MSN; Mocking Stupid Noobs

I was recently stupid enough to accept someone I didn’t know on MSN, this is the transcript of our conversation;

Ida: hi
...[Ben]...: Who the fuck are you?
Ida: hi
Ida: how are you today?
...[Ben]...: Not great, I’ve just found out that a priceless family heirloom is actually worthless as it’s made out of cheese not gold, so I’m pretty torn up at the minute. In fact I think I might commit suicide.
Ida: my name is kaylee I’m doing great today I’m 21 yrs old how old are you?
...[Ben]...: Hold on ... “kaylee”, why is your MSN name Ida? How the fuck do you get “Ida” from “kaylee”? And I don’t believe I asked you how you were doing; I believe I was complaining about my priceless family heirloom. And why aren’t you asking me my name? I know my MSN name is “...[Ben]...” but using your logic of picking MSN names, my real name might be “Patrick” or “Osama”! And why do want to know my age? Is this the fucking Spanish inquisition?
Ida: listen hun, I am about to start my webcam show with jen, come chat me there in my chat room? We can cyber, I will get naked if u do..lol!
...[Ben]...: Hey bitch! Answer my questions! We’re not even chatting now, you’re just talking at me! We’re not married you know, this isn’t a relationship; you can’t just talk at me! WTF!?!?! You want me to get naked, I’m all for the empowerment of women, but that’s a bit forward isn’t it? At least take me out first!
Ida: I can show u how to watch for free if u promise not to tell anyone else how to do it??? PLEASE:-$
...[Ben]...: ... erm ... by turning on your webcam on MSN?
Ida: well since its free the law that u gotta be 18 (nudity involved), u have to sign up with a credit card for age verification! BUT .. Once you are inside, just clikc on “Webcams” let me know what name you use to sign in with so I know it is you babe [website] fill out the bottom of the page then fill out the next page as well and u can see me live for free!
...[Ben]...: Look, I just suggested that you turn your webcam on while ur on MSN, that way I can view for free, but you completely ignored me. I’m starting to wonder if you want me to jerk off to you. Look I understand that you haven’t been granted with much intelligence, seeing as you’re selling yourself online like some cyber prostitute and you also spelled ‘click’ incorrectly. And how exactly does a credit card prove I’m old enough? What if I stole my dad’s? What if I wasn’t hold enough, what if I was only 9? What if you were a man saying these sorts of things to a 9 year old girl, you’d be locked up you fucking perv!
Ida: Please dont mention anything about that in the chatroom once u get in ok? :-$
...[Ben]...: Fuck you bitch, I’m telling the world.
Ida: OH SHIT .. k I am late to start my show, I gotta get off msn ... I will see ya inside my chatroom babe .. remember not to mention that I am upgrading u for free... You can use your msn name to sign in so I know it is you ..
...[Ben]...: Look kaylee/Ida, your parents must be ashamed of you. Selling yourself to randomers on MSN, they probably had high hopes for you. Now look at you, begging strangers to watch you strip for free no less. Yes, sex sells, but not if you’re giving it away for free. You dirty little hoe bag!
Ida: AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link [website]
...[Ben]...: No thanks, I’ve got 20GB of Lily Thai on my PC, so I’m fine.
Ida: AUTO-RESPONSE: hey just in the middle of my free webcam show if you want to watch click the link [website]

Not Nice To Meet Me

I was recently approached by a new acquaintance of mine, who admitted to me that when he first met me he didn’t like me. This took place at a party, which was attended by some of my closest friends. When he said that, my initial reaction was; “OK, that’s cool.” But then all of a sudden some of my best friends started nodding in agreement. My first reaction was one that most people would more than likely take; “Fuck the lot of you. Cunts!” Of course I didn’t say this out loud, no need to cause a scene. But I was certainly thinking it at an increased volume, much louder than the usual thoughts I hear in my head; “Drink”, “Keep drinking” and “Don’t strangle anyone ... yet”. In fact “Fuck the lot of you. Cunts” was even able to drown out those voices, which bought what could only be described as a small moment of clarity for me. But clarity aside, the comments made by my acquaintance and friends did hurt my feelings.

