Never underestimate the elderly.

So I’ve decided since school work is so utterly tedious instead I will throw away my education and take on the competitive world of full time blogging and start the strenuous process of becoming a mole woman. It sounds like a lonely life, but it's a life filled with munch, duvets and comedy central. So I’m content.
  You're probably wondering how I can still find topics of conversation to fill up this blog. Well that's the beauty of being a pessimist, everything is wrong. And as you've probably noticed I ruddy well love to complain. If there was a complaining category in 2012 I’d be the new Paula fucking Radcliffe. I can complain about anything, from Apple Macs to the lack of meaningful words that begin with 'Z'. And on that note I’d like to start with; public transport.
   So today I took a lovely journey to Shitechester, home of the very very brave. I hopped on a train with my NME and my Diet Coke fully prepared to shove on some Ed Sheeran and have a whale of a time. Then, some mental pensioner decides instead of the many available seats all around he will cram next to me and whip out a picnic. Now if watching an OAP erotically eating a banana didn't make for a soul crushing journey, then the three screaming toddlers who waddled on at one of the many Worthings definitely did. Now after a perfectly agreeable day in my mid-childhood home I get on yet another train full of the hope and optimism I am famous for. Half way in I start to think that maybe there's hope for Southern Rail yet when who should swagger into the seat next to me but, you've guessed it, the don of chav-city. The major of Pikey-ville. The ruler of all that is inbred. If I didn't guess by his attire the following behaviour definitely confirmed it;
Step 1. Lie across many seats in an unnecessary fashion.
Step 2. Choose a high-pitched remix of a trance track and blast it at full volume on your 'Nokia Music Phone'.
Step 3. Chew in an animated fashion and Shout to your friend who is also sprawled across the carriage.
Step 4. Get off at an appropriately grimy place, like Eastbourne.
Now normally I do not judge people by their appearance or before I know them, but he made it so darn easy I just had to.
   One of the main reasons I took these treacherous journeys was to re-kindle with an old friend. And it got me thinking about awkwardness. Now today was not awkward in the slightest, there were no turtles in sight. The girl I met with happened to be a childhood best friend and when we see each other the conversation flows as easily as a drunken piss. But I do sometimes wonder how it is that with certain people who live completely separate lives to me banter can be so effortless, but there are people my age, with all my friends with who I struggle to string two words together. Is it chemistry? Are some people simply built to be friends? Is it in our DNA or is it about effort? It reminds me of when I was organising my birthday party I found myself inviting people simply for something to fill an awkward silence, and I couldn't imagine what I used to talk about before then. It's just completely impossible to find an interesting topic to land on with some people, but the very worst thing is when you settle for a completely inappropriate one. Like for instance I somehow always talk to my friend’s new partners about all the memories I have with the old couple, I’ll use sentences like 'Yeah when he was with her he used too...' or 'Well that is funny because he did that with her too ' I assure you it leads me straight into the war zone. Forget awkward turtles its awkward fucking nukes. The worst part is if the girl/boy get's really into the conversation and starts asking loads of ludicrous questions about the ex-partner at which point my soul cries a little and I fake a call.
  Faking things is becoming too easy. Tans. Accents. Orgasms. It comes down to good acting. Or with a less PR friendly label, lying. If you're a good liar, you'll be a brilliant actor. And vice-versa. The human race loves to lie, we tell white lies, wicked lies, and more recently we just lie for the hell of it. I could start a massive rant about how lying makes Mother Teresa cry but really I couldn't care less. If you're going to lie to me I say fair play because I’ve probably already lied to you twice that day alone. I do try my hardest not to lie about anything important because that gets too complex. I've very recently half lost my job due to this. And to be honest I don't get a thrill from lying, but if you do then by all means tell me the biscuits are dark not milk chocolate. Have a cheeky wank to that feeling, and then tell the truth. Because isn't the big reveal the best part of lying? The prestige? Is that not the main point of it, that only you know the truth? That superior buzz? It’s the same thing about secrets; if someone tells you their secret then you can sit happily on your throne of knowledge and scoff at those who are unaware of this jewel of wisdom. That is the reason I rarely tell secrets. Well that, and of course being a good friend and having a conscious blah blah blah...
  I'm trying to blog and listen to hip-hop, which never works because I start attempting to fit the words to the beat and use way too many commas. And my brother just gave me a Kinder Bueno which I will be shortly going to town on. So that's all for today folks, I hope you dream of decrepit men pleasuring fruit because I definitely will.