Sometimes I wish people could read my lips.
I look like a spring onion before being chopped up and put into a stew.
I would like to be able to say something to someone’s face, but feel they can’t judge me if they can’t hear me, and most of my ideas are quite outlandish and most of the time make no logical sense or any sense. Just sometimes a shit insult that turns into an average compliment. When a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there, does it suggest I put the wrong address into the satnav, and now in this field in the middle of fucking nowhere, there’s no tree in sight. Am I late? Are the trees already down? I swear the trees were meant to go down on a Tuesday. What, no — was it Tuesday last month? Is that why I couldn’t hear anything, or does it mean the tree just didn’t fall down? That’s philosophical. The more you know.
There are moments in a young man’s life (talking about me) where he must decide to be a bastard, a chum, or a quiet, shy guy. Those are the options I’ve pulled out of the hat for this writing portion. I’ll provide a situation, and you can provide an answer based on the variables. Feels like a GCSE practical lesson. Not a fan of triple science, but at least you know I am somewhat intelligent.
I was sitting on the train home. I chose my seat as one does and perched on the chair as some do. I was sitting at a table, so already I knew it would be a painful journey as I’m a tall bastard — irrelevant to the type of person I am, that’s just how I’d consider myself vertically. I look like a spring onion before being chopped up and put into a stew. I say that so you don’t think I’m freshly pulled from the ground and dirty. So, a prepared spring onion at best. Long and thin. But with a sour sense of humour and a running style like an erratic gazelle or a spring‑loaded shotgun. I couldn’t think of what else was springy other than a spring, but that’s not very interesting.
Anyway, someone got on the train, sat down opposite me, and when his feet slapped the floor, I knew it was trouble. The foot fight begins — feel free to read that blog post later on or before, I don’t mind, as the title explains itself. Anyway, it got to a point where I was ready to just call it quits and tell him to fuck off, but I felt it was a Tuesday morning and I can’t do that as I’ve had such a good day. My reason for almost giving up had nothing to do with him, mostly, but more to do with: when I wear socks, in the morning, I pull them tight as I like to be contained. It always gets itchy as the day progresses, as one wears thermal insulated socks on a day full of heat. I do. The socks had squeezed into the gaps of my toes, and it was just awkward.
There are some things I can never try: facon and flip‑flops. One, I’m a part‑time vegan, so you could say it was on the table, but I just can’t desecrate my taste buds. As one Mitchell Pritchett said, “FACON, IT’S F**KING DISGUSTING” — put lightning. And flip‑flops — it’s in such an awkward position, and I don’t have time to get used to it. I need a solution for wet grass and tempered glass. Those are sliders. Also, who would buy second‑hand sliders?
The sock had done a flip‑flop on me, and I wasn’t having it. So I then mouthed, “Get back, why can’t you fucking move, you don’t need that much room.” I saw when you got on the train. I am definitely a foot taller than you, unless your legs meet at the top and are chest height. I don’t see why you need to stretch your legs. I’m going to guess he lost me at “why can’t you fuck,” which is a very intense ice breaker on the train home. An eye roll greeted me, and I didn’t know what that was referring to.
I lost it. I dropped my polite words and traded those fuckers in for some angry sentiments. Now I’m just making a lot of weird faces, throwing some weird shapes. I mean dancing and not chucking random bits of rubbish all over the floor, and occasionally shouting part of my song in hopes he gets so frustrated he will regret being a bit of a Pritt Stick.