Just sayin’

Having a boyfriend or girlfriend is not an accomplishment.


I expect you to be normal although I am weird

Can you not repeatedly cough on the bus in close proximity to me, please?
Can you not speak to yourself in half-English with a Scottish accent, half-weird language and then turn and speak to me in the same vernacular, please?
Can you not come to the bar with four mates, visibly bedazzled by indecision, and proceed to order each of them a drink one by one as they are made, please?
Can you not ask for an orange-based, non-alcoholic cocktail to be made up to accommodate your detox, and then order a beer straight after, please?
Can you not pull out one of your pubic hairs and place it on the bar top that I will have to wipe down later, please?
Can you not ‘forget’ to top up the electricity before you go away for a week despite it being your turn, and despite me asking you twice, please?
Can you not grunt vigorously as you squat a relatively low amount of weight with poor form, please?
Can you not loudly and smugly offer fellow gym-goers fitness tips despite being fat, please?
Can you just, not. Please?

“He’s a Dermatologist I met at the Vietnamese lunch truck outside my building”

I’ve been watching five or six back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City in the middle of the day at my parents’ house this week. The title of this post is how Miranda casually described yet another muscular, financially successful man she’d been seeing. He had an impossibly perfect hairline. But she was somewhat unsatisfied with him because he was too verbal during sex. A muscular, financially successful man with an impossibly perfect hairline enjoyed her company, yet she found fault. This confirms my fears that because I am going bald at 23 and have no interest in being an investment banker or doctor, I will never date again. I will never be who Chris Noth was in the 90s. I am not Samoan and probably wont ever use steroids, so don’t console me by saying that Dwayne Johnson is bald and attractive. Bruce Willis, Woody Harrelson and Moby are not attractive men. They’re just rich and notable. My only chance is to try and look like Jason Statham. But even then, that will only look good for ten years or so. After testosterone has faded and man boobs have set in, I’ll basically be Nicholson minus the money and women. I should have not been fat and in a monogamous relationship when I had thick hair. I should have maximised my fleeting moments in the sun. But I digress. There are worse things in life than baldness. Like disease, poverty or tax. Reflecting on those helps put things into perspective. Now excuse me while I walk with a renewed sense of peace. Until, of course, I pass a mirror.

Enjoyable weather and company.

Back in my home town. There is less than a week left of available time for me and my two best friends/partners in beach lazing to hang out before one of them heads to the states. I have a one way plane ticket to the UK which leaves before he returns. I don’t know how long it will be before the three of us are all in the same place again after this week. Barely working. Talking absolute rubbish that most would dismiss as insanity. We hit the beach today, smashed some sushi and sat on the back deck of my parents’ house talking with my younger brother for hours. At least for now, peace for me isn’t in the arms of some brunette. It’s surrounded by beach and my boys. And yet I’m scheduled to leave all of it for the northern hemisphere in about 5 weeks.

I am now a wuss.

I had dinner with an old friend from school and his girlfriend tonight. This guy has been one of my close friends for over a decade, give or take a few brief and minor fall outs. He has been with this girl for about six or seven years, and I know her well. But I’d never really been able to care too much about her. Maybe that’s not the way to phrase it. She had never really made me feel much for her. She had always been pleasant enough, but just didn’t stir anything in me. But in recent weeks I’ve been spending a bit of time with them as we’ve all been living in the same city. This guy was the first of our friendship circle to properly move in with a girlfriend (in another state as well), and this was the first experience I had seeing their level of domesticity. I found it a little strange at first, and wasn’t sure how I liked the changes I was seeing in my old friend. But after tonight I’m convinced that I’m happy for them. Both of them.

She had just had some medical procedure this week and was still feeling very sore and groggy. She was upset, as the condition (though non-life threatening) is ongoing and will require regular surgical maintenance over time. I saw it in her eyes. For the first time since knowing her, I felt for her. I felt sad with her, I wanted her to feel better and be okay. My friend had taken time off work to stay home and look after her in the days after her procedure. Watching him speak about it, I saw seriousness and genuine care in his eyes. This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but he’s only 23 and he has really made her a part of his life. I am a cynic when it comes to relationships, especially young relationships. But this moved me. I’m not sure why, it just did.

Second last day at a job I’ve had seven weeks.

I want a big arm tattoo, but I don’t want to go through the pain of getting it. I have been talking about getting a tattoo for years, but am still inkless. I don’t care about job prospects or coming to regret the tattoo. I think it’s a privilege to live long enough to regret your tattoos. What I care about is not being stabbed by needles. The pain itself probably isn’t that bad, but the thought of willingly and voluntarily turning up to be stabbed by needles just feels like something I can’t see myself doing. I have wondered whether there is a tattooist who would work on you while you’re under general anaesthetic. Or whether I could get blind drunk beforehand. But no. Always no. Take the pain you pussy, they say.

I don’t want pain, just like I don’t want to work. Why would I want to work? Why does anyone want to work? I don’t care about having lots of money. I don’t want to have kids or a big expensive wedding or mortgage. I want to wake up when I feel like it and go to the beach. Like sure, I want to work on writing or other creative interests of mine, but that’s it. I don’t want to get up early, drive somewhere and do shit some passionless person says for eight hours. I have a horrific attention span. Severe, debilitating ADHD. Always have. I consistently disappoint employers. And I don’t give a fuck. I will touch on this in greater detail one day.

I’m texting a crazy old mate of mine in my home town. Hoping to catch up with him next week. Shouldn’t neglect real friendships over time.

I will only buy what I need for the next five days.

I went to buy beer for the weekend. Picked up a carton of the second cheapest beer because fuck it, you only live once. Get to the counter, the girl serving asks me if I want to add another six pack for $10. I told her that the carton was already plenty of beer. She responds with “yeah, but it’ll run out.” This was the greatest truth I’d heard all week. The beer WILL run out. I WILL inevitably buy more. But I just can’t commit to that kind of foresight. I will never buy anything in advance to save money. No matter how much sense it makes, no matter how much extra I end up paying when I actually end up needing it. I will only buy what I need for the next five days tops. Is this capitalism? Have I been brainwashed somewhere along the line? Or am I just a cheap cunt? The answers to these  and more on the next episode of My Terrible Blog.