I’m Not Dead

As the title says: I am not dead, yet in all honesty I wonder fucking why not. Obviously from my own observations I love myself too much for suicide to be a literal thing, it’s more of a deep dark wallowing feeling like how I imagine the Queen feels talking to Jeremy Corbyn.

I’ve betrayed the little promise to myself to write more perhaps because I’ve managed to, in a few cleverly placed fuck ups, dismantle my life again and again much to the dismay of my co-workers and friends. The highlight of my month was a very drunk ex coming into the bar where I work to call me a shit and chat up my manager to make me jealous. Unfortunately, the desired effect was lost as all I felt was confusion and a stress headache from all the to-and-fro I did from the sink to get her glasses of water. The general manager legitimately considered changing my name on the till to ‘Bastard’. Something I’m not sure what to feel about which perhaps indeed, makes me a bastard somehow.

In the last two weeks things have settled and I’ve started seeing someone who has thus far been perhaps the most stable human being I’ve been with. Although last night post a mutually disappointing sexual encounter I felt so much like a pissing puppy I quickly left much to her dismay and confusion by midnight.

People always say that sex isn’t the be all and end all but considering the highly integral part in pretty much everything in our lives sex plays, the unfortunate truth is that it is. From Bratz dolls with mini-skirts to pretty much Kevin Spacey, sex is in the forefront of the media circus that is humanity in 2018 – what an incredible fucking ‘covfefe’ right? Christ even the literal big cheese, Donald Trump, is embroiled in a scandal around sex; by all accounts on an entirely different level to the lack of any climax issue from my night, but it just helps the point. BBC News sent me a news alert on my phone to inform me that a porn star is suing the president because apparently, we live in a disturbing episode of South Park rather than the intelligent Orson Wells dystopia we all sort of didn’t wish for (but definitely did for the sake of the sheer fact we can all boast we’ve actually read anything by Orson Wells – I for one haven’t). It’s all fine though of course, Freud was about as disconnected from reality as Theresa May is from the youth vote so not to worry, blame the media not your weird relationship with your mother.

Aside from the internal screeching I’ve been experiencing for the past day the whole situation seems very arbitrary from an outsider’s perspective. This shit probably happens to millions of people every day and then they, like me, spend the next twenty-four hours wallowing in pyjamas, binge watching Hell’s Kitchen – it’s been updated on Netflix for anyone wondering. The most depressing thing though is that this normally comes to people having sex for the very first time or are in their mid-forties which means once again I’m coming across like an unfortunate Gen-Y not really adapting to the world outside of my AOL dial-up internet and Sabbutteo.

Fuck, I’ve become my dad. That’s it: time to take me off to the local for unnamed amber beer; confusing, ill-informed racist rants; all while wearing at least five-year-old polos. Obviously shoot me immediately after because it would be the kindest thing to do. It’d never be for me I can’t stomach racism, let alone amber beer.

I’m Not Dead

Buckethead

So, the battle for net neutrality is waging in the US and while protected by EU legislation, I still look at it with the same look that you give to a fully-grown man passionately kissing a body pillow at comic con. It reads simply as ‘what the fuck’, which in this context isn’t even a question anymore it’s become simply a statement at both the man with his body pillow and the late stage capitalism we all find ourselves in. Having a television in the UK requires you to have an expensive licence to pay for the glorious BBC and in-part, Channel 4, and that alone makes me want to throw the thing out of the window to claim back the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound fee. Which in turn, makes me far more irritated by the fact –  as a hopeful immigrant to the US someday – that soon Americans will probably have to pay that bit extra if they want to go onto Facebook as part of some weird social media package lovingly brought to you by Comcast.

I was watching an interview with our lord and saviour Kevin Spacey when he said something to the effect of that sometimes he thought that the story lines in House of Cards were at times unbelievable, something he was proved wrong by the evolving political and social environment of the USA. It goes without saying that at some point that the strange satire is no longer restricted to the US and becomes a global thing where politics has become more of a scripted reality show than Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Just take a look at the recent UK election when Theresa May’s ‘strong and stable’ nation came crashing down and became the ‘coalition of chaos’ that she warned would happen if votes were cast for her rival. The night, for me, was summed up by the line-up from Mrs May’s own constituency where she stood on the same stage as actual Lord Buckethead who then dabbed.

Surely that’s the metaphor for our current political climate. Lord Buckethead dabbing gets thunderous laughter while Paul Ryan does the same in a bit to say ‘hello fellow kids’ and the reception is cringing faces. Every day a new scandal about the Trump family emerges from the woodwork and everyday people jump to defend him or attack him throwing around words like ‘libtard’ or ‘impeachment’. It’s got to a point where I find myself living in a Monty Python sketch and like The Meaning of Life, it’s starting to get old and drag, becoming more and more nonsensical.

I try not to talk about politics – try and fail. It’s a polarising subject mired in hatred and most importantly: irony. The irony most explicit comes from a single headline: ‘Donald Trump voter despairs as Mexican husband set to be deported’, courtesy of the Independent. Another nail in the coffin to demonstrate how darkly comic the world seemingly written and devised by the League of Gentlemen – just today I was asked by the barber, ‘are you local?’.

Buckethead