27 March 2012

Grandmothers Condoms

Just a wee short post today so that y'all know that I'm still alive - I would hate to disappoint my bajillions of fans (refreshing the page over and over counts as getting fans, right?)

I am moving out of the family home on Thursday and I have spent today boxing up my room. Amongst some of the awesome finds previously hidden in the depths of my filth, such as a lava lamp and a Gameboy Advance, I found a bag of condoms. Yes you read that right, a god-damned bag  full. There must be about 100 condoms of every shape, texture and flavour in this bag. When my initial puzzlement/horror/arousal subsided, I remembered a part of my life I had long since blocked out for my own damn good, and here it is for all to see.

My Gran was a Nurse, and she somehow found out that I was sexually active at some point...it may have had something to do with the round of high-5s that I gave my family whilst thrusting my hips and grinning, but that's not the point. She started bringing me home purple bags filled with condoms, left them on my bed and told me that she'd left me a bag of sweeties. Have you ever delved into a wonka-coloured bag in the hope of chocolate only to discover blueberry flavoured cock-rubber? It is disappointing at best and traumatising at most.

This was my life for a period of time, and when it stopped, my brain was kind enough to do me the service of erasing the memory. Now that is has come flooding back I feel dirty, ashamed, and more looking forward to getting out of here than ever. So swings and roundabouts really.

On a side-note, I have a fuck-tonne of out-of-date flavoured condoms up for grabs if anyone wants them?

Stay protected people, I will be back when I'm settled!

20 March 2012

Schizophrenic Terminator

When I boil it right down to basics, I have very few things to actually do. Turn up to work, coast through college, try and walk by the three bars that tempt me with their sweet, sweet beer on the way to the gym that I feel obliged to attend, and at least kid myself on that one day I will quit smoking. That's about it.

I write this blog from the comfort of my own home as my classmates sit through a lecture that I'm sure will be marginally less entertaining than watching Paris Hilton act while dressed. I am fresh off having a schizophrenic debate with myself about whether or not to phone in sick for work tonight because not only would that mean no work but also no gym, and the thing that helped me win the argument with my brain is that if I go to work I can have smoke. This, everyone, is how you fail at life.

I befriended a girl recently who has four jobs and studies how to perform brain surgery whilst sciencing the shit out of rockets...or something like that. I have a friend who works full time, volunteers and plays bass in a band. Where the fuck do you people find the motivation? Seriously, tell me. I need to know...now. Coffee doesn't work because I just end up excitedly flicking through Okay! magazine whilst on the toilet, I don't have the money (yet) for a cocaine habit and trying to self motivate myself is laughably embarrassing:
    "Ryan...Ryan...why don't you, like, maybe do something?"
"Because fuck you brain, that's why. When I want your advice I'll ask for it, now put me back to sleep and start off from where that jelly-wrestling dream left-off or so help me God I will drink your cells into an early grave."

If I had even slightly more motivation I could focus on writing a thrilling novel that no publisher would touch instead of this, arguably low-brow, blog. I don't need Terminator-esque determination, just enough so that when I wake up in the morning my first thought isn't that I already need this day to end.

If anyone knows how to achieve this with minimal effort, please tell me, because right now it's like my relationship with Emma Watson - impossible.

Keep on truckin' :)

15 March 2012

Alcohol-Fuelled Digital Nostalgia

I have been drinking wine and looking at old photographs. This, in my experience, is never a good idea. Every photo I have was taken at a supposedly positive time (what would be the point in taking it if it wasn't, unless you worked in crime scene investigation...and even then...) The reason I don't think that it's ever a good idea is that no matter how good or bad your life may be at this particular moment in time, all of these photos from your past have a rose-tinted filter over them as far as your eyes are concerned and this will make you miss those days. This is bullshit.

I have a photo where I look like I couldn't be having more fun if I had just been gifted a crate of cocaine to snort off of the naked arses of a ship full of high-class hookers, but I remember that it was taken during the 4-5 second part of the night that wasn't awful. This is the one and only photo I have that I can definitely say this about, every other photo I look at represents Christmas-morning levels of pleasure and reminds me of how much fun this or that was, or how I never do things like that anymore, or how I wish I was still in touch with blah-blah etc. They are just fucking depressing.

