'London scares me, that bouncer scares me, and that tramp over there really scares me.' -Will, The Inbetweeners
I think starting every post with italics, regardless of whether it's a quote or fiction from meself, adds a touch of class to an otherwise classless public show. Like hot rampant sex in a town square, but while wearing top hats.
More than once, at least while it was still airing new episodes, it was (admittedly rarely) made mention that I resembled the above character, Will, in some manner. Whether it was the annoying voice, the abyssal lack of social know-how, or general all-round nerdosity (that should be patented; I'd earn millions!), comparisons were made. For anyone who knows the show, they might well agree. For the most part I'd tell them to leave me and Will alone, and go back to playing with my dolls. Yes, dolls. Don't judge me. They listen. More than can be said for you...
The canny reader will see the 'for the most part'. They win an e-...erm, an e-...hippo! Yes, an e-hippo, to ride through the streams of data and information, for devouring your troll foes. Fear not those who didn't, I've just pointed it out. Keep up, haven't got all day. As mentioned in my previous post, I want to do a post a week min. . I've decided a Wednesday would be a good day. I don't know, the Sorting Hat did it all. And so I was sat here, watching Will and chums stumble their way through myriad embarrasments, pelting my brain with stones to spark some life there. 'Think you fleshy, juicy bastard, think!!' I cried, and my parents seemed worried.
But by some deity-given chance, this dialogue crops up, and by happenstance the strands of fate fell into place as dropped strands are wanted to do, along with some commentary on dear bloggy's master's social state. I think...I don't know what to call it. My essence, my lifeblood, that which I am. Such commentary being 'would you agree that generally as a person you are scared?'. Straight to the heart of the matter there, cracked ribs and pissing blood as the heart is ripped asunder for all to see.
And so the two strands connect, and for once I agree with Will. Not just about London, or bouncers, or those of the domicile disadvantaged. I spend a good portion (or bad, depending on your viewpoint) of my thought-watts on worrying. Because shit is scary. And now I can feel it. Those eyes of yours boring down on me. I couldn't care less. Because I'm the one with fall-back plan after fall-back plan if the mutant hordes discover that squirrel meat not only sustains them, but allow them to fly. And then I'll be laughing at your corpse. Ha ha, corpsy.
In all honesty, real life is terrifying enough. At the time of writing, riots are cropping up all over the country. Not near me granted, but for those involved they can't own many unsoiled undergarments. Scale it back even more, and I'm still scared. Alcohol. That soul-sucking little bastard. I hear you whispering, 'drink me, drink right up', telling me I'll have a good time. Yeah, all that collapsing and vomit really appeals to my sense of wellbeing!
I've know full well that the terror is holding me back. The aforementioned relation to ethanol. I don't touch the stuff, but spend plenty of time around those who do. They like it. Love it. Want to copulate with the hangover inducing bitch. And I'm sat there like a turd in a swimming pool while it takes care of their sorrows. Sure it might be a little worrying, but I'm the one losing out on an experience. Fair play to those who enjoy it.
The canny reader will see the 'for the most part'. They win an e-...erm, an e-...hippo! Yes, an e-hippo, to ride through the streams of data and information, for devouring your troll foes. Fear not those who didn't, I've just pointed it out. Keep up, haven't got all day. As mentioned in my previous post, I want to do a post a week min. . I've decided a Wednesday would be a good day. I don't know, the Sorting Hat did it all. And so I was sat here, watching Will and chums stumble their way through myriad embarrasments, pelting my brain with stones to spark some life there. 'Think you fleshy, juicy bastard, think!!' I cried, and my parents seemed worried.
But by some deity-given chance, this dialogue crops up, and by happenstance the strands of fate fell into place as dropped strands are wanted to do, along with some commentary on dear bloggy's master's social state. I think...I don't know what to call it. My essence, my lifeblood, that which I am. Such commentary being 'would you agree that generally as a person you are scared?'. Straight to the heart of the matter there, cracked ribs and pissing blood as the heart is ripped asunder for all to see.
And so the two strands connect, and for once I agree with Will. Not just about London, or bouncers, or those of the domicile disadvantaged. I spend a good portion (or bad, depending on your viewpoint) of my thought-watts on worrying. Because shit is scary. And now I can feel it. Those eyes of yours boring down on me. I couldn't care less. Because I'm the one with fall-back plan after fall-back plan if the mutant hordes discover that squirrel meat not only sustains them, but allow them to fly. And then I'll be laughing at your corpse. Ha ha, corpsy.
