On the train back to Brighton and London once again proved itself to be a pretty unhappy place. I woke up to the regular screams and shouts of my brother and father. My brother and I had a long conversation about his unhappiness at being around the parents and how they’re essentially ruining and ruling his life. My words were lost on him, and his lack of motivation was disturbing and saddening. He had all but given up on any responsibility in his life, happy to blame others and sit back in his sorrow. His conclusion was that his life was fucked and there was nothing he could do about it.

Then he showed me a video of him skydiving, apparently the best thing he’s done in his life. I watched on his ridiculously huge mac screen as he sat on the plane, smile across face and thumbs up, anticipating his jump. I could feel his tension and understand his excitement. After the jump, I saw him happy for the first time during my stay there, despite viewing it through a digital format.

The wind blew and washed away the problems plagueing his past, the worry in his future. Heart racing, blood pumping and adrenaline rushing, he was caught in the moment as he descended from the sky. Ironically, in those seconds he no longer had his head in the clouds and had given himself to the present. There were no what ifs, no what will bes… He was just being.

Gravity stole despair’s grip on him and his smile was infectious. It was like watching him as a child again, with no worries, no problems. The man on his back guided him like an airborn guardian, before pulling the chute and stealing my happy brother away from the camera and me.

And then the video stopped playing and the screen turned black, and I saw him staring back at his reflection, as if he was still there in the sky, freefalling to who knows and cares what. And then reality hit as I had to return to Brighton, and he to his life in shackles. I turned to him and his expression changed. Now I was looking at a different person.

Girls in Brighton seemed to have lowered their standards considerably lately, since a few seem to have consecutively thrown themselves at me the last time I was out. The clouds have cleared in the sky, so I dunno, maybe they’ve been staring at the sun a bit too long? Either way, I’ve been quite reluctant to leave the house since in case I’d break my streak of luck… and the stories I do have to tell are quite embarassing/disgusting so I’ll skip them for now.
I’d like to stop talking about my obsession with trying to get laid and sounding like a character out of an American teen flick and get back to how I say very stupid things sometimes. Last time I commented that I’m the end product of a (successful) rape attempt. I think I’ve topped it.

Right, so the student elections have come around again, in which we have to nominate some people to take up some silly positions to govern the student body. One of these positions is “Activities Officer” which sounds ridiculously easy, what with involving going around to clubs/pubs and telling them you will fill it full of students who have too much money to waste that they don’t actually have. You then get to sit in an office all day and get paid for doing nothing apart from appear to be over enthusiastic about everything, like a less colourful Sesame Street character.

Last year, a guy I’ll refer to as ‘Uglydickwad’ was elected. Unfortunatley, in 2008 he got a bit jealous that in the Summer when a big group of American students came to campus had taken a liking to me. On one occassion I made his very lame attempts at chatting up a few students fall flat on his face and expose him for the sleaze he is. The next Summer just gone, he made life pretty difficult for me by getting bouncers to refuse me entry to clubs, spread rumours that I’m some kind of rapist – which is apparently, now what my Dad is – and just generally be a big cunt.

So, since then my friends and I have mocked how INSANELY ugly this guy is. Like, amazingly. Circus ugly. Talented ugly. In a zoo ugly. We like to mock his very weird way of talking by reclining into chairs and acting like what some might call a “retard.” Of course, he’s not retarded… I think. We assume he’s just a very ugly, unfortunate person. Even by what you might call disabled standards.

So today, when voting opened I made it my mission to let everyone I know not to vote for Uglydickwad, because he’s a prick and a retard. As I told my friend about all this we walked through the campus bar, passing a voting booth. I took it upon myself to remind him once again, making sure to be extra loud about it so the room full of people would hear me express my hate for Uglydickwad.

“You should vote. But remember who you shouldn’t vote for… The retard.“

I suddenly stopped and remembered that someone else was running in the elections for a different position:

For fuck’s sake.

Saturday was an unexpected one.
It was my friend’s birthday and instead of avoiding most of the people I know, I decided to take up her offer to see her at her house for a while and then come back home and do some work for once. I ended up being persuaded to go to a club with her and her friends. I wasn’t really “ready” to go out and didn’t “plan” it so had no expectations.

