I really wanted to try and express some feelings I have in relation to Judge Judy... where will I ever find the time!?! Uggggggggggggh.
Today I ran into someone I had hoped to never run into.
Here's the thought process and how things went down:
- That looks li- oh dear god. Just pretend you don't recognise him.
- He's looking at you. Play it cool.
- It's okay, you are wearing sunglasses and a hat. You are so far removed from any kind of visual recognition you may as well be invisible.
I mean, check out this level of fucking urban camouflage. The middle photo; that's me being incognito in my own kitchen. You'd need a fucking GPS to find me in that kitchen, dressed like that.
- I'm 2 steps past him and the smell of freedom fills my nostrils.
- He's grabbed my arm. He's holding me back from freedom. He's said my name.
- If I look confused he will assume I don't know him and that he has mistaken me for someone else. After all, I am wearing sunglasses and a hat.
2 seconds of giving him a concentrated dosage of my best 'confused face' pass and I realise my charade is up. In a panic I wondered whether I should put on an accent and keep the confused look, hoping he will come to accept that I am just someone who looks strikingly similar to me. But alas, I didn't. The jig was completely up.
- Conversation ensues
Me: "Oh, wow, what are you doing here!?"
My brain: You know precisely what he is doing here. Just act sincere and surprised and then act dead. Isn't that in the event of a crocodile attack? Probably. Did you watch Buffy last night? Yeah, I did. I stayed up until midnight to watch it. I wonder if it's on at a more reasonable hour on pay TV? Brain, remind me to look into pay TV. Okay.
Him: blah blah blah
Me: Oh, that's great.
My brain: We're going to exchange phone numbers. Would you like me to self-destruct? No? Okay then. *SIGH*
Him: Blah blah phone number jibber jabber jibber jabber
Meanwhile, I'm keying his number into my phone and I realise, I have forgotten his name. That's how much I have suppressed any record of the two of us ever having met.
I aimlessly type in some letters before I remember his very simple, very short name: 'K'.
The highly anticipated end of our impromptu meeting was, as with its beginning and middle segments, highly unremarkable.
He mentioned that he now has an Australian girlfriend and expressed his disappointment that he didn't have time to come see my sister (with whom I was meeting for lunch).
The most chilling aspect of this, however, is that you can no longer be anonymous. I WAS FUCKING INCOGNITO. In fact, here's a list of the things I wasn't wearing:
- Yellow imitation leather
- Drug print t-shirt
- This abomination
- Mismatching print cardigan
- Red plaid pants
- Blue camouflage pants
When they all inevitably die before you, you have the opportunity (some would say privilege) to ruin their reputations for all eternity. AND, get this, they aren't around to defend themselves!
You are the last remaining person who knew them before they met spouses, had children etc. You are credited with knowing them as closely as anyone really could. And this gives you a tremendous amount of leverage over them while they are still living.
Take for example this question, "How would you like your kids to remember you?"
Presumably, most people would answer along the lines of "An excellent parent, a nice human being, someone who wasn't criminally insane."
This is where you casually say, "Oh, so you wouldn't want them to know that you poisoned the puppy I got for my 13th birthday?"
They might reply, "You never had a puppy." Whether or not this is the case is completely irrelevant.
Which is why you would then say "Buy me a house and they'll never have to know what a puppy murdering sack of crap their father/mother was."
The true beauty of this plan however, can also be its greatest flaw: It's notoriously easy to poison the minds of children. Say it with me.
It's. notoriously. easy. to. poison. the. minds. of. children.
Say for example you try extorting a family member who has young children... around 5 - 9. At this larval stage in a child's life, anything the parent says tends to stick. So, if their parents mention that you, their uncle/auntie, is a liar and that no store should ever be placed in anything you say, you have just ruined the game.
Instead, you should start when the children are around their teen years. Not only will teens take no notice of anything their parents say, but more often than not will be eager to accept their parents sordid past.
Furthermore, by the time all your siblings are well and truly dead, old age should have bestowed you with a certain amount of credibility amongst the general public. Old enough to be endearing yet persuasive. But not rambly enough to sound like Grandpa Simpson. There's a fine line, so practice in front of the mirror or something.
Dear your mum,
Do you know that "let's get it on" song... possibly by Barry White? Or Marvin Gaye? OR some other hacky loser who only had one culturally pervasive, everlasting love anthem that transcends time?
