Friday, July 30, 2010

Wishlist

* Smaller feet
* Bigger cock
* Smaller nose
* Bigger eyes
* Smaller waist
* Bigger tolerance in general. Patience, I suppose. I wish I had more patience.
* Less ginger. In fact, I wish I had darker hair, so I'd blend in with the rest of humanity.
* And while I'm at it, darker skin. I wish I could tan.
* Which in turn, meant I sweated less. I wish I had a higher tolerance for dripping like a snapped tap after a short three minute walk.
* Less fear. I wish I was absolutely fearless.
(* Sad male addendum: And rock hard, like Bruce Lee twinned with a Sherman fucking tank)
* More confidence. As fear, but somehow more positive.
* Less guilt. I wish I lived life drinking from its cup, instead of feeling guilty about absolutely everything.
* A womaniser. Sorry, but I wish I could pile through women like syphilis in a brothel.
* Charismatic? I'm clutching at straws now, but I'd like an almost hypnotic charisma, and engaging witty banter. Basically I'd like to be the bastard child of Dave Allen and Peter Ustinov, with Peter Cook as Godfather.
* Sexual mystique. I want what Sean Connery had, without the wife-beating and being Scottish.
* Yeah, okay, good looks. I admit I haven't fucking got it.
* A genuine, positive love of life, and people, and everything. Just this sheer vivacity, and joy, and happiness for being alive and sentient, right here, right now.


Actually, fuck that guy. He sounds like an unbearable cunt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Edit :- I'm tagging people, except I'm not going to do it at all, because I'd feel guilty about anyone I'd left off.
So if you're reading this and you want to write your own *you* wishlist, then comment and leave a link to your blog. Yes, that'll do. All-inclusive, yet lazy at the same time.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Probing Myanus

All things considered, it wasn't the best start to my week, lying on my side as a man with an enormous moustache rammed his finger into my arse.

I'd finally snapped a few days ago, deciding one afternoon as I ambled nervously towards the toilet that I simply couldn't take any more anal Russian Roulettes, and booked myself into a humiliating first visit to my new doctor.

Having never met said doctor before, I was hoping for an ageing and indifferent GP; a cantankerous old bastard so inured to life's ailments, who'd seen more arseholes than an LA barmaid, that he could happily be wrist deep inside a weeping, trembling rectum whilst thinking about nothing else but cricket.

As it was, I got the next best thing; a cheerful, middle-aged Indian with a moustache so thick and lustrous that it felt as if I'd been transported back to the Victorian age to see the best practitioner in the Raj.

I didn't realise he was more like Freddie Mercury until after he did what he did.

The doctor asked me what was wrong, and I approached the subject tentatively. I knew this was going to ruin someone's day and to be perfectly honest, at that stage I still wasn't sure whose. But he didn't blink when I told him. He was like some kind of doctor. I'd spent the better part of eight months shitting either cactii or bricks (the bricks being preferable as they didn't cut me up on their way out). If I looked uncomfortable admitting that, the doctor looked positively thrilled. I mean that. I told him the problem was my raw back passage and he practically clapped with glee as he stood up and told me to drop 'em.

"Oh christ," I thought as I lay on the examination table, the doctor jabbing at my bowels with ninja-like accuracy and asking if it hurt.
"Oof", I said. Actually "oof".
Plus my cock was out and he could see it.

Then he told me to roll onto my side.

"Here we go," I thought as I felt my cheeks being pulled apart and a finger - god, I hope it was a finger - prodding at the lower opening of my digestive tract.

"Does that hurt?", he asked again. By now I assumed he meant mentally, not physically.

"Yes, doctor. Very much so."

"Well blah blah blah!" he said as he cheerfully released my buttocks and trotted over to his table of gadgets. "Blah blah blah blah", he continued. I still have absolutely no idea what he said, as I was now in a very dark place and feeling more than a little vulnerable. All I wanted was his prognosis, and to get the fuck out of there.

Then it happened. No "Brace yourself!", not a damn bloody word, not that I was listening anyway. The doctor walked back to my prone body and rammed - rammed - his index finger, with not inconsiderable force, into my raw sphincter like a rat up a drainpipe.

"AARGH!" I screamed. And then he twisted it around as if I had an old dial-up phone wedged in my colon. "AAAARGH!"
I punched the wall.

"Well blah blah blah blah blah blah..." he continued as he walked over to the sink with all the air of a man who hadn't just inserted a digit into another man's rectum.

I hadn't expected that. The problem, after all, was on my outside. The doctor walked back to his desk as I pulled up my shorts and headed for the chair.

"I feel like I should buy you flowers now," I said in an attempt at levity, but he just looked confused.

I remained pretty mute after that. Pretty mute as he scribbled down the name of a good laxative, pretty mute as I sat on the train staring at the other commuters and wondering whether they'd been violated that morning, pretty mute as I got to my desk with a finger-shaped cavity in my cavity.

None of it would matter quite so much if I had actually listened to his diagnosis. Instead I just felt dirty while the doctor looked really bloody pleased with himself.

Plus I'm not sure if he even wore gloves.


NEXT WEEK: I HAVE A DATE LINED UP, AND I'M SCARED.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

The Grateful Apology

Right, let's get straight to the point: I'M SORRY. That's to anyone who's still around reading this thing: I'M REALLY VERY SORRY.

It's hard not to be introspective when writing a "blog" about "yourself", but bloody hell, what the fuck has been wrong with me??

I've just re-read the last few months of posts - something I never do - because I haven't written for a while and I wanted to get reacquainted... and I've found myself shocked at the uncensored, self-absorbed navel gazing; moreover the months of endless, unmitigated misery.

I didn't recognise myself. I sounded almost suicidal. I remember being advised to seek therapy and, at the time, thinking that was a bit of a harsh response, but now I understand why it was suggested. So thank you, all of you, and apologies again. Looking back - literally - I can see why it looked as if I was cracking up, predominantly because I was.

So I went on this diet, of which I'm still on, and fully intend to remain on more or less forever. It's pretty sensible, based on a little more fruit and veg in my life, and a little less Ben & Jerry breakfasts, elephant-sized packs of Doritos, and 18" pizzas as an amuse-bouche that preceeds a fish and chips main course.

The difference between this diet now, and every single diet I've ever done in my entire life, is that I accept that it's not so much a diet as 'The Norm'. Prior to this, my food intake was not dissimilar to a drug addict on a binge, where the narcotic of choice happens to be crap processed food, abused on a daily basis.

Said crap food became its own salesman too, promoting itself once it was digested and I felt shitty again and needed cheering up once more. In fact, it's only occurring to me now that my diet has probably been more responsible than I care to realise for my endless funk (which is not a good place, outside of discos).

Things came to a head when, eventually, I felt I had no choice in this anymore; that I either snapped out of this bullshit and took control of things, or else remained miserable, writing Woe-Is-Me posts, and wondering why that blonde on the train keeps avoiding eye-contact with frowning Fatcunt.

This book has helped me immeasurably: Overcoming Weight Problems using cognitive behavioural techniques, and I strongly recommend it for anyone who has struggled to lose weight, particularly using just good old willpower and lettuce.

I've given up smoking using similar techniques (in that instance, Allen Carr's EasyWay), which also, essentially, bypasses sheer force of will (which will only ever last as long as can be hacked) and replaces it with your own logic and common sense.

So in a nutshell, that's it. Sorry. And no more misery. It's too miserable.

Besides, I think I'm getting happy.

And yes, personally, if this still lasts come winter, then I'll be impressed. I should also be thinner, and possibly even having sex.

That's right, I said it: Sex.