I don’t go out with the intent to make these articles. Well, there’s a part of me that does. In the same way there’s a part of everyone who go out hoping they’ll have a good time, get drunk, get high, get laid- or at the very least, have a good story from it.
Most nights out aren’t like this. Most nights out are dull affairs. You might have a good time, but it’s hardly memorable. You don’t get that drunk, or that high- and you certainly don’t get laid. Nothing happens so there’s nothing worth recording- meaning that most night outs simply don’t make the cut for the Drunk Des Diaries.
A moppy haired friend asked me once at this gig/house-party (these mad whores had three bands on in their six bedroom flat and nearly a hundred people squeezed in to hear) about whether I had any ideas for a new article, or if I were to write about that night in general. Reality is that in order for a night out to be worthy of an article, it either has to be really good or really bad.
Good ranging from wholesome and rewarding experiences with friends to doing a line of Ket with McJagger. Bad ranging anywhere from some girl I’m curting boking in my mouth to getting punched in the face by one of Jacob Rees Mogg’s wanes. See, those things haven’t even happened and you’d rather be reading them than this. Hell, I’d rather be reading them than this.
But I’ve no stories like that today. What I do have is scraps, and by god I can make do with some scraps.
I can’t for the life of me remember the first time that I got drunk. I remember the first sip of drink I had, cause I was about eight. We were at grannies and everyone was there in this small, Irish bungalow in the middle of nowhere. About ten or fifteen people in the kitchen and none of them were paying much attention to me.
That is until I took a pint of carlsberg off the table and drank four gulpfulls. They didn’t even try to stop me. They just watched on, this eight year old boy stealing some cunts pint. It was a very concerning sight. When I set it down they asked me if I liked it. I can’t mind what I said. All I know is that back then it tasted like piss and today it still tastes like piss.
There’s no drug quite like drink. No drug is as universally acceptable. You don’t see cunts going into neatly furnished rooms after work to smoke a big fat joint. Or see gangs of boys marching down the street all so they can shoot some heroin. No, it’s drink. It’s always drink.
There’s a point when you drink a lot on a night out that you just struggle to function. If you’re sitting down for an hour or two and you’ve had five or six pints in you, soon as you get up to take a piss your legs will feel like spaghetti. You struggle to speak, think, remember- the most basic of shit becomes damn near impossible.
It’s hard to stay awake when you’re that damn drunk. I mind a year ago me and a friend of mine went up to Belfast for a night out. Soon as the pubs were closing we found ourselves stranded and we’re not going to sleep on the fucking streets…again.
So we elect to get a taxi. Costs us £50 in total. Friend doses off, drooling on my shoulder. I’m keeping my eyes wide open, punching myself in the leg now and again to wake me up. I just stared at that meter for a solid hour. Watching that money burn.
There’s one feeling however that is the most unique with alcohol. You’re on a night out. People are congregating around you but you’re in no state to talk or listen. You’re eyes go googly, head nodding back and forth. You lie back and your head rests- closed eyes on the ceiling. The blood rushes to your head. You don’t know if it’s the depressants or some other substance- but you feel that blood rushing. In this blissful state, you feel alive.
This is the crossroads of the conscious. The asleep and the awake. The dead and the alive. Blood rushing up your head like gravity were a fiction. You’re on the Rainbow Road. Being shot up through space as if you were Thor in one of those Marvel movies. You can see all them colours and if you’re in this state, it’s safe to presume that you ought to go home.
I haven’t been in that kind of state in a while. Closest I’ve been to the road was back in mid January. I was out at a staff do, held in the pub that I work in. I was a little nervous. You’re getting drunk- but you’re getting drunk with your boss. I was feared I’d say something fucked up or lose my job or expose how fucked up I really am.
I didn’t drink that much. I only had about four free cocktails, a Heverlee, a shot of Rye- and then I boked- then had another shot of Rye, then a pint of Maggie’s (the pub’s custom IPA) then two pints of Guinness, two Heineken’s, two whiskeys and…actually, writing all of that down- I think I had a wee bit too much to drink.
I’d been sitting out in the beer garden most of the night, talking the shit with my colleagues. Ginger boy fucked off to get more pints and everyone else fucked off to…I don’t know where. All I knew was that I was sitting there alone and on the cusp of the rainbow road.
