So many people I know should come here. They would fit right in.

I am a really cool guy, and I am really glad that I am a cool guy. It opens doors and gets you places, always with other cool people. It bloody well should; it is a hell of a lot of time and effort and money to be this cool. I spend hours and hours and hours keeping up to date with the latest trends and fashions. The clothes and tattoos and haircuts aren’t cheap either. You have to know what kind of threads to wear, how to have your hair cut, the colours and the shapes and the styles, the kind of ink. But ink is ink, innit. I have a dragon on my forearm and a seahorse on my back. A seahorse, because a seahorse is a fucking seahorse, and a dragon is just a dragon innit. You can’t go wrong with that kind of shit. You have to pay extra for the big tattoo names, I know, but it’s money well spent. A legitimate work of art by a legitimate artist on your skin, original designs and that. That’s much better than getting drunk and having your drunk friend attack you with a needle and indian ink. Much steadier and cleaner and crisper. Name-brand cola is better than Tescos own.
The best kind of cool is where you don’t actually have to do anything. Reflected cool. Cool by association, like when a past lover takes another beautiful woman to bed. That is just fucking cool, and that makes me cool because I once nutted on her face (which is cool in itself) and once farted in her face (which is absolutely hilarious).
Not that I’m a misogynist or anything. That’s not cool. Unless it’s ironic. Irony is cool. That’s why I shop at Target when my allowance runs out. That’s also why I have Primark sunnies. Not just because they were £1 and I had very little money, but because they were £1 and they were from Primark. Do you feel me?
I need to get myself a job and get another really cool tattoo. I want to be just like you. It is only cause I like you, you are everything I wish I could be. Maybe if I’m like you, baby would you like me?

 

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