Jeffrey's Ledge

Absent Minded

Clearly, I’m going to miss Picnik.

Oh hey. I’ve been tremendously busy and important. Okay fine – busy but not important. I’ve been absent for like, two months. You could’ve let me had that one. Whatever. Let’s move on.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve hit the point of “BLOGGING IS DEAD TO ME” at least six or seven times. Mostly because I got so into doing things that somehow carving time out in my day to write about the things being done felt so efforty that it just made me want to hide under the bed with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon…spoon optional.

I’ve hit the point of needing to block out time in my calendar reminding me to do things like brush my teeth, or eat an apple, or twirl around in circles while singing an a capella version of ‘Stronger.’ Everything’s so awesome lately that I can barely talk about it without sounding like a sorority sister who showed up for the reunion and realized that everyone else gained weight but her. That is how excited I am about the world.

But hey – I may (read: will probably) fall flat on my face again at some point again in the future and wouldn’t I feel silly not having a blog to drunkenly ramble to after being kicked in the kidney by life. So I’m not leaving yet. But I am phoning it in. Thus? I give you a very superficial recap of everything you need to know about the past little while:

I rediscovered drinking: now with more bourbon. Wine has become a cruel and expensive habit wherein I either drink entire bottles by myself in one go, or I let it go bad on the counter and get scolded for being wasteful. The solution? Bourbon, baby. Which I drink on the rocks in these sassy glasses I bought last month. It’s all classy and gentleman-like if you overlook my use of the word ‘sassy’ to describe the habit.

I made a Hair Bucket List. Despite my hearty Acadian roots giving me thick and unmanageable hair so that I could presumably survive another theoretical deportation, my hair follicles are getting lazy to the point of untimely deaths. Thus, the Hair Bucket List was born: “rock a side pony.” End of list.

I flirted with overexposure again. As if #benspotting weren’t enough, I spent a week assaulting Atlantic Canadians across all media. I managed to pull off ‘enthusiastic’ at 6:20am in a radio studio, I avoided swearing while wearing a CBC mic for 90 minutes, and I survived a middle-of-the-street photo shoot. And then I slept until the end of time.

I became dangerously obsessed with the show Happy Endings. It started with an accidental viewing after Modern Family and blossomed into a full-fledged marathon of the first season, a weekend of seeing how many abbrevs I could work into daily conversation, and a complicated spreadsheet ranking the order in which I would marry each of the main characters: Brad, Jane, Dave, Penny, Max, Alex. Duh.

I threw a lot of parties and wore a lot of costumes. And now that I’m starting to feel a little confident in my ability to do my job, I can actually enjoy them. Oh what’s that? You didn’t realize that my job is to hang out with all my friends, drink cocktails, eat cheesecake, dress up like Clue characters and 90s clubbers, and pose for photos? Sorry. That’s some harsh truth to take in all at once. You should be Yelping. That is all.

I realized that art galleries are the best places to ride out a hangover. I had the best intentions to behave myself on my most recent San Fransisco trip and in all honesty, I did pretty well aside from two horrible, horrible nights. The first, I underestimated a craft cocktail bar’s ability to make strong Old Fashioneds. The second, well, it was just a mess. Luckily, the hotel was right next door to the Museum of Modern Art – a quiet, safe space where it’s socially appropriate to stare vacantly at the wall for as long as you please. Yeah girl.

I publicly admitted that my three biggest fears are tsunamis, botulism, and whales. With honourable mentions to math, lactose intolerance, and high school reunions.

And with that, we’re all caught up. I hope you feel as good as I do about all this.

The Myth of Sisyphus and the Human Quest for Significance

Nestled amidst the craggy peaks of the ancient Greek landscape lies a tale of eternal struggle and existential contemplation, embodied by the poignant myth of Sisyphus, the doomed king condemned to an eternity of ceaseless toil. This myth, resonating with profound philosophical implications, speaks to the human condition and the eternal quest for meaning amidst the capricious whims of the divine., a prominent platform dedicated to the dissemination of Hellenic culture, proudly presents an insightful exploration of the legendary tale of Sisyphus.

