HITS, TITS AND DATING SITE DICK PICS

Saturday Night Fever was on the other night and I said that it was like watching Jersey Shore but with more macho haircuts and the women don’t get punched. 

I said it to myself as there was no one here but me… I laughed.

Have you seen that video of that horrendous thing Snooki getting punched in the face on the show?  I have, in fact I’m the reason it’s had over a million views.  The first time I saw it I must have looped it about one hundred times.  Someone had mashed it together with the mortal combat music and I nearly wet myself laughing.

And I know that it’s bad to punch girls/women but you can hardly call that thing a woman; though saying that with enough tequila in me I probably still would; it would be a lie if I said I haven’t done worse.

But this is something you can bank on; I’m definitely robbing her place when she’s passed out. 

… And taking a car, I aint paying for a cab.

What the fuck is a Snooki anyway?

I can only imagine it’s what a mentally/physically disabled person would come up with using that brown modelling clay when asked to sculpt a vagina.

There was a load of hoo-ha on that show too because that Snookie thing and her mate BJwoww or whatever kept getting their tits and gash out… and?

I still don’t know what’s so offensive about a pair of tits on telly?

You can show breast as long as you don’t show nipple but when some bloke sprays a diet coke that some stupid office tart has shaken up on purpose over his tight white vest, he’s allowed to strip off.

And I say stupid because if she wasn’t she wouldn’t be working in an office answering phones for a living… bitch.

But that’s enough sexism from me for now; I wouldn’t want to ruffle the feathers of any feminists out there.  Whoops, shouldn’t say feathers either that would imply that I’m calling them a bird and you can’t say that nowadays either.

Where the fuck was this post going anyway?

… Oh yeah, another rant about censorship.

A few months ago someone reported an image that I posted on my Facebook wall for being inappropriate.  It’s that image just over there, a fake magazine cover that has a tiny picture of a pair of boobs in one corner.

At first I thought it was really petty, just someone having a bit of a pop because I may have upset them with something I posted.  Then I started thinking, well what if it’s someone on my friends list that really found a funny picture offensive?

What’s offensive about a set of tits… and do women really find them offensive? 

If people started posting pictures of dicks on Facebook I don’t think I’d find it that disturbing.

Speaking of dick pics I have been coerced into the wonderful world of internet dating, something that I don’t really want to do and still find a bit of a mystery.  But as I say a few mates have persuaded me into joining a few of these sites because “you’re a right miserable fucker recently, you need to get laid.”

I guess some company would be good for the soul and you can’t deny that a good shag is pretty much what everyone needs from time to time, but…

It’s like a fucking cattle market for your phone.

I scroll through the profiles of these women that are either way out of my league who are looking for professional blokes that can take them on holidays to far flung places or complete monsters that have a gang of kids that need a bloke to pay for their Sky TV packages.  Instant family, just add wages.

Seriously, I haven’t found a single girl/woman on there that I have anything in common with.  I did get a message the other day from a middle-aged woman that looked like 90’s television chef Rusty Lee asking me what I thought about the weather.

I didn’t respond to the message.

And I really don’t know what to say in these messages, as a socially awkward person I find it hard to approach women anyway, especially if it someone that I find attractive.  It’s like my brain plays a horrid trick on me and I just get all weird and find solace in the bottom of a glass until I become a wreck and end up waking up alone and screaming.

I talked to a female friend about it and she said “just be you.”  Fuck that!

A self-torturing sociopathic gobshite that thinks to highly of himself and can only express any kind of emotion through his computer; a man-child suspended in a state of arrested development with more emotional scaring that Freddie Kruger’s arse.

Yeah, just be myself.  

And I’m not one of those cheesy guys with a laundry list of chat up lines or one of those guys that is mental enough to send a message like “you have nice tattoos… show me your butthole” then send a picture of my dick to every girl online until one of them says “okay.”

I knew a bloke that did that in night clubs.  He literally went up to every girl and asked if they wanted a fuck until he found on that said yes.  If none of them did he’d just go to another club and do it there.

