This blog has been a way of keeping people in the loop on the foolish as fuck things I've done on a pretty impressively regular basis over the last few years. Then about six months ago, they stopped. Nothing. Not word one from me in half a year. What gives, online posting masquerading as my internal monologue? What indeed.
I've always been a chatty critter. My parents termed me "odd" for my excessive verbosity that lent itself to my penchant for rambling diatribes about sentient toilet seats and lepers confined to the seabed destined Titanic. Outlets for my tales of whimsical witlessness were plentiful. Even the tough street gang I was a childhood founder of, The Bad Davids, set aside time to share outlandish stories. No doubt planning a bank heist, drug deal or hit on rival gang members were our bread and butter (please note that in this case "bread and butter" meant jellies and....more jellies), but occasionally we had to distract ourselves while living the thug life on the harsh streets of Dublin's middle-class suburban sprawl. Our menagerie of milquetoast miscreants brought about my first taste of pedantry too. The three baddest Davids in the known estate, having convened behind a thorny bastard of a bush to consider a membership application, were presented with a brief horror oration set on a Hallowe'en calamity destined by virtue of it having fallen on....er....Friday the 13th.
"We've thought long and hard about your application, but unfortunately on this occasion we cannot consent to you attaining full membership of The Bad Davids. Your calendar skills are clearly subpar. Also, your name is Ciaran."
At this point I would ask you to kindly wipe from your memory the fact that I was party to setting up a childhood gang called "The Bad Davids". Also, that I referred to myself as "David". We will not speak of these matters again.
Anyway, what I'm saying is, I always found an outlet for spreading my words, and trying to make people smile with my ideas, opinions or even, more recently, my experiences. When I started keeping this blog almost five years ago, it was as I'd been nagged to the point of exasperation by people who were tired of me having given up on writing anything. I didn't care about it so much and didn't feel I had much to write at that time. Then came the cavalcade of cretinous calamities that became my hallmark. I spent my time telling these stories to friends and newly acquired acquaintances. If you were going to get to know me, you were going to get all the skeletons from all my closets. Eventually I felt I needed to get them out there, almost entirely for me, so as I wouldn't let any surprise gem slip by. Most of you had heard the stories of Twirls, anaphylaxis inspiring shirts stripping agencies and even three fingered handshakes long before they went online. You were my true sounding board before the triumphs and turmoils of my perpetually preposterous private life went public.
And before you, there was the dog. Mindy suffered a great deal at the whims of my vocal cords over her life. Poor hairy cushion of a thing listened dutifully to my dysfunctional dilemmas and responded accordingly. Yes, I know she was merely reacting to tones and gestures and gauging her reactions based on however she felt at the time.
"Small man in house talking. Seems....sad. Lick face, receive affection in return."
"Small man in house talking. Seems....happy. Lick face, receive affection in return."
"Small man in house talking. Seems....asleep. Lick face, receive affection in return."
You may say that was no great reaction or caring for the differing moods or emotions I was expressing. She was likely picking up on speech patterns, body language, tone of voice or some sort of dog exclusive sense, but by sweet mother of fuck if I don't do the exact same thing to this very day!
"Person talking. Don't panic. They seem....er....sad? Look concerned....shit, they look confused now. May not have been expressing sadness. Seem....er.....charmingly befuddled, maybe? OK, social crisis appears to have been averted. Lick face....run motherfucker, run!"
So why have words failed to grace these pages in recent months I hear still nobody asking (seriously, that's not how internet based typing works, kids)? Have I been too busy? Maybe, but that's not traditionally slowed me down too much before. I've been working pretty constantly most of the year alright, but there's been times I could have written. Well, me thinks there were two factors in the Great Silence of 2013:
1) I'd been running out of stories to tell for the six months or so before I'd stopped writing to thee, old blog o' mine. Hard to believe, I know, but true. That said, there's still a couple decent stories hanging back that not many people know. I'll get to them soon enough.
2) A vow of secrecy.
Alright, so point two may require expansion. Here goes....
Have you ever seen an imaginary person? No, I'm not talking ghosts, apparitions or mild delusions brought about by prolonged exposure to David Lynch films here. I mean, have you ever been seeing a fictional person....romantically? No? Of course you haven't! Not since that super hot girl/guy from two towns over who you were totally seeing back in school when you were on holiday that nobody knew cos they were in a super secret model school they hadn't heard of. Well, I'm 29 now and still having super secret dalliances with girls you wouldn't know about cos they're from two towns over and you totally wouldn't know them cos you don't hang out at The Hive til five.
"Did YOU have a girl back at the flat last night?" (emphasis was theirs)
Brain: Shit. Think fast, you fool! They cannot know the truth. Tell them that you were eating a pizza alone in your room. You were really enjoying the pizza? The pizza was enjoying it too, maybe? No, that might not work. Unless....NO! Be honest.