I certainly didn’t expect that would be the one night I FINALLY could have got laid. It didn’t happen of course, because I’m Kenny; the guy who always has half stories to tell about how things go wrong. My penis needs a compass and map. Possibly one of those dogs for the blind, too.
After a long night of touchy-feely I went back home on Sunday and spent two days quivering because I was so bloody sexually frusturated. My friends convince me to go out again, promising me “I’ll get you laid.”
And boy, do I need it.

In my state I forgot promising me that is like promising me a chicken that lays Golden Eggs. But hey, it almost happened on Saturday, how hard could it be to get laid after all? Maybe things had changed.

Things hadn’t changed, it’s still impossible to get laid.
But unlike Saturday when I didn’t have to do anything and most of the time, when I’m trying to do ANYTHING to chat up the girl, I learnt the very obvious lesson that sometimes, the only thing you have to do is NOT SCREW UP. Last night was one of those times.

I’m in the smoking area, talking to a girl, drink in hand, sharing her cigarette. I look deep in her eyes, she stares back, a slightly mischevious grin escaping the corners of my mouth. She’s smiling, her pupils dilating. My gaze falls down to her lips and then, back to her eyes, the colour escaping me now. We take no steps, but for a split second of silence, somehow have been drawn closer to one another.
“How come you have such nice eyes…” she asks, still staring as if hypnotized. Is this the moment? There’s that tension within the silence between both of you, that is amplified to the point where the world around you seems to vanish into thin air, the sounds of talking and laughing there… somewhere, in a far off place…

“My Dad raped the right woman.”

Yes, take that in for a second. Let it sink in, deep.
Her face sort of drops, something having left those colourless eyes and something returning to takes its place. My eyes widen a bit as I realise what I’ve said. I remember thinking up that joke in the shower a while ago, and that it was hilarious, but is it appropriate? I decided that it probably would be around guys, but the word “rape” as I had just proven, strikes a disgusting amount of fear into females. I decided it was best never to say it to a girl, let alone one I didn’t know/was trying to sell myself to.

Now I had sold myself as the son of a rapist. Which isn’t true, but she was looking at me like it was fucking genetic or something? Damn, bitch, it’s my Dad, not me! Sins of our Fathers and all that. She’s saying something, but I’m not really listening because I’m having a conversation with myself about how stupid I am.
I contemplate whether I should play along and pretend I actually AM the spawn of a sick, deranged but apparently, very pretty eyed sexual offender. No, that won’t make me anymore attractive to her. She comments on how it’s a bad joke, I think she’s very wrong. But I agree with her anyway and I THINK I keep up my smooth streak by telling her I meant to say my Dad picked the right woman to get an arranged marraige to.

She doesn’t buy it. APPARENTLY arranged marraiges and rape are two completely different things.

I’m a smooth operator. Can’t touch this.
You won’t want to.

I defrosted chicken, now I have to eat it. I chop the chicken, now I have to cook it. I open the fridge for something to go with it and all I find are eggs. Now I’m eatings eggs and chicken.

It tastes like incest.

Is it strange that because I’m talking to a black girl on Facebook chat that I get an uncontrollable urge to listen to rap music at the same time? Like, to set the mood or something?

… or as I find out today, they really don’t.

Alrighty, despite usually not giving into New Year resolutions because a) I believe you can make changes at any point in time and b) I’m too lazy to stick to said changes, I sort of caved in this year. A friend made setting goals and stuff sound very appealing and constructive, so I’ve SORT OF made multiple resolutions, or more like set a few ‘goals’ or tasks at hand. Part of this means doing more interesting things, enjoying life a lot more and to stop being such a little bitch.

That also means having a clear, free, floaty light head devoid of all pressures and starting over and reinventing STUFF. Until I can do that though, I have to DESTROY the last thing that’s been carried over from the last year, and would  you believe it? It’s an essay.
I’m sure at some point in the future another parasitic problem will appear and try and suck my soul from my eye sockets, but hopefully by then I’ll be so high on my ‘new’ life, I’ll just beat the shit out of it with a baseball bat. And pour salt on it, because I’ll have beat it so hard that it’ll have open wounds and have a similar biology to that of a slug, resulting in a slow, painful, salty dissolving death. Yeah, shit’s gonna get real, yo.

