Harry Gets Depressed And It’s Infuriating

The irony is not lost on me.

 

I guess it could be said I deserve to feel depressed.  Not sure it’s even actual depression yet, to be honest, as I’ve yet to visit a head examiner to confirm it.  Nevertheless, I have been an emotional wreck for quite some time and it is really bloody difficult to get on with your life when you’re constantly thinking about ways you can kill yourself.

 

Not that snuffing it is going to help.  I knew the whole time I wasn’t going to kill myself but for some mad reason my brain just kept saying things like

 

“You could cut open your arms and get in a nice warm shower, just let all the life flow out of you.  You could do it right now.  You can do whatever you want, no one will stop you.”

 

Or

 

“Look how high up you are.  If you jumped off backwards, you could watch the structure growing into the sky while you fall.  What a beautiful way to die.  Maybe this is the best way for you, I think you should do it.”

 

But here I still am, feeling normal and furious again.  But for how long?  I honestly haven’t a clue what caused the miserable mood I was in and I’ve no idea what caused it to stop either.  I am not a particularly helpful person.  I suppose the only thing I did was fight against the thoughts whenever they came up, no matter how relentless.  If you’re reading this and feeling down, just keep fighting.  It might take a long time, but that negative bastard inside won’t outlast you if you just keep fighting it off.

 

Maybe I’ll write something more entertaining next time.

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The Fucking Law

Looks like I really did it this time.  Oi gawne and dun wun, guv’nah!

 

Pretty much everyone who drives a car is aware of what a speed camera is, and most of those people will (at some point in their short existence) decide that they hate them.  If you haven’t worked it out yet, I have finally been caught by one of these fuckers and today will be seeking legal advice on how to deal with this mess I got myself into.

 

What happens in the UK is that first, you will be driving somewhere in your car and a camera will photo you going too fast.  Or an “average speed” camera will do it.  Or if the Filth are at it themselves with their little black hairdryer of doom, you will be chased down and shouted at.  I was caught by an average fucker.  I was then sent a letter demanding that I incriminate myself or grass someone else up for driving the car that day (the pigs are oblivious to the fact that snitches get stitches) and to ignore this letter was, in itself, a criminal offense.  Ignoring the letter is, in fact, a more serious crime than speeding so I reluctantly accepted the guilt.  The next thing is that a “fixed penalty” offer is sent to the offender, where you are extorted of one hundred glorious pounds and also given three points (collect all twelve if you dare) on your license.  That is, if you accept the offer.  I did not accept the offer.

 

So, my reasoning behind it was that they only CLAIMED to have evidence when they send the fixed offer.  They sent no evidence whatsoever.  As a natural sceptic (I am terrible for open wounds) I thought they were just bullshitting (or pigshitting, if you will).  So I tried to phone the number they provided only to be blocked at all turns by the impossible automated service designed to patronise and annoy.  I just wanted to see the evidence for myself because if they ain’t got nothing, why the fuck would I pay these clowns?  The only options left were to pay the thing and blindly accept the long dick of the law or ignore it and possibly be prosecuted.  One month later, I am being prosecuted.  Fuck.  The evidence is pretty damning.  Double fuck.  A lawyer costs three thousand pounds.  Looks like the law’s dick has gotten a lot fucking longer.

 

Does anyone else have a problem with this fucking system?  Because if these cunts had just sent the evidence along with the fixed penalty, maybe I would have paid the fucker.  Maybe I’m not the first person this shit has happened to.  But you know what?  I’d rather give three grand to a lawyer than so much as one fucking penny or one fucking point to the fucking filth.  These money-grabbing shitcunts who do as little as possible to tackle violent crime and instead focus on kettling protestors, chasing minor traffic violations and getting away with murder.  Kettling protestors must be fun for the sadistic cunts who join the police with a mind to beating people up and generally abusing their power.  They show up in full riot gear with clubs and get to knock shit out of students for hours without fear of consequences (see that murder link again if you think differently).  They chase stupid traffic violations because it rakes in money.  They have targets to meet.  Did you know the police service was being run as a business?  They have to fill their quota or wave them Christmas bonuses goodbye.  Bunch of fucking cunts.

 

But as much as the police irk me, someone found a way to be an even Cuntier Cunt that the UK’s Cunt mayors of Cuntdom.  Two people, actually.