This has stuck with me since then and now I’m having a self-renewal of myself and my actions. Which is fucking depressing. I beg of you, never embark on such a thing. Self-analysis is for heroin addicts in rehab and rich Hollywood stars that can afford an expensive psychiatrist. Simply put; it’s not for us ‘normal folk’.

It’s so hard to delve into what I could possibly do that could make it so people don’t like me when first encountering me. So I begin to pay close attention of how I act around new people. One thing I quickly picked up on was when I meet new people I ask them a simple question; “Would you rather be a Jew or a Muslim?” And while most people go with Jew (almost everyone so far); I have my next question prepared; “Is it because all Jews are rich?”/“Is it because all Muslims are terrorists?” Yes, these are stereotypes, and no I don’t believe they are true (apart from the Jewish one). But I’ve began to realise that putting someone in the middle of a heated debate like this might not be the best way of making friends. Especially since I continue to belittle them in front of everyone surrounding and I’m usually meeting people for the first time at parties or pubs. And it turns out people don’t go to the pub to be grilled by someone they’ve just met about the religion and whether or not the (illegal) occupation of Palestine is a good or bad thing (Yeah – it was news to me too, turns out people go to pubs to drink).

Which brings me nicely on to my second subject of self-analysis; drinking. I fucking love to drink. Love it. If I could have sex with drinking, I would, that’s how much I love drinking. I love drinking more than I love my family, my friends, my girlfriend, my other girlfriend, my collection of Clipper lighters and anything else I own. And while my Alcoholic’s Anonymous team leader believes that I should stop (I just think she’s wrong and a G&T would soon change her mind) because “drink will eventually ruin my life”. You see, like I previously stated I usually meet new people at parties and the pub and 11 times out of ten, I’ll be pissed. Not just merry, I mean fucking wasted. I’ve met friends of friends over 30 times on different occasions and some of them have yet to see me sober (hey, but so have some of my lecturers). Often people don’t recognise me when I’m sober (which usually turns out to be a good thing). Of course, although I don’t like to admit it, I am at the end of the day only human. So drink has the same affect on me that it does on everyone else; it makes me fucking hilarious. Honestly, I’m quick-witted when sober, but after a drink I’m even quicker. Although when I’m sober I have a self-censor working in my brain, which makes me not bring up certain subjects or bypass quick-witted responses to what someone else has said. But after a sufficient amount of alcohol it’s all fair game; “How far do you think you could throw a foetus in a plastic bag?” Calling girls I’ve just met “bitches”. I just can’t seem to stop. To be fair, I’m surprised I don’t get hit more often.

So, that’s all I can come up with for reasons why people don’t like me when first meeting me. Which, seems a little strange to me, but asking someone a simple question and/or being drunk seem like minor problems, not enough to dislike someone form the get go. Maybe there’s some other aspect of my personality that I’m missing, maybe in my self-analysis I’ve completely bypassed that one major floor that makes newly met people not accept me straight away. Or maybe people are just fucking stupid. Because in the end, they like me. So maybe it’s them that have the problem, not me. Yeah, that sounds about right actually, it’s them not me. They should be grateful that someone such as myself would even let them be introduced to me in the first place. I know I’m not perfect, but still I’m much better than 90% of the oxygen-wasting human beings cluttering up the world.

New Tory Adverts

R.I.P. (Romance in Pieces) [Valentine’s Day Special]

With one more capitalist holiday amongst us I thought I’d delve into yet another unprovoked rant about this one. Having done the exact same thing last year (Who Wants VD?), I thought I may as well carry on the tradition. Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day, the time of year that shops deck out their windows with so much red and black streamers and shit that it looks as if a Nazi rally is about to ensure, it’s just that the swastikas have been replaced with love hearts. Although to me, a big huge love heart carries the same cogitations of fascism that the swastika does. Valentine’s Day is the most ‘romantic’ of all the other schemes to make people buy each other gifts to ‘prove’ their love one more time with materialism.

But I’ve noticed something and I'm not sure when it happened, but it did. Romance died, and that's putting it nicely. The actual truth is women killed Romance. And "killed" is an understatement. Let me explain how it all happens now;

If a male goes out and decides to buy something for his female counterpart there's a few responses he gets depending on what he buys.

