2009

Fuck 2008. I have Aylish Cotter. No need for cathartic rants when the most beautiful girl on the planet is holding your hand.

2008 – Year in Review

I owe this to myself to and to any of you who actually clung to my words during my tirade of hate. This will probably hurt the feelings of some, destroy others; to those of you who get offended by brutal honesty just let me say that I’ll be masturbating to the thought of your tears tonight.

If I were to properly convey what this year has meant to me you’d be reading into the spring melt, so I’ll attempt to keep it brief. It’s curious that if this year, the year of our Lord – two thousand and eight – were to be my last year, I would be satisfied with my life. I’m twenty-one folks, I’ve never married, I’ve never spread my seed (that I know of), and I’m currently writing this in an absolutely filthy room in the dark. I could die after writing this and I would be satisfied, and that is in fact probably the most satisfying declaration I’ve ever made.

I existed on this URL for over three months, spilling everything I had in me, a sort of introspective dialogue that was both crippling and illuminating. This website destroyed me in a very esoteric way, although my words were left plastered on your screen, they were originally engraved on my heart; and it wasn’t until I decided to visibly express my hatred for the world that those words were stricken from my record. That hate, that sadness, was washed away from me like the vomit you wash out of your hair after a hard night of partying. However, I was cleansed in the most perfect way, in a way no one but myself could see.

There were moments this year where I lost myself through over-analyzing and a general sense of self-hatred. It culminated in a trip to McGill Mental Health where I said simply “I fear my ability to justify life over death has been compromised.” I was so exhausted from telling myself “everything is going to be OK,” that it wasn’t OK anymore, it was this tsunami of shit that had pulled me out to sea, leaving me to cling to individuals who really couldn’t keep me afloat. I bit the bullet so hard my teeth broke and I went on anti-depressants, the curious thing about anti-depressants is that no one understands why you are on them, unless they themselves have taken them before. The even more curious thing is that you knowingly watch yourself change, your demons are exorcised, but so is that stamp on your soul that makes you, you. I can’t begin to describe how shitty a feeling it is to lose your creativity, ability to think things through in a way that is unique to yourself, and how being on a drug to make you feel better actually alienates yourself from those who you love.

It was for those three reasons that I elected to go off the medication and rely on accepting myself and loving myself for who I am, not for what I couldn’t have. I recognize that my love is parasitic, it is something that people are either afraid of because it’s too intense, or it simply something they don’t want. There are people in my life who would accept me for who I was no matter what, it wasn’t those people I was concerned with before going on medication, it was those who wouldn’t accept me – the people who didn’t matter – that were getting to me. Realizing that those people didn’t matter was a massive step in my self-development and a catalyst for me choosing to go off medication.

It’s a funny thing admitting… I, Luke Walker, am mentally ill. It is however what makes me unique, this self-deprecating, introspective way of looking at myself is sadly beautiful. It’s like a car crash where despite the fact everyone is clearly dead, there is still someone digging through the wreckage looking for survivors.

Years aren’t defined by consistency however, they are defined by the moments that you won’t forget in that year. This year I have many, both personal and otherwise. I think the fact Barack Obama won that election is funny, I see him as no more than a good-speaker who can rally the ignorant masses, but who knows, he might be good for America in the long run. All I remember were grown men crying when he won, and I guess that made it more important for me than anything else, he is able to evoke ineffable emotion in individuals who for the most part are terrified of expressing themselves in that way.

The personal moments are the ones I’ll cling to the most, and although I can’t fully disclose what those moments are in order to protect the individuals involved in them, I can tell you they were good.

July 11th – Crystal Castles. Show up at 11pm, with probably the most solid crew I can fathom, dance until 2am, Crystal Castles comes on and runs shit for an hour. I then spend an hour or so with said crew in a park, sitting and fucking life in the most beautiful way.

Luke became “a living being” when Brandon breathed life into him (Gen. 2:7)

July 11th was the first time I went to bed happy. It was the most flawless day of my entire life, every single moment was beautiful on every single level. It marked a unique change in who I was, how I viewed things. In reality it had nothing to do with Crystal Castles and everything with me hanging out with beautiful people who didn’t give a shit about my decisions.

November 19th – M83. The most destructive concert I’ve ever attended. I hate people who say music is their life, music is not my life, but the French electro band M83 showed me one thing – it is possible to live inside of music – even if it is just for a few moments. Ellie Payne Smith and Julianna Brown, I will never forget holding your hands during Teen Angst as tears rolled down my face. You probably don’t feel the same way, but it was the most connected I had ever been. Listening to music that evokes emotion with two individuals overflowing with life is a transcendent experience. Thank you for allowing me to be more than I can be in the temporal.

