Believe It Or Not, Your iPhone 5 Doesn't Define You As A Person.

It’s not too often that I bother to complain about anything. Normally, I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself and move on in life.

But sometimes you can’t. Sometimes you have to take the time to try to open people’s eyes, and that’s what I intend to do.
I don’t care how many people read this. It could be one, it could be 10, it could be 1000. It doesn’t bother me. If, through writing this, I can make one person think for a moment,  I’ll be happy.

So let’s get to it.

With everyone out buying the new iPhone 5, or new designer brand clothes..It got me thinking. Why do we actually buy that stuff? Generally, the sole motivation of people buying shit is to impress random strangers that they’ll probably never see again.

People place so much value in what job or marks others have, how much money they have in the bank, the car that they own and the clothes that they wear.

What people don’t realise is that it’s shit like that that limits them from being who they actually are.

As a person, you’re not defined by the type of phone that you have, or the figures in your bank statement, or the car that you drive, or the clothes that you wear. You’re just judged by it.

Sure, they might look good. But they don’t define you as a person.

Right now, I think that we all need to take a massive reality check. Sure, we can have these material things..But there’s a big distinction between having something and being owned by it.

As human beings, it’s our actions that define us, not what we have.

Giving The Finger, Beeping And Yelling: The Typical P-Plater

Before I begin this post properly, a quick word to my non-Australian readers. Here in Australia in order to drive on your own on our roads, you have to finish 120 hours of driving with a driving instructor and pass a test, and even then you're on a probationary license which are called "P-Plates."

Now, with that established, you can consider yourself educated and full of worldly knowledge...Read on.

Recently I was talking to a close friend of mine about driving, as she's just begun to drive independently. She regaled me with a tale about how a bunch of teenage guys in a car with their P's yelled and beeped at her, and then literally drove after her in order to see which car she was getting into.

People are pretty cowardly these days. Whatever happened to the days of dragging someone you took a fancy to into a cave and just raping them mercilessly?

All rape jokes aside, though, P-Platers are often pretty disgusting people in general. It's like being able to drive independently gives them a god given reason to fuck over pedestrians.

Trust me, it doesn't. Because those pedestrians? When they find you walking alone in the street one day and you're dirt poor and giving blowjobs for petrol money, they'll be the ones fucking you over.

Literally.

Don't fuck over the poor pedestrian, because every dog has their day. And when this particular dog (me for instance) gets his revenge, shit will most definitely fly.

I had a similar experience to my aforementioned close friend recently, in which a group of P-Platers from my grade gave me the finger.

My first thought, aside from a frenzy of unexplainable rage?

His hand looked similar to a dick..Obviously much like his personality.

I only got a split-second glance at it, and it looked like a purple, veined cock. Obviously the fact that the middle finger was raised in salute and the other knuckles resembled testicles next to it didn't really help..

But yeah. That guy totally gave a new meaning to “whip it out.” I've seen a lot of things in my time, but a possible cock attached to the end of a hand has got to be one of the stranger of them.

Lesson: Check to make sure your hand doesn't look like a dick before you take the next step and try to make it look more like one. If you're considering it in the first place, often enough you'll find that your hand isn't the only thing with an uncanny resemblance to the male genitalia.

...And then there are the people who think they're cool because they have their P's, even if they do drive a really slow and shitty car.

Point in case: recently I was walking home with a friend and a group of P-Platers threw an empty bottle at me before attempting to race off with middle fingers saluting.

In reality though, an asthmatic sloth probably could have run faster.

It's times like that when I wish that stoning hadn't become illegal so long ago. If it hadn't, I'm sure I would've made Jesus' supposed death look like a dance routine from “The Wiggles” compared to what I'd do to a lot of new drivers on our roads.

On Writing And Reading..

For the majority of my readers who aren't yet aware – I'm writing a book.

Not a “serious” book where I'm actually looking to get published, but a short story belonging to the fantasy genre for my English Major, the due date of which is coming up in a month or two.

Google “why writing a book is annoying” and you'll get 36,100,000 hits.

Thirty six million and one hundred thousand hits – that's a lot.

I can understand why, though. I recently spent a chunk of my holidays forcing myself to rewrite my story. Hopefully this time I'll get a lot more positive feedback than I do aimless criticism.

The one thing I'm sick of hearing from so many people who read my work is that it “lacks characterisation.”