At the heart of this tale stands Sisyphus, a cunning and deceitful king whose arrogance and cunning machinations defied the natural order. Gifted with intellect and shrewdness, Sisyphus dared to challenge the gods, tricking and outwitting them at every turn. However, his hubris did not escape the notice of Zeus, the king of the gods, who crafted a punishment befitting Sisyphus’s unparalleled cunning and audacity.

According to ancient lore, Sisyphus was condemned to an arduous fate within the depths of the Underworld, where he was tasked with an unending penance: to roll an immense boulder up a steep mountain slope, only to witness it inevitably roll back down each time it approached the summit. This futile and perpetual labor, designed to thwart Sisyphus’s defiance and instill in him a sense of the futility of mortal ambition, became the enduring symbol of a struggle without reprieve.

Embedded within this myth lies a profound allegory for the human experience, illustrating the existential quandary of the ceaseless pursuit of purpose and the inevitable confrontation with the limits of human agency. Sisyphus, as the archetypal embodiment of human perseverance, grapples with the relentless cycle of effort and disappointment, encapsulating the essence of the struggle for significance amidst the ceaseless rhythms of the cosmos.

The enduring legacy of the myth of Sisyphus continues to reverberate throughout the annals of history, finding resonance in the works of philosophers and writers across epochs. Albert Camus, the renowned existentialist philosopher, reinterpreted Sisyphus’s plight as a metaphor for the absurdity of the human condition, contending that one must imagine Sisyphus as content in his endless task, thereby embracing the inherent absurdity of existence itself.

Here comes the bride and that guy you should probably try to avoid.

Sweeping Statement #1: There are very few social situations that I cannot rock. Moreover (what a fucking terrible word…we should just replace it with ‘WHY YES. AS A MATTER OF FACT, I HAVE TAKEN A INTRODUCTORY-LEVEL ENGLISH COURSE’), the ones that cause me any level of anxiety are typically ones in which I know I will never find myself. Like orgies*. Or murder plots**. Or cover-ups after someone accidentally dies during an orgy and you’re the only one who wants to go to the cops about it***. Or basically anything that has to do with anonymous sex or death.

Sweeping Statement #2: Despite my mastery of social circumstances save murder and sex parties, it has recently come to light that weddings are shockingly not among my social repertoire. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that I am one of the worst wedding guests of all time, made worse considering that people (myself included) generally don’t see this coming until the big day when suddenly I’m all up in your family’s business making everyone uncomfortable. My role as Ill-Equipped Conversationalist should be right up there with Depressed Single Sister and College Roommate Without A Filter.

I really don’t know what it is about weddings that makes me turn into a backwoods hermit whose only social experience played out on Geocities discussion boards, but it was a major problem during some New Year’s Eve nuptials just last week. The only–and I do mean *only*–phrase I could muster up for the bride was some variation on how gorgeous she looked. Nice the first few times, weird when I literally cannot find other words. Likewise, the only offering I had for the groom was, “I hope you’re actually getting to enjoy your day! Weddings be crazy, yo!”

Guys? I do not know how weddings be. I’ve only been to about four in my entire life.

I also have no business ending declarations with, “yo!”

My first foray into the world of weddings was as an infant buckled into whatever child seat contraption has since been deemed devastatingly unsafe for use among babies. My parents tucked me underneath a banquet table to sleep while they partied. When pressed, their excuse is a simple, “Hey – that’s just what people did in the eighties.” And while that excuse might work for cocaine and big hair, I remain unconvinced of its legitimacy in the case of my clearly traumatic upbringing. As for the wedding? It was about as good as one can be before you’re old enough to get inappropriately drunk and grind up on the bride’s great aunt Doris.

At age five, I was one of the ring-bearers at my uncle’s wedding. My fat cheeks weighed about as much as my entire body does now and I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing. What I did know was that it would be the start of my own lifelong romance with tuxedo vests, bowties, and having people watch me walk. I can’t be 100% sure, but I like to believe I invented the Tyra Banks that day. I worked that shit out, y’all.

