I’m still deciding what to write for my next post, in the mean time here is a bit about me.
Hello I’m Ben,
I read a blog once by someone who had bought a scarf and she went on for about three hundred paragraphs about her scarf and where she bought it and how it made her feel. Penned apparently by throwing a keyboard into a box full of squirrels and running the results through a quick spell-check. The last time I bought a scarf I wore it. End of story. I didn’t write a novel about it.
I keep telling myself that I should get fit but then I see people that I know and work with starting exercise routines and they become boring and talk about ‘reps’ and read out the amount of calories from food wrappers as if anybody cares. A year after going to the gym and becoming experts on the amount of water they should drink in a day, they are just as flabby as when they started but less interesting.
As I am constantly told I am too skinny, last year I paid £35 to join a gym. I attended twice. The first time for almost an hour, the second for only fifteen minutes when it dawned on me that a) the level of fitness of the people attending the gym was inversely proportional to the level of intelligence and that b) my instructor was not wearing anything under his Spandex bike pants and the wet semen spot would, in all probability, brush against me if I stayed there any longer. In hindsight, the money would have been better spent on takeaway food, alcohol and drugs. I am fairly fit due to regularly thinking about jogging and I once performed a jumping jack. It was unintentional and involved a spider on the bath mat but still counts.
I enjoy cooking, (except quorn, I refuse to eat something that looks so much like cat litter). My last girlfriend could not cook cook. She was capable of the process of cooking, but she cannot cook in the same way that an octopus cannot ride a bike; it has enough arms to reach the pedals and handlebars but the result will rarely be a successful journey from A to B. I once looked over her shoulder to discover her crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets into a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”
I like to watch films cuddles up under a duvet eating junk food on a cold rainy day.
Recently, I was tricked into watching The Notebook which was about geese. Lots of geese. It also had something to do with an old lady who conveniently lost her memory so she could not remember being a whore throughout the entire film.
If I had a monkey, I would teach it to sing Kylie Minogue songs. Then if Kylie passed out on stage again I would be able to save the day by having my monkey finish the concert for her. The concert promotors would probably give me free tickets and promotional gifts. Kylie would be so thankful that she might send me an autographed photo and I could sell it on ebay for fifty pounds. I would buy drugs with the fifty dollars. Not for the monkey, for me.
I do have a job (surprisingly) one of my old bosses had short man syndrome. I knew my first boss was going to be trouble as soon as I met him. He was small, and short men are almost always angry, horrible things. A woman being short is seen as cute, but a short man will never forgive the world for such a cruel blow. Small men hate normal sized humans. They wish them cancer and car accidents. They dream about being the size of an office block and stomping on all the normal sized people. Small men have fat wives with tight curly hair, and they are angry about that as well. I am sure there are many advantages of being so small. ASDA has and excellent range of boys clothing at competitive prices. If I was small I would buy a cat and ride it. now I am the highest earner in my office, Except on Mondays when I am the drunkest. Although I spend most of the day playing a game called ‘staring at the wall wondering what happy are doing’ and answering calls by either ending each sentence with ‘over’ like I am talking on a walkie talkie then making the ‘kchssssch’ noise or pretending to be a confused Chinese woman.
Each Tuesday I held a disco in my bedroom with strobe lighting and special guest. As my wardrobe door has a large mirror on it, it looks like someone is dancing with you. I once dressed as a lady and it was almost exactly what I imagine dancing with a real lady would be like. Unfortunately, I kept worrying about falling, hitting my head and being found dressed that way so she left after only a few dances and a brief kiss.