Since finally watching The Tree of Life for the first and only time, I have looked at my life in a new and completely unimaginative way. See, despite visually looking like a good haircut, the film failed to provoke a yearning for spiritual guidance and instead triggered a desire for death. Although the feeling was only 139 minutes long, I still felt a sense of needing to blame the person that drove me to this temporary state. This in turn then made me believe that if I do die (which I plan to avoid by remaining very still) there’s a good chance it’ll be because of a fellow human being. I say this with love and little BBQ sauce on my upper lip, but you better get your act together you sub-par version of Prince!
So that I avoid an unexpected curtain call on the performance I call life, here are 3 things you need to do before it results in you blubbering like a failed athlete at my western themed state funeral.
What are you, a hoarder?
The Antiques Roadshow phoned and they want none of your items. You have so much stuff that I laughed when you described your current state as “Zen” because I thought you finally mastered irony. I mean, when was the last time you saw the Dalai Lama sat in a ball pit? Try never. When I fall to my death I do not want it to be because you’ve scattered Duracell batteries across the floor, I want it to be on my terms, like attempting to put socks on by the edge of the Grand Canyon – however this is unlikely due to my fear of being far from the ground, also I don’t like heights. It probably isn’t worth noting, but I will anyway; I have the balance of a flamingo wearing a unitard and pointe shoes. In other words, I can put on socks like Darcey Bussell all day.
To sum up, and excuse me for borrowing the lyrics from well-loved crooner Lil’ Wayne, “I know hoarders that know hoarders that’s always with some more hoarders. You owe hoarders, I show hoarders, I grow hoarders, I know what’s at the store ‘cause I go more, I go forth and so forth…” …Just stop hoarding!
Mr Barry, Sir, Put Down My Phone
Stop inviting strangers into the house.
Stranger – a person whom one does not know or with whom one is not familiar.
When I was younger my mother told me off for accepting sweets from a stranger – to be fair they were ferrero rocher and the stranger did turn out to be my Nan, so what choice did I have? But now the foot is on the other shoe because my feet have outgrown the shoes, I don’t offer others I don’t know sweets. Why? I hear you not ask. Because I’m selfish in nature and the sweet quantity to price ratio has it that – you know what, I’m just not sharing, okay?! Also, because they are strangers (hey, now I’ve grown in height they’re not sharing sweets with me anymore, so why should I?). Kind of truthly, I’m the type of person that sees the best in people. Treat someone right and they’ll treat you right, treat them wrong and they’ll hold you accountable for the dinner you had with the Wilson’s from next door. My point is strangers have motives, and according to FOX news, these motives sometimes involve guns and hoodies. To continue this assault on strangers, it gives me great displeasure to tell you that recently one unidentified Caucasian youth pointed a laser pen right onto my face. The consequences could have been minimal yet awful.
To conclude, I like to assume that strangers won’t blow a raspberry at me but I’m not willing to prove that theory correct and nor should you. …Or do, what do I care? Just don’t do while I’m around.
Captain’s Log, Visible through Jeans
If I want my nuts to squirm, then I’ll take out my spanner-set and adopt a popular foreplay position. However, death by burst testicle does not appeal to me. Therefore, why would I wear skinny jeans? Do I look slim? Yes. Do I want to highlight that physical attribute? According to fashion experts (not a real job) my answer should be yes. Will I take their advice and risk cutting off all circulation to my downtown district? No.
For those unfamiliar with skinny jeans, they are not people named Jean placed in a category labelled skinny, but alas a very tight trouser. In a damning report by ABC News, they’ve discovered that skinny jeans can cause nerve compression that leads to symptoms like numbness, pain and riding underwear. Which in turn can produce nerve disorders called meralgia paresthetica (physically uncomfortable for you) and junk yard dog (physically uncomfortable for others).
So I ask society, the media, and shopping outlets, please stop trying to encourage men to wear such ridiculous clothing. On the flipside, if you do like wearing these clothes, then I can only assume that you don’t want children. Not my words, but those of Levi 501 wearing Jesus.
Death by jeans? No thank you.
So please, let me concentrate on beating Ischaemic heart disease, stroke, and lower respiratory infections as I have no desire to see you break into the top three contributing causes of my death.
Until next time, I’ll let you get back to your Jackie Collins novel. Go on, get out of my house!