Honey Badger Don't Give A Shit

I am a honey badger. You've all seen these, right, they're the badass looking things that kill lions by going for their balls and can basically withstand being killed by a cobra, then get up and eat the fucken thing.

They are angry, angry creatures.

I am a honey badger.

Now, part of the reason honey badgers are so angry is that they kill lions and eat snakes and all that and they end up with a lame-ass name like "Honey Badger". I'm a little upset I ended up with a name like Sam Jones because it shows I have a startling lack of originality.

But the main reason honey badgers are angry is because they are hungry. All the time.

Cos to have a metabolism that is swift enough to not let cobra venom kill them means that they have a metabolism that burns through food like your mum burns through skeevy boyfriends. (Oh yeah, I went there.)

Now I'm not stick-thin, but I'm at the lower end of a healthy BMI, and I am goddamn hungry. I have a black hole in my stomach that means I am never full ever and I can get so damn hungry I could kill a man by ripping off his balls and eating him.

But that would lead to awkward questions.

The worst thing about it is that once I reach a certain point in my hunger, I can no longer function well enough to actually decide to eat something. No matter the choices, there are too many. I stand in front of my pantry and suddenly it doesn't have anything I can eat quick enough. I stand in the supermarket and all of a sudden I'm thinking about how many calories something has, which I usually give less than zero fucks about. I walk down the street and everything is suddenly too expensive.*

I have abdicated all responsibility. I am a three year old, and I just want someone to hand me some food and go "Here, eat." There is actually nothing I wouldn't eat at that point, but I can't actually decide to eat any of it.

If this state lasts long enough I will cry. Then faint. Which is kind of a relief cos people look at you less funny if you pass out in the supermarket than if you're standing in front of the chips bawling your eyes out because you cannot decide if you want Rashuns or Kettle crisps.

So this is why the honey badger is angry. And why I am a honey badger.

And reason number 374 as to why I will never be a functioning adult.



*side note: I really think welfare should provide extra food allowance to those people who are stuck with the metabolism of a fourteen year old boy.

Don't fucking touch me

"Oh-wow-look-at-your-hair-can-I-touch-it?"

This is one reason I hate going out. That as soon as the time of night comes where drinking happens, I have random fucks grabbbing my hair.

I do have really pretty hair. It's thick and curly and reddish-gold. I appreciate that it's the first thing people notice about me.

But Jesus tapdancing Christ, if I get one more thirty-something year old woman coming up to me, asking to touch my hair at the same time as shoving their fingers in it, I will explode in a veritable  cluster-bomb of meat and bone, showering all and sundry with my sloppy innards.

Well, possibly.

And if I try telling someone I don't want their greasy-ass fingers raking through my locks, they get all huffy and upset and tell me to "relax" and "calm down, it's not like I'm assaulting you."

OH, I'M SORRY COMPLETE STRANGER, PLEASE, FEEL FREE TO TOUCH ME WHENEVER YOU WOULD LIKE.

No. Fuck that.

I would just shave it all off, but last time I did I got random fucks touching my head.

Current options are committing mass murder or staying home and surfing the internets every night for the rest of my life.

I'm tending towards the first option.

Oh fuck, I have a blog?

Okay, ya'll may have noticed I haven't been posting much. There is a simple reason for this...*

I can't do anything on anything which is connected to the internets without getting distracted by the internets every five seconds.

Seriously, I just reloaded my tumblr page twice while writing the last three sentences.

And once while writing that one.

You get the picture.

All this bodes ill for my future productivity in any form of employment which tangentially brushes up against internets. Which is all I'm qualified for. (See earlier points about me and a nail gun.)

I went out last weekend. This probably wan't the wisest idea because I drank beer I can't really afford and made questionable moves on the dance floor and some dude stood on me. It was on purpose too. Asshole.

I'm not sure why I really made this post. I started writing it half an hour ago. Fuck it, I'm gonna go make a sammich.

*The other reason was I had to write a story about zombies.