You stand in a public fountain; your dick-vest with a mock-1950's advert for a vacation to Hawaii hangs loosely on your torso, your skinny jeans rolled up and your long hair tied up into a ponytail, no doubt with a plated shoestring you found on the street and now insist on wearing because it adds to your "quirky character". Oh yes, and let's not forget the bead wristbands that rest on your wrists, just to really nail in the fact that you are, indeed, a fuck. But what of the pose you strike? The mock-camp look of disapproval; hands held up to your chest, one turned upwards to it's side and bent back at the wrist, fingers curled into the centre of the palm. Fuck you.
There's something about you, something I don't like. Something insidious, dormant whilst waiting to explode. But all these feelings of anger and rage, that you boil up in me, can only seem to express themselves in the words of "Fuck" and "You". Maybe it's the fact that in every single bloody photo you have to pull a stupid face, 'cause you're a dick - see, my hatred can be no more eloquent than a cheap-shot curse word. Maybe it's the fact that, while I have yet to meet you in person, you stink of someone who "Doesn't give a fuck..." and is "Effortlessly cool...", disregarding the fact that you clearly spend two hours a morning perfectly trimming your thick black beard of hate in order to get it juuuuust right. Cunt. Yes, I am yet to meet you, but I've got you sussed out perfectly. I know you better than your mum knows the back side of your infantile ass.
Let me take a wild guess and say that you're what's known as a "character". A person who is recalled with affection and a wry smile. The life and soul of a party, a real extrovert. The problem is, these parties aren't sophisticated, nor are they really parties. They're more social drinking experiments; they could be scientific experiments all with their own special titles such as, "How drunk can I get before calling the paramedics?" and "What happens when I've ingested nearly two litres of vodka and decide to set my sweaty pubes on fire?" Not that parties have to be sophisticated, nor do they have to be more than a collection of drinking games and brief-dance breaks, but if they're happening every Friday night are they anything more than weekly AA meetings that tackle the issue of relapsing each session. You're not the life and soul of the party because you're actually an interesting person. No, no, no, sir that would be giving you too much credit. You're just loud. You weren't told to shut the fuck up by your parents as a kid, so your hyperactive tendencies to show off and do stupid, dick things blossomed as you went through your teenage years. Factor in the brand new, teenage discovery of alcohol and you've got your "character" right there; a loud-mouthed, hyperactive alcoholic.
But wait, that's not all! There's another side to you, the lit-cigarette-on-the-tip-of-lip sporting, sitting-on-the-grass-with-your-guitar posing, floppy haired, sunglasses wearing tit-cocking-twat. Whilst your friends sit in a circle in the park, passing round that one bottle of W.K.D, you sit there, hunched over your stringed instrument that acts as a replacement for your personality, quietly strumming away at the same Oasis song for the four hours you and your dick friends hang out for. You think this is coming from the top of my head? I have photographic evidence matey. Unfortunately, if I were to post these pictures I could get me into some serious shit, but believe when I say that everything I describe you as is based on fact, not fiction... well, partly if you count bias informed fact to be somewhat tainted by the very bias that has informed it to be fiction. You're a fake. A poser. A dick who's just as likely to suck the dick of the 90's nostalgia fest, as you are to the suck the dick of your own reflection.
But the thing I think I hate most about you, the thing that makes me despise you with every fibre of my living and breathing being, is the fact that you are better than me. You have more friends. You understand how people work better than me. You've probably had several girlfriends, maybe even a couple of boyfriends -- because I don't know how the fuck you work. You're happy, content. It's the simple things in life that make you giddy. People like you. They want to hang out with you, not just Skype you whilst playing GTA V... Kafar. You're moderately attractive, presentable in your hipster-chic attire. Your attention seeking attempts seem to work. You are the life and soul of the party, whether it's the alcohol that enables you to be that or just the fact that you are a colossal shit. You're exciting. Energetic. You've lived through the teenage experience, a claim I wish I could make myself. You have memories to share, moments to recall with fondness. I have my room, a packet of weird Turkish cheese balls and the burning light of my laptop against the darkness of my room. And you know the real salt in my wounds? In ten-years-time, you'll still be content and you'll be moderately successful. Even if I'm successful as well, you'll still have one leg up on me. And that is the real dagger to my chest. But you know what? Fuck you. If I woke and saw I had became you in some Freaky Friday fuck up, I'd kill myself quicker than you could say "Nipple-headed-tit-wanker."
"For all that is wrong with the world, Blame Toby..."
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