And you know what, it always worked, fucking brazen bastard, you have to admire the man’s stones.

The only down side is that he wiped his ball sack out with far too many STI’s and is on some kind of register now because he fucked an underage girl who lied about her age then told her dad.

His dick is so viral that his spunk must be orange.

But I shall persevere; I will scroll, like, favourite and perv.

I shall continue to get drunk and send the occasional message in the middle of the night then regret it as soon as my eyes crack open in the morning.  I will continue on my quest to find someone that doesn’t mind dating a neurotic mess of a writer with no job.

I will continue to click on women that look attractive in their thumbnail pic but turn out to be swamp-donkeys because I’m not wearing my glasses.  And I will keep sending hate mail to people that draw on their eyebrows with a marker pen because it’s fucking hilarious.

Maybe I should start sending pictures of my junk to the spray tanned overly loud women of Essex?!

I’m drilling peepholes into the shop downstairs at night

I’ve noticed a trend on the internet over that last year or so.

And it took a little time to realise that I was a part of this trend; I mean this little subculture sneaked up on the world like the ‘red weed’ and no one really noticed.

I noticed… and a good few others did too because we were watching the web.  We felt the disturbance and saw what was happening at the beginning; knowing that one day we would be firmly wedged within the mainframe of popular culture.

I’m talking about introvert culture.

And not just the people that are scared to go into the world and be in some way social or the agoraphobic types that have issues with crowds or loud situations.  I’m talking about the people that have chosen to pull out of the society because they are just sick of life outside of their protective little bubble.

I happen to be part of the latter.

This little strain of artistic living is nothing new it’s been around for years but it was only ever viewed upon as weird.  People that chose this lifestyle will always be viewed as a little pretentious and let’s not sugar coat it there is an element of truth to this.

A group of people that don’t want anything to do with other people because they think that they are better than them isn’t exactly what it is but from the outside could be misconstrued as such.

I don’t think that I’m better than anyone, in fact quite the opposite; I just realise that there is better out there for me and I don’t think it’s attainable that by pissing my life away (along with my money) with what people refer to as a ‘social life’.

It amazes me the amount of antisocial activities is related to a social life.

For starters there are loud confined spaces.  I don’t think that being stuck in a late night sweatbox with repetitive music on so loud that the only way to communicate is to shout directly into the other person ear is social.  Having a man breathing his stale beer breath down your neck while you try to decipher his alcohol fuelled banter, spittle peppering your cheek as he spills his pint of overpriced Belgian piss over your new DC’s is not what I consider a fun night out.

Then you have the rucks.

Put your hands up if you have ever witnessed or been involved in some kind of drunken brawl.

I see a lot of hands there.

I live directly next to one of the bigger party pubs in my town and from Thursday to Sunday night I hear at least five maybe six fights a weekend.  People go out for ‘a good time’ and end up getting the shit kicked into them in a kebab shop cause some pack of pissed blokes got thrown out of a bar and want to satisfy their anger.

It’s no wonder many of us have taken to locking our doors with books and wine and cats and internet and films… and wanking.

This isn’t to say that we are not social creatures, we go out, we have friends; it’s a necessity otherwise we would end up killing or masturbating in our own faeces.

I actually know someone that wants to be a crazy cat lady.

Since I have chosen to drop out to focus on my career I have become so accustomed to being at home alone that maybe I might be a little agoraphobic now.  Not in a major way, I can still go to Tesco and to the pub and whatnot but I just chose not to be around people.  It’s probably better for them and me.

And you find that its creative types that chose this way of life.  Artists, musicians, writers, film makers, activists, thinkers, philosopher, bloggers and champions of the new flesh all on the internet on a Friday/Saturday night.

I love the internet at night on the weekend; it’s a nice, smart, funny place to be.  All the little attention seekers, political bores, racist pissheads and boring nobody’s are all out spunking all their cash getting out of their heads for a reason unbeknown to them.