I hear the planet crying now…

I went to bed after m83 confused, because I had no idea something could affect me in such a devastating way. Confusion is good when the only answer to said confusion is a pleasing answer. My mind was turned to mush and remolded by musicians who were far more capable of understanding life than I could ever be.

People I met this year who I will never forget:

This is an interesting category as I will only include those individuals who I met in the year 2008. If you are not included in this group, I honestly still think you are great, these are just the one’s who caused me to pause in shock at how wonderful they are.

Ellie Payne Smith - You are the most unique human being I’ve ever met. Human, being a useful word because when you let your guard down, you explode with humanity.

Julianna Brown - You are Girlme.

Isaac Gielen – Your choice to be a teacher is wonderful, because you are a geniune person.

Tau – Words can’t do it. Words can’t describe what you do to me. You are and forever will be the best person I’ve ever met.

This year has been flooded with sadness, but by some miracle I’ve sandbagged the parts of me that tell myself to keep waking up in the morning. This year has been beautiful, but sadness has kept me in check. Everything is illuminated for me.

Make Love to the Present… Fuck the Past

Last Call… ka-ka-kill it

It’s over. Five years of spin kicks, floor punches, and crowd dives, ends tonight. It’s a right of passage I suppose, recognizing that you are too old for the things you liked as a teenager. I haven’t been to a “show” in months, but I’m going tonight. I’m retiring.

A “show” under my relatively spastic guidelines differs from a concert, I suppose it stems from going to shows every Friday back when I was part of a scene. But I’m three and a half years removed from my hometown, I like a genre that nobody my age likes, and I get sore and beaten to shit every time I attend a show.

So my days of dabbling in the metalcore/hardcore/southern rock scene are over, like the fat of a juicy pig, I’m removing a pretty substantial part of my youth tonight. It was a youth laced with angst and bloody noses, peppered with the odd hook-up with a scene chick. I’m ending it in the most appropriate way I can think of, I’m seeing Every Time I Die, for the fifteenth time. I’m ending it the only way I know how, and I know it will leave me bruised, battered, and potentially concussed, but I’m going to be seventeen one more time. I just want to scream the lyrics to Ebolarama, I want to open the pit, I want to hug a fucking stranger solely because we recognize what we are seeing is something we mutually enjoy. I want to tell every single girl there that “I’m a cunt,” I want to fearlessly leap into a crowd of people I know will catch me, but most importantly, I want to grow up.

There is nothing I love more than when the flashlight flickers and the lights dim, when the crowd stops being a bunch of kids standing and becomes an organic unit, swaying and leaping in a way that makes no sense to anyone who hasn’t been kicked in the face, dropped twenty dollars for some merch, or lost a shoe and really didn’t care. These are the only crowded rooms where I am not alone. It probably doesn’t make sense to you and everyday it makes less and less sense to me, but in reality, it’s the only thing that I could count on. Whether it be collapsing in a pool of sweat after dislocating my shoulder at Underoath, holding the hand of a girl I’ve never met before while listening to Saosin, or being dragged out of the pit by a fellow dancer after being knocked unconscious for the second time in one night at Comeback Kid… I know it is always unique, it is always emotional, and it’s always, ALWAYS, brutally beautiful.

As I put on my Nike high tops, skinny jeans, and Converge hoodie that have been stored away since July, I can’t help but hate the fact I’m growing up. I’ll return tonight a sweaty, disgusting mess, my throat will be sore, and as I lay in my bed, ears ringing, I’ll be happy, but there will never be another time. This is it, I’m ending one of the most profound parts of my life tonight.

Fuck.

You Forgot it in People

Forgive my grammar and overall choice of words on this one, it’s 9:41 AM and I’m either still a little intoxicated from last night or very hungover. I’m not sure which one it is, I guess it doesn’t matter.

Last night I went to see Broken Social Scene, to be honest, despite the fact they are one of the most devastatingly talented bands ever, I really don’t like them that much. But there is one song by them that profoundly effects me every time I hear it. And I mean, music isn’t my life and despite what your myspace profile says, it’s not yours either. But this song, this one song, is so beautiful that every time I listen to it I fall in and out of love, I’m shattered and rebuilt, I’m found and then lost again, it destroys me… every.single.time. I have no idea why I love this song so much, it’s sad I guess, and I like being sad.

