I've always had a special hatred for blog websites. Mainly because I'm not really all that interested in other peoples lives. So a long time ago I vowed to myself that I will do everything I possibly can to NEVER EVER have a blogging site with boring anecdotes about my boring life.
Of course, back then I had friends and stupidly believed that they take some interest in all the fantastic and fun filled non-events which as a collective form the building blocks of that thing I call my existence.
Naturally, at some point in one's life you have that moment of clarity and you realise that nobody actually gives a fat fuck about what you do, who you are or where you come from. Unless of course, unless they want something from you. But on a whole, you're pretty much alone in this world and I use the word alone in the loneliest sense imaginable.
That's right. Tuesday. 1pm. Restate assessment. Nobody gives a fat fuck about you and your silly little life struggles. Nobody. Not your best friend, not your lover, not your mother, definitely not your father, he's just thankful you finally got off your lazy ass and got the fuck out of the house and off his payroll.
The fact is, your own problems are the most important thing in the world for you. "You've got AIDSCancer? So what, the other day I sprained my ankle. It hurt so much I thought I was going to die." As the great Dale Carnegy stated a long time ago, those who are known as great conversationalists hardly ever say a word. It's that love of own voice that will forever doom us as humans to existential crises.
But mankind is a strange beast. They will always seek out company at some stage, and we are willing to compromise and shut the fuck up about ourselves at times just so we can taste a tiny bit of that mythical happiness. All of us, even the most miserable of us out there, seek companionship at some time. Be it intimate or be it just a drunken bonding session with fellow drunks, we need some input from external sources, if only to make us feel better about ourselves.
Now a lot of folks out there would immediately tell me that my world view is too cynical and they have found happiness through Christ. Christ, always there for the lonely soul in distress. You can always send a prayer to good old Jesus. Yup, somebody to bitch to, that's what Jesus is. But I ask you this, does Jesus ever answer his phone on a Friday night and join you for drinks? You're lying to yourselves godboys and godgirls.
So what is a talentless alcoholic to do? In Fight Club, the miserable protaganists who inhabit this nihilist world went to support groups. So I suppose I can go alleviate my despair as the lone inhabitant of this planet at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Problem is, I don't want to stop drinking and I hate a bunch of quitters. Stupid fuckers. Can't handle their booze and now they herd together like the hopeless losers they are and tell each other about the last time they had a drink. How fucking amazingly interesting.
Of course, there might be an off chance that there is some hot and nubile young alcoholic. At least when you go to these support meetings you have a pretty clear idea of what you're dealing with. I mean, how hard will it be to seduce an alcoholic? Fuck, I can just skip the meeting completely and wait outside wearing a long brown overcoat and wait for the hotties to come out and flash them the bottle of J&B protruding from the zipper on my pants. And of course you can be damn sure that the booze slut will NOT be complaining about your drinking habits. Fuck, she'll probably forget the whole affair, which is a good thing. Non-consensual sex charges can be such a downer.
There are easier ways to get to meet people. Not that going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting is particularly hard, but the after party is bound to be a strain on your budget, and if you are anything like me, there is no budget. But I've learnt to cut costs. Only eat when you're 90% sure that you are about to collapse from hunger for instance. And when you do eat make sure it's something that will be in your system somewhere for a long time. Like MSG. Eat large amounts of MSG. And lots of Meth Amphetamines, it'll still work out cheaper than actually eating.
Property newspapers. Now there is a gem if there ever was one. You see, in property newspapers they actually print a photo AND telephone numbers of the estate agent. What more can a lonely person ask for? Choose an estate agent that appeals to you and phone him or her and make a date, I mean, set a date for when you can "go view property." The best part is that it won't cost you a cent and the estate agents would most likely fall over themselves to please you. I mean, after all, you are a prospective buyer. Fuck. You can start a long term relationship with one of these agents. Show interest in the property, but always reconsider and ask to look at another. If you establish a relationship of trust with agent they will eventually start phoning you. You save on phone costs as well.
There are literally hundreds to choose from. It's like going to an online dating service without the subscription fees and a whole lot creepier which just adds to the attraction. Personally, I would go for the young blonde ones. I mean, if you're going to choose a companion for the day out of a newspaper, might as well go all the fucking way. I don't even like blondes, but it has to be done. And what exactly makes one become an estate agent. What twisted perverted being will consciously choose selling property as a career? I don't know either but I damn well want to find out. Yes sir! Hot young blonde fucked up girls who show you their rooms. That's what I'm talking about.
As anyone with no estrogen can clearly witness, I am a man of ideas. It's too bad my musings never evolve towards anything tangible. I could possibly be a self made man and drive a 1968 red convertible Corvette with 7 blondes scattered around on the seats all blowing me at once. But unfortunately the power of my alcoholic talentlessness is so overwhelming that it is pointless to put up any kind of resistance.
Which brings me to the point of all this. Weblogs. See, if you have an incredible urge to complain and let other people know about your emotional trauma and what kind of condiment you smeared on your cock in an attempt to simulate that wet cunt feeling, start a fucking weblog. The possibility that somebody will stumble upon your mindless utterings and feel some form of comradery are much higher than that of your mom actually giving a fat fuck over the telephone. She's most probably cursing herself for drinking too much when she was pregnant.
So in short. Shut the fuck up. Nobody is listening.