Oh Jesus, nobody told me smoking would hurt this much. I don’t even do it on a (very) regular basis. Chest pains, shortness of breath, painful cough. I’m fairly sure I’ve got lung cancer?

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.