Competitive showboating.

Years ago, when I first lived in Victoria, an acquaintance updated his Facebook status to something like, “Come and see me wear a beard of bees in front of the Legislative this Saturday at noon!”

Obviously a joke, except a few days later, he updated his Facebook profile photo. The new picture was of him in front of the Legislative with the promised bee beard. This is probably why our friendship never took off: I had missed out on a life-altering event of his. He could never forgive me.

Of course, there hasn’t been that kind of stuff happening this year. Instead, we have to stay home and watch whatever our streaming services provide us. Netflix just released a docuseries, “We are the Champions” to remind us of when people used to have fun.

Cheese rolling.

Yann accused this of being something I would be into. He is devastatingly wrong. I hate getting injured, and I can’t think of a more promising opportunity for injury than cheese rolling. The last time I fucked myself up, I couldn’t work or ride a bike for two weeks or climb for a month. I can deal with the pain, but the boredom is intolerable.

On the note of Yann being wrong about me, he apologized for buying a full-sized hairdryer to replace the travel-sized one of mine that he broke.

“I don’t care,” I told him.

The new one is hot pink and has a retractable cord that’s already whipped me in the arm. It’s punk.

“Yea, but what if you want to travel with it?”

“Do you think… I am a person who goes travelling with a hairdryer?”

Anyway, it was a gift. I usually let my hair air-dry for three hours instead of blow drying it. I call it paleo hair styling.

The second episode of the docuseries featured a chili pepper eating contest. I could probably chomp down a jalapeño, but I wouldn’t go any further for a cash prize of $1,000. I’m not enough of a masochist.

So, I googled for more unique competitions to determine which ones I’d have a shot at winning.

Nailympia. Category: Extreme Nail Art.

A prissy-looking model wearing a strapless orange dress holds up two hands, limp at the wrists from the weight of all the crap she's got on her nails.
Wrists limp from the weight of all the crap she has on her nails.

Unsure whether the models get any glory, but this is absolutely within my capabilities. Look:

I showcase, with a limp wrist, all ten of my fingers fingers tipped with colourful modelling clay icicles. My hair is a pink to purple gradient, done in double braids.
Bored-looking with flaccid wrists.

If only the artists get awarded, then I believe I can also glue dollar store party favors to people’s hands. I did tons of arts and craftsy stuff involving a hot glue gun as a child: put crap together, then put said crap on top of more crap. So easy, even kids can do it.

Let me go back to the bee-wearing thing because there’s a competition for that too. The record is 180 kilograms. How much does a single bee weigh?! Would I still be me if I were more bee than me?

What looks like a statue made of bees stand amid swarming bees. A digital display is shown on the right.

This is astounding. How do we know there’s a human centre? It looks like a Miyazaki character.

I’m more okay with being mediocre than with being entombed by bees.

The highlight of my day off was making these modelling clay finger extensions. Our Provincial Health Officer has ordered us to make only essential trips for the next two weeks. The restrictions went into effect on the evening of the 19th, two days before my birthday and three days ago, which means my birthday was yesterday. Or the day before yesterday if you’re reading this on the 23rd.

What should have happened on my birthday was an evening of cum-filled charred assholes at the beach with Tammy. Cum-filled charred asshole is our cutesy way of saying marshmallows, which we wanted to roast over a propane pit in celebration of me becoming as old as the sea. Here’s the very marshmallow that inspired the term:

A close-up shot of marshmallow goo about to leak out of a dark brown crusted skin. My fingers are visible pinching the marshmallow.
July 7, 2008: an evening of burnt sugar and perversion.

I don’t like roasted marshmallows that much anymore. The sentimentality was what made the proposal appealing.

What did happen on my birthday was a couple of birthday wishes via SMS from friends who remembered even though I’m no longer on social media. I got an email from my grandparents hip-hip-hip-hurraying me. They’d put some money in my bank account, hurray!

They also deposited bonus money from my dad.

I was at work when I read the email and told the shop boss that I needed a short break. I didn’t say why, but it involved going into the office to cry at his desk. Well, first, I sat down in an attempt to process this information. Then I cried.

I specified in my letter to Dad that the reason he got away with the stuff he has is that he has money. He’s brazenly tried to manipulate me with his money. It is so insulting. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t his intention. It was the first thing that came to my mind, though.

Last month, I sent him what was probably the worst letter he’s ever gotten. Was this his way of saying “no hard feelings”? AFTER A LETTER LIKE THAT, REALLY? Does he not think I was serious? My initial thought was to send the money to my sister, as he owes her money anyway, but to do so would involve her in Dad’s psychological warfare.

So, I consulted a friend. Not just any friend, but a friend who’s also had a dysfunctional upbringing. Well-adjusted friends always have these goofy suggestions that would work for them because they don’t have a fucked-up family. I needed somebody with experience to help me sort the messy dynamics. The friend advised keeping the money and spend it on something without thinking about how it’s from Dad.

Ah, yes.

I could take it a step further and use it for something of which he’d vehemently disapprove. He never liked that I have tattoos. I could get a tattoo of something he hates, like cilantro.

Then, I wouldn’t need to become an extreme nail art model for the tale: I’ll have my dad-funded cilantro tattoo.

Also, for the umpteenth time, I did not get the hamburger earmuffs I asked for. This is going to have to be self-funded.

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