But I missed it. The reason I missed it sucks. I really needed to hear that song. Things are so fucked.

Kids Who Plan on “Partying Hard” Are Goof Fucks

I Was Not Equipped To Operate Heavy Machinery at This Point

The attached picture is photographic evidence of the most inebriated I’ve ever been. I won’t even bother you with the series of events that got me to this point, but I can assure you my parents would not be impressed. That being said, this picture also documents perhaps the climax of a really fun night, and although I woke up in the morning with a dry mouth, a swollen pancreas, and a garden gnome taped to my hands, I regret none of my actions or the events that took place as a direct result of my actions.

I would say that relative to the average university student I “partied hard” that night. Not because I planned to, but because everything regarding that evening flowed with a fluidity that only a drunken Robert Frost could accurately articulate. The night began with me eating chicken wings with two very cool people and ended with me playing peek-a-boo with myself in a friend’s apartment, letting out an exhausted “yeaaaaaaa” right before I went to sleep. It also had a devastating Ratatat set tucked in there somewhere (just saying).

Our experiences are amplified, for better or worse, when we are not anticipating them. I’ve come to learn this over the last four or five months, for example, I went to see Crystal Castles in July, having never seen them before I had no idea what to expect… so I didn’t expect. What I experienced was a night of uniqueness, crowd-surfing, and an unexpected night-cap in a park at 3:30 am… Alice Glass also accidentally touched my junk, hipsters… be jealous. On the other hand, I went to Queens Homecoming for the third year in a row, and it absolutely sucked despite being more or less the exact same as the two previous years, which I had enjoyed. There is a lesson in this, do not anticipate, do not create expectations, and never, EVER, label something that it isn’t. I don’t want to sound cliche – but I can’t help it – living life in the moment is the only way to live, planning causes anxiety, worrying causes doubt, and excitement often causes let-downs. I planned for Ratatat, it was amazing, but it was only an auxiliary component to everything else which I didn’t expect that night.

Now to what I hate about kids who plan on partying hard, what you are doing is simply posturing for all your friends. By saying “I’m going to get so fucked up tonight,” you have already resigned yourself to the status quo, that being, kids who get fucked up for the sake of getting fucked up. Your party hard mentality only sets yourself up for disappointment, whether it be passing out at 9:30 pm with vomit on your genitals, or being destroyed in beer pong in front of your bitty by two kids who just finished playing D&D all afternoon. I say this all the time, I’m a libertarian, what you want to do with your substance abuse or consumption of alcohol is your business, not mine. But when you proclaim that the main, nay, the only highlight of your evening will be getting fucked up, I have no choice but to feel sorry for you.

I guess this is just me sort of getting tired of university, being five foot six, and 130 lbs soaking wet has forced me to work on my social skills while being sober, rather than flopping my drunken cock all over the bar. Maybe I’m just jealous that I can’t plan on getting drunk and just enjoy that for what it is. That being said, I still hate kids who plan on partying hard, A LOT.

Aight I gotta go play some puck and dummy some gutless pansies on the ice, then get drunk on Mott’s Clamato Mixers and find some PUSSSSSSAAAAY… PAYCE.

Kids Who Go To Africa and Have “Their Eyes Opened” are Douches

I was taking a nap today on the sidewalk next to my school and I was awoken from my slumber by a devastatingly stupid conversation. It involved two girls, both probably my age (21), regarding one of the girl’s trip to Tanzania over the summer. They stood in front of me, Ugg boots, gray tights, and matching jackets, hacking on a Belmont like they were the cocks of the walk. The girl on the right speaks, “It’s just an eye opening experience, you know? I mean we take everything for granted hear in the west, and we fail to realize that there are people starving in black countries. I mean, I changed when I came back, I try to eat less, I am limiting my carbon footprint, and I adopted a child on World Vision. It’s just so rewarding to know you are affecting people for the better.” At this point my gum fell out of my mouth and onto the sidewalk, this girl doesn’t give a shit about the starving people in Africa, she just gets a boner at the thought that she’s a good person. My boner was evident as soon as I pieced together that this ’seasoned humanitarian’ was a fucking walking contradiction. Every article of clothing she was wearing (I can’t speak for the undergarments) was sweatshop made, so I guess it’s not ok to see kids starving in Africa, but it is ok to have little Pablo and Tina work 19 hour days so you can save two dollars on your fucking ugly boots. Also, I can smell the Chanel perfume on you, which is made from the very tears of those children you held.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this, if you want to feel good about yourself, if you want to change the world, be nice to people. If you want to visit Africa, visit Africa, but don’t act like you are the saviour of humanity for doing it. Just be humble and treat everyone on a human level.