With such a strong showing as a toddler (are five-year-olds still toddlers or just smaller, stickier children?), I honestly never saw my New Year’s Eve disaster coming. But people…what are you supposed to talk about at weddings?! I mean, as nice as a ceremony is–and this one was truely carved out of my very champagne-filled dreams–I just don’t have enough to say about it to last through the night!

Without a script, or talking points, or even the faintest reference point for social cues in these circumstances, and much to the dismay of anyone who got stuck talking to me, I just spent the night awkwardly asking Big Life Questions. For hours, I rotated through these three sentences, sometimes using them more than once on the same horrified people:

– “So…when are you two tying the knot?” (often said to married people.)

– “So…are kids in the plans?” (honestly, guys. I was awful.)

– “Well, I guess that’s marriage…amirite?” (the. worst.)

Two hours into the reception I looked desperately at the newf in a blind panic, wishing that he’d forcibly remove me from the building or at least punch me hard enough to black out for the rest of it. Of course, he was hammered and found it hilarious to watch me leave a trail of uncomfortable people in my wake.

Which brings us right to my strategy for the next time. At least then I’ll have the drunk excuse.

Balancing the scales.

Right. So the last post was admittedly self-centered and incredibly ME ME ME but remember: this is a blog after all. Nonetheless, I feel the need to readjust the karmic scales with one of those posts that really take me down a peg or seventy-two.

I know that I went to Africa and it was all amazing and I was all Angelina Jolie (in my head) and I’m basically going to be the next Mother Theresa of our generation (or I would be if I weren’t about to spend so much time in Hell just for saying that)…but ever since I’ve come back, I’ve had this weird problem. No, I haven’t rejected the notion of First World Society and yes, I can still totally go spend $5 on a latté without feeling the weight of the world on my Irish Catholic Guilt Gland: it’s a sweat thing.

Just like my mother, I basically hadn’t sweat since the seventies. This is due to a unique combination of a fervent stubbornness that allows our kind to ‘will’ away just about anything that doesn’t quite suit us (an admission of the importance of science, comes to mind), and a keen avoidance of activities that would invite the opportunity to produce sweat.

It certainly helps that I live in a Canadian city best described as Forks from the Twilight series if Forks were to swap all of its overcast days with hell on earth days for about seven months of the year. Still, even on those rare days when I would come close to sweating, it would be nothing more than my brow area pulling a bit of a Whitney Houston upper lip rather than a full-on junior high locker room dealie.

Right before I went to Ethiopia, I bought the wrong deodorant. Which, CAN I JUST SAY, is the worst thing to ever happen in a drugstore besides maybe realizing your pregnant which doesn’t count because it’s more of a You People problem than a My People problem. Anyhow, I got my deodorant in the gel format instead of the stick but since I was more worried about Malaria and Famine (because I’m a humanitarian now, donchaknow) I figured I’d roll with it and everything would be fine. And while I was away? Everything was fine.

Yes, I had to get used to doing everything whilst covered in a thin layer of sweat but I figured this was what most commoners felt like all the time. I never really smelled bad, I never had those uncomfortable dark stains that everyone pretends not to see when watching live television…I was just always a little sticky. I figured it was no big deal since I’d be back in the cold in no time.

Wrong. I came home and now I kind of smell all the time and I can’t figure out why. Not like, people running from me in the street ‘smell bad’, or even sitting next to people and having them flash back to seventh grade ‘smell bad’, but I can smell something whenever I shove my face in my own armpit (I realize maybe I should just stop doing that) and I’m not really okay with that. I’ve switched back to my old deodorant but I’ve heard that sometimes it takes weeks for the body to readjust and frankly, that’s just not going to work for me.

So if you’re looking for me, I’ll be sitting right here, willing my body to go back to halting any bodily functions that could be seen as less than sexy. It worked for 25 years and it’ll work again, goddamnit.