At this point the Restaurant manager came up to me to see if I was ok. She sat across from me, pure concerned that I wasn’t having a good time. I was actually having a great time but at this moment I was so goddamn drunk that I was fading in and out of existence. She asked if I was alright and I began to rattle off.
See, I have a very moody face. You see me walking down the street you’d think I was the most miserable bastard to ever walk the earth. But I’m not as sad as my face makes me look. I’ve been sad before but for the last few months I’ve been doing pretty solid. But I can’t help how my face looks like. I’m part of a long line of miserable bastards. You take a photo of my Granddad when he was my age he’d make me look like a bag of sunshine.
I tried explaining this to her, but I don’t think I did it right. For those of you who don’t know what I sound like, imagine Liam Neeson doing an impression of Sylvester Stallone. When I’m drunk I sound the exact same, except poor Liam is having a stroke.
I’m not certain of exactly what I said, but I tried to explain that she had resting bitch face. Meaning that her face was pre-set to looking quite stern, intimidating, even angry. In reality the mood of her face is not a reflection of her personality or temperament or even current emotional state. She might look angry or irritated but in reality she’s just relaxed. maybe a little bored- or not feeling anything at all.
Sometimes I see her looking at me out of the corner and I’m not gonna lie, I get a little startled. When a woman looks at you like that the first thing you think is “oh god what have I done” and I have to remind myself “no Des, you haven’t done anything- that’s just her face- she’s actually a very nice person“.
It’s really jarring when you walk past her and she has the face on, you think she’s in a bad mood and as she passes you she says “Hey Des” in this really friendly voice. It’s like being punched in the gut by a teddy bear.
So I’m explaining all of…that to her. Concluding that just as she has resting bitch face, I have the expression of a miserable bastard carved into mine. Safe to say she didn’t quite take the whole explanation too well because she looked even more concerned and confused than when she sat down.
At this point I noticed that she was holding my hand. I tried remembering the last time a pretty woman held my hand. Well, more precisely, a pretty woman who didn’t want to castrate me. We’d a conversation about something that I can’t recall. “Well,” she says “I do like you, Des“.
Now I’d had a good bit to drink and I’m not wise, even when I’m sober. So when she said this and I caught wiff of the whole scope of the situation, a moronic little thought popped up in my head; “Wait…is my boss coming on to me?” panic set in on me. But it was soon greeted by a smack in the face by the big fat dick of reality as a rival thought emerged “Des…just…look at her haircut.” I looked up and upon inspecting the tightness of her fade, I let out a sigh of relief and a wee pang of disappointment.
She said that I was “the prettiest floor-staff” which, y’know, isn’t saying much but it’s impolite to deflect compliments. Honestly I don’t know how to feel about this. Being told that you’re pretty by a Lesbian is on par with being told you’re handsome by your Ma.
A month or two later she told me that she had “pegged me for a gay for a second there“. Which means that this entire scene makes a hell of a lot more sense.
I don’t know exactly what she was thinking, but I imagine on this night she’d have been n a few pints, having a good time and in the corner of her eye she sees this little ginger boy sitting alone- looking a tad blue. She goes over, thinking him a fellow wayward Gay. She might have wondered why he seems so sad, best guess being that “sure, he’s sad cause he doesn’t know how to be Gay” so she sits down, hold his hand and asks if he’s alright.
She learns that not only is this boy straight, but he’s also a fucking moron. As he begins to explain, poorly, that she has the face of a bitch and that his face is sad cause her face is mean and she just…sits there. Befuddled. She has a very weird and jarring conversation which concludes with her basically saying “uck, you’re alright like” and for a brief moment you see that he looks panicked, then relieved, then immediately disappointed and she’s like “what the fuck is going on?” and she realises she’s too goddamn sober for this shit.
I don’t know if that’s exactly accurate to her own experience. Honestly I think the only qualm she’d have with what I just wrote is that I repeated myself when I said “straight boy” and “moron” in the same sentence.
Later on that night I’d convinced the ginger boy to head on home (which he didn’t, but that’s a whole other thing) and I hovered about the bar for a wee while. I knew I had too much and I had enough sense to go home. With straight boys they need a few beatings and heartbreaks for some sense to sink in. It only took me two heartbreaks and countless beatings to know when you’ve had enough.