No. Screw you. Don't pull that “well, if they're all saying it, it probably does..” crap on me.

Find me a story belonging to the fantasy genre that features a troll's innermost thoughts and feelings, revealing this to the reader so well that we come to know every corner of his dark, twisted mind intimately.

Usually, a troll is described as an ugly, tall man with a penchant for eating people.

That's it.

Did The Brothers Grimm get rejected numerous times because the doddery readers were unaware that the charming price was a closet-homosexual and fancied his butler?

Nope. No way.

They're stories using original models – something that's no longer wanted by anyone, because they seem to think that most readers have a vested interest in knowing the secret working of every single characters mind.

Well damn, I'm sorry your own life isn't interesting enough for you.

That's not even the end of it, though. People also like to waffle on about “poor plot development” as though they're commenting on the subtle notes of a bottle of wine.

Generally speaking, “stories” are labelled under “fiction” for a good reason. As such, the plot can be as “developed” as I bloody well like.

It's a fictional story based on the life of a waitress from the moment she wakes up at four o'clock in the afternoon to the time she tumbles back into bed with a new stranger a few hours later...Did I mention she gave out hand-jobs for a bit of cash on the side?

Oh wait. No. Don't tell me – you want to know how she FEELS while she's giving out hand-jobs willy nilly and serving drinks to drunks in her spare time, right?

Typical.

I have a tendency to read a lot of fantasy novels in my spare time. A bit like homework. A lot of the stuff being published these days is just crap, and I'm shocked that people read it. It's a real pity there aren't more people out there that think like me.

Come to think of it, it's even more of a pity that I'm not an established author or handsome or a doctor recently flown in to perform clitoral surgery – instant notoriety among women if you're in on the latter, I can assure you.

I figure it's about time that I started killing off famous authors that really shouldn't be famous in the first place. Hell, I could be ironic at the same time and write a book about it.

I could murder one or two authors a month (starting with Stephanie Meyer) using all kinds of different weapons.

How should I write it?

Well, I suppose I could write it like a diary. Why not, after all?

Dear Diary,

I'm going to murder one or two famous authors a month, and preferably have rid the world of the majority of them within a year...After which I'll come straight home and write all about it.

Leaving a trail for the Police to follow me home doesn't seem like that great an idea, even if I would like to kill all the horrible authors in the world.

Before I even get to that, though, there's another problem - I've never actually killed anyone before.

Ever.

The closest I've been to murder is flushing my dead fish Fluffy down the toilet when I was 10 years old...Or eating a really rare steak – one that was practically still mooing on the plate.

As such, the first kill would have to be no challenge at all. I'd need somebody who wouldn't fight back after being hit. Perhaps I could find someone in Europe. It's a big place, and I'm pretty sure it still exists because I still get the occasional view from someone in Germany.

I'd quite like my first kill to be easy. A bit like losing my virginity to a much older woman.

Aunt Virginia was always very accommodating in that regard. She was always my favourite nanny. Apparently, at thirteen my penis was bigger than her dead husbands.

I Want A Mail-Order Bride..How Much Do You Charge?

There's a lot of controversy in modern society about arranged marriages. Some people call it “oppression” whilst others crack jokes about “women in the kitchen.”

I confess, I've always belonged to the latter group.

It's not necessarily because I'm all for gender based oppression, but rather because I really just can't be bothered to cook or clean for myself.

I recently watched an episode of the popular television series “The Family” featuring an Indian family who repeatedly pressured one of their younger sons to get married, telling him that they'd “take him to India to find him a nice homely wife.”

After watching a single episode of the show, I've gotta say, I wouldn't mind joining the youngest son on his quest to find an Indian wife, either.

From what I've seen they cook, clean and basically do everything you tell them to do. Kind of like a House Elf from “Harry Potter,” but (and unfortunately this isn't always the case) without the squeaky voice.

I've never been much of an avid traveller, though..Travelling to India to find one seems a bit of a drag.

..They really should sell them on E-Bay. Hell, I'd even be willing to pay postage and handling.

WANTED:

Indian wife. Must do EVERYTHING I tell her.

Cooking and bondage cleaning is non-negotiable.

Apparently though, E-Bay doesn't sell Indian housewives online...SEEK don't exactly seem happy for me to post advertisements for one, either.

A pity, I was really excited for a moment there.