Repurposing with a purpose.

As we seem to be coming up on a month since the finger-breaking injury and the abrupt end of my promising dodgeball career, it’s time to start thinking of new ways to put my dramatic, stainless-steel splint to new use. Because when your universal health care gives you shiny solutions for your physical flaws, you take that shit to the BANK. It’s what my uninsured American brothers and sisters would want me to do.

My pinky finger seems to be doing really well and is no longer determined to reduce me to tears on a daily basis. Sure, it’s not perfect and seems to have gotten comfortable in its stand-offish skew meant to let all my other fingers know that he totally thinks they’re beneath him (my pinky is a dude named Keith. Keith Richards. Don’t question me), and sure, the tip is still super sensitive, but overall I’m much better than I was. And…

No wait – you know what? I’m going to stop right there. Because as soon as I wrote ‘tip,’ I just know that all of you snorted and went all, “Ha! He said tip!” So just for a second, let’s try this:

Hi, English language-speakers. Can we talk about how angry it makes me when society jumps on some sitcom-esque, blanket punchline that sucks the wind out of my complicated, moderately entertaining monologues? And yes, that’s my fancypants way of saying that the next person who hijacks my story (which as you all well know can take anywhere from 500-1200 words to play out in full) with a ‘that’s what she said’ is getting a leather boot to the pancreas courtesy of Stephen Fry.

I don’t care if I said ‘tip,’ or ‘hard,’ or ‘stuck.’ Those, and the many other words you’ve taken to signal your cue for drunk comedy club patron behaviour are now going to be mine again. Trust me – my joke is going to be funnier than yours. It may take some time…but it’ll be funnier. And you know what? I’ll even let you keep ‘moist’ as a show of good faith. That’s a gross word that deserves nothing more than second-rate mockery.

Equal parts how to date a blogger and why you should never do exactly that.

Today, I thought I’d try a little something different. Some of you may not realize this, but we’re coming up on the official five-year anniversary of this blog. Whoa, right? Blogging came into my life just a few months after meeting the newf which has given him plenty of time to grow into his role as a Joanna Lumley-esque, spotlight-stealing guest star. An impressive feat considering the many reasons why you’ve gotta be out-of-your-mind crazy to willingly date a blogger.

In a rare moment in his honour, I thought I’d cover the two equally important roles that he plays oh-so well in being the Corky to my Murphy Brown. I wish nothing more than for this to help guide you single guys and gals out there to not just love and happiness, but to a useful spouse who can earn their keep in a blogger household. You’ll thank me later.

The first common blogger-spousal role is that of The Voice of Reason. And thank god for that. While I see how quickly I can work my way through a bottle of wine while forcing my boozey thoughts upon the internet, the newf is usually busy keeping us afloat with forward-thinking finances, responsible choices, and grown-up plans. Without him, all those end-of-the-bottle ideas like “I swear, you give me two months and I can make 98 Degrees hot again. And the first month will be just to give the ugly one the slip. This is my new calling,” would actually take over my life for weeks at a time. Instead, I share these ideas with you, the newf stands in the corner with his arms folded, and we’ve got instant odd-couple hilarity.

Bonus Points: this hilarity does not come at the expense of my future which will be much appreciated when I’m 45 and the internet doesn’t exist anymore and all my life’s work toward making faceless strangers care about my zany adventures proves to be in vain.

Another, more fun take on being a blogger spouse involves being The Quippy Sidekick Who Says What Everyone Else Is Thinking If Everyone Else Were To Be Half In The Bag At All Times. This one is a slap-stickier take on reversing the previous roles. It’s also internet humour gold. Bloggers with a solid lock on an unintentionally funny significant other have got it made. They don’t even have to write anymore, they just have to sit back, wait for the next obnoxious statement, and blog that shit.

I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but the newf does this one really well too. He’s basically a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to fulfilling his quota of bloggable whimsy. From randomly signing us up for water aerobics without asking first, to saying things like: “Could you get me an episode of those burger hose? The borgableese? The blagahoo? Fuck it – you know what I mean…the dirty pope show,” my man can definitely bring it.