I waited cause I wanted to talk to the bouncer, the Big Man. Me and him never used to talk before, seeing as I’m pure quiet and all. Before this night I didn’t strike him as a character of any craic but after this night he started warming up to me. Started nudging me the same way a cat nudges your leg, except in this scenario the cat is a sabre-tooth tiger.
I was meaning to ask him a few questions but he seemed busy. So I just hovered, trying to stay awake. The restaurant manager came up to me, concerned that I was leaving. I explained that I had enough to drink and I didn’t want to become a liability at the nightclub they were all heading to. Honestly, some really good nights are ruined when one cunt gets too carried away and someone else has to look after them.
I think at that point we danced a wee bit. Afterwards I told her that she was the second Lesbian that I’d ever danced with. She shot me a very concerned look, possibly even offended. Again I’m not the best speaker, so it probably didn’t come out right. Even if it did, it’s still a pretty weird thing to say to someone. Like “why bring up the Gay shit, Des?”
But I didn’t mean anything by it! It was just a reference to my trip to Barcelona in which I danced with a friend of mine from Derry. It’s weird, having a friend from Derry City. It’s like saying you have a friend from Mordor.
I’ve talked about my disdain for that piss ridden city. That racist shit hole. Infested with Chavs and Goths. Drunks roaming the street at noon on a Monday. I once saw a man piss on the street- in broad daylight. One day when I was making my way back home from tech, a swarm of pigeons flew overhead. I was feared one of them was gonna shit on me so I moved cautiously. A passerby noticed this, laughed and said “You look worried son, just wait till the Niggers grow wings“.
That actually happened to me. At one o’clock in the afternoon. On a fucking Wednesday. Some boy just blurted out a word that’d rightfully get you kneecapped in any nation whose black population was so small it resembled a single coco-pop in a sea of rice crispies. The worst part of it was when I looked back and asked “What?” the boy just…nodded at me. As if to imply “you know the craic”
No! No I don’t!
My friends didn’t believe me when I bemoaned how Derry City, the cancerous mole of Northern Ireland, was truly so shit. They thought I was just overtly sensitive. Well I brought them up one night. First shop we went into some drunk boy went on a rant to the immigrant shop keeper about how “he was one of the good ones” but how “George Soros and the Irish Government were bringing in fuck tons of immigrants so that they could vote Yes in the Abortion Referendum“.
Cause aye, these boys from Eastern Europe who are so Catholic they make Pope Frank look like a crack whore would vote Yes in the goddamn Abortion Referendum. Fucking…it’s just…it’s just Derry City, man.
But this city, it has a tenacity for making some damn fine people now and again. If Derry were a rock, a good person is like a bit of gold you can take out to make a fine ring. Everyone else is the slag you get from the furnace.
Well that’s the case with the little lesbian, the first Lesbian I’d ever danced with. I was out in Barcelona with the tech ones. Doing some Erasmus stuff and every other night we got absolutely shitfaced. By the end of the eight days I’d spent about a grand on drink alone.
First night out, I have a few pints in me and suddenly I’m all social. I head up to the two lesbians in our group, whip out me phone and show them some girl I had on Facebook. I asked “would you fuck her, like?” the tall one was taken aback, but the little lesbian- without a moments thought- said “aye“. I spent the next twenty odd minutes going through all the girls on my Facebook, asking whether or not they wanted to fuck them. Majority of them the wee girl would buck, she said.
One of the girls on Facebook was Gay so I tried setting them up, told her to add her on Facebook and I messaged a friend of mine at the time who was a friend of hers and said “here, I’m out in Barcelona- there’s a Lesbian out here who’d be up for your friend- gone get her on the case” keep in mind, I hadn’t talked to this woman in seven months and the first thing I said to her was “here, I’m in a foreign country- with a Lesbian- and I’m trying to set her up with another Lesbian who is several thousand miles away- gone help would ye.” she took it quite well.
The most memorable bit of this entire fiasco was that I showed her a picture of this girl I had fancied at the time. I was a wee bit eager to hear her opinion on the matter. She looks at the profile picture for a solid five seconds and says “No” this startles me. “No?” I say “What do you mean no? Why not?” and she says “I don’t like her eyebrows“. Eyebrows! But to be fair, I wasn’t looking at her eyes in the first place.