Seriously though, people: Why's everyone getting so up in arms about gender equality in countries like India? The women like to cook and clean for their husbands. That's no crime. Hell, if you ask me, a lot of us could learn something from them.

It's a real pity they don't sell them on E-Bay.

Sigh. I guess I'll just have to fantasize about Dobby the house elf and maybe one day..If I wish hard enough, I'll end up getting lucky.

And if all else fails, I guess there's always euthanasia.

There's A Little Bit Of "Slut" In All Of Us.

We're all saucy little bitches looking to get a root. There, I said it.

Let's face it, despite society telling us otherwise, a short trip to reality will quickly prove it wrong.

Why?

Frankly, I don't know.

I suppose it's human nature. In the case of honey bees, their genitals actually explode inside the body of the queen bee.

I'm pretty sure that's also something that, in the case of humans, we all try to avoid.

What I'm sick of, though, is people pretending they aren't attracted to each other. Why do people have to pretend that they don't like each other, when in reality they'd like nothing more than to hook up?

Personally, I'm sick of having to dance the typical pretend-that-I'm-only-a-friend-when-I-don't-really-want-to-be, skirting around the real issues behind a facade of niceties and badly disguised flirting.

The other day, a girlfriend who I've known for quite some time was telling me about what a “good man” I am.

Men, when the woman that you've fallen for tells you that you're a “good man” you know that you're in trouble. Under no circumstances do you want to be a “good man.”

You probably think that you're doing the right thing treating her nicely whilst Brad the footballer treats her badly, and her father beats her at home. Yeah, you are if you want to be her friend, but here's the unfortunate reality: it's more than likely that, when she breaks up with Brad and you swoop in singing victorious songs of your choice, you'll be turned down and she'll get back together with Brad the footballer within a week.

I'm sorry guys, but that's the unfortunate reality we live in. I'm not telling you to be a dick, by any means, but if you want to be “more than friend” do not solely allow yourself to be seen as a “good man.”

I'll tell you from personal experience that it's even worse when the person you've been in love with for years takes your friendship for granted and tells you “how good it is that you aren't just after the one thing that all the other guys are after” and what a “great guy” you are. (Seeing correlations between this and what I said earlier? Good, you're learning.)

The other week I was talking to a girl who, frankly, I'd admired for quite some time. In the middle of our conversation, she told me just that: that it was so good to see a guy not after the “one thing” that all guys are after, and what a “great guy” I am.

Let's be honest – up until thirty seconds after she'd said that, the majority of it hadn't been strictly true.

But I've learnt my lesson. From then on, I decided to take my lesson from the Bonobo, a chimpanzee. Believe it or not, Bonobos use sex as greetings, a means of solving disputes, making up for fights, and as a favors in exchange for food.

Guys, I don't know about you, but that's a world that I could happily live in until I reached the ripe old age of rampant erectile dysfunction.

After that, I guess I'd just turn bitter and wish the world would go back to how it used to be, where women showing their ankles induced chronic fainting.

Woman who don't disagree with me, and I know you're out there – you're in denial. You may find it disgusting, but you have to admit it'd be a better place: less fooling around, much more up front. Never again would you have to deal with a guy who you thought was “different” when he was really a jerk..No longer would there be wars or mass genocide.

The facts are there - If we'd all adopted this policy only a few decades ago, it's likely that Nazis would have been too busy penis fencing (and yes, Bonobos actually do that) to actually bother with mass genocide. We'd live in a more populated world with next to no crime, genocide or wars.

The only thing that would really remain unaffected would be poor, third world countries, and let's face it: that's not going to change in a hurry, anyway.

So, without further ado: I challenge you, reader. I challenge you to be a better man or woman. I challenge you to abandon society's notions and take up a new mantle: the mantle of the Bonobo.

Hell, I know I'll certainly be smiling.

Just One Of The Many Experiences I Have Every Time I Try To Use A Public Urinal.

Living life as a socially awkward individual has both its merits and downfalls, and it's a life that I've happily lived thus far. Recently though, I had one of the typical experiences that a socially awkward individual finds himself in fairly regularly, and I decided to detail it in my blog.

No, don't get grossed out, now – I'm sure you'll enjoy it, and I'm equally sure that it won't be nearly as disgusting or as visual as you're imagining.

Now, please, with that in mind feel free to read on if you so desire.