Of course you do. That song's probably from your era.
Well, forget that song. Because our new love anthem is "Smack my Bitch Up" by The Prodigy.
Get with the times!
I realise that song is from the 90's.
When do your kids get home?
I still have you because you are still the bomb!
I'd like to summarise this kitten using this photo of a kitten I found on the internet:
In an attempt to accurately express how I feel for your species, I have re-worded the 'abusive Mel Gibson tapes' in a way that should, I predict, leave you emotionally fulfilled. Enjoy.
“You look like a f***ing sunset in heat, and if you get kissed by a pack of pixies, it will be your fault.”
“Look what you did to me… look what you are… look what every part of you is… f**king nice… f**king nice. "
The lives you've left in pieces, shambles and general disarray; I don't know if they'll ever truly recover. You ought to be ashamed! Give me 10 million neopoints and we'll call it even.
I know you're really busy, but I gotta get this off my chest. You're my hero.
You get shit done. You're a man of quiet determination and let's face it, a cutting-edge sense of style.
I wish I could be all those things. But, in the mean time, you can be them for me.
I've seen the shock exclusives. You're encrusted with dead skin, full of mites and soaked in litres of sweat. Ordinarily that would deter me from most people/beds. But you... for you... I'm willingly to overlook it.
Endlessly devoted to you, Liam
1. The hot girl / hot guy radio = insanely depressing
What the fuck?! This city is crawling with beautiful, half naked, horny women and there are NO hot guys! I’ve seen like 3 potential fucks in the past month, and I’m being generous at that. Despair! (Hot guys take note.)
2. People LOVE cocaine
SO hard! They want it like RIGHT NOW all the time forever. It’s so gross! (No, but for real, is that why are the girls here are so thin, because if so I want some.)
3. New Yorkers love aphorisms
Everyone speaks Bumper Sticker here. People literally walk around saying things like “You just gotta be you,” and “Follow your dreams” without any shame or reservation. It’s like being back at Christian camp! Last night at a bar, after telling a guy 3 times that I most definitely did not want to dance with him, he actually said, “Girl, you have to learn to just let go and be free, ya feel me?” Eww! No, I do not feel you, or your cargo pants, so feck off!
4. People get wasted but not that wasted
In London it’s totally normal to walk into a bar and see someone face down on the floor, motionless, covered in their own vomit. You just assume they either did too much K or are taking a quick disco nap and will be up to finish their pint in no time. New Yorkers, however, seem to possess a vague level of constraint when it comes drinking/drugs that others simply do not. I think it has something to do with people here needing to feel in control / wanting to retain memories / not hating themselves, but I can't be sure!
5. The food is worryingly sweet
For realzzz! Bread tastes like biscuits, apples taste like apple cider, peanut butter tastes like Reeces Pieces and semen tastes like milkshakes!
6. People are generally more positive, look healthier and smile more in New York than anywhere else I’ve been in the world
It's creepy but it's true. I guess it being summer helps, but I also just think the quality of life is better here than in most places, i.e. in the UK where people talk about the sun like it’s an urban legend and think Guinness is a vegetable!
7. It’s too hot
It's so nightmarishly hot in NYC that in order to feel mildly comfortable you have to either be 1. in the shower 2. standing with your face pressed directly up against the air conditioner, or 3. running through one of those cinematic red fire hydrant fountain things, which I have actually taken to doing quite frequently (in slow motion, obviously).
8. People dress boring
As a general rule people in London dress retarded (this is good). Here not so much. That doesn’t mean people care less about they look (oh they do), I just think they’re less inclined to be outrageous or take noticeable risks. It comes across far less try-hard, but also in turn slightly less interesting. Although sometimes admittedly in London people take it way too far, i.e. people who go out with plant pots taped to their head / dress like futuristic, introspective vampires.
9. People love beards
10. It’s not “cool” to be a disaster.
In London being a poor junkie squatter is seen as really cool, believe me! Even all the rich west London kids rip their designer clothes and sleep on jank mattresses in abandoned warehouses to fit in. Here it’s all about having a job, not being a pathetic junked-out monster, having an apartment (furnished), and taking showers. Who knew?!
We've had some fun times together. You're like, a really good friend.