Two months ago I was grooving on down dressed in masquerade. Four months ago I was dressed head to painfully-enormous heel in drag. My wild/crazy/random/embarrassing days are far from behind me, but I see one picture of a wild night out from two years ago and I start longing for the good ole' days.


So why do I get all nostalgic any time I see myself with a hairline and an extra chin? Because I filter out the shit. Let's look at Christmas day as an example: I remember getting and giving presents, eating enough food to feed Africa and getting drunk enough to think it's okay to talk to my family about my sexual preferences. That's it. Cooking, cleaning, arguing, waiting for family to arrive, arguing, spending an hour on the toilet, arguing - all forgotten. The difference with Christmas is that I remember only the good, then look forward to next years. It doesn't work the same for photographs, I remember the good then assume I will never have that again, and I have no idea why.

The only way I can think of to counter-balance this is to take photo's at the most inappropriate times. "It's over. I've fell in love with someone else." CLICK!
"You're dog has been horrifically ran over by a police K-9 unit on their way to a burning veterinary surgery." CLICK!
"You have cancer of the penis. It only has two limp, impotent months to live." CL*sob*ICK!

So remember when you're out next, snapping everything that happens - one day, it could be the thing that quite literally pushes you over the edge. If spiders don't get you first.


10 March 2012

Saturday Night Fever

I work all weekend, every weekend - this is not through choice, but necessity. It means that I don't usually go out on a Friday or a Saturday night because there are few tortures worse than dealing with the retard fuck-wit public whilst struggling through a suicide-inducing hangover (being within 10 feet of a spider is marginally more traumatic.)

I am not bothered by this at all. Saturday nights consist of fighting through an ocean of dolled-up trolls for hundreds of hours at a time just to get to a bar that is staffed entirely by people who do not want to serve you, only to be charged £10 for a drink that you then end up spilling over someone as you claw your way back through the crowd. This person subsequently starts a fight with you and wins. Now repeat until drunk enough to not feel the cold (this is actually an essential survival instinct designed to stop people freezing to death in the mile-long taxi queue to get home.)

What does bother me is when people ask if I'm going out at the weekend. Every single "No" that I have to dispence results in pity. I could explain why I'm staying in every single time I'm asked, or I could accept the pity and move on, neither of which are very good options. I know that whoever asks means no ill-will towards me, they're being friendly, polite, down-right nice in fact... I don't care - fuck you.

This can apply to lots of things. Let's say it's summer and you're allergic to dairy. Everyone you're with goes to the ice-cream van and gets ice-cream, but you get gummy bears. You are suddenly bombarded with "Why didn't you get ice-cream hypothetical person?" every single day, for the entire summer. You would completely lose your shit after a while, regardless of how aware you are that the person is showing genuine concern for your mental health (because ice-cream is amazing and anyone who thinks otherwise has non-functioning taste buds.)

What I'm trying to say is that if you ask me if I'm going out this weekend out of sheer kindness and I repeatedly stab you in the face, it's not your fault. You were just the straw that broke the camels back, and I am truly sorry in advance.

Enjoy your weekend.

7 March 2012

Mayonnaise & Adultery

This is going to be on the subject of healthy eating, but I'm not here to bitch and moan about weight because I don't star in Sex In The City (that shows all about worrying how fat a size 8 is, mensturation and Cosmo's...right?)

I am currently attempting to eat healthily though, and for all the usual reasons - to increase my chances of getting laid. We all know that it can be tough to eat soup when everyone else in the room gets a triple-cheeseburger made with kebab meat and folded into a calzone for dinner, but if I cave and get one as well, that's my fault and I accept that. Todays discretion was not my fault.

I went to a deli for lunch, thinking I'll get a treat. I looked at the menu and saw they serve honey mustard chicken, and to me, that sounds like cold meat. I then looked at their display and saw what I thought was some good, wholesome, home-made coleslaw with minimal mayonnaise and loads of veg (I am aware this is not super healthy, but as a treat it's a far cry from a deep-fried Mars bar, so fuck off and stop judging me you hypothetical shit-head.)

I order my honey mustard wholemeal baguette with coleslaw and a black coffee (because milk is the devil supposedly) and this is where shit gets real. I was so shocked by what happened next that I couldn't physically move myself to stop it. All of a sudden, a giant spoon dove into a pit of what should have been labelled 'mayonnaise with a light sprinkling of chicken' and splodged it's catch onto my innocent baguette. Another spoon, maybe the chicken-spoons brother, plowed into a secret-hidden-MI6 tub of coleslaw so full of mayo that the veg was bleached white. Before I knew it, I had payed for what has to be the most unhealthy baguette since the french used them for colonoscopies.

