So I heard a story of a truck driver getting fined for smoking in his own cab because he was “smoking in an enclosed work environment”. It’s illegal, in Canada, to smoke in such places, and this is most definitely one of those very vague areas of the law that I can easily see both sides on. I’ll throw in my two cents on the issue. This can be taken two ways, and I think the entire situation is a shit-storm in the making. I can’t stand being in a smoker’s car. I can’t stand walking through a designated smoking area. I just don’t like the smoke, and I don’t think that if I’m in a typical area that I should have to breathe in their mess. I also don’t think they should be kept from smoking. I don’t think they should be banned from smoking in their own residences…
Oct 14 2009
The tolling bells of tinnitus drive me insane all the time
For those not familiar with tinnitus, it’s the term for ringing of the ears. If you’ve listened to loud music and hear a long, constant tone afterwards, then that’s tinnitus. It’s a bit of a blanket term used for any constant sound heard by the sufferer, and I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad. I’ve had it my entire life, and it drives me to the brink of insanity for regular weekend get-aways that I wish I could stop having. The bitch is ugly, rude, uncaring, and I’d love to end the relationship. Trying to explain silence to me is like explaining color to the blind, or an opera to the deaf, or even as simple as determining the hair color of a cancer patient who’s gone through chemotherapy and lost all their hair. Shooting birds in the dark in a country where there are few birds might be easier….
Oct 14 2009
Smelly sprays to mask smells
You know those sprays people buy to mask the orders left when they take a shit? They’re worse than the shit, and I mean way worse. I was, for the most part, indifferent about the usage of such sprays until I worked with someone who would flood the restroom with the foul stench every time they took a shit. They’d walk by me afterwards, and the cloud of toxic fumes would engulf me and chock my lungs until I’m crawling on the ground pleading for a gas mask from the BDSM coworker on the other side of the room. I’d always feel like I’d prefer the gas chamber to such foul stenches, then I thought about it a little. There’s nothing different twixt a gas chamber and the suffering I was being put through. Perhaps the difference was I was suffering instead of dying. Why can’t the fucking manufacturing companies…
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