In all honesty, real life is terrifying enough. At the time of writing, riots are cropping up all over the country. Not near me granted, but for those involved they can't own many unsoiled undergarments. Scale it back even more, and I'm still scared. Alcohol. That soul-sucking little bastard. I hear you whispering, 'drink me, drink right up', telling me I'll have a good time. Yeah, all that collapsing and vomit really appeals to my sense of wellbeing!
I've know full well that the terror is holding me back. The aforementioned relation to ethanol. I don't touch the stuff, but spend plenty of time around those who do. They like it. Love it. Want to copulate with the hangover inducing bitch. And I'm sat there like a turd in a swimming pool while it takes care of their sorrows. Sure it might be a little worrying, but I'm the one losing out on an experience. Fair play to those who enjoy it.
I on the other hand, feel the sledgehammer of terrible possibility smashing its way through my cranium and pulping my thinking muscle. I worry. Not as much as my 'cranked up to 11' posturing might suggest possibly (possibly), but still a fair bit. I can understand that the best picture you could be getting from this is a quivering agoraphobe, far from it. I love risk. Getting the adrenaline pumping's good fun at times.
But sometimes, damnit, no matter where I am or who I'm with, I'm on edge. I might not know quite what to say, or when to say what I might say. I used to care barely a smidgeon, but as time wears on and the need to be social increases, what comes with being social becomes scary. Exams? Ppft, *shoulder shrug*. Talking to someone you don't know, even to order a pizza? *voice become a low, inaudible mess*.
It needs to change. I know. You can't avoid human contact forever y'know. I tried, and when they found me they wretched from the smell. Eventually I'll be calm around vodka. I won't touch it, but it won't earn my vicious ire. Alcohol, that elusive creature known as 'the female', interviews, new people. They'll be easy, I'll be fine. That would be a good present. *wink wink*. Ah, who gives a shit about subtlety, someone buy me fearlessness! I can act it well enough but below that thin veneer of confidence bubbles a witches' brew of forever being on edge.
Which is why, as I finally get to the bloody relevance of the whole thing, when you no longer have to feel on edge about something rather overbearing, it feels less like a weight's been lifted up off my shoulders; much more like the morbidly rotund chap has decided that today, my face will not be his stool. Thank fuck.
Fear not the big scary monster in the closet...he needs a hug, and to get laid.
P.S. I'm sure reading this made little sense; stop complaining, this is my blog not yours. So selfish. Exploring my clockwork through the medium of hyperbole and imagery is helpful and fun. While you may not know the underlying reasons for it, I hope it was still a good ride. I only offer good rides. Like rollercoasters. Whoo.
But sometimes, damnit, no matter where I am or who I'm with, I'm on edge. I might not know quite what to say, or when to say what I might say. I used to care barely a smidgeon, but as time wears on and the need to be social increases, what comes with being social becomes scary. Exams? Ppft, *shoulder shrug*. Talking to someone you don't know, even to order a pizza? *voice become a low, inaudible mess*.
It needs to change. I know. You can't avoid human contact forever y'know. I tried, and when they found me they wretched from the smell. Eventually I'll be calm around vodka. I won't touch it, but it won't earn my vicious ire. Alcohol, that elusive creature known as 'the female', interviews, new people. They'll be easy, I'll be fine. That would be a good present. *wink wink*. Ah, who gives a shit about subtlety, someone buy me fearlessness! I can act it well enough but below that thin veneer of confidence bubbles a witches' brew of forever being on edge.
Which is why, as I finally get to the bloody relevance of the whole thing, when you no longer have to feel on edge about something rather overbearing, it feels less like a weight's been lifted up off my shoulders; much more like the morbidly rotund chap has decided that today, my face will not be his stool. Thank fuck.
Fear not the big scary monster in the closet...he needs a hug, and to get laid.
P.S. I'm sure reading this made little sense; stop complaining, this is my blog not yours. So selfish. Exploring my clockwork through the medium of hyperbole and imagery is helpful and fun. While you may not know the underlying reasons for it, I hope it was still a good ride. I only offer good rides. Like rollercoasters. Whoo.
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