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!

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' :)

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.