Seriously, if you have to go out on a Friday night and get shit hammered to the point shitting your pants in a cab because you work some dumbass job that you hate, maybe it’s time to reassess the career choice.

But have you noticed that when a group of introverts get together in a social situation they go for it.  9 times out of 10 they will party harder than any other fucker in the place and for longer.  Do you know why this is?

We’ve been stuck indoors for the last two months and all we do all night is drink and take drugs!

We sit in the dark getting fucked up doing whatever creative outlet we have building up the frustration (and substance tolerance) of the mainstream until we are fit to burst, then we hit the town.

Plus you have the added bonus that the majority of us shut-ins are insomniacs and usually are crawling into our pits when you’re getting up for work.  Fuck going out when you’ve been up for work at stupid-o’clock in the morning.  When you starting to feel a bit sleepy we are just waking up.

The point is that there are some of us that have had enough of the outside world and have become totally comfortable with our own company… or the company of an animal of some kind; cat, goldfish, lizard, whatever; in my case it’s a collection of empty wine bottles.

But honestly, the reason that some of us don’t go out and spend all our nights doing shit indoors is because we can’t afford to go out, we’re creative types, like we have real jobs.

We buy our clothes in charity shops and buy our food from discount frozen places for fuck sake; do you think we can afford to drink when you can’t even buy three pints for a tenna nowadays?

So while all you are getting ready for night on the tiles I’m going to get drunk on cheap Australian plonk, troll American children on the net and cry in the shower fully clothed because “no one likes me!”

Whatever, have yourselves a good evening.

Maybe I should go steal a cat? 

It’s a hard road… wear comfy shoes!

Let’s just have a look at following your dreams… just a brief look say in about 1000 words or so.

As some of you may know I have decided to drop out of society and all its trappings to focus on my dream career of being some kind of professional writer.

I have given myself a year as of around April(ish) to give it a real push.

Now, some may think that this is a stupid idea and for the most part I would be inclined to agree with you but… it’s just something that I have to do.

First off, I don’t think I would be able to actually forge a pro-career while working full time which is what I’d have to do as I live alone and wouldn’t be able to afford to live on part time monies.  So I am forced for the first time in over ten years to put my hands out to the state and take whatever I can get.

Secondly, I have been out of work for so long now that writing pretty much all day has now become such a massive part of my daily routine that I would miss it if I did go back to work.  So much so that I would long for it and couldn’t put all my focus on anything else.

You might think ‘wow, he’s actually chasing his dream; good for him’ and I’d like that.  I’d like that a lot.

But there are many pitfalls in choosing this route.

For a start I have to now live like a penniless hermit glued to a screen typing away and sending submission after submission day after day and wait for the inevitable rejection emails to start rolling in.

For the most part I have been kind of lucky in that I have met (online) loads of people that have given me plenty of writing opportunities.  I have been published several times in various formats for varying pay and have had the time to really churn out story after story.

I’ve also been given a great opportunity to write for an up and coming horror webzine; an opportunity that I’m grabbing by the proverbial horns, wrestling to the proverbial ground and fucking the proverbial shit out of.

When I got the first email through, I thought “have they got the right guy?”  Then after a few short correspondents they offered me a feature writing gig with the line ‘if you’re okay with that and can spare the time’.

I flicked through my steadily filling to the point of bursting (sarcasm) diary thinking, “Maybe I can squeeze them in.”

So that’s another thing that’s going for me.

One thing that isn’t going for me is the fact that for at least a year I am going to be so skint it’s unreal.  There are no holidays, festivals, gigs or parties in my direct future.  And do you know what that makes me?

Pretty much un-dateable.

That’s right, who in their right mind would want to date a man that hasn’t got two brass farthings to rub together?

No one, unless I meet someone that’s allergic to going to places that involve spending any money and just likes to sit in the park doing nothing or just hiding watching TV with a £3.50 bottle of red wine and a pound shop multi-pack of crisps once a week.