AND FOR FUCK SAKES!!! UGG BOATS ARE ABOUT AS SEXY AS THAT WHITE SHIT THAT ACCUMULATES ON THE CORNER OF YOUR MOUTH WHILE YOU SLEEP!!!

Sarah Palin is Ridiculous

Just hearing that folksy bitty talk makes me want to rip off what is left of my shriveled, unused penis. “My friends” we’ve heard it all: she’s dumb, she’s naive, she’s about two light years hotter than Hilary Clinton, etc etc. The fact of the matter is this: I would trust the semi-retarded man with no arm and a severe case of Tourettes I see everyday on my walk home from school with the United States MORE than this woman. She’s fucking dumb, and not like that stoner kid in your English class dumb, her IQ is probably in double digits. And that’s legit, if your IQ is low, whatever, I envy you, but when you’re a heart beat away from the Presidency and capable of making massive decisions… your IQ should at least be above the norm.

She’s a maverick though, like Dirk Nowitzki… she barely speaks English, is loved by a bunch of southerners, and probably couldn’t find Washington D.C. on a map.

Basically what I’m saying is this, these are five reasons why I would make a better VP candidate than Sarah Palin:

1. I am not psycho with regards to the abortion debate. I have my opinion on the matter (pro-choice) and really don’t care if you have a problem with it, because I couldn’t care less if you were a pro-lifer. That being said, Sarah Palin doesn’t want a 12 year old to get an abortion if she was raped by her grandfather. What.The.Fuck.

2. I have a tighter ass.

3. Her knowledge of geography and world events is sickening. She can’t name one newspaper she reads, and thinks Vladdy Putin flies from like Vladivostok to Anchorage when he visits America.

4. She has one daughter who is pregnant at seventeen. I have none.

5. Honestly, like I said above… she’s dumb. I would be embarrassed as an American to have her represent the most powerful country in the world at the UN… if she could find out how to get there.

Harper Wins! Harper Wins!

“We Did It Girls”

Allow me to pull my fingers out of my asshole as I was massaging my prostate to this delicious jpg, Stephen “Sexyslut” Harper is king again!

With his devious eyes, trim figure, and cool-dude attitude, this clown has once again been successful in duping the general population into venturing inside his playhouse of doom.

Tax-cuts, bailouts, the eradication of funding for the arts, I get wet just thinking about what he must think of my libertarian stance on drugs, alcohol, and sexually meaningless encounters.

What boggles my substance riddled mind is that like 40% of the population thinks this fashion delinquent is the best man to lead one of the few remaining stable countries into a world shattered by a crippled global economy. In truth, the dude sucks, he sucks hard, from his plastic fantastic suits, to the fact he rips on gays and then prances over to the local bath house for fun time with the boys… everything about him just reeks of hypocrisy and douchebaggary. My vision for Canada is so axiomatically opposed to his, it is almost sickening, I want a country where people can ingest whatever they want and fuck whatever they want in a consequence free environment. Harper will only drink wine on his birthday and will either fall asleep during sex or cum before his wife realizes he’s even inside of her. My Canada involves high taxes that support the lower class and helps build on our deteriorating health care system, Harper skims 5% of all health care costs to fund his Viagra addiction.

That being said, I want his dick, I want to rub his hairy balls with my nubile fingers as he moans with pleasure, I then want to break said balls into a million pieces… similar to the way he broke mine when CBC announced “Harper minority projected.”

Fuck my life.

I’m A Self-Deprecating Shit

As the title reads, I’m probably the king at self-deprecation. No joke, I often take out the frustration I have towards everything on myself. Instead of beating the shit out of the asshat kid who ripped on me in class in grade seven, I would cut myself along the hip-bone (whaaaa?), ya it was too early to get wasted, endorphins are ill.

I grew up a bit since then, that’s not to say that if you’re a cutter that you’re immature in anyway, your choice to treat your body how you wish is your business. Instead, I rip on myself through the only socially acceptable way I know how, the internetz. Like a jolly fat man poking fun at the fact he likes food, like Bill Hicks attacking addiction while smoking a cigarette, or like William James mocking his inability to believe in the very religion he studies, I hate hate haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate myself.

