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.

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" :)

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.

Enjoy!