As the night goes on, the little Lesbian goes on this hilarious political rant. About how she and the other Gays will take over Stormont. How every single member of that house will be Gay (except for us, we’re cool) and how “We’ll be running things” ticking off laws bit by bit. Then she called Arlene Foster “a dirty wee Dyke” and I nearly passed out from the laughter.
A few nights later we’re drinking again. The little Lesbian has been curting a new girl every single night, making the rest of us look lazy. This night I spotted a girl I wanted to talk to. I told the little Lesbian about her and she said to me “Naw lad, she’s mine” it took some convincing, but I managed to convince her that I ought to have a shot. Song started playing and then we began to dance. I danced for the craic, cause I was drunk as hell but also I wanted the girl I’d been checking out to notice for…some reason.
I don’t know if my intention was to make her jealous or to make me look more appealing by saying “hey, I have friends- I could be doing other shit other than talking to you” but I’m not too sure. I don’t know, like I said before- I’m not too wise.
I went up to her and, well, it didn’t go anywhere. Spent an hour talking to her and at the end of it she told me she was Gay. It was a thing I’d suspected going in before hand. She was wearing a plaid shirt after all, but I was hoping it wasn’t anything more than a shirt. Afterwards I was a wee bit sad. I’m not the most confident guy and it took a lot of belief and shit to build up the nerve to put yourself out there. Went up to the Little Lesbian and told her the news. But she didn’t look too enthused “Are you sure, Des?” she said “Some girls just say that.”
That right there broke my goddamn heart. The realisation that women feel the need to lie because guys just can’t fucking be civil is just…ugh. I know I can be a pretty intimidating guy. I don’t exactly have the face that comforts people. A few girls have even told me that I “look like a serial rapist” which, y’know, takes a tole on your self esteem.
I mind one time I was heading to the dole office. I get off the bus and I’m walking. A few yards ahead of me is this girl. She looks back, twice, face pure stern. It becomes apparent that she thinks I’m following her. You see, if she looks back once- there’s deniability there, she could just be looking back at anything. But if she looks back twice, especially if she has that face on her- then it’s obvious she’s looking at you. You’re not even doing anything. You’re just walking.
It’s happened a few times to me. Sometimes I just look away, y’know- try not to look like a creep. Other times I just pick up the pace and overtake them, thinking to myself “Jesus fucking Christ- why am I doing this? To make some fucking stranger comfortable? I can’t help the fact that I look angry and menacing all the fucking time.”
So the idea that I intimidated this Spanish girl and that she felt the need to lie to me…I don’t know, it just made me feel like shit. I went for a stroll and when I came back I went up to the bar with the Little Lesbian. While we were up there she put her arm around mine, explaining that some guy had been checking her out and she wanted to give off the sense that we were a couple so that he’d fuck off.
Again, it’s little moments like these that break my heart. It’s like that Louis C.K bit; “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them, women are afraid men will kill them.” Problem with that bit is that men are afraid of a lot more than a woman laughing at them. A woman could really fuck up a guys life if she wanted to.
A few weeks back I’m lying in bed, trying to watch a film. It’s half twelve at night. A friend of mine pops up to me, asking if “I ever experience phases of paranoia“. I can’t just say “yes, every day.” so I just go “what’s wrong?” He tells me that he’d just got back from work, one of the colleagues was telling him stories about how his ex was fucking him over. Telling people that he was while abusive when that wasn’t the case. But the damage has been done and people just look at him differently now. Even though he hasn’t done anything.
My friend is anxious because he’s concerned whether or not his ex would do something similar. I tell him that, yes, he is being paranoid. The relationship has been over for the better part of a year- both of them have moved on. Sure, she acted a little wacky a few months after the break up- but nothing that would imply this level of issue.
I said to him “look, even if she were to do something- what is the worst thing that could possibly happen to you? The worst thing that could happen is that you’d get Aziz Ansari’d. Meaning that you had a shitty but consensual sexual encounter that the woman made a big deal of years later and now TV won’t book you. But you’re not going to jail, you’re not getting sued, your career is impaired but not over. Because anyone with a lick of sense would realise that you did nothing wrong. That this person is confused or hysterical. Your life’s not over, you just won’t be invited on Jimmy Kimmel.”
