Sock Maker Sex Tapes

In this past week of moving out, something terrible has happened to me. I have turned into...a socccer mom (minus the child or any interest in soccer.) So far since moving into my new flat I have baked, I have debated over what ingredients to put in my soup that has to last us the next 4 days, I have bought 2-4-1 bread and froze one of the loafs to save money, I voluntarily do the dishes, I...well, you get the picture, but worst of all - the thing that has disgusted me the most about myself so far - I looked at a set of cushions the other day and thought 'Wow, they would be lovely in the flat.' I'm being serious. That thought went through my head. No hint of a lie. What the fuckin' fuck.

When I thought about moving out, I imagined being perpetualy drunk or hungover. I thought it would be a life of little-to-no fucks given about anything, and I can live like that; there is absolutely nothing stopping me, but I don't want to. I want a clean house with good plates to bring out when we have company. I want the living room to smell of cleanliness as opposed to fag-ash and spilled cider. I want to shop at Ikea.

Does this happen to everyone? One day you're masturbating into £20 notes and the next you're making your own window-wash out of lemon juice and vinegar? I still love Die Hard and celebrity sex tapes as much as the next man, but I now have a respect for the Lakeland catlogue too, and god-damnit these things should never occuopy the same brain - ever!

As much as I love being able to come and go as I please, to saunter in drunk and convince my flat mate that yes he does have to listen to my theories on who would be better in bed, Shania Twain or Miley Cyrus, I did not forsee myself turning into this freak of responsibility.

Hopefully it will fade with time and I can get back to buying new socks when I run out of clean pairs instead of washing them, because screw you sock-makers, that's why. If not you'll find in the nearest charity shop haggling with the cashier.

Remember to follow me if you want someone in your life that makes you feel less miserable about how awful it is!

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!