All We Need is Love and Beer, and Old School Metal and Holiday Cheer to be Happy

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Most of the time you will wonder what it is that makes you feel related to the people your supposed to be related to. Family isn’t a word that  most people would call hostile but then again, their families would probably kick up some kind of fuss.

Get-togethers are like walking into a Gorilla pit at the zoo, where the bananas are questions about your job (or in my case lack off) and the flying faeces is just more questions, about your love life…(or in my case lack off)…

And there isn’t much you can do when you have these metaphorical bananas of profitable career paths thrown at you but just smile sweetly, explain that your are still looking desperately and wait for the flying shit to hit you in the face next. And when said gorillas are done with trying to force feed you their knowlegde of the working world and how I should perhaps change my direction of search, the metaphorical bananas are un-strategically changed from employment to love life. From bananas to flying shit in a matter of seconds.

Sometimes all you really need are a few of your good friends, some lovely wine and the hours of a free day to feel like yourself again.

Most of the time it isn’t the family you were born into that digs you out of your self induced BBC iPlayer coma, its the family that you stumbled upon during those first few years you were introduced to clubbing, shots, Jägerbombs and fancy dress. The friends you have to keep close are the ones that make your pervy comments seem like valid discussion points. These are the loyal friends that think having a full on steak sandwich after a meal at a Chinese buffet is perfectly acceptable, and jump at the chance to join you.

Now if you have chosen your second family wisely, you’ll understand that these people are the ones that may not stay so close by your side for the rest of your life, but they bloody well make the time they are in your life pretty damn marvellous. So don’t be afraid to put your legs up call some people over and have a few bottles of wine at the ready. You’ll thank me later, I promise you.

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Let’s Start a Farm

To those who have green thumbs and to those you just couldn’t give a damn (why are you reading this?) why not try growing a farm? Why not move away from growing pretty little flowers in pretty little rows and grow some freaking onions? Or even some radishes? Know what I’ve started? Chillies. The first moment you see those shoots pop up from the compost, it isn’t pride you feel, it isn’t even joy. It goes along the lines of “Oh thank God I didn’t fail at this too.”

“Thank the heavens unemployment hasn’t destroyed all my brain cells, by spending all day refreshing the front page of Reddit avoiding looking for a job and I am still able to following those little instructions that come at the back of the packet.” 

Then of course there is the joy and the feeling of self-fulfilment. Fulfilment because these little shots will be your children for the next few months, and (because you are basically alone and you are single) you will find yourself talking to these little shoots as if they are the loves of your life. You will find yourself talking to these little green children as if they are everything you ever wanted in a family. They’re quiet, they listen to your every word, they don’t start pointless arguments, they don’t steal your clothes/food/time…They even gift you with precious fruits and only ask for water and sunlight in return. 

IMG_20140407_1[1] Just so you know I am actually taking this all very seriously. These are my children…

I also have dabbled in the idea of growing my own radishes. I say my own; what I actually have come to realise is that they aren’t my own at all. Haha no, no. They belong to the slugs of the night. I merely provide those slow motion beasts with a banquet of baby leaves, fresh horse shit and beautiful soil. They must think I’m either:

Their God, their provider of food and life.

Or they must think I’m the moron who didn’t buy the slug pellets when she had a chance to save her radishes…

Then again, they are snails. Who knows what they think besides “Shit, is that salt? Did I just slide through salt? Oh no my bad, I’m not melting that’s just my DISGUSTING SLIME!”

The Accidental Affair

It’s quiet. But that’s normal. It’s the custom around her for it to be quiet in such a dreary room, where all you can hear is a symphony of laughter from the apartments above and below you. Where the radio makes a mundane crackling static noise in the back ground, and the forgotten cigarette, by the glass of golden malt whiskey, is turning from a line of wrapped tobacco to a line of ash. It’s routine for him to sit there, in his vest and unbuttoned trousers that barely hang on him. It’s typical for him to just sit there and wait for something to happen in his dreary room of his dreary clichéd apartment. But nothing ever does. He takes a swig of his whiskey and clenches his jaw as it travels down his throat. The harsh flaming taste of the liquid scorches his naked throat and reminds him of a woman’s wrath.

Rapping on the door makes him jump, and the attention he had on his drink moves onto the wooden entrance. He opens the door and there stands in front of him a thing of beauty, a specimen of dreams, a feast for the eyes. She leans against the door frame and a stranger’s name escapes from her lips “Oh Johnny…!” But before he can even question it she takes him by his arms and pushes her thick scarlet lips on to his mouth. His confusion is quickly overtaken by lust and he greedily grabs at her breasts. She presses herself onto him and moans into his mouth softly as his hands caress her back and gently tug at her hair. They stagger and stumble towards the mushroom coloured mattress he calls a bed, he is already half undressed. His mind should be wondering what the beautiful stranger is doing touching him let alone taking his clothes off, but instead he is too intoxicated with her seductive scent. His ex-wife’s picture on his bedside table is dropped face down as he suddenly questions why it is there in the first place. But the thought it quickly ignored as the stranger’s red dress falls to the ground, to reveal the most ravishing figure. Her kisses descending along his happy trail until she reaches her destination and his eyes spring open as his head drops back as if on a hinge. They make love. At least to him they make love. To her it is a mere transaction, an agreement.

It is over now. The air is still hot and humid, but it is over. The strike of a match is heard and the glow of the fire creates dark dancing shadows. She hands him the cigarette and looks deep into his eyes. “The agreement?” she speaks with a stern and cold tone…she has changed. He looks at her with a blank expression and she tries again to remind him, “We spoke on the phone, Johnny, I don’t just come over to any stranger’s home, you know. And this isn’t some hot-shot place you got here either, nothin’ like what you said. So come on, don’t blow me over like this, you know I need the money!”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“My name…its Harry.”

She looks at him intensely and she realises he really doesn’t have a clue about the situation, about what just happened, about why she was even here. Maybe she took a right on Second Street but took a left; there isn’t any time to think. She picks up her clothes and leaves the scene of the accident. He doesn’t even call her to stop her, how can he, he doesn’t even know her name…