I’m 25 years old, have the cynicism of someone approaching 40, and the tinder profile of a first year uni student.
I’m the human equivalent of that unwanted SPCA dog. Long past the cute puppy stage, now living out a token existence waiting for the sweet embrace of a humane euthanasia.
Except I’m too young to even have that to look forward to. Instead I’m staring down the barrel of a choice between stepfatherhood and being forever alone. Oh well, who am I to knock a leg up out of the ugly kid department.
My body plays host to an endless battle between hedonism and self-discipline. My metabolism watches on, slumped in the corner with a DNR sticker plastered to its forehead
I’ve become what I despise most. The poster child of a privileged, yet banal existence. I buy rocket from the supermarket, for fuck’s sake. I tell people I like the peppery taste. But really, I’m a card carrying member of an exclusive pack of wankers, where social status is determined via brassica consumption.
Birds of a feather flock together, and I’ve ended up in the hen house with nothing but cocks. God I hate their guts more than anything. Except, perhaps, for my own hypocrisy.
Cat socks are not a discernible personality trait, Michael, and neither is taking your fucking keep cup to our 10am meeting…
