OK; so here it is, I'll lay it on the line. I'm really fucking tired, and I mean... properly exhausted; shattered to the point of stagnation. So, if this isn't great, then, well, fuck off, I post a hell of a lot more than any of the other douchebags out there. And my stuff is always: Witty, insightful, interesting, engaging, piquant, and true. Except that. I should get a new joke.
I wanna talk about rain. Well, no, scrap that. I don't want to talk about rain at all, but I want you to fight through the insipidity of me talking about rain, that's how I'm going to milk this post for all the fun it is worth. Aren't I just the greatest? Nawt. Lololol. Omglololol. Omegle. Now there's a fun site. Anyway, another time, I am sure.
So: Rain; multitudinous rationale for loathing. So many reasons, all of them legitimate, and none of them made up as I go along. I woke up this morning to the sound of the water dripping from the guttering, onto the plasticvatory below me (acting as an attachment to my friend's room downstairs), and that, my friends, is a really, really, bad noise to be hearing at any time of the day, let alone 7.03 in the morning. That's not even a time. You know what I miss? When you're between youth and realisation, and you don't even know that 7.03am exists - you just assume the world starts revolving whenever you wake, and get up. That's what I miss. Dang, I would love for the world to be in stasis whilst I slee--oh, what's that? Oh, it is; wonderful--p. Yeah, so you wake up to the sound of thousands of tiny, tiny, teeny droplets of water pit-pattering (and by this I of course mean hammering with the weight of a thousand suns), and so you peel your eyes open (see here for how), and slowly stumble across to the window, just to check that you're not the buck of some kind of auditory prank (they get bored, no doubt, that's why you vomit sometimes, ears are bored, honest), you gaze out; hoping that what you're hearing is actually a cat clipping its nails, or a robin hopping along the guttering (which is conveniently housed three centimetres above the top of your bedroom window); no, alas, it is as you expected: The sky has opened and a tumultuous downpour is seeking to wash away the earth from its foundations, but ne'er will it stop you from crawling to the shower to pray that the window is closed so that you can get ready to go out in the rain; of course, it's only half-way through your shower that you remember the reason you're in the shower is because you're cold because it's raining and that you shouldn't have bothered going in the shower because it's raining. Sartre.
Now that you've realised it's raining, you can plan your outfit; there's a jolly occasion. What's that you say? Oh, it's raining and blowing a gale, but it's still criminally humid? Superb; I'll wear my waterproof air-t-shirt; the best part about that item is that it's definitely real; no? Oh, I'll go out with an umbrella but sans vetements? That's illegal, you say? Damn. Hmm. OK, weird beanie hat it is, but some kind of three-quarter-sleeved shirt - yeah, you know, the casual ones where they have that kind of hooky material that attaches through a loop and keeps the sleeve in place? No? You know the one! It's the kind that looks great in the shop, and then is impossible to emulate after the first time you've washed it and it comes unbuttoned. OK, so casual shirt - uncomfortable but tolerable - and some kind of polyester. Make some more waterproof materials, guys; seriously, we're developing vaccines against HIV, but we can't make a waterproof material that doesn't sound like someone rubbing polystyrene down a sand dune? Fuck. That. I hate that noise. It reminds me of being twelve, and having to go to some god-awful retreat for "self-improvement", or whatever reasoning schools give to parents; you know the type of place: Cabins, obstacle courses that are devoid of obstacles, aside from "mud", "tunnels with mud in them", "that beam of wood across some mud", "that swing across the mud", "that muddy path to get there". I love those places. Oh no wait, no, I've forgotten what words mean there, I hate those places. Without rain, there'd be no mud. No hose be stretching that forest, fo shizzle. Well there we have it: You're bedecked in a nice looking shirt, and some kind of '80's (this is the proper way to punctuate a contraction of this type) throwback coat. Where do you find these fucking coats? Its some kind of awful quasi-trench, off-brown affair with sleeves just too long, and one button missing. Seriously, here, who thought you'd grow into it? More to the point: Why haven't you grown into it? Presumably it was bought when you were growing? Surely you didn't buy it at 20 and go "Oh, I'll grow into that *full beard*"? Maybe I did; maybe that's why I own such clothing ephemera. Or perhaps I just have no taste.
Congratulations; you've dressed yourself - next week we'll move on to counting up to ten, and how to walk. Now it's time for headgear; tough choice, this one. If you're a savvy shopper, your coat, though as antiquated as a cuckoo clock, will have a hood, and, if you're really lucky, it'll be one of those hoods you can detach/re-attach, or better yet, one you can fold in on itself to form some kind of clothing parallel dimension, where the only choice you have is a beige jumpsuit, or nothing. So you've got that hood, but what about your hair? If you're like me, that's not important, I've got shit hair anyway. But you might be sporting a towering 'fro, or perhaps you're bouncing with some kind of scene-atrocious-swishy-flick-gay-as-the-day-is-long abortion of a haircut? In that case you need a beanie with cap front, so as to not have to wear a beanie and a cap; and then you need to wear the hood over it. Hopefully you're not a 'stitched-in-baby'**, otherwise you'll never get your hood over all of those layers.
Now you've adroitly adorned your accoutrements you are ready to brave the outside; as a child screaming through amniotic fluid, pressing down the cervix, passing along the vaginal cavity, before breaching the outer-limits of a disgusting metaphor; unleashed onto a world that should be radiantly bright, but alas, no, you've been born unto an achromatic world of pain and disappointment. Man up, it's time to start walking. Never fear, I am sure the rain will be falling straight down, you can't feel a wind; ergo, it should be falling straight down onto the top of your hood, keeping the rest of you nice and dry (at least, if you've a giant head).
Nope. Even on the stillest of days, in hours of quietude, and on tranquil afternoons of stillness, the rain will still swirl around you as if caught in a tornado. So that's annoying. Especially if it's that god-awful rain that feels like nothing, so you laugh at it, but in reality it's actually the same as falling face first into the bottom of the ocean, and then having to swim three miles back up. That's how wet you get. Or that awful stuff that just sits on your clothes until you go to brush it off, and then you drown as it pierces your skin and fills your lungs. Momentary advice: Never punch a bush when it has been raining, however much you want to. Second advice: Never try to grab a leaf off of a bush when it has been raining, it will slip out of your grasp, it will cause the bush to shake, you will get wet.
Wherever you're going: Walk, run, amble, saunter, jog, get a bus, drive directly into the room, fly, jump, hop, skip; doesn't matter. You're wet now. For what feels like forever.
**'Stitched-in-baby': Someone who wears trousers/t-shirts that are so tight, you can't figure out how they got into them; so logically you assume they were sown into them at birth.
No comments:
Post a Comment