Mr. Bitter’s Tips for a Happy life:

Mr. Bitter’s Painting Tips:

Painting is not fun. Painting is a pain in the ass. If painting were a human being I would have no problem deporting that person to Syria for torture. And if called before a parliamentary committee to answer for my actions I’d simple say, “But honourable members of House … he’s the personification of painting.”

Having said that, sometimes painting just can’t be avoided. Sometimes it’s actually necessary. Like when a guy breaks into your house with a gun and a can of “forest green” and demands you paint a wall or he’ll put a bullet in your shin. Or the Martha Stewart paint you bought is peeling off the walls like sheets of plastic. When you find yourself in these situations follow the advice below to minimize the pain:

HIRE A GOD DAMNED PAINTER!!!


Walking-Around Ettiquette:

If you’re walking through a crowded mall on a Saturday afternoon taking in all the lovely and alluring window displays and one catches your eye and you decide to stop, suddenly, without warning and someone walks into the back of you, you really have no business getting annoyed. If you were driving a car you’d have whiplash.

Along the same lines: A quick lesson about escalators. Escalators create movement and movement creates force. That’s just how it works. Whoever is behind you on an escalator is at the mercy of these forces of nature. Once you're on you really can’t stop moving till you get off. So if you get to the top or the bottom of an escalator and you stop, right there and don’t at least take a step away from the escalator, the person behind really has no choice but to run right into you. So like we discussed earlier, you really have no business getting annoyed. If you were driving a car you’d be dead.

I'm Back, Then I'll Be Gone ... But Then Back Again

From the Salvation Nebula to your wedding table,
originally uploaded by Bergkamp13.

Ok, Ok. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take the howls of soul-eviscerating pain coming up from the streets and cement – and yes, the very earth under my feet… I’m back.
I know you’ve missed me. I can see it in the way you look at me like you’re about to kiss me or eat me. Or both. You want me and yet you want to destroy me as well. I can’t be in you and out here. I can’t be the thing you all desire most and also be inside you trying to satiate your endless hunger. Aint gonna work, assholes!
Where have I been? Who are you, my mother? Where have I been? I have a life you soul-sucking vampires. I don’t exist solely to validate your existences …es.
Truth be told I’ve been very busy collecting my belongings and kissing the cat goodbye. Which cat is this you ask? Random cats I pass on the street, mostly. Some cats have really bad breath, by the way, like they ate a mouse made out of shit. It’s true. I digress.
I’m movin’ out! Miss(us) Sour and I are going to co-habitate. (That means we’ll be living in the same house, dipshits) I’ve been packing away my memories in dusty, old boxes and … piling them up in corners. Where they will sit till I can be arsed to move them. And then I’ll open them and put the contents of said boxes on new shelves sitting on new shores. And then, instead of using those boxes for new memories as one might expect from the somewhat purple prose above, I’ll set them out on the curb where they will be taken to be recycled. Or stolen by the crazy guy across the street. He’s building a landing pad for flying saucers in his backyard. He’s expecting the Tenth Fleet of the Salvation Nebula the next time a gay-couple gets married as a punishment for our sins. Or they’re bringing the salmon puffs, I can’t remember. The point is these guys love cardboard. And memories. And cardboard soaked in memories …
So in a week or so when I'm resting my slippered feet on the ottoman, reading my Globe and Mail in a red velvet smoking jacket (while smoking a pipe) and Missus Sour brings me my Earl Grey tea and pats my belly lovingly and tells me she can no longer stand the stench of failure, perhaps then my thoughts will turn to you, dear readers.