The world moves on. Swings swing, people die, politicians babble, teenagers masturbate, fangirls squeal, general boo hah-hah. And somehow in the midst of all that, the world really pays no attention to the fact that I've been gone, a free agent roaming the world, for an effing year.
My straining ego finds this hard to believe. Even in the hayday, (And I'll come to that), I admit a pitiful number of people read this blog, and the few tens, stretching into the occasional glorious 3-digit sum attending this glint into my life have drained away in my absence, and I suspect that those left are left only because they too have abandoned their embarrassing clichéd internet monologues to the ravages of time, and in the process have neglected to abandon my ship in the hustle of capsizing their own.
So why, I hear your wise voices chant, am I back?
Those of you who can recall anything of what used to go down will remember that almost all the problems I present here and their solutions eventually find their root in the megalomanic sanctuary of embittered perversion that is my brain, and its fairly buffed up opinion of itself. I didn't get much attention when I was here: I didn't need to, that wasn't what it was about. I enjoyed the feeling of writing and producing and being creative, and making myself laugh if not you chilly-hearted freaks. I regret to announce this simple pleasure ceases to delight me. Seriously though, could no one have mentioned my choice to leave? Not one soul? I poured my heart out, I gave you Greenpeace Spitfire, the sadistic Easter bunny, the many failings of Jeremy Clarkson. I had my weak points*, no doubt, but for the newly pubescent ragings of a contorted year nine, it wasn't that bad, was it? Really? I might have stuck with it out of genuine heartfelt warmth towards the internet that treated me so cruelly if I'd been reassured of that fact. I wasn't though, and so another reason will have to do, some other cause to facilitate my return to the whimsical musing of this sorry practice, and so here comes Jacob's silly cringey admission 1 of the new series: Oh god, I want to be fangirled. So so bad.
What, what what what. This is not how I roll. I exist the swashbuckling self-styled intellectual**, who resists the thronging masses of happy go-lucky sonsos who'll jump on any bandwagon that'll fit them and be damn glad to wear nerdy glasses for the rest of their days if needs be. Truth is, I would hugely appreciate being a bandwagon, and so here comes Jacob's twist of reasoning and logic 1 of the new series (It's a series? I know, sounds awesome dunnit):
In the future, I find it hard not to see myself being rich and famous and well loved, and decidedly not bald (which I should point out I'm not at the moment, my curly locks are perfectly well intact, ta). I'll go places and have crowds of squealing (An activity of fangirls, as has already been pointed out) admirers serenading my happy travels. I'll have achieved it all, and I'll be reaping the rewards. It all sounds dandy, aside from Jacob's catch/flaw in the plan 1 of the new series: I need my squealing adoring hug-desperate dedicated followers NOW.
It's not that I view myself as a lonely person; I don't. I have an entertaining and perfectly sufficiently sized friend base, all of whom I love very much and mean more to me than anything. Most things. Okay, there are a lot of things that mean more, but I like my friends right? So it's not out of desperation then, I live a happy life, it's probably more out of, I dunno, resistance to recluse. I live in a tiny corner of the world in which I will almost never be remembered for anything other than having slightly dodgy hair. I want renown, I want acknowledgement, I want greatness, I want a followers count that exceeds five digits never mind three. I want to get laid. What, sorry, did I say that out loud... That wasn't actually me that said it, it was, erm, my friend. The little bugger. IT'S A PIPELINE DREAM OKAY. Point is, I honestly believe you should all fangirl me, because let's face it, if there's a reasonable proportion of the world's population convinced I'm hilarious, than whatever crap I say, it's gonna sound funny to them, right? Can't beat the system. Might as well just anticipate my rise to wealth and fame and get fawning now, we can have a deal in which you treat me like a God, and in return I'll become a God-like figure. For sure, who has time for getting round to actually becoming a God? Far better to leave it til later.
Does the word 'fangirl' bring to mind for you images of attractive oh-so-naive teenage girls? Doesn't for me. Nooopedy no. Nooooo. Absolutely, tres not. You can be male, I'd happily go gay for fame. Is that the sort of thing you say? Probably not. You could be sixty, but please please ignore the laid comment, it's illegal and just sorry, no. Just put my followers total back where it belongs, humour my huge worship of myself, and I promise I'll give you all the hilarity and embarrassing revelations I can come up with. Over and Out.
*Piece of String being the one that springs to mind. I think of any failing, the sheer unrelenting shitness of that post posed the largest contributor to me leaving BlogSpot to its merry business.
**I find it much easier that asking others to style me intellectual. They tend to a) punch me in the face, which is unpleasant, and b)point out my lack of an actual intellect, which is rude if nothing else. Although, they say the truth hurts, but I'd take having my academic presumptions shattered over being punched in the face any day of the week. It's just a fact.
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