I had intended to go the gym tonight, but I’ve just ended up sitting in front of the TV drinking beer, watching NBA. I’ve made myself feel a little better by repeatedly releasing and closing the recliner on my chair, which counts as leg curls, right?

In my blog about CQ from the other night, I forgot to detail the most bizarre part of all of it; I was in the terribly decorated outdoor area (which looked like a third-world country take on the set of TV show ‘Survivor’) having a (rare) cigarette to calm myself down in the face of unbridled, relentless vacuous terror when I was accosted by a young bloke wearing a tucked-in short-sleeve check shirt and suspenders. I was dubious before the kid even opened his mouth, but after a couple of minutes (and a free cigarette), he seemed okay.

He was apparently in the process of seeking out a job as an apprentice locksmith, because, “I figure that people will always have locks, so there will always be locksmiths…”

It was honestly hard to argue with his logic. 

The strange part about our conversation is that I divulged absolutely no information about myself whatsoever, while this kid lay out his hopes and dream on a whim more easily than Tania Zaetta giving it up to SAS soldiers in Afghanistan.

Then, it happened.

He asked, (quite seriously, might I add), “So, what sub-culture do you belong to?”

Blown away by his question, I was speechless for a moment. The thought of people actively selecting which niche they want to become a part of in society made me literally dry-reach in my mouth. Imagine a 15 year-old kid sitting at home on a Sunday afternoon, perusing a catalogue of the different sub-cultures on offer before making their choice…

“Well mum, I’ve decided, I’m going to be an overly aggressive dance cunt! Neon t-shirts and copious amounts of pseudo-ephedrine for me! Get out of my way, because I’m high on my own supply. How fucking good is David Guetta!

After thinking seriously for a moment about tearing this kid’s life apart completely, I answered the question he’d poised as if it was a completely normal think to ask.

My response?

“Uhh, I guess I’m just a normal person? I don’t know, I haven’t really given it any thought.”

I honestly felt like saying, “I am a human being from Earth. You are too, stop trying so fucking hard.”

You could tell that he was pretty pissed off with my response. He wanted me to be something so that he felt less like an awkward cunt. I mean, it was pretty evident that the kid was there by himself, eeking out a desperate existence preying on drunk girls to boost his own flagging self-esteem.

Maybe I’ll start dressing as a goth. That’d be fucking terrifying…

/end communication