I don’t think there are many girls out there like that; and if you explain that you have decided to ‘not work’ for a while to focus on a career they kind of look at you like they do in the job centre, like your fucking nuts or just lazy.

Another down side is that you will lose all track of time.

I have trouble remembering what day it is nowadays until one of my friend’s calls to see what I am up to at the weekend which in most cases is bugger all due to lack of funds.

I am staring at a screen for around 12hrs a day, every day hacking away at the keys until I’m mildly happy with what I’ve botched together to send off to a publisher with some begging style cover letter.  So I’m bound to forget a few things.

Here’s a tip… use chores to break up your day.

I usually do some supply shopping in the morning (coffee and donuts) then have breakfast followed by a couple of hours writing.  Then lunch followed by another couple of hours of work (more coffee).  Then I’ll break for an hour and do things like sort my laundry or clean my bathroom or maybe even do the washing up.

Then maybe a light meal followed by writing into the night with a bottle of wine.

As most creative types will tell you, I work better at night.  It’s quiet, dark and no one is going to call or knock on the door.

It also means that I don’t keep regular hours.  It always makes me laugh when I see someone post a status on a social network about having insomnia then an hour later they are offline.  Try going to sleep with a chapter cliff-hanger stuck in your head.

The other day I tossed and turned in bed for about three hours until I had to fire up the laptop and bash out another chapter just to get it out of my head.

Coffee, make friends with it.

It sounds like a cliché and I guess it is but go with it; it’s always helpful to have some kind of focal stimulant close to hand.

I’m not saying you should all go out and buy a shit tonne of speed, just get a really strong brand of coffee and stick with it, even if you get headaches and the shakes from withdrawal off of it.  it also gives you a cheap hobby (the coffee not the speed) that you can indulge that actually enhances your creative output.

For example, today I had a pot of this wicked blend from the Brooklyn Roasting company called 3D… I highly recommend checking it out.  It tastes great, good and strong and won’t break the bank when it comes to living like a bum.

But yeah, so I’m going full bore for a few years so that at some point I can walk into Waterstone’s and be all “I wrote that, yeah!” right next to some fit hipster chicks in the horror section.

Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong, I should try for hipster girls as they’ll probably see me as some bohemian type… or some loaded cougar that wants some arty slave type.

Whatever… should have, would have, could have are three things I will not be reflecting on when I’m on my deathbed.

FIN! x

My legs went all wobbly and I froze up on the ski lift

… I went around and around for almost 12 hours. 

So I just had a freak out during minor surgery and the doctor couldn’t deal with it.

I couldn’t have been his first problem patient surly?  Well when I say problem I mean a bit panicked.

It really was just a simple (superficial) procedure to remove a couple of moles which could develop into nasty little fuckers that might try and kill me.  They had to burn them off with this electronic cauterising thing and after the first one was burnt away, I lost my shit.

I suppose it doesn’t help that I have a phobia of medical/dental procedure and as soon as I was on the table and the light was over head all I could think about was the film ‘The Marathon Man’.

It probably didn’t help that I had only had about 4 hours sleep and a fiction writer’s quota of morning coffee.  If you don’t know how much that is imagine a late 1960’s mini cooper filled with a highly caffeinated liquid with a dash of cinnamon and a straw sticking out of the top.

Maybe some of that gnarly spray cream on top… and a hard Italian biscuit.

Also the smell of my skin being burned away wasn’t the greatest thing to have in your nostrils first thing in the morning.  Most people enjoy the scent of sausage (way-hay) or bacon or the light aroma of fresh bread, not seared human flesh.

Strange things, irrational fears;  a while ago an old work mate told us that he was scared of balloons, not so much the shape more the anticipation of them bursting when they were squeezed.  He used to shudder at the squeaking sound a balloon would make when you gave it a good grope.  It pretty much meant that he couldn’t handle them.

He was one of the night supervisors on the shift after us so I pretty much gave us the green light to fuck with him.