After walking around a shopping centre for the best part of half an hour with a gradually swelling bladder (okay, so maybe I lied about it not being visual. Go ahead and shoot me.) I decided that if I didn't make it to a public bathroom soon, I might just explode, showering my fellow shoppers in a delightful combination of urine and gore.

Generally, I try to avoid public bathrooms in order to avoid situations such as the one that I'll detail below.

Here's how it played out:

I crept into the bathroom sneakily, peering around and sharing a delightful smile with the mirror at the lack of occupants in the bathroom.

 

Excellent, there's nobody else around. Should be easy, out just as quickly as I came in.

Taking a final look around the room and reassuring myself that nobody else is watching, I step forward and settle myself in front of a urinal, unzipping my fly as I do so.

The door opens abruptly.

Suddenly, I feel cold. I'm praying to every god under the sun (generally I don't do prayer, but I consider this a situation in which I can make exceptions.) Please, please choose a stall instead of another urinal, I just-

The stranger promptly moves up to the urinal next to me.

Cheers for that one, God..Okay, so this'll be okay, all I have to do is just stare straight ahead at the dirty white tiles in front of me and pee. I'm busting anyhow, this really shouldn't be too diffic- is that shit on the tile in front of me?

I squint at the tile.

Yup, that's shit alright. How the hell did someone manage to get shit-

  

The new occupant starts to urinate. In the dirtily tiled bathroom, his arrogant and confident stream does nothing but draw attention to the fact that, despite that I was standing at the urinal before he arrived, I'm clearly not urinating.

Fuck. He can hear me not peeing..He KNOWS! Ugh, I'll just have to try not to think about it, just focus on-

“What's up, dude?”

Fucking hell. People who talk while urinating should be lynched.

“Umm..Nothing much mate.”

What the fuck does it look like I'm up to? Hosting a party in The Bahamas?

“Haha oh yeah, sick lad.”

Oh great, and now he's a bogan on top of it all. This conversation really should just be illegal, full stop.

I look up from my dick, smiling gingerly.

Why the fuck am I smiling at him while he's peeing? That's just creepy! ..Body, it'd be really good if you started peeing right about now, things are starting to get REALLY awkward.

“Crazy weather, aye?”

Fuck it, I give up.

I shake away my invisible urine in order to make my ruse seem a lot more legitimate than it's seemed so far, rushing out of the bathroom without even washing my hands.

Gah, I must be the only human being not able to go to the bathroom in front of someone knowing that they know that I can't do it.

Now, in justification of my arguably weird thought process, there's honestly not much else to do in a public restroom than evaluate your surroundings, and it just so happened that in this case, my surroundings happened to be a bunch of tiles with shit smeared all over them, and a (possibly) drunken bogan who seemed happy to chat to me while I attempted to pee.

Of course, if I was a betting man, I'd bet that he hadn't even realised what was going on in my little mind, what with being too busy concentrating on urinating...Something that, for some reason, I just can't do in the company of other men.

Not even Jesus could help me with that shit.

JESUS, I PRAYED. I FUCKING PRAYED, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REWARD ME?

Then again, if you really want to analyse that situation, analyse the ideology behind urinals in the first place: what genius came up with the idea of putting two men standing inches away from one another with their penises in their hands, trying not to stare at each other?

Satan personified, that's who.

My Little Rant About People And The Potential Dangers Of Finding Chewing Gum In A Public Park Whilst In A Bad Mood

Recently I received an anonymous comment from a troll, who told me how much he (yes, I referred to the troll as a male, but you have to admit, most trolls generally tend to be male - there's something to be seen in that, if you think carefully enough) disliked my blog and its contents so much so that he “almost stopped reading.”

That makes sense.

If my blog was actually receiving the traffic that I desired, though, I'd just have ignored the comment and gone back to snorting cocaine off my prostitute. However, seeing as I  haven't been getting the amount of views I've been hoping for, I pushed the prostitute off my bed (she was dead to me anyway) and decided to re-read my blogs.

After reading over my blogs and realising that I'd actually been successfully trolled to some extent, I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee and then sat down at the kitchen table, asking myself who in the world I don't hate, or at least have some dislike for.

I stopped and thought for a moment. The question itself was an interesting one, it's answer pertaining to the entirety of my being: that is, the choices I've made in life, the things I love and hate about myself, what friends and strangers alike think about me, my view of the world, and a fair chunk of the conversations I've had after five cups of coffee in the morning on a weekday or six to seven between 10:00PM and midnight on a weekend.

It didn't take me long to realise that there are very few people that I genuinely respect, and even less whose presence I find genuinely enjoyable.

With that interesting thought in mind, I pandered back to my room and turned on my laptop, deciding to blog about my discovery.

I never actually got to that, as I was distracted by the television and ended up going on a bike ride.

That's when the gum came in.

After skidding down a hill with much screeching (not on my part, mostly on that of the elderly churchgoers returning home after after a morning of worship; hey, it's not my fault they can't see me riding toward them.) I turned into a park after about five minutes, pulling up next to a see-saw to retie a loose shoelace.

There, in the corner of my eye, a glint of green caught my eye.

Moving closer to inspect it, I realised that it was a full packet of chewing gum, just lying there forlornly on the ground..

It was calling me.

Those who know me personally know that I nearly always have chewing gum of some flavour or other swishing about in my mouth; indeed, my mother regularly compares me to a “cow chewing its cud” when I munch on gum at home.

When I saw the gum packet sitting in the park, it just reinforced my previous thinking: I really hate people.

Why? Here's why.

Why had someone left a full packet of gum in the middle of the park? Had it just dropped out of someone's pocket, or had some creep purposely left it there after injecting poison through the packaging and into the gum so that an innocent person who happened to pick up the gum and put it in their mouth ended up frothing at the mouth and dying?

That's just the thing. I couldn't be sure, because I knew there were enough crazy people out there that would do that sort of thing, and it scared me..And that was what made me hate people all the more.

We live in a world where an innocent mistake can just as easily be a deceptive ploy by a serial killer, a rapist or a paedophile - in this case, one who'll drop by the park a few hours later to pick up the unconscious victim and throw them face first into their rented little white van.

But that's just the world we live in, huh?

..And people wonder why I hate everyone so much.

For those who are wondering; yes, I took the risk and chewed on the gum that I found in that park. It tasted quite good.

There's some irony in that.

Religious Meetings Are Just Funerals In Practise For The Real Deal.

Yawn..Morning, readers. How are we all today?

Tired? Dreading Monday?

Good stuff. I've got just the thing for you.

What is it, you may ask? 

The answer, dear reader, is simple: Church. Or rather, a story about it.

Before you race to the end of this post to hit me up with a raging comment detailing your newly found dislike of me due to my religious posting..Just hold on a moment, before you let your inner troll loose.

Unsurprisingly to those who know me, I would never try to convert someone to a religion. Fact is, I have quite the distaste for religion.

So no, I'm not trying to convert you, I'm regaling with one of my more recent churchly experiences. But first, you'll need a bit of background information:

I come from quite a religious family. In saying that, my mother is the main religious family member, whilst the rest of the family basically follow her lead in it all.

Me? I don't buy it.

There was a time when I rolled in it delightfully like a dog in shit, mainly right up to grade nine. After that, I veered away from it all pretty quickly, questioning the legitimacy of various biblical stories.

That's never stopped my parents from dragging me along to church and punishing me when I rebel against it all, though...Especially when I go about “corrupting” of the church's innocent youngsters..Tehehehe..;)

Anyway, back to the story. Today I was dragged along by my father (at my mother's bequest, of course) to a popular Christian group that meets once every few months, commonly known by the local community as “Men's Breakfast.”

On the way there, I realised that rather than fighting against going, perhaps going would achieve three things:

•  Give me something to laugh about with friends a few days later.

• Stop my parents and their religious nattering, at least for a little while.

• Give me something new to blog about.

And that brings me to the true beginning of my narration of “Men's Breakfast.”

First Impressions: A sea of bald and/or balding heads greeted me unenthusiastically from the door. Clearly, hair regrowth treatment is a foreign concept to Baptists and Anglicans alike.

Fifteen Minutes In: By now I'm offered food. As I start tucking into baked beans, a half scrambled egg and overcooked bacon unenthusiastically, I glance to my left and treat myself to the delightful view of an elderly man taking out his false teeth..He looks like he's about to drop off his perch at any moment.

Thirty Minutes In: If I hear the sentence “Jesus saved us” one more time, I think I'll start tearing out my hair. Then again, perhaps I've just discovered why most of the people in here are bald..

Forty Five Minutes In: I've taken to looking at the fingernails of the old people around me for entertainment. There are some real shockers here, that's for sure.

An Hour In: Okay, so my life is now changed forever. Changed forever in that I've lost an hour of it that I'll never get back.

 I think you've got the picture.

But why are so many old people religious? Well, judging from the smell of imminent death in that room, I'll go out on a limb and suggest that perhaps it's because they're not so far from the age in which the bible was written in the first place.

Conclusion: Old people like to congregate to celebrate their impending death, gumming their food together amid a chorus of “Jesus saved us.”

Religious congregations are just funerals in practice for the real thing – there's a reason they're always looking for new blood, and if you ask me, it's generally just because they want a good turnout for the real deal.

Guys And Girls Alike: Boobs, Miniskirts, Trimming The Hedge And Taming The One Eyed Monster – I’m Just About Sick Of It All!

It’s nearing the end of the Saturday morning, and we all know what that means.

 Oops. Oh right, I forgot, only I know that shit. 

You’re probably wondering what I’m on about right now, huh? Or, for those who know me personally, what I’m actually “on” might be a more appropriate question. Rest assured though, thus far the only substance I’ve taken thus far today is a cup of tea with honey.

 Saturday mornings are generally my prime time as far as ranting is concerned. So…What’s on the agenda today, you may ask?

 Fair question, I’ll allow it.

 Boobs, miniskirts, trimming the hedge and taming the one eyed monster.

 Nope, you didn’t misread it.

 Now, before you jump to the wrong conclusion and assume I’m about to throw you into the deep end of a long, pornographically revealing story involving incest, candles and a picture frame, I ask that you take a deep breath and read on.

 

 I promise that I’ll try not to soil your mind too much.

 Over the past few years, boobs have been something that have been continually in my face. Literally.

 They’re not necessarily there just to taunt me, they’re also there for a biological reason.

 But guess what? Personally, I don’t give a shit about the biological reason. I just want to look at and touch them.

 Yup, I want to stare at and touch boobs. If you’ve got a problem with that, you may as well put me in cuffs and put me into the cruiser right about now. If, however, you think that you and I may share a like-mindedness in this area, then I encourage you to read on. If you’re a girl and you think that I’m a creep, read on anyway, I may just surprise you.

 Incidentally, before I launch into a long-winded rant, have you ever wondered what boobs would say if they could talk? Personally, whenever I envision it, I picture them apologising to me.

 Okay, yeah, I’ll agree with you on that. That’s slightly creepy.

 But still, think about it. They’re not exactly going to be discussing the global financial crisis, are they? If anything, they’re most likely to say something along the lines of

 “Sorry we look so sad and droopy ”

 That’s okay, boobs. I understand. Shit happens from time to time, as I’ve told you numerous times before.

 Let me give you, the reader, a classic example about why, despite my love of boobs, I also hate them:

 Recently, I was talking to a friend of mine about boobs, (for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call him Jerry.) Jerry described a situation he’d been in a few days earlier that was just typical.

He and a friend were at a party. And, as often happens, drinking ensued. Now, it didn’t take long for a small argument to take place, and the dialogue went something like this.

 Jerry: John, I’ll do what I want, okay?

John: No dude, it’s not okay, you’re doing it all wrong.

~Random girl wades into the conversation~

Random Girl: John, let him do what he wants.

John: Okay.

 Now, why did John fail to listen to his best friend but manage to listen to Random Girl? Well, inside John’s head, dialogue such as this probably ensued:

 “He wants me to stop.”

-Monkeys are clapping-

“A girl wants me to stop. I’ll listen to her, because she has boobs.”

-Bubble pops-

 ..I mean really guys, what happened to the old “bros before hoes”?

 And that brings me back to my point. These days, guys are all too concerned with boobs that they’re losing perspective. Sure, they’re nice to look at..But letting them take over your day to day life is just stupid and irritating.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 ..And now for the ladies.

 Don’t worry, ladies – I haven’t forgotten you, either. As much as I’d like to, I’ve gotta admit..I’m pretty sick of you right now, especially the way you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and look “hot” at school.

 Girls, two main lessons for you that I want you to take away from this:

•  Rolling your sleeves up on that shirt of yours doesn’t make you look like a fairy princess. It makes you look like a prat.

