It's Easy to Blame the Weather

It is very VERY important to pay attention to the level of inebriation of all patrons standing around your bar.

Remember how you thought your R.S.A class was full of unnecessary bullshit you thought you already knew? WRONG.

 Allow me to reiterate this point. It is VERY important to pay attention to the  people standing around your bar.

Particularly if they are standing in front of you.

Particularly if they start turning a little green.

 I should know. I’ve been puked on. 

You are forever changed the moment you feel alien flecks of vomit hit your face, and you stupidly lick your lips and taste semi-digested pizza.

It is a painfully unattractive thing when women stash cash in the crevices of their tits.

I understand not wanting to carry a bag so you can bust a move when you hear that call for big bootied bitches, but rummaging around your breasts when you’re all breezer’d up and can’t find that dollar you thought you had in there makes for a very prolonged awkward moment. 

Cinque Terre.

Honey, this is something you DONT post on Facebook, please. No one needs to know about your bodily functions.

I don’t know if it was the self-satisfied face peering out of his profile picture that was a little too chubby for my liking, the condescending tone I read that statement in, or the fact that I’ve been bedridden with the flu for the past two weeks.

Whatever it was, that comment annoyed me. In fact, it still annoys me, because where does someone get off chastising others on what is or isn’t appropriate for Facebook?!

The World Wide Web is rife with grossly inappropriate content but this person felt it necessary to put my friend in her place for announcing her need to urinate. I think I am completely justified in my argument that if you can watch a woman getting double barrelled by goats on the internet, then you are well within your rights to say whatever the fuck you want without some self-righteous twat putting you in your place with his (or her) opinion on what is or is not appropriate.

I remember being told off all the time by my aunties and other old-folk for being a rude little smartass. My mother in her state of tired resignation didn’t even bother telling me off after the age of 12. She just pinched me really hard to draw blood under the table every time I said something she claimed would make her 'look bad'.

It shitted me then how other people felt it necessary to impose a censor on my thoughts and verbal (sometimes physical) expressions, but I always believed with complete blind faith that these older and wiser people in my life wanted the best for me. They wanted me to grow up and into a demure and well-spoken young lady, successful in every facet of life.

 Now I know better.

People that feel compelled to pass on good manners and politically correct behavioural guidelines don’t really care about anything but themselves, their sensibilities, and how offended they are by YOU.

What are good manners and appropriate behaviour anyway? Personally, I think that it’s just a bunch of arbitrary socially acceptable behaviour that by extension applies to everyone around him or her whether they like it or not.

That also means that all around the world, every time someone tells you off for being rude/inappropriate/improper/disgusting, they are in essence feeling the need to impose THEIR views upon you. And if opinions are like assholes, then essentially they have just wiped theirs all over your face. And that to me is just rude.

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.   

Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.

I know well the grass blades you mention,   

the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,   

have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,  

have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,   

warmer than oil or water,

I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.

Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.

Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don’t always die, but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet 

that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!— that, all by itself, becomes a passion.   

Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,   

to so delicately undo an old wound,   

to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, 

raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,   

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,

Apt reading material, considering I've recently been plagued with dreams of me naked and squatting over a naked corpse in a blood filled bathtub. In the dream I am matter of fact about having to quickly dispose of the body, but anxious that I will never be able to do it in time. After hacking away at it with a machete for what seems like forever, I decide that eating it will be the most effective option.

So I get to chomping. I rip off chunks of flesh and shove it into my mouth and chew and chew, and wake up feeling really nauseated.

Men are always pretty adamant about what makes a REAL man. A manly man.

A real man has hair on his chest. A real man is strong. A real man eats meat. A real man doesn't gossip. A real man doesn't look like a woman.

The world needs more men of this caliber.

Who needs a full head of hair when hip thrusting in a cream suit.