Will filled the safe up with them, hung them from the ceiling in the dispatch office, put them in his jacket, we were even tempted to fill his car with them but we couldn’t procure his keys.  My boss even put his computer mouse into a purple rubber glove, inflated it and sealed it with a zip-tie.

He messaged me the next morning telling me he had to do the paperwork in the upstairs office; genius.

Never tell your work mates that something freaks you out, you will be tortured; and for the sake of decorum I won’t mention him by name… Big Chris!

He is also scared of clowns… as am I.

I know why I’m scared of heights; if anything it’s falling from a great height because it would kill me and I suffer from vertigo which isn’t good on a long escalator, believe me.

But I don’t get why people are scared of things like snakes, especially in the UK.  It’s not like we are inundated by huge venomous reptiles that you find coiled up in every toilet across the land.  If you lived in Australia then fine, they have some gnarly shit out there.

Under every fucking rock there’s something waiting to bite you and fuck you up.  But then you get those nutters that pick them up and stick their fingers in their mouths and all sorts.  I bet those guys are petrified by really stupid shit like cake or ribbons.

I have been living alone for the last couple of months with very minimal contact with humans and I think that it’s driving me mad.  For example, at the moment I think that I’m scared of sleeping.

I really can’t sleep at all, I get a few hours a night and I feel completely knackered.

Being so used to someone sleeping next to you then having to spend your nights alone is horrible.  I keep waking up in fits and starts, I don’t think I’m having nightmares, if I am I can’t recall them.

Although I did remember having a driving lesson dream the other night; it was a little bit odd as I was doing really well.  It was so detailed and realistic that I woke up with a smile on my face; it was a really nice drive.

Nearly came unstuck at the roundabout down by Perry Street but other than that, spot on.

I think it might also be the sleep deprivation that is killing my appetite and when I do get hungry I just end up feeling sick after I’ve eaten.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again the human brain is a funny thing.

Imagine having a phobia of being scared.  How fucked up would your life be?

You’d be a fucking nervous wreck constantly.  Just the idea of anything that anyone might get the chills from would send you into a petrified state.

I can just see someone standing in the street frozen stiff with fear because they thought about being scared of getting clipped by a bus wing mirror.  I’d draw on them with a sharpie.

Then they’d be at home freaking out about the next time the freeze up with fear that someone will come along and draw a penis on their forehead.

I just googled it and according to Wikipedia the fear of phobias is called… wait for it… Phobophobia!  Original name, right?

Check it out – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phobophobia

Seriously, the list of symptoms caused by the fear… holy shit, do people really have this?  That’s amazing; but it is on Wikipedia so it might be complete bollocks.

Fuck, can you imagine having it?

Spending all your waking hours shaking like a dog shiting razorblades about everything; then when you’re asleep, waking in a pool of sweat from stress dreams.  What a life.

I think I’ll just stick with my fear of medical and dental procedures… and heights… and the dark… and big fuck off spiders.

I can’t stay around my mate’s house as he once said that he would put his Mexican Red-kneed Tarantula on my face if I fell asleep on the sofa so he could take a photo.

Bastard!

I did say that if I saw the pick on the internet I was going to fill that spider tank with a kettles worth of boiling water.

This is why I’m also scared to pass out at parties.

The other night someone said that I looked 25

It was a girl and she was pretty hot (why she was talking to me we will never know) and I had to buy her a drink for making my night.  She wasn’t my type at all (I’m lying I don’t have a type, I mean well out of my league) but she was okay I guess. 

We did shots and talked shit for about an hour.  We got pretty fucked.

I told her that I was in fact 28.

It was hard to keep a straight fucking face.

But then today I got a dirty look from a disabled kid wearing a fucking Pikachu hat on the escalator at ASDA so I don’t know what to believe anymore.

I mean he may have been disabled; he had one of those fat kid faces where it’s so fat he looked sort of Chinese and had a blank, miserable look on him.  There was drool on his chin and he rolled his eyes at me.