 

On the way into the town I live in, there is an electronic speed indicator that tells you how fast your car is going.  If you are above the speed limit, it flashes a sad face at you, and if you are below the speed limit you get a happy face.  It’s the sort of rewards system that might work on a five year old, but using it to make adults comply is a bit misguided (though far from the stupidest thing the police have ever done).  One day my wife comes home and tells me that two guys were hiding in the bushes by this sign, one taking note of people’s speed and the other writing down registration numbers.  Both wearing fluorescent jackets.  Not police, by the way.  Just a couple of local vigilantes.  Or a couple of snitches, you might say.  A couple of the worst cretins imaginable, maybe.  A couple of class A fuckers who could use a few additional orifices, even.  The true enemies of all decent humankind, who reveal themselves to be worse than the UK service known as “The Filth” by taking on the most hated activity of the filth.  The end is fucking nigh.  I’ll be in court.  Wish me riches.

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Trump means fart. Donald Fart.

The fact that people take Donald Trump seriously worries me considerably.

 

The man is like a caricature of a Bond villain.  Everything about him screams “parody of an evil business tycoon”.  But what is truly disturbing is that people want him to be in charge of the United States of We-Have-More-Weapons-Than-Any-Sane-Person-Would-Consider-Necessary-And-Could-Bomb-You-All-To-Death-Remotely America.

 

It’s so easy to take a shot at him and it will accomplish nothing.  People who wanted to vote for him are still going to vote for him.  People who wanted to vote against the other lot are going to vote for him because it’s a two party system and he is the lesser of two evils (in their tiny human minds, there is no other solution).  There is a general feeling in my being telling me he is going to win (and I have a pretty limited exposure to the news so I don’t think it’s fair to blame media-related brainwashing) and I’m slowly accepting it as my reality.  It’s just America.  That’s what they’re into.  Loud, semi-racist, inbred-looking, reactionary, misogynistic, greedy, orange arseholes telling them he can fix everything simply by not being the opposing political party.  Just accept it.

 

The rest of Americans need to stop living in denial.  Trump is clearly the president the people deserve.  His amazing quick-fix solutions to major national problems are definitely going to work (no-one has ever climbed a wall or tunneled under one).  He is the key which will open the door for the first ex-pro-wrestler to become a supreme court judge.  The first time an inaugural address features cheerleaders.  The first time a vice president is fired by being dunked in a shark tank.  The future is now.  Vote Fart.

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That recurring dream

You’re searching for something…  What was it again?  You can’t remember immediately, but you are aware it’s important.  You need it to finish the product.  The product.  The project.  The purpose.  You’re so close to finishing it as well.  So you move through this building, looking at all the walls.  People are walking past you, and though they seem familiar you can’t place them.  Blurred faces obscuring your view of the little offices on either side.  Is this a government office you’re in?  You had better go to the information desk, they’ll point you in the right direction.  But where is it?  You look up at the signs.  Can’t remember what you just read, but you have to keep going.  You pass through some double doors, and two surgeons in scrubs go past you.  Now it’s a hospital.  You follow the winding halls, instinctively following the correct path to reception.  You look into wards on both sides, and again you recognise people but can’t place them.  Someone you know is in here.  Is that what you’re looking for?

The reception is down the stairs, and you follow them.  Nobody but you down here.  You’re descending further, stone walls bleed the heat from your bones.  Through another set of double doors.  Again nobody is here.  A maze of filing cabinets spreads around you.  You know you need to continue, but something is definitely wrong down here.  The passage goes on, your search continues, scanning the names on the filing cabinets, but nothing catches your eye.  You won’t find it here, you tell yourself, you have to keep going and soon you’ll get there.  Once you have that final piece, the puzzle is solved and all of this struggle will be over.  You need it.  Walking faster now.  This place is cold and empty.  You come to an iron staircase and start down.  What’s down here?  You know this is the way.  You hear voices shouting, laughing below.  There’s rushing water.  A ceramic echo.  It’s the swimming baths, good thing you have your trunks with you.  Barging into the steamy changing rooms, the barely visible lockers are all left open, but full of clothes.  You hear people getting changed around you, but can’t see them.  All the lockers are full, so where can you leave your shoes?  Never mind.  You have to keep going.