So, I made a promise to myself that I won’t leave my house or indulge in anything that I might get pleasure out of until the 14th when the essay deadline is. If there is a God, he’s a very ironic motherfucker as he decided to throw a lot of snow all over the country, giving me a week extension on the essay. Now, this is good in the sense I have more time to do the essay, bad in the sense that I also have more time to waste. And if I ever have the choice to waste time over doing productive shit, I’ll pick wasting time. Yes, this needs to stop and I will address this soon enough.

So I call my good friend who also has a deadline soon and figured that because I’ve decided to hide away from all that is good in the world and not do work, everyone else is doing the same.
WRONG.

He tells me he’s going out tonight to get drunk and invites me along. I spend five minutes calling him a bastard for trying to break my knowledge-chastity. You know when people try to train animals (mainly dogs, I guess you wouldn’t do this with a hippo or rhino) by putting food in front of them and waiting to see if they’ll take it when they shouldn’t? Yeah, now I know what it feels like and it’s fucking CRAP.

But yes, willpower won the day and I turned down the night out for a night in with my blog. I am so cool.
And then, whilst I’m researching a movie about a gay Austrian, I get a text at 12:50am from my friend:

**** got bj from a girl

… okay, no disrespect to ****, but I quite often doubt his ’skillz’ at landing the ladies. A doubt I might have to put to rest someday. Today is not that day, as I’m going to continue to be the little pretentious bitch I was because it’s not time to hand in the essay yet. Okay, ready?

THAT WAS MY BLOWJOB!!

Yes, maybe I’m just being jealous because of the whole” from a girl” part of the text. I might not care so much if it read “from a guy” or “from a komodo dragon”… perhaps a little if it was a komodo dragon. Just because I could say I did it.
Of all the nights I decide to stay in (and I rarely do so) I pick the one when the most slutty, possibly short-sighted girls are out in full force. I’m not saying that I would rather recieve oral sex than write a decent essay and get a good mark, but… actually, yeah that’s exactly what I’m saying.
Clearly studying is a huge waste of time and a danger to world peace and my already non-existent sex life and I should spend less time focusing on being disciplined and intellectual than going out and standing in the corner of a nightclub alone and awkwardly wondering what the girls would look like naked or dressed like Pikachu.

So whilst my friends are out partying, getting blowjobs, and probably winning the fucking lottery I’m writing in my blog. I think I made the right decision.
God, I fucking hope she was ugly.

It’s been quite annoying not having access to money this whole term. I missed out on a lot retail therapy and… what’s that thing called again? Oh, right, eating. That’s the one. Special offers have slapped me across the face and flown by, but I finally got it a few weeks ago. At long last I had that delicious £1000 lying in my bank, ready to use after spending 37 hours in the library in my traditional attempt to get an essay done.
37 hours of failing university seemed to take a lot out of me, because I instantly forgot my pin and the machine ate it after the third (wrong) attempt. FUCK. I started to get quite paranoid after a while, as I had to order a replacement three times before I actually got it.

I was at the bank so often getting new cards that they either thought I started working there, was a new contemporary piece of furniture or I was planning to rob the place. Little did they know I was just burning all my cards so I had an excuse to stalk Alice, the blonde girl who works there and doesn’t seem to do much but hide when I come in. Weird. She smells pretty.
But really, that card business was a piss take.

1. I get a replacement sent back home to London. Mother recieves it to wrong address in Brighton. Yay.
2. I change my address to one in Brighton as Mother is incompetent. So is the postal service; card never comes.
3. I go to another bank and ask them for a new card (I lose a lot of cards). After 3 weeks they say it was never ordered. Yay.
4. I order cards from each one more time.

And they finally fucking get to me! Yes! About time.
I’m not sure why the hell it’s taken so long for the cards to get to me. Paranoia started to get to me as I begun to think those 2 filthy Italians I live with were stealing them as they came in the post to pay their debts back to the Mafia. Either that or there was some kind of huge conspiracy in the mail services trying to stop me getting my loan so that eventually, Alice would acknowledge me as her stalker and call the police who would put me in jail where I would be put in the same cell as a very big, strong homosexual man who had been reading my blog and taken a liking to me and planned this whole thing out just so he could rape me. Here’s the twist: he’s the head of the bank AND mail services!!!

