Tuesday, 3 January 2012

It (Probably isn't) the End of the World As We Know it

So that's 2011 done and dusted. It's gone rather quickly, hasn't it. With the double-dip recession; the coalition; the riots in London and other major cities; the tremendously warm autumn and this depressingly mild winter.

2011's been an interesting year for me. I finished school and started college... drank quite a bit of beer... that's about it I think. I didn't make any new year's resolutions because I won't keep them. I've already done a to-do list (in August) on which nothing has been crossed off, or ticked off or struck off, or whichever of those is more aesthetically pleasing to you people (all five of you).

I'm going to change the subject because I've got nothing else to write about 2011. It was just another year, we'll have many more like it.

If there are two things people are going to remember me by after I've died; they'll be my hair, and the smell of my farts. Nothing else, not the fact that I play guitar, not the fact that I died prematurely, not this blog, not even the fact that my pubic hair is obnoxiously ginger (and when I say ginger, I mean bright fucking orange, my cock has no soul because of my magnificently orange pubes), it'll just be my 2' long blond hair and the noxious gases coming from my arsehole every so often.

There's someone who hangs around in 'Pigeon Park' who refers to me as "Blond Pubes" (this is presumably because she doesn't know my name). I've only recently told her my pubes are, in fact, ginger. She still calls me Blond Pubes...

God dammit...