You’re walking as fast as will allow on the slippery floor.  The attendant hands you a wristband, and talks to you but you hear nothing important.  Something about a waterfight.  Is that what day it is?  Oh no, you don’t have time to get involved in waterfight day – you must get through this place to find it.  You decide to go around the main pools and up the back stairs.  Girlish laughter echoes around you, and you feel like someone is in pursuit.  A balloon of cold water hits you in the face.  The girl who threw it is laughing at you, shouting “Out!  Out!  Out you go!”  You sigh.  You can’t keep going if you have to go out the way you came.

“Let me past, I’m looking for something.”

“What is it?”

You can’t remember.  “Something important, but I can’t remember.”

“Is it this?”  Another balloon bursts on your face.  Shiver.  You turn and slip.  Your face hurtles towards the hard porcelain tiles,

Awake.

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OH FUCK YOU

Literally just drafted something that didn’t save.  Published it.  Didn’t publish.  Fuck this shit.

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The Dreaded Committee

Pray to your Gods you never have to deal with something as cretinous as a committee.  I have recently come to a place that has one of these for the community.  They don’t call it a committee, but that’s what it is.  Several people from the area who get together and make decisions and plans for the future of this tiny, insignificant place we all live in like it’ll fucking matter in a few years when we’re all dead.  I hate committees.

The reason I hate committees is that they are absolutely incapable of doing anything right.  Because almost everyone wants to be in charge, and I’m sure anyone with a shred of business-team-building-know-how (pro active multi directional leadership quantative SMART goal interpersonal) will be aware that this will result in disaster.  If everyone wants to be the co-ordinator, who is left to be the implementers?  In other words, too many managers, no workers.  Too many different goals, no direction.  Committees are shit, yes.  If you’re interested in team-building and that shit, here’s a link to the Belbin types –

http://www.belbin.com/rte.asp?id=8

The key to an effective team is to have clearly established roles and all members of said team playing to their individual strengths.  I have no examples of effective teams.  I have a few examples of terrible teams.  In college, we are all forced to put together a group project.  My team consisted of the borderline-soceiopathic Me (number crunching idea guy), the dictatorial Lone Female (the captain of this rat-infested ship), the big bad Idea Bully (second in command workhorse), and Mr might-as-well-be-a Plant (the ballast).  We started out OK, but once the real hard work began, here is a list of terrible things that happened.

1 – Our original idea is shot down by Idea Bully and we go back to fucking square one.

2 – No one can agree on the team logo.  Apparently I am the only one who thinks Solviet Russia was cool.  Arguments on this insignificant detail derail us from actual work for weeks.

3 – The Lone Female goes apeshit at everyone, saying she had to redo all of their work for the second piece.  She cuts almost all of mine, and rewrites everything Mr Plant put in.  We are not amused.

4 – The Lone Female continues to ruin everyone’s work and is increasingly obsessed with the format.  Idea Bully and Me suggest maybe working on the actual content is more important.

5 – We come up with three ideas, and have to make the project include all three, because we are now a committee and unable to shoot down Lone Female and Idea Bully’s incredibly stupid joint idea.  Not that mine was much better, but at least I didn’t go with fucking MAGNETS.  (Seriously, fucking magnets?!)

6 – Me and Mr Plant start avoiding group meetings and start only communicating by email.  This infuriates Lone Female, so we continue doing it for as long as possible.

7 – I plot on moving to another team, but it’s too late.  They say they’ll still take me, but I force myself to finish the godawful task at hand.

8 – With one week to go, me and Idea Bully get together to finish the entire project ourselves, as it turns out Lone Female has been doing nothing but obsessing over fonts and line spacing and Mr Plant is unavailable.  We churn out some terrible shit, and send it to Lone Female for polishing with less than 24 hours to deadline.

9 – While presenting the project, Mr Plant answered a question in such a manner as to make our idea completely, utterly and unquestionably redundant.  Thanks, dick.

10 – All our college grade averages are lowered by the marks recieved for that fucking project.

Our problem was clearly that Lone Female insisted on being the leader, but was not properly equipped to deal with it.  Idea Bully should probably have been the leader, but wouldn’t accept the responsibility.  My problem was (and probably still is) that I work better alone.  Having to deal with people bitching about what font we should be using and what should and should not be included drove me insane.  Mr Plant is beyond help.  He did fuck all.  Anyway, what was I talking about at the start?  Oh yeah, decision by committee.