Yeah, whatever. Either way I got my card, with lots of cash at my disposal at long last. Today however, I got another letter… only this one had been taped shut at the back. Maybe someone had been going through my bloody mail! It must have been the Italians! I mean, one of them has gone home for Christmas but I’m sure he had the time and money to fly back for one morning to go through my mail.
So I opened it to take a look at what super secret documents were stuffed inside…

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Better luck next time, motherfucker!
I mean, it could just be a ploy by the guy on the phone who I spoke to about activating my card. He seemed pretty desperate to sell this stuff to me and probably thought it would be clever to make it look like someone was going through my mail so I would give into it.

Either way, I’m going to post some anthrax and black widow spiders to myself, and maybe make it smell like pepperoni in case those Italian fuckers are the ones opening my shit.

A while ago I mentioned I couldn’t bring myself over to the idea of carrying around a camera like most people seem to do these days, and stop and take photos of myself in everyday situations, putting on my best fake smile to make it look like I actually enjoy walking around in the rain, or riding the bus. Facebook tells me that I’ve been tagged in over 1000 pictures though, which means I’ve made the right kind of photo-taking friends who are going to graduate to become paparazzi. I’m lucky like that, because I’m crap at taking photos myself; I was uploading some from my phone which I’ve had for around a year and it totalled to around 20 photos. So around 1.6 photos a month. Yes, I am the ultimate photo whore.

But then I realised that it’s actually FUN to go around taking pictures of stuff. I started to see how entertaining it is to go around intentionally looking for ridiculous and stupid shit, then trying to put a story along with it by making it a bigger deal than it actually is. Basically, imitating the work of the media today. I still can’t get my head around the idea of going to a club and wearing the same expression from an angle and ending up with the same photo a hundred times but with a different dickhead in the background trying to be funny. You could be doing better things with your hands, like punching yourself in the face or masterbating. Hell, you have two hands, you can do both at the same time!

But yes, now I had seen the light and would be even more overly-analytical, inquisitive and slightly cynical about the world around me by providing photographic evidence of my insanity! 2 days ago, it started snowing pretty heavily in Brighton, so I decided to get out my camera and run around taking photos of the town turned white. Which is proof as to how fucked up and unpredictable the weather is in England. If by some miracle it’s not raining, people feel the need to run out and take a million photos of the snow or sunshine. I personally never leave the house when the sun is out, because I’ve forgotten what it is. I refuse to believe it exists here anymore, and that it’s really just some kind of trick to get us out the house so the rain can get us.
So, I decided to go to my University campus where the snow would be extra deep. What I saw was sliding down hills and HUGE snowmen and attacking foreign students with snowballs and then bricks if they thought we were initiating a fun-filled snowball fight.

So yes, knowing my luck the minute I start developing a fetish for taking photos of snow struck landscapes, wildlife and my friends in the shower, the snow decides to fucking eat my camera. Suddenly, it being so plentiful and deep wasn’t a good thing. I looked around for ages, but couldn’t find it anywhere and it’s much easier to be paranoid and blame others for your own shortcomings, so between me and you… I think it was either the Chinese or Indian guys that my friend and I kind of know. I don’t want to seem like I’m pointing fingers because they’re from Asia, but I think they definitely took it because they’re Asian. I’m starting to think that India and China sent out special agents to for some reason, steal my camera, causing me to hate the once joy-bringing snow, ensuring a coalition between the two countries. At first, this sounded a bit irrational, maybe even crazy. But it makes more sense than admitting I’m a clumsy dumbass.

So yeah, after all the walking around town, taking photos of the beach covered in a blanket of snow, the photgraphic proof of me stopping a bank robbery whilst stuck in a sleeping bag and wearing a Burger King crown and the videos of us sledging and sliding down steep hills on a metal sheet, I really only have one photo relevant to my whole experience in the snow:

Yes, cutting the fingers off my only pair of gloves suddenly didn’t seem so — oh shit, stupid pun — COOL anymore. And the shit photo quality of my phone does not make me any less angry angry at this jackass snow that refuses to melt.

Fuck this shit and bring the Summer on so I can whine about how hot it is.

Hohoho, see what I did there with the title? Well you will soon, it’s quite relevant.