There’s a lot of anxiety with the MeToo stuff. I don’t think much is going to change because similar movements happened in the 90’s, they even had a case that was similar to the Kavanaugh fiasco. Rich assholes will nudge if and only if they feel it benefits them. They’ll change a little and when the coast is clear they’ll revert back to the pigs they always were.
I don’t think most people ought to be concerned about this stuff. I think most people understand boundaries and appropriate behaviour when interacting with others. You sit most guys down and they’ll be able to tell you what is and isn’t ok when you’re interacting with women in the workplace. Namely; don’t say weird shit, don’t do weird shit, don’t touch them weird, be polite, be kind, be respectful- all that? Easy.
Reality of the situation is that when a woman has to lie so that a guy could take the hint or when a guy has to take screenshots of the conversation he’s had with a girl to prove he’s not an abuser, they have enough sense to realise that not everyone is like this. Most men aren’t violent assholes, nor are most women vindictive bastards. We’re just concerned about crazy people. That’s it. We’ve always been concerned about crazy people.
When you work in a bar you see a lot of crazies. The alcohol strips away all those layers of social etiquette and people show you who they really are. You see some dumb cunts doing push ups off the ground or doing pull ups in the beer garden and it just…ugh. It’s so pathetic.
I used to be like that though. The worst customers are always the ones that remind you of yourself. You go out sometime but you’ve got chips on your shoulder, you’ve got shit you haven’t processed- you start acting the lad. Start doing dumb shit like this after a few pints. You’re impressing no one, this is just for you because life has gone to shit but god dammit if you can’t do push ups.
But it never just ends with shit like this. You start yelling dumb shit. Some boy says something to you and you nearly start a scrap. You start drinking too much too quickly and you start scaring people. People begin thinking you’re crazy and, in all honesty, they’re not wrong for thinking that.
Whenever a customer makes a big deal about something trivial- like nearly starting a scrap over a bit of foam in a pint glass- the thing to understand is that they’re not fighting over foam. The foam is merely an instigator, an outlet- a physical representation of their woes. There’s an issue with respect or their wife is having an affair or their son is being an asshole- there’s always something you don’t know. It’s pent up and this minor altercation acts as an excuse to let it all loose.
When you approach any situation like that, by taking away the tarp and revealing all that’s underneath, people become a lot less complicated. Take a guy and his good friend. If that relationship is sound, there is no girl on earth that could shake that foundation. Because it’s never just about a girl, it’s all these little things that go unaddressed for way too long and- oh look, all these little things have accumulated into one big thing.
I had a situation like that once. I fancied this girl and we got pretty close one night but, no. Didn’t happen. But I couldn’t just let it go- I had to try and make it happen. Every time I’d go out I’d try inviting her along. Every time I saw her out I’d try something but it never worked out. It bothered me. It bothered me a lot.
At some point you need to get the hint. But I just refused to see it- and it got worse when she started seeing a close friend of mine at the time. I couldn’t handle it and our relationship just eroded. I got drunk on a night out once and talked some shit to them. A lot of people became really concerned about me- for good reason too.
So I went away. I didn’t talk to many people after that. Kind of just walled myself off from people, fermented in my crazy. Filled myself with stupid ideas about people and the world at large and then one day I just realised- I was the one with the fucking problem. I was the guy who couldn’t let go. This creepy, desperate, obsessive asshole.
I see customers like that sometimes. Mainly it’s old men, dancing. A pure banger starts playing and everyone’s on the floor, this old middle aged man has a round of dancing with these pretty young people. It’s the best craic he’s had in years. But the songs ends, the people leave. Every song after he’s dancing. Eyes closed, letting on that he doesn’t care that he’s all alone. But he does- because he’s hoping for the love of God that those people would return. He’d give his soul just to dance the night away with these people. While the young one’s have moved on, he’s still drunkingly swaying about.
The problem isn’t that he’s dancing with young ones or that he’s dancing at all- there’s nothing wrong with that. No, the cardinal sin he’s committing- and this is something any man of his age should have learned decades ago- is that you cannot waste your life trying to reclaim the past. This boy was trying to repeat the craic and the craic, by definition, is momentary. There’s no repeating the craic. You either live it or you miss it.