So the local committee has reared it’s filthy head.  Decisions to build stuff are being made.  Meetings are being held.  These meetings are being held in a place that is too small so not everybody can go, so maybe just the heads of the committee should be going.  OK, now they’ve pissed people off, maybe there’s room for one person from each household?  But if they do that, maybe they won’t be able to get their opinions across and get all that stupid shit they want.  I have absolutely no idea what they want, but I know it must be something stupid since it’s wanted by a committee.  I leave you with my interpretation of how a committee operates (in list form, because it’s soooooo easy to write things in list form! – Advice to struggling wannabe blog posters right there).

On this committee, we have.

1 – Mr only-gives-a-shit-about-the Budget

2 – Mr idealistic Nincompoop, who might as well be tripping on mushrooms.

3 – Mrs been-on-the-committee Forever, who is incapable of giving a fuck anymore, but can’t leave because they are a “key figure” in the community or whatever.

4 – Mrs if-the-idea-isn’t-mine-I-don’t-like-it Runier of other people’s ideas

5 – Mr I-know-what’ll-make-it Better.  The planning application forbid it, he said “forbid this!” with his anus.

6 – Mr so-fucking-concerned-about Safety, who constantly watches the news in the hope a plane will crash and he’ll have more shit to worry about.

So there we have it.  The players in this epic game.  Today, the committee will be trying to build a sports centre.

Mr Budget suggests the most meagre basketball court.  Taken on board by everyone, as everyone likes basketball.

Mrs Idea ruiner insists that a swimming pool is essential.

Mr Nincompoop agrees that the basketball court should also be a swimming pool.

Mr Budget says it’s impossible.

Mr Safety agrees, as he’s just recently read an article about small children drowning.  Proceeds to recite the entire article to the group.

Mr Better thinks the swimming pool is good, but could it also be a jacuzzi?

Mr Budget says no, and tries to steer everyone back to the basketball court by saying it could be used for other sports.

Mr Nincompoop and Mrs Idea Ruiner suggest that the swimming pool could be used as an ice rink.  Everyone’s IQ drops by 10 points.

Mr Better goes to the toilet to think of an idea more retarded than turning a swimming pool into an ice rink.  Asks if anyone wants tea or coffee on his way out.  It takes 10 minutes for the tea/coffee situation to be resolved.

Mrs Forever asks to come to a conclusion, as she wants to get home in time to watch Broadchurch.  She does not have Sky+

Mrs Idea Ruiner and Mr Nincompoop demand a vote on the swimming pool issue.  Mr Budget and Mr Safety oppose.  Mr Better is in the toilet, but Mrs Idea Ruiner insists he’d vote for the pool/ice rink.

Mrs Forever asks Mr Budget what they’re voting for.  She votes for no pool, and makes it a tie.

Mr Safety wants to talk about possible mutilations that could happen on a basketball court.  Nobody allows him to do this.

Mr Better returns with tea and coffee.  Says that instead of a swimming pool, could they install a gym that doubles as a sauna?

Mr Safety grabs hold of the oppertunity to talk about sauna deaths.  Unfortunately for him, everyone else quite likes the sauna idea.

Mrs Idea Ruiner is slowly convinced that she came up with the sauna idea by suggesting a swimming pool, even though those are different things.  She shoves the sauna idea very much down everyone’s throats.

Mr Safety is very much opposed and is standing firm.  The group need to reach a compromise, as Broadchurch is about to start.

Mr Better suggests that, if it would please Mr Safety, the temperature of the sauna could be limited to 30 degrees, despite the fact this completely defeats the purpose of a sauna.  Mr Safety is brought on board.

Mr Budget announces that they can’t have the sauna, gym and basketball court.  They only have enough funding for one.

They settle on the 30 degree sauna.

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The dreaded committee

Pray to your Gods you never have to deal with something as cretinous as a committee.  I have recently come to a place that has one of these for the community.  They don’t call it a committee, but that’s what it is.  Several people from the area who get together and make decisions and plans for the future of this tiny, insignificant place we all live in like it’ll fucking matter in a few years when we’re all dead.  I hate committees.