If he buys Chocolates: "Chocolates? Chocolates? You know I'm on a diet! Do you want me to get fat? Oh my god, you think I AM FAT? Are you saying I'm a fat bitch!! Fuck you!!"

If he buys Flowers: "Fuck you, you cheap bastard! Buying my something that’s just going to die in a couple of days! I hope you fucking die!"

If he buys Clothes: "What is this? What is this piece of shit? You know this isn't my colour, I'm an Autumn, this is a Spring, you don't know my colour scheme is at all, this doesn't complement my skins or eyes at all. Are you stupid? And it’s the wrong fucking size!"

If he buys Sexy Underwear: "What the fuck.... Do I look like a slag? Do you expect me to wear this shit!?! I'm glad I'm sleeping with your brother and all your mates, you small-dick-having, premature-ejaculating, one-ball-bigger-than-the-other having, piece of shit!!"

If he buys jewellery: “What’s this shit? Did you get this from Argos? This is pathetic; Julie’s man got her something a million times better than this! You’re such a fucking waste.”

You see how complex this whole situation is. Any of the ‘original’ ideas just get shot down, so much for originality. There’s always the option for taking a girlfriend/wife out for Valentine’s Day, but who would want to do that?

Almost all of the restaurants will be filled up with couples celebrating this ‘materialistic cash-in on the fact people are in love’ day. Nobody wants to be in a restaurant with 30 other couples, because when seeing how other couples interact with each other it just makes you and your loved one jealous; “Why aren’t we like them?” Because face it; everybody else looks happier than you. You two just sit there quietly, deeply ashamed and embarrassed over the fact that your relationship is clearly not up to the standards of those around you. You struggle to find anything to talk about, you push your food around your plate because you can’t eat it seeing as you feel sick to your stomach and deep down you know this was the worst idea ever. Getting her a bag full of dog shit would have been better than this. At least with the dog shit, she would have just shouted at you at home, instead of being stranded here in the middle of a fancy restaurant with the happy couples gazing directly at you, thinking; “Look at those pathetic bastards, what are they even doing here?” The worst thing is, the time spent in a restaurant is dragged out, you can’t bail half way through, because that’ll really make a scene. It’s a slow execution, that only ends once the waiter brings the bill, and it dawns on you that you have to pay top dollar for this kind of nightmare-ish hell!

You see, Valentine’s Day seems as if it is geared towards the woman; it’s not a day of love or romance, as some would have you believe. If you look closer it seems to be one more day for women to get something. All those big, heart shaped balloons and cuddly teddy bears in shop windows aren’t for the men, they’re for the women. A man doesn’t want this hassle, but it’s a part we have to play, much better than the other option; being alone. No man wants that, that’s why we fold to this pressure every year; we have to go all out because arguments over the shitty gifts we get our counterparts or depressing meals in restaurants are both a damn sight better than sitting at home alone eating cold beans straight from the tin. Valentine’s Day doesn’t prey on the love between a man and a woman (or a woman and a woman, or a man and a man); it preys on men’s insecurities. That’s what Valentine’s Day really is, a celebration of men’s insecurities and constant fear that they’ll be alone, so they’re forced to worship women by bringing them gifts as if the woman is a type of ancient queen, only to have it thrown back in their faces. The queen is not amused with your pathetic attempts to keep her happy. And in this process of neediness and desperation Romance became a casualty in the on going war for men not to be alone. Decades ago Romance was the only weapon men had to combat loneliness, now we’re left with nothing and destined to die alone.

Happy Valentine’s Day

Our House ...

I just so happen to live in a seven bedroom house, with five other housemates (notice the term; ‘housemates’, not ‘friends’). When first deciding to move into this house we all deluded ourselves into thinking that this year at University would be great, sadly we couldn’t have been more wrong. The phrase “the more, the merrier” came to mind when we decided to live with each other, I have since come to the conclusion that this phrase is complete tosh, and would like to request that this phrases be exiled from the English language indefinitely.