Alright, so I’m done with the depressing shit and I’m ready to validate my existence through the chuckles I hopefully get from you. The following is ridiculous shit I’ve done and have never told anyone, God help me:

1/ In grade one I would sneak into the girls washrooms, lock myself in a stall, and shit all over the floor… just to get my rocks off.

2/ I used to mail porn to random addresses, this one confuses me, I really never got to see the look on the people’s faces when they took a gander at the Penthouse spread… I suppose just the thought of such sexual deviance being so easy got my rocks off.

3/ I stare at myself in the mirror every morning for like ten minutes, this is the only time in the day I have a visible six pack. The monster energy drinks, burritos, and cupcakes cover it up as the day goes along.

4/ I pretend to like Sex in the City to get pussy… straight up. Note: this is actually harder than it appears, one must actually watch every single episode and get all emotional when defending why Charlotte is clearly the best.

5/ I once spent four days researching the most remote habitable island in the world, I then researched how to rob a bank, and then how to pay for airline tickets with cash. My internet cut out, THANK FUCK!

6/ I pray. I don’t believe in God.

7/ I once wrote a seven page letter to Natalie Portman outlining the reasons why I’d be a better boyfriend than Devendra Banhart. She never responded, I was devastated.

8/ I once mailed my own shit to Westboro Baptist Church. If it got there, I really, really hope Fred Phelps thought it was chocolate and at least had a taste.

9/ I cannot, nor will ever be able to fall IN love again. Fuck you Saosin, fuck you.

10/ I really don’t have any idea where I’m going or what I’m doing with my life. It would bother the average person, but I simply don’t care. Such apathy is a prized pig for the layman, but when you are not a fan of yourself, it can lead to many lonely nights that involve xtube and a bottle of Gin.

Canadian Thanksgiving

What a sham. Canadians celebrate thanksgiving a month before Americans, as a result I’m blessed with the wondrous delight of spending one extra day curled up in my bed, useless as a kitten on codeine. My parents, God bless their lenient hearts, thought it would be wise to move to British Columbia leaving me trapped in this ice box of hell called Montreal over the ‘holidays’. So kids and unfortunately mom and dad, this is what I’m up to over the dates of October 10th to 13th:

Friday October 10th:

I’ll write a Greek test, which are actually the lamest pieces of ass hair I’ve ever encountered. No joke, my prof equipped with trickery and deceit resembling the early years of the Third Reich, has made it her duty to ruin my life in fifteen minute intervals every week. I’ll walk out of that desolate shithole of a classroom and go back to bed, maybe masturbate to my growing collection of dungeon porn, maybe not. I’ll sleep until five, play some online video games, become frustrated and go back to bed.

The evening will float away like a sudafed induced coma, I’ll dip in and out of consciousness, laughing at the fact I almost drowned in my own drool. I’ll get up to take a piss, missing the toilet seat, noting my error as something I’m really not prepared to clean up, I’ll crawl back into bed and cry myself to sleep.

Saturday October 11th:

A new day! With endless opportunities, perhaps a chance to unpack my shit from when I moved into my apartment two months ago? I think not. I’ll saunter over to the local liquor depository and pick up a 26er of something cheap, get home, and play the game “can I drink myself blind?”. I’ll likely fail at said game, but the rewards will be endless, namely a subtle reminder of what I ate two days previous. I’ll giggle at this newfound mess and take a nap on my dirty, dirty floor.

Sunday October 12th:

A knock at my door! Who could it be? I’m alone in the building all weekend…

It’s the police, they heard loud screams and the declaration “I’m the lizard king!” roaring from my room the entire night. I’ll deny said accusations and generously ask them in for tea, upon realizing that my room is the equivalent of a crack den, minus the crack and decent furniture they’ll cordially refuse the invitation.

A little liquor is left in the bottle, I consume it and whimper. It’s God’s day though, so I curse him for making me short and goofy with a dangerously bad hairline. He pays me back with a delightfully violent case of vodka shit, which is basically runny poo that burns more than Ashton Kutcher jokes on That 70s Show.

Monday October 13th:

I rummage through the trash behind the local Church for scraps of turkey, I eat it with a shit eating grin on my face. I go back to bed on a full stomach ready to hit the academic world full-force on Tuesday.

OH! BTW I’ve masturbated like the entire time, my penis is left flacid and useless (not like it’s been used since the Clinton administration anyway).

Fuck Thanksgiving