The reason I hate committees is that they are absolutely incapable of doing anything right.  Because almost everyone wants to be in charge, and I’m sure anyone with a shred of business-team-building-know-how (pro active multi directional leadership quantative SMART goal interpersonal) will be aware that this will result in disaster.  If everyone wants to be the co-ordinator, who is left to be the implementers?  In other words, too many managers, no workers.  Too many different goals, no direction.  Committees are shit, yes.  If you’re interested in team-building and that shit, here’s a link to the Belbin types –

http://www.belbin.com/rte.asp?id=8

The key to an effective team is to have clearly established roles and all members of said team playing to their individual strengths.  I have no examples of effective teams.  I have a few examples of terrible teams.  In college, we are all forced to put together a group project.  My team consisted of the borderline-soceiopathic Me (number crunching idea guy), the dictatorial Lone Female (the captain of this rat-infested ship), the big bad Idea Bully (second in command workhorse), and Mr might-as-well-be-a Plant (the ballast).  We started out OK, but once the real hard work began, here is a list of terrible things that happened.

1 – Our original idea is shot down by Idea Bully and we go back to fucking square one.

2 – No one can agree on the team logo.  Apparently I am the only one who thinks Solviet Russia was cool.  Arguments on this insignificant detail derail us from actual work for weeks.

3 – The Lone Female goes apeshit at everyone, saying she had to redo all of their work for the second piece.  She cuts almost all of mine, and rewrites everything Mr Plant put in.  We are not amused.

4 – The Lone Female continues to ruin everyone’s work and is increasingly obsessed with the format.  Idea Bully and Me suggest maybe working on the actual content is more important.

5 – We come up with three ideas, and have to make the project include all three, because we are now a committee and unable to shoot down Lone Female and Idea Bully’s incredibly stupid joint idea.  Not that mine was much better, but at least I didn’t go with fucking MAGNETS.  (Seriously, fucking magnets?!)

6 – Me and Mr Plant start avoiding group meetings and start only communicating by email.  This infuriates Lone Female, so we continue doing it for as long as possible.

7 – I plot on moving to another team, but it’s too late.  They say they’ll still take me, but I force myself to finish the godawful task at hand.

8 – With one week to go, me and Idea Bully get together to finish the entire project ourselves, as it turns out Lone Female has been doing nothing but obsessing over fonts and line spacing and Mr Plant is unavailable.  We churn out some terrible shit, and send it to Lone Female for polishing with less than 24 hours to deadline.

9 – While presenting the project, Mr Plant answered a question in such a manner as to make our idea completely, utterly and unquestionably redundant.  Thanks, dick.

10 – All our college grade averages are lowered by the marks recieved for that fucking project.

Our problem was clearly that Lone Female insisted on being the leader, but was not properly equipped to deal with it.  Idea Bully should probably have been the leader, but wouldn’t accept the responsibility.  My problem was (and probably still is) that I work better alone.  Having to deal with people bitching about what font we should be using and what should and should not be included drove me insane.  Mr Plant is beyond help.  He did fuck all.  Anyway, what was I talking about at the start?  Oh yeah, decision by committee.

So the local committee has reared it’s filthy head.  Decisions to build stuff are being made.  Meetings are being held.  These meetings are being held in a place that is too small so not everybody can go, so maybe just the heads of the committee should be going.  OK, now they’ve pissed people off, maybe there’s room for one person from each household?  But if they do that, maybe they won’t be able to get their opinions across and get all that stupid shit they want.  I have absolutely no idea what they want, but I know it must be something stupid since it’s wanted by a committee.  I leave you with my interpretation of how a committee operates (in list form, because it’s soooooo easy to write things in list form! – Advice to struggling wannabe blog posters right there).

On this committee, we have.

1 – Mr only-gives-a-shit-about-the Budget

2 – Mr idealistic Nincompoop, who might as well be tripping on mushrooms.

3 – Mrs been-on-the-committee Forever, who is incapable of giving a fuck anymore, but can’t leave because they are a “key figure” in the community or whatever.

4 – Mrs if-the-idea-isn’t-mine-I-don’t-like-it Runier of other people’s ideas

5 – Mr I-know-what’ll-make-it Better.  The planning application forbid it, he said “forbid this!” with his anus.

6 – Mr so-fucking-concerned-about Safety, who constantly watches the news in the hope a plane will crash and he’ll have more shit to worry about.

So there we have it.  The players in this epic game.  Today, the committee will be trying to build a sports centre.

Mr Budget suggests the most meagre basketball court.  Taken on board by everyone, as everyone likes basketball.

Mrs Idea ruiner insists that a swimming pool is essential.

Mr Nincompoop agrees that the basketball court should also be a swimming pool.

Mr Budget says it’s impossible.

Mr Safety agrees, as he’s just recently read an article about small children drowning.  Proceeds to recite the entire article to the group.

Mr Better thinks the swimming pool is good, but could it also be a jacuzzi?