I had to eat it. I will be god-damned before I pay £3 for food and not eat it; however, as you can see, this was not my fault. Suddenly the 'I didn't mean to cheat' excuse holds some weight for me, because if I can accidentally order a crusty egg-flavoured heart attack, then why couldn't they have slipped and fell whilst naked over and over again? All I can say now is "I'll let you off with a warning this time ma'am, but next time check your surroundings."

So now, not only am I chunkier than I was this morning, but any budding spouse of mine gets a free ticket to ride. Screw you local deli. I hope a Subway opens up next door to you and steals all of your business and you end up homeless, giving out handies for cash. So there.

On the plus side, I didn't find any spiders lurking in the spew of dressing waiting to scurry into my stomach...

A slightly chubbier "au revoir" :)

4 March 2012

Dead Ringer Sandwich

I was going to start this by apologising for going off on a tangent about merciless kill-demons from hell (A.K.A. spiders) in my last post, because in hindsight it was a bit random, and random is just sooo 2008 now. But then I thought that I'm not apologising for jack-shit and that was that.

What I really want to talk about is a truly traumatic experience that I endured recently. A few weeks ago whilst browsing the tinter-web, I happened upon a movie called 'Dead Ringers' in which Jeremy Irons plays twin gynaecologists who develop a new instrument for use on mutant women. If you are anything at all like me I doubt you will read a better sentence in your life. The synopsis alone meant that when I eventually got around to watching it, I was fairly buzzed. I actually bought crisps and made tea for the occasion.

You should know now that none of this movie lived up to my expectations. What it did make me do, however, was ask myself a question that I feel no man or woman should ever have to ask themselves, and if you don't want this thought seared into the very fabric of your fragile brain I would suggest looking no further: "I wonder how I would react to the thought of Jeremy Irons and his retard-junkie clone joining in a Devils threesome with a ginger?"

Not well. The answer to that question for everyone that ever has or ever shall exist is 'not well'.

Two Girls One Cup no longer holds the same place in my heart, that's how awful the images in my head are. I can't close my eyes without seeing it. I can NEVER watch Die Hard 3 again.  I will remain flaccid and impotent until at the very least the next time I see a picture of Zooey Deschanel (................all better :D ) but worst of all, the most reprehensible thing about all this is, is that one or more of the people who read this will watch it now. It's like the video tape in The Ring and there's nothing we can do to stop it!

Well, I could have just not wrote this, but I'm not that sort of guy.


2 March 2012

Facebook Spiders

This is, in my eyes, the most pretentious thing I have ever done, and I say that full in the knowledge that I sleep under a print of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night'. However, I do have reasons for giving this a try: firstly, with only Facebook at my disposal I am limited to whoring out my musings a bit at a time and then checking every minute for the next hour to see how many likes I get. This is unproductive at best. A blog, however, will allow me to ejaculate all of my accumulated thoughts/rage/perceptions in one burst, saving me time and effort and therefore providing me with more opportunity to stalk people on Facebook.

Secondly, I'm curious. I'm curious to see if this will evolve into something, if anyone actually reads it and if I will actually stick to doing it. I doubt all of that, but I buy a lottery ticket every week just so I can validate my twice-daily millionaire fantasy under the assumption that if I want it to happen, I have to meet it half-way. If I want a legion of fans hanging on my every word*, I have to start somewhere.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I want somewhere to raise awareness about what is the most terrifyingly awful thing that we as a race must endure...spiders. Did you know that there is a type of spider that has evolved a way to breath under water? I'm sorry, I don't think you heard me - UNDER WATER. Now, when you flush a spider to it's righteous death down your bath plug-hole, know that it's just waiting. It has seen your face and is currently devising ways to revenge-kill you and your family as soon as you take that plug out. They hold grudges.

If it's an incentive at all to read my next attempt at this or even follow me, think of this as Batman Begins. A great movie, but it has nothing on The Dark Knight. (I just want to make it clear for everyone that yes, I am comparing myself to Batman and my writing to the work of Christopher Nolan. It brings us back nicely to how pretentious I am. And it's true.)

Humans unite!

*read 'every word' as 'crotch'.