Always nice to get a few things off your chest, eh?
Cathartic, they say.
That’s what I’m going for with this here blog post.
It remains to be seen if I shall entitle all future blog posts after Usher songs, but if it doesn’t work out that way, it sure as shit won’t be for lack of trying.
Below are five embarrassing, and somewhat personal, confessions for you. And I won’t listen to anyone who tells me that the internet was invented for the sharing of embarrassing, personal confessions.
1. Mental Disability
There’s a little part of my brain that fears I may have some sort of severe mental disability.
The only reason for this fear is that I have no way to guarantee otherwise. There’s still reasonable doubt.
I’ve seen 12 Angry Men, and if you have too, you’ll understand how important even a shred of reasonable doubt is.
For all I know, I was born with some brain defect.
My parents decided when I was very young that they wouldn’t tell me about it, and instead let me go on living my life in blissful ignorance. And why would they tell me? It’s not going to do any good, is it?
You made the right call, parents.
Women I’ve been with in the past only got involved with me out of sympathy and pity.
My moderate academic success only came because all my exams and projects and everything were graded by someone who had my mental affliction in mind.
“Ah God, it’s that Walsho fella. I’ll give him a decent grade, the poor sod.”
You’re only reading this blog because someone told you that there’s some guy on the internet who’s not the full shilling, and he likes to try to be funny on his blog. It’s called “Walsho”. Who in their right mind would name it that? Someone who’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic, that’s who.
And I only have my job because they needed to fill some sort of equality quota.
To make matters worse, I’m also fairly certain that my dull little mentally handicapped life is streamed worldwide 24/7 to a secret audience.
I’m onto you, world.
2. Wedding Woes
I’ve been to one wedding in my entire life, and that was about ten years ago.
It doesn’t look like I’m getting married anytime soon, and I can say the same for most, if not all, of my close friends (Well, I call them ‘friends’, but we all know they’re actors in my own little Truman Show).
And despite all of the above, at least once a week I get into a panic about having to deliver a Best Man speech.
Sometimes I try to think about funny opening lines and get annoyed at myself for being too cheesy.
I try to think about anecdotes that’ll get a laugh but won’t be too bad for my mate’s bride to hear.
Fucking hell, it’s a nightmare.
Will I hold the speech in my hand or try to memorise it?
What if I get too drunk and RUIN THE WHOLE WEDDING?
Oh god, I’ll have to buy them some big gift to make up for it.
Jesus, as if the wedding wasn’t expensive enough to go to, in that posh fucking hotel. Why the fuck did I have to spend so much on a new tie just for the wedding?
Eventually I regain my grip on reality and simply pray that nobody will ever like me enough to want me to be their Best Man.
I also worry about my own wedding. The part I worry about is having to do the first dance with my new wife.
I’m not sure if that’s still done these days, but I’m dreading it.
There’s two reasons I end up dancing in nightclubs. The first is that I’m drunk. The second is that I tell myself that everyone is drunk and dancing, so nobody is going to be looking at me trying to emulate Ricky Martin.
But at the wedding, when you’re the groom, you have to go dance with your new wife, JUST THE TWO OF YOU, WITH EVERYONE WATCHING.
What an awful tradition.
Why can’t we just be tarred and feathered instead?
Reckon the whole ‘Big Fish, Small Fish, Cardboard Box’ routine could still work?
3. Overheating Laptop
A couple of years ago, I had a laptop that was prone to overheating.
I spent a lot of time on this overheating laptop.
One day I was using this overheating laptop, on my lap.
So to clarify, the laptop, which was prone to overheating, was on top of my lap.
As the old saying goes, if you play with overheating laptops, you’re gonna get burned.
The next day I felt a strange discomfort in the area that I can only describe as genital.
Nothing serious by any stretch, but enough to make me want to Google around to see if anyone else had been foolish enough to let it happen to them.
I opened up a new tab in my internet browser, and searched possibly my most embarrassing ever search. I remember exactly how I typed it, because immediately afterwards I looked at what I had just typed and let out a shameful sigh at how my life had brought me to this point.
“Laptop burn penis”.
If you’re wondering, which you obviously are, the main result was a story about a Swedish guy who had done similar to myself, but to a far worse extent, needing medical attention. The story was one of those “Look at this idiot!” kind of ones, so it did little to comfort me.
The following day everything was grand again, and I’ve since developed a new appreciation for desks.
But there you have it. A classic case of the old Laptop Burn Penis.
Oh yes, I’ve seen this one before, you’ve got yourself a mild dose of Laptopburnpenis.
Don’t worry though, it’s treatable. Simply apply this tube of Notbeingafuckingmoron, and you’ll be right as rain.
Now, on your way, I’ve got a patient coming in who tells me he’s got a case of Accidentallysatontesticles.
4. YouTube Shame
What a wonderful resource YouTube is.
Some people use it to watch and share funny videos.
Some use it to listen to music.
Some use it to learn about new things.
The more time goes on, the more I think my primary use of YouTube is watching videos of people squeezing enormous cysts that have somehow grown on their bodies, and watching all the contents of these truly disgusting things pour out.
Stumbling across one video leads to far too many others.
And they all have such irresistible titles, such as “WORLD’S BIGGEST CYST REMOVAL” or “GIANT ZIT POPPED!” and I have no choice but to watch and feel simultaneously disgusted and excited.
Sometimes I actually feel jealous of the people in these videos, and hope that someday I’ll wake up with a giant cyst that I can attack and put on YouTube. Preferably somewhere not all that important, or publicly visible. My leg, perhaps.
A man is entitled to his dream.
Martin Luther King had his, and I have mine.
And who’s to say which is more valid?
5. Secret Code
I like to keep a ‘To Do’ list these days. It’s on an app on my phone. I actually have a few different ones – one for work, a personal one, movies to watch, etc.
On my personal one, I sometimes have an entry of “ *lol* “.
This is actually a secret code, just in case anyone were to sneak a peek at my To Do list. A passing friend, perhaps, or someone lurking behind me on public transport. I know well that if I saw someone checking their To Do list, I’d be trying to get a look at what their life is like.
The burden of secrecy has gotten too much for me, and I feel that I’m ready to reveal the meaning behind this uncrackable encryption.
The real meaning of *lol* is…
Trim pubic hair.
THERE, I SAID IT.
Now get out of here, you vultures, constantly asking me about my secret To Do list codes.
You’ve got your story.