Mr Budget says no, and tries to steer everyone back to the basketball court by saying it could be used for other sports.

Mr Nincompoop and Mrs Idea Ruiner suggest that the swimming pool could be used as an ice rink.  Everyone’s IQ drops by 10 points.

Mr Better goes to the toilet to think of an idea more retarded than turning a swimming pool into an ice rink.  Asks if anyone wants tea or coffee on his way out.  It takes 10 minutes for the tea/coffee situation to be resolved.

Mrs Forever asks to come to a conclusion, as she wants to get home in time to watch Broadchurch.  She does not have Sky+

Mrs Idea Ruiner and Mr Nincompoop demand a vote on the swimming pool issue.  Mr Budget and Mr Safety oppose.  Mr Better is in the toilet, but Mrs Idea Ruiner insists he’d vote for the pool/ice rink.

Mrs Forever asks Mr Budget what they’re voting for.  She votes for no pool, and makes it a tie.

Mr Safety wants to talk about possible mutilations that could happen on a basketball court.  Nobody allows him to do this.

Mr Better returns with tea and coffee.  Says that instead of a swimming pool, could they install a gym that doubles as a sauna?

Mr Safety grabs hold of the oppertunity to talk about sauna deaths.  Unfortunately for him, everyone else quite likes the sauna idea.

Mrs Idea Ruiner is slowly convinced that she came up with the sauna idea by suggesting a swimming pool, even though those are different things.  She shoves the sauna idea very much down everyone’s throats.

Mr Safety is very much opposed and is standing firm.  The group need to reach a compromise, as Broadchurch is about to start.

Mr Better suggests that, if it would please Mr Safety, the temperature of the sauna could be limited to 30 degrees, despite the fact this completely defeats the purpose of a sauna.  Mr Safety is brought on board.

Mr Budget announces that they can’t have the sauna, gym and basketball court.  They only have enough funding for one.

They settle on the 30 degree sauna.

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Harry gets personal with Harry

Most of us were teenagers at some point.  Some of us still retain the noble quality well into our 30s.  I was unfortunate enough to burst forth from that glorious bubble of self-righteousness and utter ignorance into a huge world where I finally see all the errors of my past ways.  Ugh.  There’s some saying about how as you get older, you find you know less and less, and although it’s bullshit (it is utter bullshit, unless you spend your life un-learning things, so by the time you’re 50 you’ve forgotten how to tell the time) it has it’s place in the exact moment where one bursts forth from the faulty condom of teenagehood.

I miss being 17.  When life was simpler, and I didn’t worry about anything except getting laid, taking drugs and being cool.  I actually thought I knew everything I needed to know.  Life was figured out.  Totally.  I felt like the fucking king and I was untouchable and I was a fucking moron, but I didn’t know that until years later.  YEARS.  Without going into specific embarrasments (or specific misspellinks of words), I offer up advice to my past self in the hopes it can travel through time and fix a multitude of future problems.

Dear teenage self,

You’re a fucking dick.  Stop being a dick and read this letter you fucking penis.  I am writing you this letter to

1 – Take you down a peg or 50, you fucking corkscrew-cocked cockaninny

2 – Prevent a shitstorm you don’t even know is coming your way

3 – Impress people on the internet and be super-cool and popular, which you aren’t by the way

 

Do me a favour and get a fucking haircut?  You look fucking ridiculous.  No one is impressed that your hair can grow – their hair can grow as well, idiot.  Also, styling gel?  Really?  Are you trying to get into a gay nightclub, or is there something about looking like a Bart Simpson wannabe that gets you off?  Lose it.  Just try having normal hair, believe me you’ll be grateful in a few years.  And stop wearing hats when it isn’t even cold.  You look retarded.  Remember the only acceptable beach hat is made of straw, anything else will look like your mother picked it for you.  This is the UK, we don’t give a fuck about baseball, so wearing a baseball cap makes no sense, you cock lolly.