So, today I thought it might be worth doing some of that weird shit called “schoolwork”. You know, because I’m always interested in trying new things like that. So I went to get my pen out of my bag to see if I can still remember how to spell and write properly, when I felt a big pile of plastic wrappers at the bottom of it. As I’m broke, I get hungry quite often because food is not really a necessity anymore, but a very tasty luxury. What I pulled out was these:

You see, this term I’ve missed out on a lot of classes because staying in my bed is better than education, although I’ve been having trouble persuading girls this is the case. I should probably get a refund on that hypnotism course and buy a gun or Rohypnol instead. They’re more convincing.
So yeah, I started getting tutors on my back and the library saying I owe them £30 for not returning their books. Apparently, you actually have to give the books BACK at some point after taking them out! Crazy, huh?! Worst fucking bookshop ever, I think I’ll be sticking to Amazon from now on. And they must be getting wise to my excuses, because aliens can only abduct and rape your girlfriend and put her in a state of severe depression so many times before people get a bit suspicious.

Come to think of it, I’m sure they were fine with the idea of rapist aliens from outer space (title of my next porno, by the way, keep a lookout for it), but the thought of me having a girlfriend is what set the alarms ringing. I doubt even a Scientologist suffering from ADHD (aka Tom Cruise) can suspend that much disbelief.

Luckily, I actually did catch swine flu and was off to the good doctor to give me a note to excuse me from struggling out of a vodka coma in the morning and evade school. Outside the medical centre was a big box decorated quite festively. By ‘festively’ I really mean they just threw one piece of stringy glittery shit on it, but as I haven’t celebrated Christmas in a long time, that’s pretty decent by my standards. It also had some kind of enticing, alluring Christmas message, but I forget. Probably something that said “free”, because I recall getting quite excited and there’s only three words that get me excited: “alcohol,” “free” and “bestiality”. Put them all in the same sentence and I’d make quick work of all those condoms.

I looked in the box and felt kind of dissapointed. I’m not sure what I was expecting outside a medical clinic. A syringe? Plasters? A cheeseburger? You know, something I could actually USE? But hey, free is free, right? I’m a sucker for anything cheap (just look at me ex-wife) and nothing spells the birth of the son of God like wrapping a piece of rubber around your penis and engaging in pre-marital sex, so who am I to say no to such holy relics? You never know, I might get lucky and bump into a girl blind, deaf and stupid enough to actually test them out with, but I think necrophilia is illegal, so probably not. Either way, I dug my hands in and pulled a pile out and into my bag, and as I looked up a girl was watching me with a look that read, “Yeah, right.”
She was probably playing hard to get, and I hope her test results come back positive.

So yes, parents better be locking up their daughters (and pets), because now I’m equipped with more condoms then I know what to do with and a brand new mattress that doesn’t impale you with springs and absorb all the blood! But wait, what’s this on the back of the packet?

The fuck? This shit as an EXPIRY DATE?!
There’s even a frigging hourglass next to it, no pressure, guys. I mean, I know it’s good for another three years, but getting a black belt in Karate and being able to efficiently beat up girls into having sex with me won’t happen for another five, at least! And as far as other options go, I’m fairly sure I won’t have enough money saved up for another my first prostitute by then, what with all the university debt to follow. Jeez, in the words of my ex-wife, “what an anti-climax.”

It’s not all bad news though.

Not only were they free, but these ones are actually chocolate flavoured. As I have no money and usually have to resort to eating my furniture, I’m sure these will make a tasty, long-lasting treat!  Like latex chewing gum. Mmm. I’m already throwing up in my mouth, making it a great way to stay in shape.
Or to be less of a latex-licking homosexual, I could make balloon animals out of them, like a sexually deprived clown. The thought that clowns get more ass than me is deeply depressing.

So, now I have three years to get laid over 20 times. As I typed that, I didn’t see any flying pigs outside of the window (it’s 6:30 am, they’re probably still sleeping), so I’ll assume it’s possible. I’ll start outside the opticians where the chicks can’t see and the Weight Watchers meetings where they can’t run. I’m sure they’ll love the chocolate flavoured ones.

You know, because they’re fat.

Today, I’m going to post about nothing of any real relevance. Which is basically what I do all the time on this website. And keeping in line with the tradition, I’m only doing so in order to escape the fact I have a shit load of work to do.