A lot of guys are fucked up and when you’re fucked up, you need outlets. You need support systems. You need friends, family- someone you can talk to. Something where you can freely express yourself. The blog acts as a medium for that latter bit. It’s therapeutic.
This little blog of mine started out with a few shitty reviews of a shitty book by a shitty author. I didn’t set out to to make the Drunk Des Diaries, even if it is my most popular series. Y’know, I opened this article with a lie. Truth is some times I do go out with the intent to get a good goddamn article out of it.
I liken it to how Hemingway wrote The Sun Also Rises. It was the early 1920’s, Hemingway was out in Paris. He was struggling to make his name. He needed a damn fine story and he needed it fast. Well he found his story.
About this Veteran, castrated by a war injury, who’s hopelessly in love with this neurotic woman and she loves him too- but they can’t be together because, y’know, lack of a functioning dick is kind of a deal breaker. All the while she’s engaged and she sleeps around. She sleeps with a guy that he really doesn’t like, but is kind of friends with- because sometimes you’re friendly with people you fucking despise. He, another friend, the frenemy- who was now head over heels in love with this woman- the woman and her fiance head down to Pamplona to watch the running of the bulls and watching the ongoing bull fights. It’s a spring time festival- it’s like St. Paddy’s day but it’s seven days long. The drink takes its tole, all the politeness is stripped away and the fiance starts to unravel all this pent up rage he has about his girl sleeping around- especially with a guy who thought it wise to come along with the trip. Meanwhile the woman takes a liking to a bullfighter and starts fucking him on the side. Driving an entire rapier into the hearts of three different men. A fight ensues, the protagonist gets a concussion, his frenemy beats the ever living shit out of the bull fighter mid-coitus and then cries as the woman belittles him. He takes the next train out of town. Last day of the trip is morbid. Following morning everyone heads on their separate ways, our protagonist heads out to the countryside for some R&R. But the he gets a telegram, from the woman. She’s out in Madrid and needs some help. He takes the first train to Madrid and finds her in a lavish hotel room, alone. She’d broken off things with the bullfighter, seeing as he was barely eighteen and that she tended to “spoil men“. They had dinner, she confessed her intentions to head back to her fiancee. All the while our protagonist is chugging whiskeys- she implores him to stop. The emotional turmoil he has just by being in the same room as her had drove him to alcoholism. It ends bitterly, like all Hemingway books.
I like the book, but I don’t like the man, or the story behind it. First thing you need to understand about Ernest Hemingway is that he was a raging asshole. There’s so many bad stories about him and this is one of them.
Hemingway fancied a woman, she fancied him. This wouldn’t be a problem, or at least it wouldn’t be if Hemingway wasn’t married. While some readers may interpret the protagonists castration as a representation of the trauma begotten to the entire generation by the war, what it actually represents is Hemingway’s then wife acting as a cock-block. This woman, while neurotic, isn’t down for fucking over another woman so she flat out refuses to fuck Hemingway. Instead she fucks his frenemy and other guys. Hemingway can’t let this go. He really can’t. So he takes them fishing, followed by an entire week in Pamplona. Every night they get drunk, he and her fiancee start abusing his frenemy. Saying a lot of fucked up, anti-semitic shit. One day the woman comes back with a black eye, when the frenemy asks why, Hemingway interjects “she fell” and it’s never brought up again. She starts fucking about with a bullfighter. Hemingway goes off one night on his frenemy and they go out into the street to fight. But they have nowhere to put their coats, so both of them suggest “here, I’ll hold yours and you’ll hold mine” they laugh, realise the absurdity of their ways and for the rest of the trip their civil. But not really. Because Hemingway can’t get over how this guy fucked this girl. He just can’t let it go. He puts a white tarp over this black rotting hate. A few months down the line everyone goes out to dinner, to make up. End of the diner they’re walking around. Hemingway lags behind and talks to this one woman, a person he willingly left out of the book. “I’m writing a book, about this. About what happened,” he says “I’m gonna make that Kike the villain.”
That is Ernest Hemingway. The misogynistic, racist, anti-semite and all around raging asshole. That’s who he is. That’s who I fear I’ll become.
