I definitely, did not forget to write a new post sooner, I want to make that very clear. It’s been put off so I can catch up on my habit of sleeping 16 hours a day, which for those who don’t, is a joy. The phone was on silent; the housemates’ punchable faces are no where to be seen; and bad choices relating to alcohol, spending, and women can’t be produced. I’ve also made some stylistic decisions when it comes to writing, making my topics based more so in my own life rather than my bastardised Mark I, stillborn blog. This is the point where a more caring writer would implore you to give feedback on that. Unfortunately, for whoever is reading this, I write for my own sanity rather than an innate desire to be loved which is something people in the 21st century have a problem with.
Speaking of which:
A rather talented graphic artist that I went to school with has just released his own music. It’s the second single that he’s dragged up from the bowels of hell, something for some reason he’s given up on higher education for. Sure, X – I’m calling X for the sake of anonymity for him and to save those curious people from trying to listen to his garbage –, has never been a particularly likeable person outside of his new group of vanity chain smoking, dead-eyed club girls. X and I were in the same group that sat together at lunch and pretending to get along for the sake of everyone else. He thought I was an arsehole, which isn’t wrong, and I thought he was an image obsessed attention seeker, and, clearly from his endless fucking Snapchat stories about his new hair blue dye and lip-syncing Nicki Minaj, I wasn’t wrong either.
The only thing stranger than this grown man’s sworn convictions in his own singing abilities is his child-like fascination for every female character in media. First it was Harley Quinn then it was Scarlet Witch then it was Margery Tyrell. As someone who enjoys variety in conversation speaking exclusively for hours on end about the nuances of Natalie Dormer in portraying his ‘favourite fantasy protagonist’ out of sheer social obligation made me want to tear my eyes out and mush them into my fucking ears. Ironically, that last bit is how I feel about his music.
As much as I despise the overgrown man-child, he’s a good artist with a potential to be a great one with a career in illustration. Yet X is so stuck on this music high that he doesn’t realise that he wasn’t asked to stop going to open mic nights around his home town because ‘they had too many acts’. It depresses me it really does – obviously as well as giving me a good chuckle when I feeling shitty about myself – and, as I was ranting about this to a friend the other day I was told why am I not just happy that he is doing something he’s passionate about?
The simple answer is that as someone who is typically passionless about all things I can identify a bad thing when I see it. A total waste of potential and the cherry on the cake made of human shit is that he’s published himself on Spotify accidentally under an already registered artist; an unfortunate American gospel singer who’ll definitely sue if the music industry finally dies a death and X gets a break. Personally, I blame all the people who politely told him that he’s good: those vanity chain smoking, dead-eyed club girls.