Why are so many hipster baristas determined to make you feel unwelcome in their cafes? I noticed it in Oz, and sure as hell notice it with Australian baristas in the UK. Yeah, your coffee standard is great, and your beard looks cool, but there’s no need for the pretension. You’re steaming milk, not curing AIDS, chief.
I care more about the pursuit of removing hairs from my toilet bowl than I do about cricket, and wish people would stop asking me what I think of the ashes just because I’m Australian. The only thing I know about cricket is that Shane Warne was punching well above his weight when he was shagging Liz Hurley, and that some dude drank 52 beers on a flight from Australia to London in the 80s and that’s fucking cool.
– Go to warm places
– Party with other drunk, travelling westerners
– Put photos on instagram with shit-eating caption
– Refresh to check ‘likes’ till phone battery dies
Why do people take iPads or phones into the bathroom to play music while they shower? It causes them to take much longer than necessary, as they aren’t focusing on getting clean and getting out. You might wonder why this annoys me. Well, I don’t take much pleasure in waiting longer than needed to use the bathroom, or evenly splitting an electric heating bill with someone who spends far longer in the shower than I. My brother and sister used to do it at home. My roommate does it. It’s a sign of a pathetic attention span and it needs to be shamed.
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?
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.
Facebook is now notifying me each morning with a polite reminder of which acquaintance’s birthday it is. Before I can even think or speak, my mind automatically responds with “why the FUCK is this notification worthy?”
The effort and anticipation expended by clicking that notification was less than I’d allocated for that person this year.