A Few Facts and Lies

So I haven't blogged for a month. Shoot yourself or something, I've got excuses. Not only am I working on an amazing charity project that will more than make up for everything I haven't written on the blog, but I just started college last week (Studying Double English, Media, Film, and Sociology, if you must know) and have suddenly become involved in a million and one projects that have the potential to make me into an amazing journalist/author/late-night game show host, so it all compensates really.

Alas, I need to actually gain praise/trolls in the meantime, so I'm back here again - and I've been thinking.

I was recently talking (I say talking, I was chatting to them on Facebook, but its pretty much the same thing for me) and we somehow started talking about how we are able to express ourselves via the medium of language. I say that like it was a really intellectual conversation, but it was far from it - and that's kind of the point.

If any of you have actually had the misfortune to listen to me speak in person, you'll know that in general unrehearsed conversation, I am a bumblingly incomprehensible monotone mumble of a person, who spends more time thinking about what I'm trying to say and intermitting actual words with 'Um' and 'Ah' and the occasional swear word. Yet somehow, when I write I am able to form pretty well structured sentences and speak well - most of the time that is, I've actually used two words in this last paragraph that I made up, little game for you.

The point of this conversation was, that although we were both quite boring people to listen to, we could at least sound somewhat clever when we wrote.

This prompted another thought - a lot of the people who read this blog have never actually met me, due to them being in another country or just stumbling upon it like a deer into a bear trap. So how on earth, are people able to judge me? What do people actually know about me? Do they think I'm some sort of lyric-waxing demi-god? Because if they do, they're going to be majorly disappointed if they ever meet me.

So I thought I'd play a little game. It's a fairly simple concept - I'm going to describe my friends and family and me in general. But of course, not that simple, because this is me, and I'm still trying to maintain my facade of pseudo-intellectualism. Some of this is going to be false, and some of this is going to be fiction. Bear in mind that I live a rather strange life, and a lot of the people I associate myself with are horribly strange people. You can make guesses at which is which, but to be honest, it's more fun if you just believe all of it.

Adverse to my blogger picture, I actually have neck length brown locks of gorgeous brown hair - the picture I use was actually taken at a concert where I dressed up as a hipster-clown-retro bassist, with shutter shades, war paint, a red curly wig, a bow tie, and a woolly tank top that my Nan knitted me. In terms of body and fitness, I'm a kind of genetic mixup of Adonis DNA and that of a male Hollister model.

I live with my parents, whom I love so very very much.

My Mum, a strong-minded woman who takes nearly enough tramadol every day to kill a newborn child, has worked in the same shop for well over a decade now. She once washed out my mouth with soap because I swore (I maintain that it was my friend, but Mother is always right) and once threw a toy train at my brothers head when he was a baby- not a woman to be f**ked with, and I love her for it.

My Dad, an Ex-Military machine of a man currently works as an area manager for the biggest oil company in the world, where he excels in breaking pretty much every record for things that you can be good at when running a petrol station. Before he was awesome at that however, he was busy being awesome in the army, where he achieved the highest rank possible by cooking. His crowning achievement in my eyes is making a bacon sandwich whilst firing a rocket launcher at a tank. He once won a Freddy Mercury Look-A-Like competition, but now his tache makes him look a bit more like Lord Kitchener, which is a worrying parental image. YOU!

My brother, who I have chronicled previously in this post, is a trucker, a job that despite it not sounding that amazing (Bear in mind that this is England, not Iceland or Route 66 area) is something that he just decided he wanted to do one day and then did it, and fair f**king play he's good at it.

I have two people who I would consider my best friends, not that I call them that because it's about as gay as referring to them as by BFF's. I am of course referring to Brownbear (Who we call so because he's brown, and because we're racist scum) and Rick Nidgway, named so because his 'real name' is so much more boring (Points to anyone who can work out what it is).

A lot of friends go to the cinema and have sleepovers and go mountaineering, but we've found that we prefer to get drunk, abuse our bodies and generally be bad examples of human beings, we spend too much time being awesome apart from that. The only thing we do that is remotely healthy is longboarding, but I think that's frowned upon slightly by the owners of the victims cats.

I once (On my birthday) whipped my friends into paying for and carrying a mini-fridge to my house, where we installed it in my room and have since used it for ungodly purposes. For Brownbear's birthday I bought him a lighter with his name on it, and me and Brownbear have previously slept for three weeks in an abandoned bathroom in the middle of no-where in Swaziland, because we're hardcore and such.

I could go on about my life, but this has gone far enough, and I fancy a drink have homework to do.

Much love,
- Lewis