Why is it that whenever my hair starts to look like shit, it decides to sort itself out right before I get it cut? As if the prospect of scissors coming near it scares it? If you don’t want to get cut up, do what I tell you, asshole. My hair really needs to grow some balls.

On the way back to Brighton now, this trip to get looked after by the rents cost over £40 it seems. To piss off the Pig Gods for giving me flu and taking my money, I just ate a bacon sandwich. Take that, motherfuckers.

Most of the time, when I’m back home in London, it’s a chance to catch my breath and reflect on events that have gone by, in addition to be massively lazy. Since going to University, trips back here have been infrequent and quite strange and mundane. More often than not, I’ve always found it disgustingly boring here and couldn’t wait to get back to Brighton, where a five mile smile would spread itself across my face once I was back.

Being here for five days now with swine flu has made me realise a few things, other than the fact I’m suffering from insomnia, the apex of my thoughts has led me to this conclusion: I am a PUSSY! I mean, in a year I decided to try living like a nomad, went travelling around India by myself, took my first solo plane journey to LA to get my heart broken, spent almost an entire year of University homeless, befriended a pack of American people and would be able to walk alone into a room full of strangers and walk out with a new network of friends. There was no such thing as ‘impossible’ or anything like that, only exciting challenges and obstacles to overcome.
Now, I’m sitting in bed afraid to go back to big, bad Brighton because Mummy and Daddy won’t be there to wait hand and foot on me and I’ll actually have to leave the house to do things including schoolwork. Sort it out, dude!

I remember my Uncle in India telling me one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard: “It’s easy to go up, hard to come down.” That’s certainly the case here. After a month of all this lying about doing nothing for everything, it’s all become too easy and the thought of actually having to make an effort for anything is daunting and a little scary. Coming back for a week has only made this extremely apparent to me. I’m not opposed to the idea of having a nice bed to lie in as food is put in front of me, but dammit, what happened to the challenge and excitement of life?! The thrill of tomorrow and the potential of today?! You lost it, boy. Go get it back.

I think it’s about time I popped this here bubble and put my feet on solid ground. Get busy living, or get busy dying, right? Also, I think I’ll ignore the fact I spent/wasted most of today updating this very site I’m confessing my lack of  a life to. I just gotta geek out sometimes!!

I’m so gangster, now I can make short posts in this here sidebar. Meaning I can not update my blog from anywhere in the world! It’s exciting times, it really is. Also, although I would happily have sex with my blackberry, the ‘P’ key is feeling quite loose. I like my phones young and TIGHT.

Once upon a time, I was a kid. One evening at my uncle’s house, I sat on some gym equipment in the conservatory as I watched my Dad smoking by the door. A light bulb went off over my head, informing me that one juvenile threat would make Dad’s addiction go away. I figured if I told him I would one day start smoking, it would make him stop. Instead, he threatened to break my neck after exhaling a cloud of toxic shit. Daddy wins.

Or does he?

If I have to trace back my inclination to inhalation of tobacco to a time, I’d say it was earlier this year after going through my first (of many) midlife crises when I started being more impulsive and saying ‘yes’ to things a bit more. That included a spontaneous trip to Oxford with friends, following them into the girl’s bathroom and trying a cigarette in one of the cubicles. Being a lightweight, the buzz was GOOOOOOD. One was enough I think. But then part of my “yes” crusade led me into the hands of some very messed up people, claiming to be “pickup artists.”

LONG STORY.
A lot of it is made up of being in the most chilled out, quiet part of the clubs where all the girls are. Yes, I’m talking about the girl’s bathroom again. No, not really but it holds some truth. Compared to the guy’s, that shit is FANCY. Some even have bloody sofas in them for Christ’s sake!! What else they got in there? A bar? Roller-coaster? I really shouldn’t paint it out to be the most glamorous place in the world, considering the majority of women go there to PISS.