 

Next on the agenda, being good at smoking weed is not a fucking career plan.  Try spending your time a bit more productively.  Fucking please?  Future you has no fucking use for the ability to smoke thirty joints in a night, and future you is also subject to random drug testing.  I make awesome money, but weed is off the table in our future.  Maybe practice some kind of skill that allows you to have a career where you AREN’T subject to random drug screening?  I don’t know.  You should get those boring hours of practice in now, though, because if you can play wicked guitar at university you’ll be swimming in minge.  If you learn to box or do karate you can punch people who are cunts (believe me, you’ll meet plenty of them in the future and wish you’d practiced).  Think of the possibilities!  Stop being such a wastrel.  Stoners are actually the butt of jokes (pun intended), and you’re too monged to think of a comeback.  One time I had a fight with someone who was on ketamine.  I didn’t even have to touch him at all, I just moved gradually out of the way and he fell over.  That is what you are like right now, you useless cretin.  Do something.  Not philosophy.  Something useful, you arse-head.

 

Finally, shut the fuck up.  You have practically zero life experience so shut up.  Shut your stupid fucking mouth because you have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.  Shut the fuck up, you’re embarrassing me.  I know.  No you do not know everything.  You are not an expert on anything.  You are not especially bright, to be honest.  And quit hating on stuff, especially music.  Your taste in music is pretty dismal, and by the time you make it to the future you’ll be sorry you weren’t a bit more broad-minded.  Also, politics?!  You think you fucking know stuff about politics!?!?  You stupid dick.  Slap yourself.  Harder.  Again.  Does it hurt?  Good.  Repeat until you are crying.

 

With love,

Future You

xx

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Fucking work

So I’m reading the blogs on here because my life is meaningless and I have nothing better to do right now (this’ll be a feel-good post, I hear you say) and someone called the number kevin is asking about job interview horror stories.  Well, Kevin, I don’t have any.  I actually interview extremely well, which is a problem for employers because I am lazy, unreliable and full to the brim with kleptomania if left alone in the stationary cupboard.  Since I am a terrible worker, I have plenty (fucking LOADS) of horror stories from jobs.  Here’s a doozie:
When I was seventeen, I needed money to pay for my expensive partying lifestyle.  Being seventeen, however, meant that I could be paid less than minimum wage, and had to put up with it.  The place that hired me was a butcher’s, and by the end of my first day, I was swearing myself off black pudding for good.  For the insultingly low wage of £3.00 per hour, I was basically everyone else’s bitch, where I had to clean up after them constantly, I had to clean the “room of death” where all the meat was hung (hanged, whatever) and when directed to lift and move things, I did that as well.  What made it worse was that I hated everyone I worked with.  They were a bunch of cunts.

The night before I was supposed to be at my second day of work, there had been a house party.  A really, really good one.  I was still there at half six in the morning, the booze not quite worn off yet, realising I had to work in just over an hour.  Being the financially challenged masochist I was, I decided to go.  So I staggered home to shower and change and scrape the barnacles off, and by the time I made it to the butchers, I was in full-blown hangover hell.  Nausea, dizziness, diarrhea, shingles, tinnitus, I had the lot.  The first thing I had to do was not be sick while cleaning a room full of carcasses.  I failed, but at least made it to the toilet.  Followed by not being sick for seven more hours of cleaning up blood and fat and gristle.  Failed again.  Multiple times.  Toilet my only friend.  At the end of the day, the butcher van (in the country these places have their own vans delivering meat to people who can’t be arsed to go out and get their own) comes back and I spend the last hour of the day hosing shit off the underside of it.  At least I wasn’t sick again.  All this for £21.00.  If you’ve just done the maths in your head, you’ll be curious where the 2 unpaid hours went.  An hour for lunch (spent in the toilet, clinging to this mortal coil), and “I’m knocking off an hour because you’ve been a bloody mess today.”  Pun not appreciated.  Checking the cash is in my hand.  It is.

“Fuck you – I quit.”

Posted in booze, harrypeat, howdoyoutagpeople, interview technique, masochism, meatismurderonhangoverday, thenumberkevin | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Fucking dieting

What the fucking hell am I supposed to eat?  As an adult (ha ha ha ha) I should know by now how to eat properly, shouldn’t I?  But I don’t.  This modern technological era is stuffed with so much fucking information and uninformation and misinformation and superfoods and evil undigestible foods, probiotics and prebiotics, opinions from people who are expert food eaters and opinions from people who shouldn’t really be allowed such things, doctors and dieticians and Nigella Lawson and other chefs making delicious foods and there is a tag for food porn and how can you not eat that stuff all the time?!?!?!?!  It’s left me at a complete and total loss as to what I am supposed to be doing.  Evidence supplied below.