I used to be big on videogames; the most exciting thing that could happen to me is reading games magazines and the release of some game I wanted for ages. It was the best of times, it was the geekiest of times. I used to clean my room, have a shower, shave, cut my nails and fucking GROOM myself before playing a new game for the first time. Like it was some supermodel that was blind enough to decide to have sex with me… and I didn’t even have to pay!!

Then I came to University where I discovered the wonders of alcohol, amongst other things such as drugs and debt. So now I can’t really afford to get excited about games since I’m too busy failing my degree and being a wild, social butterfly on ecstasy, a friendship finding fiend. So, whilst I’m waiting for games to become so cheap that homeless people will pay me to take them off their hands, I have to resort to watching OTHER people play them on Youtube. Yes, I realise that makes me even more of  a loser than I used to be, considering I actually used to play the bloody things as opposed to watching some stranger doing all the fun bits for me and uploading them to the internets.

I’d love to make this a big post on how much of a geek I am and how the sight of Sonic the Hedgehog turns me on beyond belief (it must be the way he wears nothing but red shoes… mmm…), but no. There is a more serious matter at hand here.

I was playing watching someone else play that new game, “Assassin’s Creed 2″, which is set in Italy and you play as an Italian guy who actually speaks REAL ITALIAN. The developers were thinking outside of the box when they made this, you see. Anyways, as I was watching I couldn’t help thinking how amazing Renaissance Italy seems, everything about it is so classy, romantic and cultured. The language itself is beautiful sounding. And then it got me thinking…
Why can’t my housemate sound like that?

See, I live with a Italian bouncer, who is from Italy and speaks Italian; he’s the works. He eats pizza, occasionally cooks pasta and has Parmesan cheese in the fridge, which he always blames me for stealing. I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do with Parmesan cheese considering my diet consists of vodka, beer and instant noodles, but I digress; this dude is Italian. You can tell because beyond all the stereotypical things I listed, his last name is something like ‘Giovanni’. Nuff said. But he’s nothing like the Italian people video games have taught me about! He’s not charming, he’s no amazing chef, he doesn’t collect coins and shoot fireballs, doesn’t have a magic carpet and he’s no smooth talker. I can see none of this amazing Venice type stuff when he’s trying to subtly hint that he will use his (illegal!) tazer on me if I don’t wash up my dishes.
The fact I know he’s trying to subtly threaten me with electricity hints that being subtle isn’t his strong point. Is it even possible to be subtle about something like that? It’s like being Zeus or an electric eel and trying to pretend you won’t shock someone. You’re fucking Zeus/electric eel! It’s what you do!*

Anyways, I’m constantly having to listen to him SHOUTING Italian words down his phone. At least I think it’s a phone, I don’t see him doing it. Judging by the volume of his voice, I’m guessing he has two cup threaded to Italy to talk to his mother or something… and the reception is bad, I don’t know. I always thought German was the most unpleasant language to have to listen to, like someone trying to cough up a hissing cat… but this guy really puts Italian to shame. Maybe “Assassin’s Creed 2″ lied to me, because for the most part the characters speak English, but with an Italian accent.
Is it possible to NOT shout in Italian? There’s a frigging wall and ceiling between us and I can hear you, if the phone placed conveniently next to your mouth as you do it has trouble picking up the sound, can I introduce you to my friend “email”? He’s quite patient and you “talk” by doing this thing called “typing”, and you can do that as loud as you want!

So after accepting that the Italian is the language equivalent of a big firework and NOT the smooth, chocolatey goodness with a caramel centre, I wondered if it could get any worse.
Hint: wondering if it could get any worse usually tends to make some higher power PROVE that yes, actually; it can get worse.

Now he’s had a friend move in, who low and behold is also Italian, from Italy and she speaks Italian. So now he can shout ALL THE TIME! YAAAYYY!! It’s quite annoying, because I keep hearing them having shouting matches and exchanging verbal blows, thinking that they’re going to try and kill each other and hide the body on some pizza base and use the blood as sauce on some spaghetti and feed me it, which I’ll probably eat because I can’t really afford food. But then, 5 minutes later I hear them laughing as if nothing happened. Either Italian people descended from angry Goldfish and kept the memory span, or they just like to shout a lot. Or both.

* If my housemate is reading this, in no way, shape or form was I implying you are an electric eel. Please don’t taze me