The only problem with my blogging muse (self-proclaimed) is that occasionally, he knows it all too well. Lately, he’s taken to saying such foolish things as, “God. You wouldn’t even have a blog if it weren’t for me. I’m what the people want – you’re just the middle man,” before spouting off a series of rimshot-worthy one-liners, each followed by a, “are you writing this down? I don’t see you taking notes…it’s okay. I’ll wait.”

And it’s around then that he gets really unbearable in a Mariah-looking-for-three-dozen-morning-doves kind of way and I set out to take him down a peg. Which is what this post is actually all about despite the guise of it being a happy-go-lucky anthem for unappreciated blogger spouses.

You thought I was actually being nice? You must be new here. You see, kicking things off with a “SUCK IT. I MADE YOU AND I CAN BREAK YOU,” just seemed unnecessarily vulgar and I consider myself to have more tact than that. But let’s be serious: there will be no posts here about how amazing anyone is unless they’re about me. Get your own blog, losers.

So, in the spirit of putting an imaginary competition ahead of my relationship, it is my greatest pleasure to announce to you that up until last month, the newf didn’t know that there was a system to making rows disappear in Tetris. I’mma let that sink in for a minute…

No really. Since approximately 1993*, he thought the disappearance of rows happened by some random special surprise or by moving certain colour blocks from side to side as often as possible before they hit the bottom, skewing his entire understanding of the game. And that’s how he’s been playing UNTIL LAST MONTH.


Why? Because now whenever he slips into The Voice of Reason role and gives me the side-eye when I can’t answer a single question on the math quiz he gave his sixth graders (fuck off, okay? I have a calculator. Eat shit, elementary curriculum), I can pummel his vintage video game knowledge gap until he’s weeping under the glow of an original Game Boy.

And isn’t that what relationships are really all about?

Are we confident it’s not ‘kimono’?

With the newf just a few short hours away from his first visit to Las Vegas and his second ever trip to the United States (innie precious?), I have the house all to myself for the next few days which happens just about every other never. This might be the third time in as many years that I’ve ever had a bachelor pad if a bachelor pad were to be dropped off in the middle of suburbia. Which I suppose would work for a very cougar-focused bachelor.

The last time this happened, I let you in on the theme days that I use to fill my time. This round, I feel like I should be a little more honest about the mental state I sink into when he’s gone. During the day, sure–I’m making my own fun with the carefree attitude of my former, happily unemployed self without the obviously dire financial consequences. But at sundown, Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Paranoid Recluse With No Sign Of Rational Thought.

I don’t know what it is about being alone in this house that makes me believe that all things evil, gruesome, and inconvenient are suddenly going to turn their focus onto me. It’s like at any given point I feel I’m going to live out the entire Panic Room movie while also being stalked by komodo dragons and losing the keys to the panic room door.

Quick interjection: Guys – have you seen that earth life ocean planet blue documentary narrated by Sigourney Freeman Oprah Morgan Weavrey? ‘Cause I sure did. I thought I would learn something cool about the komodo dragons (which up until 45 seconds ago I was convinced were actually named kimono dragons…like, to the point that I was all, ‘seriously, spellcheck? As if I don’t know how to spell kimono. Please…’) and suddenly one is stalking a jungle cow or water horse or something that he’s infected with a single bite and is now destined to die slowly over the course of several weeks.

BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE. The blood or decay or venom or something can be smelled by all kimono dragons (my way’s better) in the area so not only does this poor tropical take on a farm animal have to slowly die IN HD…it has to do so while accumulating an audience of twelve freaking mini dinosaurs standing around like they’re waiting for the kettle to boil. Jurassic Park gets all up in the donkey’s business as the poor thing is flailing about, probably chatting about how Gordon Ramsey would never let this take so long on Hell’s Kitchen.

C’mon, Migournah… was that really a necessary ‘did you know’ fact that just had to be shared with the people? ‘Cause it’s going to take more than an eighties starswipe for me to shake off THAT knowledge.