STAGE 1

I decided I needed a regime change when I found myself in McDonalds one day, putting the chicken nuggets inside the burger and demanding more BBQ sauce.  Although I’m not overweight, I felt a growing need to treat my body more like a machine requiring quality fuel than a vessel in training for ingestion of the Dark Lord Satan.  So that night, after several bowls of country crisp cereal and at least three lion bars, the research begins.

I embarked on the quest to create my own diet plan, as I didn’t want to do any of those weird things people do like the one where you cut out every carb in existance, or where you stop eating meat (ugh).  Just a normal diet for a normal person, one where you aren’t required to source insane hippy-esque ingredients and which wouldn’t require me to give up on living, as counting the calories in everything I ate would only make me want to kill myself.  This is the most difficult thing I have ever done ever in my entire life.  Ever.  Sifting through the insane amount of available information caused me to become one of THOSE people.  You know the types.  The stage 2.

STAGE 2

Now equipped with an insane amount of information about food, and no memory of anything for the past 4 years.  Not that it was possible for me to put any of this marvelously useful information into practice, as everything I wanted to eat had some kind of dire health consequence, and all the stuff you’re supposed to be eating is more expensive than bull semen and tastes worse, too.  Taking me to a supermarket would take at least two hours.  I became unable to buy anything remotely close to being considered essential.  Trying to make meals out of blueberries, bananas, lean chicken, lemons and green tea ain’t for the faint of heart.  Also, brown rice.  I became obsessed with brown rice as my idiot brain was convinced white rice was poison.  But brown rice tastes like shit and takes twice the time to cook.  Thankfully, I saw sense eventually and went back to the proper curry accompaniment with gusto, but for a month or two there, I embraced the darkness.  Bwah.

This insane amount of information started taking over my social life as well.  I’d absorbed so much information that it started spilling out into normal conversations.  When someone was telling me about a hooker who could shoot a banana from her loveglove to her friend’s mouth, I went on some insane tangent about the radioactivity of the average banana and how there’s a real-life scale based on it called the “banana equivalent”.  Naturally, no-one invited me to parties for a while.  Couldn’t go to a buffet without having some sort of crisis.  Stage 2.  Fucking hell.  Thankfully, it doesn’t last forever and once I relaxed a bit, everything became a bit more normal.

STAGE 3

After trying to deal with eating only the most super of foods, and failing faster than a chocolate fireguard, I slowly started to allow normal food back into my life.  Milk and cheese crept in through the cat flap, with bowed heads and avoiding eye contact, promising not to hurt me, and whatever they had done, they were sorry.  Bread sent a series of reminders that it was still a thing, and maybe we should get back together, eh?  Missed you too, bread.  Bacon had been peering at me through the window for days and, before I knew what was going on, beer, vodka and class A drugs kicked down the door like the Glasgow Met, screaming “GET US INSIDE YOU, YOU FUCKING ANIMAL!”  Life went from gloriously healthy to just fucking glorious.

STAGE 4

Repeat stage 2 and 3 until you forget who you even are.

STAGE 5

I wish I knew what this was, but I am still on stage 4.  AH! – just kidding.  Finally, the balance is restored.  Sort of.  A very British sort of balance, where from monday morning to friday afternoon you eat and drink and fuck normally.  There is a set routine and a boring diet and only missionary or reverse cowgirl positions allowed.  You will experience, at least once, the entire week go by on auto-pilot.  Then, from friday 1700 hours until monday 0700 hours, it’s a free-for-all-anything-goes-let’s-‘ave-it-all-out-frenzy.  See me swan dive into a bowl of chilli nachos and wash it down with a pint of bacon double cheeseburger and a bottle of sticky toffee pudding.  Pizza slut for breakfast.  48 hours of doggy style.  Snorting the salt with tequila shots.  Was that really salt?  Hallucinogenics, motherfucker.  Pouring vast quantities of maple syrup all over my body and absorbing it through my skin.  Frying french toast in bacon grease.  Using lard for lubricant.  Christmas dinner every sunday.  Chicken fried church.  Booze.  So much fucking booze.  Whatever you puke up can be replaced with the hangover breakfast.  Full english with double everything and a bowl of chips on top.  Swap that fried tomato for extra baked beans.  Coffee with 5 sugars and whipped cream.  I don’t even fucking like coffee, I just wanted to eat the cream.  In fact, just bring me the can of whipped cream and I will unload the entire fucking thing into my mouth.  Oh, Satan!  Halleluja!

Posted in diet, food, self help | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments