Living at home is not for losers
Trevor Drinkwater[dropcap style= boxed]T[/dropcap]hat's right, I'm a home bird! I'm sure all you cool dudes with your rock music and jazz cigarettes are already profiling me – just ragging on the square who's still stuck living at home; quietly going mad due to lack of freedom and sexy time.
Ho ho, but little do you know that if your hypothetical subconscious literary reaction was reduced down into the metaphor of a 1980s movie, you would be the sports jacketed numbskull jock boys and I the unlikely bespeckled hero; destined to come out on top against all odds. This success achieved by either a robot of my own construction, a serum which makes me irresistible to women, a defrosted caveman-turned-skater dude, or some sort of magnificent combination of two or more.
You knew you shouldn't have had that extra half pint, you know what it does to you, you animal.
You might think that being king of your own party domain and living with several other newly released members of the human race is the greatest thing to ever happen to you now, but I'm here to set you scallywags straight and defend my fellow homies.Let me forcefully create a word-picture within your mind... You've been out the night before; you've pretty much painted the town a shade which could at worst be described as off-red, but best case scenario full on scarlet. You wake up the next day, still suffering from the unmistakable mental shrapnel which only one and a half pints of Coors Light are capable of causing. You knew you shouldn't have had that extra half pint, you know what it does to you, you animal. You've “got a thirst on you” as your ignorant roommates would say, their unwanted idiosyncrasies already beginning to grate.But all you have for comfort is your terrifyingly small room and your aforementioned acquaintances: all of them busy subsisting entirely on strict diets of milk and over-hyped amateur sports; probably transfixed in a discussion about whether a Massey Ferguson would beat a David Brown tractor in a fight.In your desperation for human contact you actually begin to situate yourself in odd positions within your comically tiny student home in order to simulate a de facto hug from the ever encroaching walls. However the cold, poorly plastered embrace of your abode does little to salve your crippling home sickness.Now compare your life to mine and weep. Well I'm not tired for one thing, having only completed a single pint; I'm not a frigging monster! I also managed to chat up a lovely Chiquita, although things seemed to turn south when I mentioned my mommykins for some reason. In retrospect she must have been an orphan, or one of those unwanted children; the poor girl.This was a blessing in disguise however, as without her to slow me down I managed to catch the classic 11.30 bus home; the bus of legends!As if my night couldn't get any better, this selected sojourn afforded me a lovely chat with an elderly man named Norman. I loved his wry observations about the growing apathy towards the old and infirm, but found I differed greatly when it came to his hatred of “the Gays” as he affectionately called them. I didn't bother disagreeing with him of course, because he would be dead soon and he holds little to no power within society for reasons he had previously outlined in great length.And as if that didn't solidify the superiority of my night, here comes the kicker... Do any of your new cellmates know how you like your tea in the morning? Didn't bloody think so!My mom on the other hand actually knows how I like my tea, having honed the skill wonderfully over 21 years of bringing it to me in the morning with my Coco Pops. Just in case anybody was interested, I take it milky with four sugars; that way it tastes like a lovely warm tea-y milkshake.I think by now I've made you all pretty jealous, so I better leave you to wallow in your own loneliness. Oh and one more thing... hugs are on tap at casa de mammy! Booyeah! Enjoy life in the independent lane losers.