Men's Needs

So basically, I spent £70 pounds on some ridiculous appliance for the lower half of my mouth. For those less fortunate in the audience and haven’t heard my endless reiteration of the pain and suffering involved in this disease only suffered by myself and maybe select others (unknown to me at present) here we go: To summarise, “Fuckjaw” to give the disease it’s sub-medical title, is one of the single most frustrating problems to face a persons face in their lifetime. It stems, I believe, from the rare genetic defect both myself and my sister suffered during our early teens where we were possibly cross-bred with sharks, and ended up with extra rows of teeth growing in our mouths. My mouth, age 16, looked like an upturned tin of beans with a broken stick of rock floating in it. Now, it’s just fuckjaw. The crux of this pseudo-syndrome is that somewhere along the line, my jaw has become realigned or broken, or clicked, or I’ve got scurvy, and on a daily basis my chin has slowly forged a closer bond with my shoelaces than ever before. It feels like my jaw is permanently dropping, only without the sudden female nudity or low low prices that warrant the reaction. So I spent 70 bucks on three trips to James Hull and co. and now I have a ridiculous appliance to wear over my lower teeth, and I get to feel like I’m ninety and wearing dentures for two weeks. Potentially a dignity destroyer; I don’t think anyone is going to see me after lights out for the next fortnight anyway.

Yesterday I watched one of my best friends and my ex girlfriend move out of my house. I don’t condone either of these activities to anyone with a sensitive heart.

I believe I’m meant use this space to write about things like their mood and what food they’re eating and what song they’re listening to. This makes sense. I’m not actually experiencing either at the moment, but if I were, then it probably wouldn’t be the new Chicken Satay pot noodle. Momentarily, I thought this gastronomical black hole of foulness was just because I hadn’t added the sachet of allegedly spicy chilli sauce. Wrong! The whole shebang with chicken satay, which I hadn’t realised before (having my only previous exposure to the dish being the £1 yellow-stickered kebab version 2.0 from Iceland) was that it’s infused with peanuts to give it a distinct aroma. The key difference with Pot Noodle satay, is that it tastes like a combination of something found down the back of an armchair, something found in the ashtray in a car door, and something found behind the wisdom teeth of a regular in the City Road gentleman’s club. Something else to sink your teeth into. The “spicy chilli” if that’s what it even was, served no purpose other than, as with all the red sauces, to make you feel like you were sucking globdules of fat from someone elses gaping wounds. I’ll try the lamb hotpot tomorrow. I've had that Cribs song it's Ok to like because it has feminist undertones running around my head today like a sickly hamster, so I’ll be feeling this one in the morning.