30 Days – Day 11 – “Compliments”

Something people seem to compliment you the most on.

The shit I spout on Facebook for some reason, though I’m having a little rapid onset autism and secretly wonder if they aren’t being sarcastic. I update up to a half dozen times a day. I suppose I’m one of “those” people and when I stop and think about why exactly I’m deciding to let a couple of hundred folk know that I’ve rolled a link sausage up in a tortilla for my lunch and that it’s the new best thing ever I can’t think of an exceptionally valid reason. It’s turned into a habit, and maybe not a good one. I suppose it’s like just being constantly connected to a large group of people, as if they were always in the room and you’re making little asides to them whenever something pops up into your head. Hypocrisy comes with the territory as well, like mocking someone who posted a picture of their dinner, then two days later I’m tagged in a photo of my deformed roll at lunch or something. Might as well come clean: my gobshite is the same as everyone elses, all I do differently is put it in a longer, snarkier post. I’m a complete cunt and I shouldn’t be allowed on the internet unless it’s to wank or arrange the weekend’s merriment. And after that’s done I shouldn’t be allowed to post about it. I shouldn’t be saying this on a blog which is essentially the same thing but taken to even greater lengths. At least here I can use anonymity and the knowledge I’m talking to a largely empty room to justify it as me getting stuff off my chest and nothing more.

That I hate absolutely everything seems to have garnered me a couple of fans as well. I keep out of politics beyond a hinted at disdain for every branch because no matter what side of the fence you’re on you rapidly end up sounding like a Grade A bellend. I don’t link to news either for that reason. Various topics bring out various people: calling footballers overacting poofs will get the guys who treat it like real-life WoW riled up and produce likes from their girls, a Bob Dylan song drew the wrath of my Palestine supporting auntie, college stuff is for college people, the petrolheads love car related things, tales of stupidity involving my brothers is for my family and close friends, and any obscure 90s rave lyrics acts like the fucking Batsignal to a cute Welsh girl who I’d have probably been going out with for a few months now were it not for big shitey England geographically cockblocking me. Worst country!

Another thing I get complimented on is the beard. Men want it, women want to be with it. And a beard it undeniably is. I went through the initial shit stage of it looking like a bit I forgot to shave, then a bit that I really should shave, until it got to a length and thickness where it simply couldn’t be described in any other way than an awesome sign of virility and manliness. Hey, gotta have something else when you’ve got a dick my size… The first month or so was hard, as I had to wait for the transition from Fat Guy Goatee to an actual beard. What is the Fat Guy Goatee? You’ve seen it many times before even if you haven’t realised it. Just look…

It's like parking outside a school with Gary Glitter's greatest hits blaring. Don't.

That’s it right there, it’s the Michael Moore, the Peter Jackson, the 32 year old computer technician you work with that sweats going to the toilet. It’s the male equivalent of a fat woman trying to wear stripes or showing off her cleavage to distract from the saggy belly. Nobody’s fooled yet still they persist. You can’t mould a square jaw out of a few millimetres of hair, don’t even fucking try. Did I rock it for a while? Yeah, I did, but not for long. I cycled from clean shaven to unshaven, then I went the whole hog last November for the Movember cancer charity thing and decided to keep it until February this year. I shaved it all off for a night out and sorely regretted it, and haven’t shaved since. Is it to everyone’s liking? Course not, but then you can’t go around trying to please everyone. I’ve found that any guys that try to say anything start looking sheepish when you mention if they even could grow one. Which is childish I suppose, at the rate I’m going I’ll be as grey as Leslie Nielson before I’m thirty, but even though few people have one, being accused of being unable to grow a beard in the first place is up there with not being able to get it up for a woman. Speaking of which, while some outright don’t like facial hair, for a large number the main worry seems to be that they think it’s really rough and scratchy. In reality it’s rather soft, it is hair after all.

When I had my longer hair the comparisons I got were with a bear and in one instance Beorn from The Hobbit, which made my day. That was alright when it came with a hand on my chest through my shirt and a playful growl from a lady, not so good when that’s also the moniker for the manliest of man shaggers. Facebook also got in on the joke by aiming adverts for gay dating my way. Scruff? Really? Now that I’ve got that all lopped off, a move I regret as it brings me closer to that Fat Guy Goatee image again, I’m hearing more of the word “biker.” Sure am, I drive a custom-built Harley Davidson Golf. Also comparisons with Kerry King, the guitarist with Slayer. Unfortunately I’d never heard of him or listened to the band, metal and happy hardcore not being the best of bosom buddies. He does seem like a handsome fella, so I’ll let it slide.

Aside from facial hair and moaning on the internet, I’m apparently an all-round nice friendly guy that’s trustworthy and a good laugh to be around. I’ve been trying to hunt down who started those malicious rumours but so far to no avail.