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' :)

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.

THINGS WERE NOT ANY BETTER BACK THEN!!

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.

:D

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.