And since you've always done right by me, I make the effort to dress you in interesting pants. I'm sure you like that. Even when they're way too tight.
That's why we make such a great team - we both bring something to the table.
I feel like I can just call on you whenever I want, for a chat, for a serious conversation about the structural flaws of the universe, for some one-on-one time (eww!). You're pretty much the best girlfriend I've ever had. Yup, my penis, best girlfriend ever. Most guys would say that about their crotch, I suppose. But it goes without saying that we share a very serious, if some what disconnected relationship with our crotches. I mean, I'm writing it a letter.
And I'm pussy-footing around, being all nice and friendly, not because I'm a nice, friendly person, but because I know if I let something slip, say the wrong thing, my penis won't hesitate to ruin my life. I've seen the ads for 'erectile dysfunction'... I've been in the car with my dad, with the radio tuned into an ad about 'lasting longer in the bedroom thanks to nasal delivery technology'.
So, listen crotch, you fuck with me, and I'm gonna fuck with you too. I might just give you an embarrassing haircut. See how that feels! OR I'll get you tattooed. So, consider this a warning. Continue being my pal, and no one gets hurt.
Muchas gracias, Liam
Love is a very strong emotion. I neither feel it for you, nor any other word for that matter. But I like you, and I guess we can build on that. Try taking me out to dinner, for example.
Make me feel special. Do things that will surprise me, just out of the kindness of your heart. Then, when you least expect it, I may just love you. And it will be good. Then I'll grow weary of your attention. And you'll be gone. But no matter, because we'll always have the memories. And I will drown those away with wine.
Dear "Awesomeness" and "Epic",
It's about time the tacky-as-fuck people who use you start looking for something else to say. Or at least start using you both ironically. You can join your friends "random" and "fail" in that big discarded word heap in the sky. Good riddance.
(See what I did there?)
Just writing to inform you that the internet is ballz out genius. Out of all your obscene miracles, this one is the finest. The iphone, I hear, is also pretty good.
I'm also grateful for Pokemon and for looking after all my dead pets in Pet Heaven.
Pokemon don't die.
But this is what it would be like... minus Bill Murray. No, plus Bill Murray. I don't know. Just imagine yourself in place of Bill. And that's what heaven would be like.
I'm beginning to wonder if I'm the living embodiment of the 'American cop' stereotype. Donuts and coffee do have that 'nothing else matters' appeal. If further evidence was needed, I'm approximately 90% opposed to working. The remaining 10% of my very being only sees work as a (less than veritable) means of securing more coffee and donuts. I should consider a position in law enforcement.
Dear Blue Aliens from Daft Punk's One More Time film clip,
I have a thing for blue aliens. But you guys really step it up a notch.
What with your retro hair cuts and homosex stage outfits. Can I ask you something, are you all natural blondes? Also, who inspires you musically? Also, what's it like going on tour? Crazy? I bet! Who's the 'compulsively clean' one? And who's the 'jokester'? It must be non-stop laughs! Ammirite? But I guess you're just content with 'getting your message' out there, huh? Sure. I understand that. It's not about the 'business' for you guys. It's about the 'music'. So, which one of you is gay?
Keep in touch, Liam
There's a lot to be said about thin pasty white hags looking all coked out in the middle of nowhere. What are they doing all the way out here? What do they want from me? What are their phone numbers?
Offering your jacket to a girl is the sleaze. I feel like a complete tool offering my jacket to some shivering wreck of a woman I'm later going to sleep with. It ruins my complete game, because although I want to sleep with her, I want to look unfazed by sex and gentlemanly right up until her vagina. Nothing takes that away from me faster than taking off MY clothes and putting them on her. So pasty white hags in lingerie looking all coked out and cold in the middle of nowhere, touché, game fucking on.
I have to tell you, you are one hell of a giant space robot! From your shiny outer teflon coating, to your booming moog voice, you strike fear into the evil and socially redundant!
You are one technological astonishment/ retro-futuristic motif after another.
Dear Fighting Seizure Robots,
I like the catch of your jib.
Dear death of Michael Jackson,
I've heard the "I'll never forget where I was when I heard Michael Jackson had died" and coincidentally, I have also heard "Even though I said I'd never forget what I was doing when I heard that Michael Jackson had died, I have forgotten."
