Tales From The Crypt

Writing is an interesting game.

It’s one thing to hole yourself up in a room for days on end, and make up crazy shit just for the sake of keeping your fucked up mind entertained, but it’s an entirely different beast to go out into the world, and gather real experiences of the weird, wild, and wacky offerings found around every corner.

One might also potentially uncover stories of love, compassion, and personal growth, but those tales are fucking gay.

The Adventure Blog writes itself. All I have to do is play stenographer. The Ramblings category is different. It takes a lot more time and energy to put a piece together — sometimes based on a random thought, sometimes no thought at all. I wouldn’t call it writing for the sake of writing, as something interesting always develops, but journaling is far easier when you’ve actually lived the stories — by experiencing this ridiculous reality first-hand, to find the endless bits of fun, humour, wisdom, or tragedy in the mess, worthy of sharing with others.

So that’s what I went out to do this morning.

Wanna hear a tale?

Of course you do…

I turned 47 today. In dog years, I would be a corpse. But I arose at the crack of dawn, with far more enthusiasm than any decaying canine I’ve ever played fetch with. The plan was a random walk around town, no destination in mind.

Though the temperature reached an almost balmy 18 C the day before, this morning was crisp. Perhaps a small cup of decaf might be a fitting start.

As I entered the only open building of caffeine peddlers, I immediately sensed the stench of death. But I quickly realized it wasn’t emanating from the four ninety-year-olds sitting in silence, staring at their litre-sized paper cups o’ joe, it was wafting from my hair and armpits. Bathing would be next on the agenda.

I approached the counter to place my order. The only way I now have to soothe my ego is to add a preface here — although I think the woman briefly glanced at me, she was definitely occupied with some duty related to organizing materials under her register, and punched in my order without making eye contact.


“Good morning, how are you today, sir?”

“Excellent. Could I have a small black decaf to go, please?”

“Of course. That’ll be a dollar fifty. Would you like your senior’s discount today?”

Happy fucking birthday, Mike.

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