Dare You To Be As Grumpy As Me
I was so grumpy the other day, it was insane!
Was it some janky planetary movement or moon cycle chaining me to eternal moodiness？
The British summer heatwave isn’t helping. I hate the summer with a passion sometimes, it feels like getting rope burn - unless I’m downing pints with my friends down at the park. Otherwise, I stink, I’m sweaty and the heat reminds me of my lifelong gender/body dismal-orphia.
Anyways, back to my weekend. Last night, I caused a sludge of controversy by stumbling back home in the morning after a late night gig. I was like Cinderella, except I stunk of stale beer and a stolen kiss from a handsome stranger who I’ll never see again.
Despite the bummer weather, I had to go to the shops when I woke up. I decided to wear my Metallica t-shirt for my sunglasses-hungover walk of glory to the local Tesco’s - for antiacids and a neon electrolyte drink, naturally. My PJ bottoms did not have any pockets, so I riffled through my wardrobe for a jacket.
I wanted to look like a rock n’roll chick with my ripped tights from last night and my leather jacket - the one with the infinite pockets that allow for time travel. But it’s TOO DAMN HOT!!
I don’t wanna wear my Dad’s old golfing jacket because the pockets broke after years of been battered by the Singaporean sun. I gave away all my prissy girly jackets to the charity store just the other day, so I’m REALLY running out of options now…
The last option is at the back of my wardrobe - my green jacket with the cigarette burns, folded and untouched with so much love and care. I don’t wanna wear it because it’s just too precious. I love it, someone I care about gave it to me. He believed in my art when I wanted to give up, so I will always be fond of him for taking the time to look at my work - no matter how snarky I will be to his face if I ever see him again. I love him for what he meant to me years ago, but I also hate him when my dreams wear him like an old fisherman’s sweater - you know, the kind you could slip on and just fall asleep in under the broken moon.
He was poetic, but God! He was a dick…
One of the prettiest and smartest dicks I’ve ever met. You know something, it’s not the Smashing Pumpkins stoners, the musicians, the football lads, guys who make protein powder their whole persona or the polite guys you can sweep the floor with their faces who I remember. It’s Amadeus.
Amadeus with the frizzy hair and mad eyes…
Screw you, Amadeus!
For being unforgettable.
Royally unforgettable.
He’s got a razor-sharp mind that I secretly hope takes over the world, for the world would be a better place if more people had his astronomical genius.
But he can never know I said that.
By the time I finished strolling down that primrose path of ‘what could have been’ like an expired gobstopper souring my mouth, my stomach churned battery acid until I realised I should’ve left the house hours ago.
I ended up wearing my apron to the Sainsbury’s - a pinny like one of the Dinner Ladies from that show, but with a William Morris twist.
Yeah, I got stares -
Feral stares!
I bumped into my friend when I was rushing to the shops and managed to squeeze in a lengthy chat about Salem’s Lot by Stephen King. She said I was a trendsetter because an apron is very practical to wear in public: it’s got pockets in the front like a baby kangaroo pouch for all my various trinkets and tools of divination. Plus, it’s sleeveless, so worked in this heat. The kebab man at the stand thought I looked so super duper cool, he gave me a free Coca Cola and chicken kebab!
I wanna say the grumpy days suck, but I wrote a new song about everything that makes my skin crawl. I forgot half the chords now, but at the very least, I know it’s gonna be called Dare You To Be As Ugly As Me. I wrote the lyrics when I was waiting at the Old Blue Last, when I was chatting to my friend who works behind the bar. The amount of times I have a conversation with him and end up leaving the pub with new lyrics is insane! He’s my lucky charm when it comes to songwriting.
One of these days, I might take his cap so that I can always have his good luck with me. But for now, I’ll have to make do with infinite gluten free pints dribbling down my chin to my beer belly.
I can’t believe I got harassed by some creepy men last night, while I was wearing jeans! I boiled like an oven-baked potato in those just so I wouldn’t get harassed - it didn’t work.
I could’ve worn shorts, but I refuse to. You see, I was a fat kid growing up and the memory of galumphing my curd-like flubbery legs (lubricated with stale zinc sunscreen) into a pair of itty bitty shorts, makes me wanna heave.
So, I guess both the janky planetary movements and the trauma of growing up as a chubby kid might’ve contributed to my grumpiness.
At least I’m making a roast chicken for dinner tonight.
Grumpy Playlist
Floyd the Barber by Nirvana (live at The Paramount, 1991)
White Boy by Bikini Kill
Holidays In The Sun by Sex Pistols
Pretty On The Inside by Hole
Rock Star by Hole
Touch Me I’m Sick by Mudhoney
Sweet Young Thing Ain’t Sweet No More by Mudhoney
Shitlist by L7
Summertime Rage