Anyways, enough about urination, where were wee (hahaha)? I’m talking about the smoking area of course, the perfect place for a social whore like myself to run his mouth at people he doesn’t know, but will surely have on his Facebook friend list within a few short days and never speak to again. In that little fenced off circle of cancer, people tend to smoke. Spend too long there and eventually you’ll become one of them, like some delicious, smoky virus. It proved a bit too much for me one time though, as after smoking a WHOLE ROLLIE (like a big boy who can run and jump and everything) to myself, I kind of forgot what that whole ‘balancing’ or ‘gravity’ business was about. A bouncer angrily accused me smoking weed, then looked like he felt a bit sorry for me when he realised it was just tobacco. Ouch.

Then came my Summer of FFFUUUUCCKKK.
A fun filled Summer of stress and excess. To prove that, I kicked started it off by losing my job and consulting half a bottle of vodka over the matter straight afterwards. Smoking naturally followed as my friendly friend of friendship Jamie was always around and rolling and so, a puff would put me at ease and almost on my knees because I’m such a sissy. In all fairness, I only ever gave smoking a mere thought when I was drinking.

Being an alcoholic, this statement doesn’t really count for much.

I spent most, if not all my time around my friend alcohol, and the ones made of flesh and blood were smokers so as time passed, I became quite good at the whole smoking gig. At first I was always worried I was killing myself and would quite frequently look around, expecting my Dad to fall from the sky like an Indian Batman and snap my neck. I got over it pretty quickly.

Now term’s started, I’ve been going into an excessive frenzy of replacing my intake of oxygen with as much smoke as I can. I’ve spent 21 years of having perfectly healthy lungs, and for what?! HEALTH? Fuck health! I want to be unhealthy! DUUHHH INTELLYGENSE ME ARE.
I blame women, personally. I usually use asking for a cigarette as an icebreaker to talk to the foxy girl in the corner, who I would be slightly more attracted to if she was an ACTUAL fox, which might seem weird, but it isn’t. The problem with doing this, is a lot of the time the said girl will actually give me a fucking cigarette. Bitch, are you crazy? You want me to get addicted to this shit? I think you’re cute, fuck your cigarette! Jesus, what a whore.

In hindsight, this would probably be a better response than accepting the death-stick and stupidly choking the whole thing down trying to act like you LOVE IT. Which I do, for a few seconds until I’m ready to stop, what with being a lightweight. But you can’t waste it now, people in third world countries would give their legs for it. I mean, even frigging MONKEYS will take that shit off your hands! Also, I’m not being ignorant and implying people in third world countries and monkeys are the same, other than the fact they both live in trees and have tails to help them swing from branch to branch.

So yes, women are to blame for smoking, cancer and everything else that is wrong in the world. I think I’m onto something here. Which reminds me, my friend – who is a girl, who smokes – used some big word at me today… “scapegoat” I think it was? Mental note, look that up. It might be relevant to this whole evil woman thing.

It’s time to give it up, me thinks; I’m becoming quite annoying amongst the smoking community because of my constant hounding people for cigarettes. I’m assuming that because they always reject my friend requests, although that might be because they’re drowning in envy that I’m a genius who is saving money at the expense of their addiction. I don’t see the big deal, I’m like a feminine version of Mother Teresa who’s helping take part of the cancer attack for them, like some kind of meat shield made of leeches. I’m not doing it because I like it… I’m doing it because I care.

In addition to becoming an annoying, thieving twat, it’s doing me no favours in my life ambition to die from kidney favour. Lung cancer seems to be taking the lead, what with the smoke wielding a samurai sword and hacking away at my vocal cords. It’s great in the sense that I’m starting to laugh like Muttley and breath like Darth Vader, so my skill as an impressionist has gained new heights, and my voice has become deeper in tone, so I can finally trick people into believing I’ve hit puberty. But the insanely bad sore throat and lifetime supply of phlegm followed by what appears to be swine flu has made me rethink the ecstasy of a short nicotine rush.

I’m not even sure if I’m craving one right now, writing about it so extensively or if my mind is fucking with me. In the long term, if I need a 5 second thrill coupled with a deadly disease thrown in, I could always invest in a cheap prostitute. But I won’t, because I’m sticking to my guns and concluding women are the problem here, not tobacco, nicotine or my own lack of self-control. I’m going on a woman ban from now on and sticking to foxes. Their tales are sexy as hell.

‘Love‘ ain’t nothing but a feeling and feelings ain’t nothing but temporary.