But, I will never forget where I was when I heard about you, the death of Michael Jackson. Because when mildly interesting news, particularly when concerning the death of a celebrity comes from a Bulgarian sex addict riding past you on a bike, it tends to stick.
"Hey Liam, Michael Jackson is dead" were the precise words, in place of the more common and socially accepted 'Good morning' or 'How are you?'
If only all the things I had to remember could be presented to me in that format.
First of all, this letter writing activity is really adamant I mess up some people's faces. But, you're a celebrity so you understand.
As I've expressed earlier, I don't really wanna kick anyone in the face, let alone you. But it would seem that decision is out of my hands. Rest assured, if there are other fully-fledged celebrities out there who take their fame more seriously than you, I'll resign to kicking them in the face instead. I hope we're clear.
I really liked that "Frozen" song you did. I liked the film clip too. But you get no credit for that. The director and the set and costume designers were the real artists. You are just the receiver of a kick to the face.
Hoping you are well, Liam
Dear 'man with indestructible face',
I'm writing this to inform you that if I'm ever forced at gunpoint to fly kick someone in the face, it's going to be you.
Sure there are people who probably deserve a fly kick to the face... probably even some people who want a fly kick to the face... like, sexually. But I am in no position to hand out fly kicks left right and centre. This is not because I'm a pacifist as such, or because I couldn't muster the energy to fly through the air with my foot directed at a face, no. This is because I just can't. I would pay someone else to do it for me. It might have something to do with guilt. Or going to jail. Or getting blood and teeth all over my legs and stuff. But this is not a letter to someone I want to kick the face so badly that I pay someone else to kick them in the face, no. So, man with indestructi- I just re-read the title and I realised there is no mention of 'FLY kicking' whatsoever. I just added that part in subconsciously. I guess If I were to kick a face, (which I just spent a lot of time saying I would not) I'd make a real go of it and fly kick it up a notch.
Anyway, man with indestructible face, I pray this gets to you and I hope you are well.
Dear Iron Man aka Tony Stark,
Enough with the quippy one-liners and audience-aimed quizzical looks when someone alludes to you as either, sarcastic, egotistical or narcissistic. This intentional phony dismay, so as to portray yourself as a 'mischievous puppy/ chronic ladies man/ sex addict in denial' is getting tiresome. It was endearing in the first movie, then dumb in the second. You're obviously dealing with some kind of mid-life crisis related inadequacy. Take a look at Hugh Hefner, who's doing it so much better than you. That guy is a natural at playing it cool. You look like you're reading straight from a fucking 'How to' manual on being sassy.
Warm regards, Liam
I met you in that movie: Jurassic Park. You were wearing this scaly reptilian number. I was the 6 year old in the pants and shirt. Our eyes met for a brief second. I think you'll agree we shared something together.
When I think of you, time itself seems to stop. I can't stop loving you, no matter how hard I try. Why do you have to be so god damned extinct?
All my love, Liam
Dear Mount Fuji,
You are a cockstain. Climbing you was, what felt like a very unfulfilling decade of my life. I wish I had wasted that time anywhere other than on your dry rocky slopes of hopelessness.
You stink, you're ugly up close and you're never ending. That Japanese guy I saw vomiting on you, you brought that upon yourself for being such a shit of a mountain.
Also, thanks for being not only a massive bitch on the way up, but an insufferable slut on the way down. And I should probably thank you for breaking me down to a level of mental stability that can only be accurately described as "stabby". Go eat a dick.
Best wishes, Liam.
Bastard: What!? I didn't order two boxes of baby ducks!!
Liam: Baby ducks are called ducklings.
Bastard: (clearly upset) I don't care what they're called. They're not mine.
Liam: Well... what am I supposed to do with two boxes of ducklings?
Bastard: What am I supposed to do with two boxes of ducklings.
Liam: There was this movie where this girl adopted a flock of baby geese and effectively became their mother. She taught them how to fly by building an aeroplane and having the geese follow her into the sky. It was fairly inspirational.
Bastard: I've never seen that movie.
Liam: I'll rent it and we can watch it together if you just sign for these ducklings.
Bastard: Hhhhm. I don't know. Becoming mother to two boxes of ducklings seems like an awful burden.
Liam: Fine. Fine, well just sign for them, then I'll turn my back and you can just chuck one box of ducklings into the garbage or something. How does that sound?