A quick note before we start: this is written on the warm and fuzzy childhood assumption that all of us will, sooner or later, get married and have kids. In fact, it’s only recently that I have begun to prepare for a future of loneliness, obesity, and mass cat ownership. Perhaps this was the plan all along. I remember being the only one in general studies class to keep my hand down when asked if ever we’d marry. A muffin-arsed kid called Jeremy told me to stop being an idiot. He’d presumed I had purposely abstained, rather than merely accepted my fate.
As you can probably tell, I’ll forego the happy ending.
This blog operates on the notion that one day the parts of my DNA equipped with ejector seats will cut loose the sticky strands of their landing gear and claw their way to the ridge of some fleshy mountain where, to their dismay or elation, they will find uncharted territory; the insides of a woman.
Now, you may raise an eyebrow at such a contrivance. Here are three potential scenarios upon which to suspend your disbelief:
1. I paid a one-legged blind lady of the night to act as my ambulatory chalice.
As you can probably tell, I’ll forego the happy ending.
This blog operates on the notion that one day the parts of my DNA equipped with ejector seats will cut loose the sticky strands of their landing gear and claw their way to the ridge of some fleshy mountain where, to their dismay or elation, they will find uncharted territory; the insides of a woman.
Now, you may raise an eyebrow at such a contrivance. Here are three potential scenarios upon which to suspend your disbelief:
1. I paid a one-legged blind lady of the night to act as my ambulatory chalice.
2. The ice caps have melted, the sky has fallen, and inexplicably David Attenborough isn’t around to save us. After the second wave of disease, I am, in fact, the last male alive.
3. I leave a very messy toilet seat.
So, to my disease-ridden bastard children of the apocalypse, I leave this apology.
I’m sorry I never knew how to fix your bike. I’m sorry that when I painted your bedroom we all contracted botulism. I’m sorry that my personal food paranoia gave you anorexia. I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your maths homework. I’m sorry I stole from your piggybank to support my burgeoning muffin habit. I’m sorry I couldn’t be happier. I’m sorry I never made it to your super-important baseball game because I was sucked into Neverland. I’m sorry your mother left me.
I’ve had 3 best friends in my life. I’ve also known 3 girls that, on each occasion, I felt I was madly in love with. Each of those girls opted for one my best friends over me. This is the basis for my genuine and deep-seated belief that I will be cheated on and left behind. Not due to any bad nature of the people around me (I supported each of my friends when I found out). It will be due to my own shortcomings.
So, future children, I ask for your forgiveness. Don’t think too ill of me when you try to rouse my cake-addled bulk from the sunken half-pipe mattress that used to be my marital bed. Don’t curse my existence as you scrub cat piss out of your clothes, and find the last surviving member of my feline clan pancaked beneath me when I roll to grant you access to my festering bed sores. I promise I did my best, and that my intentions were good.
My life-savings are hidden in the floorboards. Spend it on something wise. A dinghy for the coming thaw, or a hit on your mother. You’ll find it packed into a box and wrapped in a family portrait, a reminder that, just for a while, I was very lucky.
So, to my disease-ridden bastard children of the apocalypse, I leave this apology.
I’m sorry I never knew how to fix your bike. I’m sorry that when I painted your bedroom we all contracted botulism. I’m sorry that my personal food paranoia gave you anorexia. I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your maths homework. I’m sorry I stole from your piggybank to support my burgeoning muffin habit. I’m sorry I couldn’t be happier. I’m sorry I never made it to your super-important baseball game because I was sucked into Neverland. I’m sorry your mother left me.
I’ve had 3 best friends in my life. I’ve also known 3 girls that, on each occasion, I felt I was madly in love with. Each of those girls opted for one my best friends over me. This is the basis for my genuine and deep-seated belief that I will be cheated on and left behind. Not due to any bad nature of the people around me (I supported each of my friends when I found out). It will be due to my own shortcomings.
So, future children, I ask for your forgiveness. Don’t think too ill of me when you try to rouse my cake-addled bulk from the sunken half-pipe mattress that used to be my marital bed. Don’t curse my existence as you scrub cat piss out of your clothes, and find the last surviving member of my feline clan pancaked beneath me when I roll to grant you access to my festering bed sores. I promise I did my best, and that my intentions were good.
My life-savings are hidden in the floorboards. Spend it on something wise. A dinghy for the coming thaw, or a hit on your mother. You’ll find it packed into a box and wrapped in a family portrait, a reminder that, just for a while, I was very lucky.
