Sink, Swim, or Float — Your call, Fuckface!

I remember sitting on my girlfriend’s couch 8 years ago, having a discussion with her about what options were left to live as freely as possible in this insane asylum we lovingly refer to as Planet Earth. As prisoners in an open-air pen that we call our “country,” how could we skirt the system — to slip under the radar, and fully explore our god-given autonomy?

It wasn’t long before a realization occurred…

The fucking sea! The last true Wild West humans can still exploit if they have the balls to push a frontier of exploration.

We ended up bookmarking a bunch of sailboats for sale (sail, haha) that day, fully aware we neither had the resources nor skills to bring the idea to fruition.

But the idea stuck.

So without rehashing the journey I’ve blogged about in this ridiculous site I call BonerFruit, let’s just get to the nitty-gritty of why I’m writing this…

The S.S. BonerFruit is on the water! And I fucking love it!

You want some insight into how to live free and happy?

Simple, bitches… follow your fucking heart, and enjoy each trial and tribulation that unfolds. Immediate gratification is a lie sold to you by the fucking puppet-masters. If you want to make any headway in your grand scheme of happiness, you need to go all-in, and dedicate your time to the shit that rocks your world, no matter how long it takes.

Sure, it’s true I still have no clue what I’m doing, but I giveth not a fuck.

You wanna know what I’ve learned? Every day you practice your craft leads you one day closer to mastering your passion. You can sit on your shitty couch and watch Netflix all night cuz you “had a bad day,” or “felt stressed,” only to wake up to whine to your idiot co-workers in the morning about how life is unfair, burdensome, and stacked against you, or you can just get over your bullshit fears and live each moment to the fullest, hellbent on climbing whatever mountain screams to you the loudest.

Am I gonna die crossing an ocean? Probably. But there’s no way to know till I try.

Perhaps that’s a fitting sentiment to end this post…

How do you want to spend the rest of your time on this planet?

In fear of death?

Or in fear of life?

Suck on that one for a bit, I’m going to bed.

Alfred Hitch-SuckMy-Cock

Well, it’s June at last, and it looks like Mother Nature is finally ready to comply with my desire to once again wander the grand outdoors half-naked, without fear of freezing my balls off if a brazen cloud decides to position itself unceremoniously in front of the blazing-ball-of-warmth-in-the-sky that I love and admire so much.

As I geared up for a morning run, I realized shorts and a t-shirt would be more than adequate to face the elements. Fuck yeah! But a few quick stretches revealed some tenderness in my stumpy legs… perhaps I pushed a little too hard to squeeze in a 10K jaunt yesterday. A 24-hour rest session would have been a more practical decision, but it was too nice out to pass up a tour strolling through the little parkette just north of my parents’ house, so I said fuck it, let’s rock!

As I hit the streets, my body told me in the first 30 seconds the plan for a 5K run was a piss-poor idea. It said, “Look jackass, today ain’t the day for this. I need some healing time. If you’re hellbent on being outside this morning, go for a walk. If you want to run, you’ll regret it.”

Bah, whatever.

As the waves of pain quickly inundated my left calf and right ass cheek, I immediately retorted to my body, “Look dude, we’ve been through this before! You’ll relax, ease into the zone, and before we both know it, we’ll be skippin’ past the duckies swimming in the river, lovin’ every second of the experience, pain forgotten!”

A kilometre and a half later though, nothin’ felt right, sparking the thought: Why the fuck do I always feel the need to push myself when my body says no? What the fuck am I trying to prove here?

In that instant, a bird swooped laterally across my running direction.

I’m familiar with this sight. It happens dozens of times when I’m driving recklessly in my car down the country backroads, and always think, “Fuck dude, you were almost feathers mangled in my grill! If you can fly, just do it 10 feet over the highway. Or a hundred, or a thousand. Why do you airborne critters insist on tempting fate?”

So as the cacophony of self-generated dialogue incessantly rolled through my muddled brain, a new pain arose… one I was completely unprepared for…

Have you ever had a dream where your dentist was really fucking drunk, and started drilling into your head instead of your teeth?

I haven’t.

Have you ever had a nightmare where eagle talons and beaks punched holes into your skull because you were a disgusting filthy orc, unworthy of travelling through the sacred realm of Gandalf’s high road?

Never happened to me either.

But now I know what that pain feels like in the real world.