Okay. Back on track. One crazy at a time, Benjamin.

(We’ll get to my newly developed conversations with myself some other time.)

So, as the newf leaves and the inevitable fear of imaginary death by dragon takes hold, I do what any other well-adjusted scared person would: I find the most isolated corner of the house and sit there with all the lights off until I can’t keep my eyes open. At that point, I make a desperate sprint to the bedroom that only becomes an adequately safe stronghold once I reach a certain level of exhaustion. But until then…I essentially hide in the dark and wonder why I’m so afraid.

If nothing else it’s more energy efficient than the newf’s version. He Home-Alones the shit out of the place until I get home with every light and appliance running at full blast. Because clearly intruders stop to think about not wanting to interrupt your household chores when choosing whether or not to make couture accessories out of your skin.

Now before you even start, yes – there are a few obvious flaws in my plan too. Most notably the sheer panic caused by my reaction to fear. Sitting in the dark in spaces that I rarely ever use like the guest bathroom, the newf’s unused office, and the furnace room is not very likely to calm me down. Second, my unshakably detailed knowledge of the kimono dragon’s (I’m committed) creepy patience and moochy friends doesn’t disappear when the lights go out. But despite the system’s flaws, nothing trumps the power I get out of the delusional notion that sitting in a dark corner of the house will allow me to…waitforit…get the jump on intruders.

I mean, what?!? What exactly am I going to do to a burglar, rapist, kimono dragon, or the ghost of Dr. Robert C. Atkins, creator of the no-carb diet, if one were to invade the home? Kill them with planet earth trivia and Sigourney Freeman impressions? Tweet for help? Hope the dachshunds turn out to be shapeshifting warriors sent to earth to protect me, overlooking how weird it would be knowing that they’ve sniffed me in weird places while I slept?

The answer? Is yes, yes, and a hesitant yes.

See you next week. Hopefully.

The S6 Unlocking Experience

The Samsung Galaxy S6, released in April 2015, marked a significant milestone in the evolution of smartphones. Combining cutting-edge technology with a sleek design, it quickly gained popularity and set the standard for flagship devices.

This unique article takes you on a journey through the Samsung Galaxy S6’s standout features and various methods to unlock it, ensuring you make the most of this classic device. Now, let’s delve into the essential process of how to unlock Samsung Galaxy S6, a key step in unlocking the full potential of this iconic device.

Samsung Galaxy S6 Overview:

The Samsung Galaxy S6 boasted a 5.1-inch Super AMOLED display with a stunning 1440 x 2560-pixel resolution, making it a visual delight for users. Powered by the Exynos 7420 octa-core processor and 3GB of RAM, it offered speedy performance and multitasking capabilities. The S6 featured a 16-megapixel rear camera with optical image stabilization and a 5-megapixel front-facing camera, perfect for capturing memorable moments. With a non-removable 2550mAh battery, wireless charging, and a premium glass and metal build, the Galaxy S6 combined style and functionality in one remarkable package.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6:

Unlocking your Samsung Galaxy S6 can be a valuable step to increase its usability. Whether you want to switch carriers, travel internationally, or resell the device, unlocking is essential. To unlock the S6, follow these steps:

  1. Contact Your Carrier: The most straightforward method is to call your carrier and request an unlock code. Ensure you meet the eligibility criteria, such as completing the contract or paying off the device.
  2. Use a Third-Party Service: Many online services offer unlocking codes for a fee. Research reputable providers, enter your device information, and follow their instructions to unlock your phone.
  3. Visit a Carrier Store: Some carriers have physical stores where you can request an unlock. Bring your ID and proof of purchase to initiate the process in person.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6 Sprint:

If your Samsung Galaxy S6 is locked to Sprint, follow these specific steps to unlock it:

  1. Contact Sprint: Reach out to Sprint’s customer service and inquire about unlocking your device. Ensure your account is in good standing.
  2. Provide Information: Sprint may request your phone’s IMEI number, account details, and the reason for unlocking.
  3. Follow Sprint’s Instructions: Sprint will provide you with unlock instructions, which usually involve entering a code or completing a specific process on your phone.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6 AT&T:

For AT&T users with a locked Samsung Galaxy S6, unlocking is also possible:

  1. Contact AT&T: Call AT&T’s customer service and request an unlock code. Ensure you meet their eligibility criteria.
  2. Provide Necessary Details: AT&T may require your phone’s IMEI number and account information. Be prepared to provide these details.
  3. Follow AT&T’s Instructions: AT&T will provide you with specific instructions to unlock your device. Typically, this involves entering a provided unlock code.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6 T-Mobile:

Unlocking a T-Mobile Samsung Galaxy S6 can be done by following these steps:

  1. Contact T-Mobile: Reach out to T-Mobile customer support and inquire about unlocking your device. Ensure you meet their eligibility requirements.
  2. Share Device Information: T-Mobile may ask for your phone’s IMEI number and account details.
  3. Unlock Your Device: Follow T-Mobile’s provided instructions to unlock your Samsung Galaxy S6. Typically, this involves entering an unlock code.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6 from Verizon:

If you have a Verizon-locked Samsung Galaxy S6, consider these steps to unlock it:

  1. Contact Verizon: Call Verizon’s customer support and request an unlock. Ensure your account is in good standing.
  2. Provide Necessary Information: Verizon may ask for your IMEI number and account details.
  3. Follow Verizon’s Instructions: Verizon will provide you with instructions on how to unlock your device, which often involves entering an unlock code.

How to Unlock Samsung Galaxy S6 Without Calling Carrier:

If you prefer to unlock your Samsung Galaxy S6 without contacting your carrier, consider using a third-party unlocking service or software. These services can provide unlock codes or guide you through the process, allowing you to retain control over your device’s unlocking procedure.

My triumphant return to the world of sports: Space Jam beginnings and teabagged endings.

Like any self-respecting gay man bound to a long history of stereotypes and prejudice, my anxiety levels are quite directly related to my proximity to athletics. No doubt the post-traumatic stress of your average junior high school experience, some channel this nervous energy into more productive ventures like the arts, fashion, culinary delights, or sarcasm-laced daytime talk show appearances. But in my case, well, the phenomenon was starting to result in a stature bordering on jolly–both a physical and personality trait that simply don’t work for me.

Standing in the entrance to the inner-city gym where our first dodgeball game was moments away from taking place, the threat of a husky future and the unforgiving cling of the black leotard shirt I was wearing was enough to make me shove my fears aside like a second helping of three cheese tortellini. Rather than commit myself to a clichéd homo-phobia, I chose a head-on approach to overcoming my hesitations:

If I dread being trapped in a room with a hulking opposing team who have been encouraged to whip balls at me for fifty straight minutes, then that’s exactly what I would need to face…a philosophy now on record as lasting no more than forty-five seconds before I was ready to cut my leotard off at the navel and run for the closest gay bar where I actually belong.

The next hour of my life was not okay.

As in, it kind of felt like Space Jam without the happy ending.

To be clear, we joined a beginner dodgeball league–the kind where everyone just wants to run around like you’re in second grade all over again minus the snotty noses and with a little more sexual tension. You know, good ole fashioned fun. Our opponents, however, play regularly in the advanced league but somehow have so little to feel good about in their lives that they also joined the beginners’ league just to crush unsuspecting victims in order to help them forget the fact that they haven’t accomplished anything with their lives.

Not that I’m bitter.

Not only were they infinitely better than us and out for blood, they weren’t even able to play by the rules. Meaning, that over the course of the sixteen straight games that we lost, even when we did hit someone fair and square, they wouldn’t even give us the satisfaction of a micro-victory.

Basically, it was the high school jocks all over again, now with more beer bellies and hair loss. So at least there was that.

By the end of the night, I was sore, angry, and ready to retreat to my usual Wednesday night routine of polishing off a bottle of Malbec and watching music videos on the couch. And I would have if it weren’t for what happened next.