Because I went out one night looking for a story and when I came back that morning an article was brewing in my head. A week later, I published Psychopathic Tendencies. One of the most popular in the Drunk Des series, but for not a good reason. I talked some shit, revealed shit that wasn’t mine to reveal. I went out of my way to paint this one guy as a terrible person and he’s not. Some people even said I mocked someones breakup and I just…I didn’t intend that. I edited it afterwards to explain that but, nobody cared cause the damage was done.
A girl messages me afterwards, explaining to me how I ought to be careful about what I write because it might hurt people. I tried explaining that it wasn’t my intent to hurt, but it was too late. Hurt was delivered. I alienated an entire friend group I had back at school. I was devastated at the idea of hurting people.
Well, for a day.
Afterwards I couldn’t care less. The way I saw it I burned a bridge I wasn’t planning in crossing. All I did was alienated a bunch of people who thought I was a crazy asshole anyway so its hardly a loss. I was sad about the hurt but honestly I explained myself and if you read that article and think for one second that I was trying to belittle or mock someone fucking breakup you are delirious.
And if you were to ask me to delete the article, even though I’m ashamed of it and every view it get takes a scratch of my soul, I wouldn’t get rid of it. It’d be like cutting off my arm. This blog matters too goddamn much to me.
But I see these people around sometimes. These people I used to know from school, close and distantly. Most of them can’t even look at me. They see that freak they knew back then and I just want to tell them, break it down bit by bit that I’ve changed. I’ve gotten better, I’ve grown. But I never find the words, which is really why I do this- why I write.
Reality of the situation is that nobody really knows who I am. You’ll know sides of me. People at work see this stoic, quiet and polite guy who’s occasionally funny. Friends see this absolute mad lad. My flatmate sees a raging asshole who not only steals his steaks, but cooks them well done.
But there’s no well defined representation of Des Lynch. No person knows me that well. Hell, I don’t even know me that well. So I write this shit down as a means to communicate beyond the grave. That I was here, that I lived and that this is who I was. I hope some of my stories make people laugh and some people learn a valuable lesson from them. But I don’t have much hope for that latter bit.
When you work in a bar, people feel comfortable unloading their shit on you. They see the uniform and they think that you’re a therapist who’ll let them drink during their sessions. I was clearing out the bottle bin in the beer garden on St. Paddy’s night. While I was clearing some stuff this couple was arguing about some dumb shit. They were one of those couples where the guy had fucked up or something and the woman just refused to listen to him. Listening to them felt like someone was pouring gravel into my eardrums.
She leaves, he stays. I move the bottle bin out. Boy sees me, thinks its sound to talk. Asks how old I am, I tell him I’m twenty. He says “Here lad, let me give you some advice- just stay fucking single” excellent advice, from a fucking moron. God, I fucking hate old men sometimes. Just cause you’re not dumb enough to accidentally kill yourself you think you have some valuable wisdom to bestow on the world. Every cunt whose dick stopped working sometimes sees themselves in me and thus feel obligated to “give me some advice“.
It’s always some bullshit about how I ought to “live life to fullest” or “hang on in there, it gets better” or in this case, the worlds worst relationship advice. This cunt was only twenty seven and I already had more sense than him. How did Kanye put it? “I don’t take advice from people less successful than me.”
But obviously advice wasn’t the name of the game. He needed to unload his shit on the nearest cunt who could listen, that cunt so happened to be me. He tells me how this girl seemed one way when they started out and how she changed overtime. Went from normal to crazy soon as they got committed. He said she was pretending to be someone else and all that shit.
All men say their women are crazy, all women say their men are assholes. Maybe neither are true, maybe their both true. Maybe they just can’t talk to one another. Maybe they’re operating on different wave lengths. I feel that sometimes. The greatest issue since the dawn of civilisation is the miscommunication gap between men and women.
The girl comes back, I head on down to back alley to empty the bottle bin. I like breaking shit and it’s more fun to do it alone. I saw these two again when I was doing the rounds of the floor. Picking up glasses. He comes back from the bar and she’d unravelling all of their intimate shit in front of their friends- basically adding them into the argument. It was a sad sight, I’ll give you that.
Walking away from this shit I question whether or not its bad that I don’t drink or go out as much as I used to. Because what exactly am I missing? This? Fuck that. Sad fact of life is that some boys never get sense. I’m not wise, but I have sense. It took a while to get. I’ve been to some dark places, but I’ve also been to Rainbow Road- and that’s hard to beat.