"Yeah.....met her at The Hive last night."
Brain: Now, that's not strictly true is it? No, it's not. But, OK, we can work with this. First hurdle might be that they fucking know you, you idiot! You don't meet girls and bring them home. That's never been your style. No, you can't convince them you're a secret Casanova. You have written extensively about your failures and inadequacies in that regard, dingus. Look, just....just don't make me say "dingus" again and we'll get through this together, OK?
"Really?"
Brain: We're safe. They're willing to take this at face value if we just play it cool. Keep it simple, and we're in the clear.
"Her name's Katie. We met at The Hive. Remember how I was going to The Hive last night? God, I hate The Hive. Anyway, I was at The Hive last night with that friend of mine you know, and I met this girl. Her name was Katie. I'm not sure if I mentioned that already. Anyway, her name was Hive and we met at The Katie. Hey, good morning."
Brain: You're not pinning this on me, fuckwit. You fucking dingus.
"Anyway....you didn't fuck it up somehow? You actually brought a girl home? You?"
Brain: OK, maybe create some detail here. Pepper in some of your legendary stupidity. I don't know, tell them some way you nearly fucked it up. Make it as impressively stupid as we've all come to expect.
"You know the way I tend to say weird thing to girls, as if subconsciously trying to wreck any potential chance I may have of having anything resembling fun? Well.... I maybe said the following apropos nothing at a nice, tenderly quiet moment- 'Little known fact, midgets are instinctively fearful of the pole vault'. Somehow, that didn't fuck it up. She laughed. Then I told her she had a far nicer beard than most of the transvestites I brought home. She laughed again."
Brain: Great. No, really, that's actually perfect. No sarcasm this time. It's believably idiotic enough that you may actually have said these things. Let's face it, you would either have done that or imitated the cries of a baby T-Rex, before straight-faced telling her why, if she'd ever seen The Lost World: Jurassic Park, she should be impressed by your ability to mimic the infant's call so precisely. We're gonna be alright on this one.
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Weeks would pass, and the plot would inevitably thicken, like so much cream left in the sun, or Scottish tourists....er....left in the sun.
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"Where were you last night?"
Brain: Be cool. Maybe it's time to confess? Just be honest. Tell them.
"Hanging out with Hive girl. You remember Katie?"
Brain: We may need to talk about what "honest" means....
"Oh yeah? That still a thing? What's her story? Where's she from?
"Er....Aberdeen...."
"She have a job? Studying here?"
"I....er....don't know...."
"You don't know? Haven't you been going out with this girl for a couple of weeks now?"
Brain: Abort, gobshite! You're in over your head here! No person has been in this far over their head since that one midget drowned in the deep end of that big ass fucking fjord in Galway! RUN AWAY! Leave the room. Regroup....as much as one person can "regroup", that is. Good. Now, take a few minutes to compose yourself. Stop sweating. The shaking too. You look like an impossibly moist Parkinsons patient. Now, go back in there and 'fess up.
"Look at this text I got which is totally from Katie. See how it's spelled KT? Yeah, she did that. She's quirky like that. Like me, with my name being Deebs 'n' all. Remember how I said I didn't know what she does? I mean I do. I was just....er....I forgot temporarily is all. She studied art in Edinburgh and now she works here. She's working in -insert garbled name of high street fashion chain said in delirious panic here-. She has one brother and one sister. Her favourite colour is farfigabble....hey, is that water?"
"O....K...."
Brain: Wow. I mean even for....no, just....wow. W-O-W. On the plus side, I don't think anyone will ever make the mistake of asking you about your private life again. That kinda crazy spreads. You may get sectioned, but you will avoid suspicion. Nobody needs to know about the girl you actually are secretly seeing.
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Yeah, so that was a thing. It's strange how secrecy saps your ability to be open and honest and stuff in keeping a blog for everybody to read at their leisure.
"Wanna read about the latest funny thing I did? I was out on this date with *name redacted* who bears an uncanny resemblance to that girl I shouldn't be seeing, but who totally isn't that girl cos the guilt of doing that would probably just swallow me up and leave me a parched mess of an insomniac zombie who....hey, is that water?
And well, I somehow managed to quite literally piss away my money when a fiver fell out of my pocket mid-stream and....hey, I couldn't very well go in after it could I? Had it been a twenty, you better friggin' believe I'd have gone full Trainspotting in after it though. And....wait, are you even still reading? No, don't focus on that part. I'm obviously not secretly going out with her! Come on....would I do that? Hey, is that still water?"
So, yeah, now that's out in the open. I guess this means I'm back again. The phoenix has risen from the ashes of a summer that saw me end nights as....
....having started them as....
Maybe no posts about stupid things I say to girls for a while though. Those might be frowned upon for the time being.
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