "There's got to be a better way!" After much thought, I have devised not 1, but 2 strategem to stop this winter demon in its track!

The first is not really all that elaborate and definitely has its drawbacks. Like high diving, you have a free-falling object hitting the water. And similarly, the smaller the splash, the better the 'dive'. Now Olympic divers control splash through immaculate body control. With what we have to do, control is lost beyond the final 'release' because what's hitting the water is not part of ourselves. But don't despair, our saviour is indifference! Yes, we don't care! Divers care, because THEY'RE hitting the water, and therefore dive into the DEEP end. For what we're trying to do, we couldn't give two sh**s! Which means that we can afford to dive off the shallow end, or go one better and take the water entirely out of the equation and go for the direct hit! As I've mentioned however, there are flaws to this technique. One, move too far forward at release and you may be in for a surprise meeting with year-old stains underneath the front edge of the toilet seat (may or may not apply to our female readership). Two, this one applies more if you're at a house party where your actions may be scrutinized as soon as you head for fresher air. This technique often leaves its mark in the form of the dreaded chocolate skid marks and may have long-term repercussions on your social life. Which brings us to my second form of splash free engagement.

Prior to assuming your position, take one square of toilet paper and place in vicinity of projected landing. Take two if you don't care for the environment much. Or even double the protection if it happens to be a much-anticipated deposit. This technique is generally fool-proof if efforts are renewed after every 'release'. It does away with the embarrassing skid marks and prevents splashbacks 90% of the time. So why bother with the first, Dave? Why not just employ strategy #2 at all times? Well, it is true that strategy #2 is superior under most circumstances, but cases where toilet paper is at a premium or where toilet overflows are perceived to be a palpable threat, strategy #1 or a combination thereof may be ideal. Next lesson: What to do if there is no toilet paper. It can be done.

Recently, I have been going to a number of interviews. Yes, most of these were for retail positions at the mall and only two of these were engineering interviews. But believe it or not, there was one with a modelling agency! No kidding. I could hardly believe it myself. How did it all happen? Well, it all started with a slim brunette at Lava Lounge. There were lollipops au gratis, red lipstick, smile after smile, tight-fitting Max T-shirt and leather pants, chit-chat about her hometown of Calgary, soft caresses on my knee and before I knew it, I was IN! Standing 5 foot 6 and 3 quarters, I was to fulfill my destiny as a supermodel after all.

Armed with two computer printouts of my mug, I prepared myself for the interview that would propel my rise to stardom under the heavy gaze of the goldfish as they paced back and forth over the receptionist's head. Through my adventures on the internet, I was aware of the precarious situation presented before me. Images of my naked and um, buff body paraded through my mind under banners reading: Casting Couch, click here to see gullible young girls tricked into stripping for the camera...

The interview itself was pretty straightforward. Questions about special skills, sports, scars, body part-specific hairiness etc. were handled with aplomb. No problemo! There was no sleaze, no ahem, "favours" to be performed or let's get a peek of you in this hemp G-string. So far so good. A couple days later, Max Agency called saying, "We've decided to bring you on board. You're one of the best candidates with your ethnic background. Decent height (?!) with experience in snowboarding and martial arts..."

Damn straight! I never dreamed of being a model and certainly not as easily as this! I must have some serious talent! BYE BYE engineering, hello exotic catwalks, beautiful model co-workers and fame and $$$$! Against my better judgment, I decided to check the agency out on the internet. Before I even had time enough to sit down on the toilet, the squirrel reared its ugly head on a model/ actor discussion board. Max Agency, also known as Talent 2NV changes its name every few months to keep victims and authorities off-balance. With revenues estimated at $250,000/ month, these guys are known scammers operating in the Toronto area.

I guess Juanita couldn't have been her real name after all.

I remember pulling up to this fellow on his brand new motorcycle when I was in high school at the stoplight with my 1989 Camry station wagon. It was me and 3 guys in the car. Naturally, we started gawking at the cool guy with the bike. He, on the other hand, I suppose felt our gaze and proceeded to put on a smoky show, revving his engine, ready to liquefy some petroleum byproduct for our enjoyment. The light turns green and BAM! The dude flips over on his bike and is lying on his back with his trashed bike 3 feet away... We were hanging out the windows, howling like idiots.

Years later, I reflect on this experience, and I realize that perhaps I didn't handle the situation as well as I could have. That was a mean thing to do. The poor guy probably had a massive welt on his ass from his fall and worse still, hundreds if not thousands of dollars' worth of scratches and dents on his bike. He didn't need our humiliation on top of all this. But, I was young and brash. Laugh and taunt we did... with childish glee.

In the years that have passed, I have become wiser. See, funny thing about life is that as soon as you laugh at someone else's misfortune (or plain stupidity in this case), He is taking your name down so that before long, the shoe can be on the other foot.

And yes, it all caught up with me. I had just moved into residence at Victoria College and next door lived the cutest girl with the most brilliant smile. And so I volunteered to helpdesign T-shirts for our floor for which, coincidentally, Sarah was heading up. And on that fateful night, while studying for a midterm on the other side of the wall that separated my living room and her bedroom, I made a break for loooove. I had tickets for this school play featuring a friend of mine. Add sweet, beautiful girl, charisma, romantic serenade on the violin and bake. The cake of love was to be mine after all!

I was the epitome of cool and Sarah had agreed to our date. Shocked, and giddy like some punk kid who just got away with sh*tting on someone's porch and BAM! I slammed head-first into her wall bidding my little princess good night.

In case you were wondering, Sarah did, in fact, end up having to um, 'wash her hair' that day... my birthday.

Ever wonder what it would be like to have switches on street lamps?