After the fly-by flash of black wings marked with single red spots, my next memory was a skull on fire.

“Christ, what the fuck!” I yelled out.

I was under attack from the sky.

Shadows swooped and shadows pecked. Shadows clawed and shadows gnawed. My slow run quickly became a hundred-metre dash that would have put Ben Johnson and performance-enhancing drugs to shame.

I’m guessing I jogged by a covert nest, but whatever winged creature I pissed off was in no mood to negotiate my ignorant trespass. I was being blitzkrieged by claws and peckers, and the pain in my calf quickly became irrelevant to the newfound inflictions flaming the top of my skull.

With the playground finally open once again, after the latest iteration of this province’s fake virus lockdown, I can’t say for sure who witnessed my bird attack spectacle, but my cries of “FUCK OFF! STOP IT! I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! WHY, FUCKER, WHY?” easily echoed into the distance of the last 3K I hoped to run.

As my pace quickened, every ornithoid shape my eyes could detect became a potential threat. The fuckers were swimming, the fuckers were waddling about on the ground, and thousands (well, maybe dozens) were gliding effortlessly in the sky, ready to rain down pain at any moment. From a survival standpoint, I was totally fucked.

Eventually I calmed down, and made it back to safe shelter. But in the writing of this piece, I haven’t felt a moment’s security each time I hear a tweet, chirp, or whistle. Fucking geese are flying en-masse right now in strategical formations somewhere over my fucking head!

When I told my dad about the excruciating pain of the unwarranted bird attack, he only had one concern:

Did they shit on you?

Fuck.

Note to self:

When the body says stay home, stay the fuck home.

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?

Continue reading Tales From The Crypt

Picture This…

Well, as much as I hate to acknowledge it, the Central American adventure is winding down. But it’s been a helluva run!!

Puerto Morelos, though somewhat lame along the beachfront, has been an excellent place to write, and I love the authenticity of the local town, recessed 3 kilometres from the hard-core tourist area. I’ve gotten more work done here than a Stephen King hopped up on 2L Mountain Dew slurpees laced with caffeine. I’m still considering one last day trip to Isla Mujeres, for snorkelling and a catamaran ride — a real boat this time — to go out on a high point, before making my way back to the Cancun airport.

Every day has been an amazing learning experience, and the people I’ve met have been diversely fascinating and wonderful.

So how about a smattering of random pics just for the fun of it, and we’ll save philosophies for another day?

Yeah, thought you’d agree…

Doing it Hobbit Style, But Make a Ce-note: My Friend’s a Junkie

Though we hadn’t slept in 24 hours, our energies the morning after the ceremony were good, and a decision had to be made before long which road to follow next…

We had a full day at the hobbit-house to relax in, so the issue wasn’t immediately pressing, but, nonetheless, we considered every option that seemed to be unexpectedly thrown our direction.

The first was from a random dude Mantas chatted with the day before. The guy was beginning construction of eco-friendly domes on a property not too far from us, looking for paid help to assist in the work. Definitely interesting…

Continue reading Doing it Hobbit Style, But Make a Ce-note: My Friend’s a Junkie

I, uh, was, ca-nnected…

Our big day had finally arrived, and we eagerly looked forward to returning to a private community a half-hour away from central Playa Del Carmen, to attend the Ayahuasca ceremony Mantas invited me to.

Our ADO transport left early in the morning, and I prepared my usual carry-on baggie for bus survival — hoodie, jeans, thermal underwear, and a booklet of prayers to God.

I was pleasantly surprised as this bus featured a toilet — a toilet!!! — and monitors for movie watching. Whoa! Unexpected to say the least. Maybe I had unknowingly taken a second-class vehicle from Palenque to Playa Del Carmen when I chose the cheapest fare I could find.

Continue reading I, uh, was, ca-nnected…

Back(alar)tracking

Playa Del Carmen didn’t pose much interest to me, so I spent a few days holed up in the courtyard at the hostel writing, waiting for Mantas to end his tour of duty working there. The sun never stopped shining, and I got a lot of work done.

Come Monday, we were torn between taking the ADO or a colectivo to Bacalar. There was a third possibility of catching a ride with a couple staying at the hostel, who had a friend in town headed that direction, but 3 days trying to confirm the ride proved fruitless.

Continue reading Back(alar)tracking