This week I decided to take Ernest Hemingway’s advice: write drunk and edit sober. After several paragraphs that included me describing my perfect cologne and pontificating that during defecation has to be the most difficult time to feel sexy, especially when the broken toilet seat is pinching you inappropriately. I decided I probably shouldn’t be taking advice from a hot mess who deep-throated his 12-gauge. That and my keyboard was covered in melted cheese and half the keys weren’t working because they’d been surrounded by biscuit crumbs.
* Working on my night cheese. *
I figure that while I’m verbally bashing literary giants I might as well go for the big guns and give the bard a spanking. Or perhaps more accurately the schooling system that encourages 13 year olds on the verge of rebellion and social ruin to read a play about children, who took drugs, had sex, disrespected their families and in a fit of melodramatic rage killed themselves. I mean come on. We are teenagers; do you think we need any artistic inspiration for our innate desire to self-destruct?
* I wish we could all get along like we used to in middle school. I wish I could bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would eat and be happy. *
In other news am starting to enjoy the perks of living at home again. For example: when I got stuck in the bathroom without adequate toilet paper my mum was around to throw in a new roll. It’s great. I also really like it when she tries to converse with me while I’m in the bathroom. Usually about something that could’ve waited 5 minutes like “did you know female koalas have two vaginas?!” Weird but true. As far as I’m concerned the bathroom is the equivalent of a padded cell: utterly pristine and soundproof isolation complete with forgiving lighting. While we’re in the porcelain kingdom I have to impart two serious observations and one hilarious sexual encounter:
1) If you are a guy and you can’t manage to keep your urine confined to the rather large circumference of the toilet bowl then I have serious doubts that you would possess any sort of accuracy when it comes to hitting a smaller more intimate target with your lady friends.
2) Why does four ply toilet paper need to initially unravel in such a haphazard manner? You are not operating at full ply thickness and therefore I have to unravel half the roll to get things running smoothly again. It’s just the worst, not to mention completely counter productive to my Zen-like tiled haven.
3) A friend of mine was having sex with her boyfriend, as you do when you’re not single and alone. Cut to them going at it like rabbits, doggy style. Golden ticket in hand, he decides to make a visit to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. She asks him to stop, he does and as she reaches through her legs to guide him somewhere more practical (I’m ignoring the health risks involved in using the same condom) she accidentally drops a deuce into her helping hand. Now there is an oompa-loompa song of retribution I would very much enjoy.
* Why didn’t you go home?! That’s your home! Are you too good for your home? Answer me! *
Insert a weird, somewhat tenuous link to my birthday in 4 days and eating my body weight in chocolate… It’s not lazy writing I’m just jealous of Jesus’ three-day lie in after the previous night’s drinking binge and I’m out of witticisms.
As a side note, every single time I’m hungover I can’t help but overhear my brain arguing loudly about the benefits of Gatorade and water:
* Gatorade not only quenches your thirst better, it tastes better too. No. Gatorade. H2O. Gatorade. H2O. Water sucks. It really, really sucks. Water sucks. *
My Peter Pan complex is going into overdrive and I have been compensating by consuming more than my usual amount of Easter chocolate and listening to 22 by Taylor Swift on repeat. I figure Its only a matter of time till my status as a youthful gay man crumbles before my eyes and I have to find an actual career, a long term partner and gather a collection of miniature schnauzers as substitutes for children.
* I love chocolate…but I can’t eat it because then I’ll get fat. But it’s sooo good! *
So, there’s a guy who we shall call Mitch Buchannon. He’s essentially the Daniel Cleaver to my Bridget Jones and he knows it. Every time he’s in a relationship I’m single and vice versa. He’s never really treated my relationships or his own, with any sort of reverence. Which I find quite abhorrent but if I want a message full of winking emoticons and innuendo he’s my go to guy. And lets be honest everybody likes a little attention.
He once nearly tricked me into having sex with him while he was going out with someone. Telling me that he was in an “open relationship”. What even is that?! Why be in a relationship at all. Just have a lot of committed fuck buddies who are down to cuddle you and take you to social occasions as well as ply you with snacks and alcohol. I mean who doesn’t love snacks? Whatever. It was a lie so I shut it down.
Anyway now that we are both single at the same time he initiated contact and wanted to meet up for an adult rendezvous. Lo and behold he backs out at the last minute. He’s all talk and no walk. To be honest I’m pretty surprised because I was convinced it was a sure thing. Maybe it was the potential cheating that he likes and nothing more. Either way he better hope that the rest of the Baywatch cast have their first aid kits on hand because I am this close to drowning him in a pool of angry lesbians.
* Everyone’s a dumb whore *
Now If can someone can kindly hide Jake Gyllenhaal in my cake that would be just great, that, or a couple of dragon eggs so I can be the new Khaleesi. Kthanksbye.