Today I wanted to punch a child and he may or may not have been mentally/physically disabled.

I called him a prick in front of his fucking parents and they did nothing.

And before you all go on the offensive about me calling a possibly disabled fat kid a prick, he fucking started it.  Everyone’s always going on about treating everyone equally anyway so fuck it, who the fuck are you to judge.

Deep down inside me I wanted that kid to get his feet stuck in that escalator, ripping his leg off at the knee.  I would have taken a selfie with the fat little bastard and laughed doing it.

Put that in your fucking political correct pipe and smoke it… but you have to go outside as there is a country wide smoking ban.

You can tell that I’m a little hung over because I have already used variants of the word ‘FUCK’ nine times… including the one I highlighted just then in this sentence… fuck! (Ten)

I like round numbers. 

Speaking of numbers, I never got that girl’s number, maybe she was just in it for the free booze?  I dunno I just don’t get humans sometimes.

Saying that I did break one of my own rules the other night and it’s one that I’m usually good at sticking too.

If I don’t have money in my pocket then I don’t go out.

It’s a simple rule down to the fact that I don’t like being a fucking bum.  I was all ready for a night in catching up on some submission work that needed doing when via several social networks messages and offers of beer gratis.

I really do have some awesome friends because I left the pub wankered. 

It was at that moment when I put the key in my front door and turned on my computer that I realised I only had a few hours left of my submission deadline to edit around 6000 words.

I was fucked.

So once again I have decided to knock the booze (and other such nonsense) on the head for a good long while so that I can concentrate on my career.

And it’s not like I have any money anymore, choosing to drop out to become a writer when living on your own means that you will live like a penniless hermit for quite some time.  Dropping the booze and fags from my life is probably a wise move financially.

And as for a health point of view it can’t hurt to give the old liver a bit of a breather for a few months.  It will probably thank me.  Let’s face it, there’s no point building a career only to die because of constant intoxication before it takes off.

Some bloke just got punched in the alleyway next to my house.  I love living around here.  The other night someone violently broke into one of the flats around back using a broken bench from the pub as a battering ram.  The police turned up about half an hour after they cleaned the place out into the back of a van.

Turns out she was a prostitute that owned some dealers money so they went round to collect.  I know what you’re thinking… classy neighbourhood.

There would be more junkies around here but the Polish skinheads keep stabbing them and setting them on fire.  So that’s a good thing, at least I’m not going to get mugged by a junky… just knifed when a skinhead mistakes me for a junkie at night.

I try not to go out with my hood up.

Fucking bonehead Polish football nazis, what an area.  Still, it’s cheap and there’s nothing that can’t be sorted with a trusty cricket bat.

But I’m not going to dwell on the fact that where I live is a bit shit.

A bloke with a Scottish accent on my TV is reporting on this massive avalanche that destroyed this town somewhere cold and he just said “one witness described it as a tsunami of snow”… so a fucking avalanche then.

I don’t think anyone has used the reverse to describe a tsunami; “It was like an avalanche of water”, get the fuck out of here.

I don’t really know where this blog post is meant to be going but now that it’s nearly over I think I’m going to miss it.

I guess it’s a little more upbeat than my last one, it couldn’t have gotten anymore gloomy if you ask me, ha-ha.  I got a lot of emails on that one telling me that I was brave and that it must have taken a lot to project that kind of stuff.

If you want to know the truth, it took a bottle of wine and me punching a hole through my bathroom wall.  I didn’t however go to sleep crying after masturbating in my own shit, which was implied that I did that night in another email that I got.

I do like hate mail, it makes me chuckle; some of ya’ll take this shit well serious.

But to all those that genuinely give a fuck and sent messages when I was going through (still going through) some hard time… I truly thank you.

Cheers to all of you and know that it means a lot.

And to all the haters… keep it coming bozos, I’ve got more heart than you can possibly imagine and have been through more shit than your pathetic lives can comprehend.

Try not to fucking die or anything… that would break my fucking heart.