I’m tired, Hypothetical Reader. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Boredom, I think. So expect a thrilling tale of woe and curiosity. If this doesn’t get Freshly Pressed, I don’t know what will.
I was going to write 5 survival tips for when the apocalypse arrives. But, firstly, it’s already been done. Secondly, it’s hard to even be remotely funny when all you want to do is sit in your pants and watch drunk people fall over on YouTube before going to bed at 8pm. And thirdly, I really don’t know jack about surviving the apocalypse. I know you need water, food, shelter and oxygen; but they’re hardly tips. A dog could give you those nuggets of knowledge. So, I’ve boiled it down to one tip.
“Cower in a corner and hope someone bigger and stronger than you comes to your aid.”
- A Very Tired Idiot
That’s not a very manly thing to do, really. I’m obviously a pussy. Well, screw you! I can’t even grow a proper beard yet…
That’s something that’s been irking my rattlesnake recently: facial hair. When you’re in the throws of adolescence, every boy dreams of growing a beard. I did, anyway. So much so I even bought razors and started shaving when I was only thirteen years old, even though my face was about as hairy as a light bulb. Now, at the supposedly adult age of twenty four, I do have facial hair; although it’s not as life-affirming as I originally thought. If I don’t shave for a couple of days I look like I’ve rubbed my face on the floor of a hairdressers after completing a 10km run rather than the stubbly hunk of a man my naive adolescent self had envisaged. One day I’ll grow a fully-pledged Santa Clausesque beard, though, despite my friends and family saying it’s a bad idea. I just want to wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and have a little chuckle to myself before going about my day. Instant good mood. Guaranteed.
This post is interesting, right? Thought so. Freshly Pressed here I come!
So what important, controversial subject shall I tackle next? I’ve managed to cover the apocalypse and weird facial hair growth in under 400 words. I’m on a roll. How about Poverty? Or Capitalism? Maybe Euthanasia? What about Abortion? Oh, I know! I know.
Socks. What’s your sock etiquette? I’m more of an odd pair of socks every day kind of man myself. Don’t you scrunch your face at me, Hypothetical Reader! What do you expect of me? It’s not my fault. Every Christmas I get differently coloured pairs of socks and, what, you expect me to keep them paired together throughout their entire life cycle!? What kind of maniac would do that!? Where the hell am I supposed to find the time to put my socks in their associated pairs in-between all the listening to music, watching TV, ordering take-away and converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. Jesus! Lower your expectations, Hypothetical Reader. Lower your expectations…
In all honesty though – joking aside – I take my sock etiquette very seriously. It’s a part of me. I think me wearing odd pairs of socks on a daily basis started out as the by-product of general laziness. But now… Well, it’s a fashion statement. It perpetuates who I am.
“Hey ladies! I’m the man of your dreams. What’s that? You don’t believe me? Well check out the socks, baby. That’s the kind of man I am. I break social convention. I swim against the tide. I’m the black sheep that plays by his own rules. I know, one sock is multi-coloured and the other is plain black with a logo you can’t properly make out because it’s inside-out. You don’t see that every day, do you? No. I’m different. I’m special. So, when are you free to let me make your dreams come true, you sexy little minx you? Hello?”
- The tried and tested chat-up line from a Very Tired Idiot.
I think I’ve covered enough to get Freshly Pressed there. Plus, I’m now very tired with the added emotion of hunger. I need to get to the shop before it closes to buy crisps and petrol. Toodle-doo, Hypothetical Reader.
WordPress. I eagerly await you informing me of this post going on Freshly Pressed. Thanks in advance…