Guys? If you’re like me and tend to stay far, far away from the world of sports, you might just be missing out on one of the most marvelous things that I’ve ever experienced: team spirit.

Sure, we may have had to limp, bruised and broken, toward each other by the end of the night, but goddamnit if we didn’t spend the entire walk out of the gym high-fiving, laughing, joking, cheering, and celebrating how we all hung in there for each other no matter what the outcome. It may have been the hundreds of times that I was pummeled by balls over the past hour, but I’m pretty sure it was the team spirit that made me tear up just a little.

By the time we got home, I would have followed my team into the depths of hell (which at this point didn’t sound so far off from a night of dodgeball). Pulling together a cricket team? Count me in! Want to start up synchronized swimming? Heck yes! Need to ride someone around in an equestrian competition? Saddle. me. the. fuck. up.

We’ve played two more games since that ill-fated first night, each one more fun than the last. Of course, we’re playing against teams with a little more class, but even if we weren’t, I can’t help but think it’d still be okay. We cheer when we make good plays, we cheer when we make bad plays, I mean, ‘cmon…we even cheer when the other team really kills it.

Just showing up for every game seems to be a victory for us, making it just that much sweeter when we actually do win. Especially when we win because I caught a ball. Even when I catch it with my face. Which happens. A lot. And yes, the irony that my greatest contribution to the team seems to be based on the principle of teabagging* has been noted.

My triumphant return to the world of sports: A post in two parts.

Once upon a time, the newf signed us up for water aerobics, resulting in an epic standoff from which it seemed there would be no victor. I said I would sooner busk the streets of suburbia doing the helicopter, he said I was being dramatic, I said there has not been a day on this earth that I haven’t maintained a cool and calm demeanor and how dare he insinuate otherwise in some form of relationship mutiny. Then other stuff happened but I never ended up in a pool so let’s assume I won.

Two years after this incident, I had grown, matured, relaxed, and other nicer ways of saying I stupidly let my guard down. So when our lesbians joined a recreational dodgeball league and needed at least two men on the team, I got caught up in the excitement. I thought back to how fun elementary school was, how awesome dodgeball gym days were, and how it’s one of those activities where it doesn’t matter how good you are. And then I said yes.

Now, obviously I could write a whole post on the many reasons why this was a foolish decision on my part. But let’s just assume that five years of posts on this blog have basically covered that ground in abundance and just power through…

The first of many struggles started when it came time to pull together the outfit. Which, if I may educate you all for a moment, is apparently not called an outfit when it comes to sports. So, to prove that I can belong in the world of athletics, what is and will clearly always be ‘the outfit,’ will now be referred to as ‘the uniform.’ Just know that calling it ‘the uniform’ instantly reduces my enthusiasm by thirty-five princess-points.

(And yes – I just invented a whole new scale of measurement in order to replace the homosexual whimsy that we lost in the renaming of ‘the outfit.’ Consider the playing field evened.)

For our first game night, I was told to bring a black tee and a white tee and before you get too excited, no – it wasn’t for fashionable layering purposes. Again, athletes don’t seem to appreciate the value of casual layering in their leagues which I’m afraid is going to cost them another fifteen princess-points.

(Seriously, for people who have a proven interest in competing to win, it’s like they don’t even care about earning enough to win a free My Little Pony at the end of the season.)

As it turns out, I don’t have many sport-friendly t-shirts. I know. You’re shocked. Their easy solution of just grabbing any black or white shirt out of the closet would have been much easier had they asked for vests. Or hats. I still maintain that team hats would have looked super sharp and intimidating.

Still, I managed to find a white v-neck and an old black tee with a distinct ‘leotard-esque’ quality that would just have to do even after spilling toothpaste on the shoulder, leaving a white stain that I was not entirely comfortable with. Meanwhile, the newf thought he found the perfect solution in a white and black striped, hooded tank top that was about two sizes too small.

Oh yes. We would be dodging balls. That much we knew for sure.