Morning Grumpiness

I am intrigued by three kinds of people. Stupid people, beautiful people and serial killers. I actually think I can understand serial killers the best of the three. I can understand the desire to kill someone. Especially beautiful and stupid people. Yes. I was woken up by a conventionally beautiful and stupid person. My housemate. I am a comedian. I have done more than 600 gigs and most of them were to more than 10 people. Which means, I have heard more than 6000 people laugh. And I have never heard anyone laugh louder or more obnoxiously than my housemate. It goes through walls. It goes through earplugs. He laughs more than the average comedian (once or twice a week). He laughs once or twice a second. I know this guy and I know, there is nothing funny about being him. He does comedy as well. I saw him do a set. He had a new joke. He was annoyed that the foxes in our garden were too loud. Too. Loud. He. Was. Annoyed.

I. Can’t. Even…

Mixed Meat Special Kinda Happy Stop Writing Like This Seriously

I woke up to an article called something along the lines of “10 Ways You Can Tell If You Are Truly Happy Without Having To Actually Feel Anything, Really, Just Use Your Social Media Skills, Go On, We Know You Want To Because This Title Is Written Like This, Horribly Grammatically Wrong But So Tempting To Click On Am I Right?” or “Before I Read This Article I Never Would Have Believed I Was Happy Go Try It Out For Yourself Because You Want To Be Better Than Me Don’t You See I’m Playing With Your Insecurities”. 

I thought, “I’m happy. But what if the internet could tell me that I’m right? That will be a good feeling.”

Turns out, the internet disagrees with me. Apparently, I am not happy. I guess I will stop smiling. It is hard though.

Last night I saw Daniel Kitson just tear up a room with almost nothing but improv. At one point I was focusing so much on how lucky and happy I felt to be watching him, that I forgot to watch him. Meta-happinesss. I then went out with Phill and Tim, who took me to a good kebab-place; something I have longed for since I moved here almost two years ago. I had claimed no good places existed – they proved me wrong. If this is not genuine happiness, I don’t know what is. Fuck you, website.

Billede

I hate you, here’s a burger

“When an adult shouts at you, do you still feel a knot in your stomach?” I asked one of my best friends.

“We are adults,” Michelle replied, probably rolling her eyes behind her screen, “And no. Only if it’s my dad. Who yelled at you?”

“Some promoter. I’m pretty sure he was being a dick and I was right, but still, it sucks. Why does it make me sad?”

“Your parents never had much authority. Perhaps you’re just not used to it.”

Michelle is probably right. As she always is, most of the time. I got yelled at. I’m 25 years old but immediately turned eight and wanted to hide in a corner. And thus my brain works; a part of me wanted to shout back at him, to let him know that he had no right to be upset, as I was right to say what I had said. As I was thinking those thoughts, something popped into my mind. Every single mistake I have ever made and every single person I have ever wounded. How dare you stand up for yourself and yell at this lovely shouting adult man? Don’t you remember when you were 13 years old and stole a piece of marcipan from a colleagues’ fridge? Remember your ex-boyfriend Peter who still doesn’t speak to you? You should just let this man shout at you. You deserve it. 

Which I will admit, is not healthy.

So I spent yesterday thinking about all the people who hated me. Then coincidentally went to an open mic, where I was certain to find at least a few more people to add to the list. After the show was over, Matthew grabbed my hand and dragged me across the street from the pub and down a dark alley. WIN! I immediately thought, but it turns out that he hadn’t planned on kissing me up against a brick wall, instead, he was taking us to a small hipster restaurant, located in another dark alley. How. Cool. Is. That. I ordered a Meat Burger and it was without a doubt the best thing I have ever tasted in London. Why are you hiding your good food in dark alleys here? How can I have lived here for almost two years and only eat this food now? Why must this happen in the middle of me being awfully broke? Do they deliver? How can people still think that there isn’t a God?

My food adventures have just begun. Tonight, hopefully Phill and Tim are going to take me to – allegedly – the best kebab in London. My friends, you just got competition. Game. Set. Match.*

*not sure what that means, but it’s what came up when I googled “ready set match”. 

Concentration camps & war against fat-haterzzzz

In my dream, I was in charge of finding someone who could be the leader of a new concentration camp. They handed me a small piece of paper that I was to give to whomever I found worthy of the position. I walked through a long corridor, opening doors, trying to find the perfect Führer. No one really seemed interested in managing the camp and the ones that did, I didn’t trust. When I had finally interviewed everyone, I knew I only had two to choose from. It had to be either James Acaster or Ben Target. Acaster had expressed indifference when I had asked him about the job. I knew he probably wouldn’t love it, but I had the feeling he would honour the responsibility. Also, he’d probably turn it into a really funny character and make it fun for the prisoners. Ben Target would hate it – but he’s so lovely and I know him better than I know James, so he would know I didn’t choose him because I wanted to be mean. Ben was socially a better choice. Before I could make a decision, I woke up.

It is my first morning blog ever. Possibly also the last. It’s something I am trying. The good ol’ writing-in-the-morning-before-your-mind-is-awake-enough-to-censur-you-trick. You know, morning blogs.Like the one Richard Herring has, only less funny and more about concentration camps.

I woke up to a big disappointment. Last night, someone had posted an awful article (trigger warning) which completely fat-shamed a guy on an airplane. He had posted it with the comment “…..” which, we all know, can go both ways. It’s a classy way of not telling us how you feel, but letting it up to us to interpret. I was fuming, ready to take the battle. I have previously yelled at people who posted and supported fatshaming and then I have deleted them as friends. No matter how close of friends they had been before. I was ready to do it again. I asked him what his stupid trail of dots meant and then I went to sleep. I woke up and I saw it. One notification. He had replied. I clicked it. Are you excited? I was.

“I think it’s slightly too much. Only slightly.”

What?

That’s not good enough. I can’t start a raging hate-war against you, when you are partly on my side. You just brought this argument into being only about details. There is nothing I can say now – “YOU ARE WRONG! IT IS NOT ONLY SLIGHTLY TOO MUCH, IT IS COMPLETELY TOO MUCH. THAT’S MORE TOO MUCH THAN YOU JUST THOUGHT!”

I am considering deleting him anyways. Just for posting something shitty like that. I would also delete people who posted something racist. Possibly also throw in a comment. But nothing gets me going as fatshaming and fat-hatred. It is not because I feel that it is more important than racism – but fortunately, there are loads of people fighting the good fight against that. Very, very few people are fighting for fat people. So that is my cause.

Until I finally lose weight, then fuck those fatties, am I right, guys? Guys?

I just had chocolate for breakfast. Bow, for I am still your queen.