Let me first give you an incite into the house I live in. It’s big, really big. It has seven bedrooms, the spare one we use as a laundry room (to dry clothes) or a chill out room (to watch DVDs). It’s drafty, really drafty. A breeze constantly runs through the house, often carrying the smell of marijuana with it, it’s like sitting opposite Katie Price with her legs open and a copious amount of cannabis stuck up her snatch. It’s cold, really cold. My house is so cold a Polar Bear could freeze to death here. Being students, we have a limited amount of funds, so in order to keep the gas bill down we don’t have the heating on that much and even if we do it doesn’t make much of a difference. Our boiler is so small, it looks as if it has been torn out of a one berth caravan and poorly slapped up in our bathroom. Speaking of bathrooms, we have two, one with a shower and one with a bath. The shower is terrible; it’s akin to a fat man dribbling on you. Water barely trickles out of the fucking thing. I get wetter from the splash back out of the basin of the toilet when I flush it, than I do standing under the shower for three days straight. So therefore I have completely given up on using that shower and I know opt for the bath (which also has a shower attached to it) instead. This shower is better, due to the fact it fucking works as a shower should; dispensing large amounts of water, powerfully, but there is still a drawback. Once I climb out of the bath/shower I’m in the freezing cold air that fills the house. It’s excruciatingly painful as icicles form around my penis... told you it was cold.

Now you have an understanding of the house, I’ll move on to its inhabitants. Seeing as this could produce plenty of hate towards myself, I’m going to be general and not mention names so feelings don’t get hurt.

Of course in a house with this many people living in it there’s bound to be tension from time to time, but for as long as I can remember there has now been constant tension. There’s always an eerie atmosphere around the house, which I can only relate to the ambience that featured in my childhood home when my parents decided to get a divorce because they couldn’t stand each other. I keep thinking that housemate #2 is going to be waiting for me outside University one day, with a mover’s truck full of our belongings, telling me that we’re “never going to see housemate #4 again, after everything they’ve put us through”. Then I’ll be thrown in the midst of a custody battle between housemate #2 and housemate #4, with both of them telling me they love me more and the other one is evil.

The problem is people seem to think that they are doing more than the other housemates, everyone has this opinion. Of course, they’re wrong, because nobody does more around the house than me. And any attempt to voice opinions on what someone else has or hasn’t done results in primary school disputes about who really is the biggest dickhead and which one of our dads could knock the other dads out. I sometimes feel as if I’ve accidently wondering into a nursery and I’m the only responsible adult in existence. It seems as if people no longer do jobs around the house because they need to be done; instead people do the jobs so they can add them to a list to be used in the next heated argument. For example;
Housemate #1: “You never wash your pots!”
Housemate #3: “Actually, I cleaned all the leaves out of the gutter! So what if I leave my pots, nobody else does the guttering!”
Housework is then used as a type of arsenal to shoot down accusations of laziness. The bigger or more important the job you do, the better you see yourself compared to the rest of the house. But this leaves the little jobs undone. For example, vegetables are left to rot on the side in the kitchen, because throwing them away is not a “big enough job” for when the next argument comes around. I know I’m moaning about this now, but seeing as none of those vegetables are mine I don’t see why I should do it, because if I did throw them away, I know what would happen;
Housemate #5: “Where are my parsnips? They were on the side, that’s were I left them two months ago, now they’re gone! You can’t leave anything lying around in this house!”
Me: “I threw them away because they were all gross and maggots were slowly feasting on them, I thought seeing as this is a FUCKING KITCHEN, it’d be better if they were in the bin.”
Housemate #5: “You have no right to touch my stuff!”

I attempt to unease these common situations by trying to put together house meetings so we can air out our differences and put down some guidelines for us all to follow, but getting six people into one room for at least ten minutes seems to be next to impossible, I’d have more luck building my own house out of larger cans at the bottom of my garden – with running water and central heating. I’m only attempting to put forward some sort of democracy, so we can all have input. But I’m fed up with trying to get people to work together as a democracy; life would be easier if I imposed a dictatorship over my housemates. Now, I don’t want to get Hitlerish on people, but if I’m the only one that cares, I might have to. Imposing my oppressive regime on my very own housemates may seem a little harsh to some, but I just want to live in a house that abides to rules and regulations I lay down. I have good ideas and if everyone towed the line and followed them this house would be a much better place to live. The house would become a sort of totalitarian utopia, in which housework gets done and if it doesn’t people get taken outside and executed... for the greater good.