• Rolling up your skirt to the extent that it’s camel-toe galore whenever a breeze picks up just isn’t working. You might have nice legs and it’s completely understandable that you want to show them off…But please – it’s a school, not a brothel.

 Every time you bend over, jump into a hug or sit down, you know that your assets are being flaunted to the world, this doesn’t mean that you have to or need to put them on display even further.

 I’m sick of those girls who decide not only to bring UP the ends of their skirts but the girls who’ve then taken the next step and decided to wear G-strings or ride up their underwear so far up their arse that it looks like they’ve got nothing on at all.

 I’m not going to mention any names, but for those of you that are reading, you likely know who you are better than I do.

 You may think I’m a pervert.

 Yeah, so what? I look. Isn’t that what you want me to do? Isn’t that why your dress is so short, why you wear G-Strings why you sport Victoria Secret bras?

 Exactly. So don’t go condemning me for it.

If I still seem like a pervert to you, I’ll tell you right now that I’m not. I’m not waiting for the chance to look at your body, nor do I have a particular wish to rape you; I’m just annoyed that you have to flaunt your shit at me every day.

Now, if you must wave your crotch to the world like a golden ticket, then please..PLEASE..Take it upon yourself to trim the hedge and give it some regular maintenance!

It’s one thing having to see your underpants, but it’s quite another to catch some hair hanging out of the side, staring at me like a lost puppy-dog in the window of a fucking pet shop. That’s just torture!

An experience that my aforementioned friend “Jerry” regaled to me the other day was a prime example of this. A girl sitting down on the floor in class, with everyone in view, decided it’d be a great idea to re-arrange her underwear.

Now, at this point, if you don’t know me personally and haven’t heard this story before, you may be thinking; “what’s wrong with that?”

 I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that.

 It’s wrong when she pulls her underwear to the side revealing to the world an untamed, hairy one-eyed monster.

 …SURROUNDED BY A FOREST THE SIZE OF THE FUCKING AMAZON!

 Jerry’s head was in a spin for hours to come. Blue-balls and hormones mixed with disappointment and anger. Thanks for that.

 I mean really girls, you drive me crazy, but not in the cute, lovey-dovey way. Instead, you drive me crazy in a way that makes me question your intelligence, capacity for rational thought and personality, not to mention your morals and compassion for the countless men you’re torturing while trying to look sexy.

 So, with that rant over, I think a little bit of credit is due. I couldn’t have completed this article without the helpful insight and storytelling of the infamous “Jerry” whose stories have dominated and supported many of the smiles of readers as they devour this, and many of my other articles.

 Readers, as always, I thank you for reading. If you like what you’ve seen so far, I encourage you to subscribe via email or manually stay tuned by checking in on my blog once or twice a week. I try to post fairly regularly!

So Here I Am. This Is Me.

So you’ve come across my blog.

There are three possibilities at this point: Either you happened across it unintentionally and you may or may not continue reading from this point on, you’re a friend who was directed here by me, or a friend of a friend sent you here and you’re only reading this to shut them up.

In all honestly, I don’t care how you got here. What I do care about is that
you fuck off right now 
stay on this page long enough to read the rest of this post.

Wait. Don’t leave just yet.

Okay, so maybe I was 
actually high when I started writing this
a little hasty.

But what’s the point of this blog? Well, I promise that it’s not religiously motivated, nor is it designed to try to
hook you up with my desperate friend 
sell you commercial products. Instead, I created it to share my opinions and (often sarcastic and/or extremely cynical) views on my life and wider society.

 But hey, shit happens to everyone…So why bother blogging about it?

My answer to that question is pretty simple: I don’t have anything better to do with my life.

By now, you’re probably wondering what I’m all about, am I right? To understand where I’m coming from, I think it’s important that you understand the basic foundation of my worldview:

I like to think of myself as an individual. An individual who cares about what society thinks, even if my only motivation to do that is so that I can find more flaws in people to complain about. Despite my cynical view when it comes to life, the majority of my time is spent motivating
women to have sex with me
myself to fit in with the flawed society around me day-to-day, observing and marveling at the stupidity of some people and the boobs genius of others (though the latter occurs all too rarely, these days.)

And that’s me: I don’t hate people, I just think that there are far too many of them – something that, if you keep up with my blog, it’s likely that you’ll notice over time.