New House Attempted: A Thick Sock Day

"Jesus fuck... do you want me to tell you how emo you sounded in that blog?"

Such was another comment from my American friends.


So, to lighten the mood I thought I'd have another whinge about my love life. Yeah, I know it's sad and predictable, but I'm a dark coat-wearing grumpy reclusive thriller-writer, so cliches are my thing.

So, today was a Thick Sock day. I have two types of socks in my drawer, and they're good indicators of my mood.

And before you get the wrong idea, I do NOT use these socks to stuff my pants. I don't need to indulge in over-compensation, because my penis is massive and I want everyone on the internet to be assured of that.

Anwyay, I have thin socks for days when I'm probably gonna stay in bed. They're lightweight and don't overheat under the duvet. Thin socks are for depressed days.

Thick socks, however, are for days when I'm expecting to be outside in the cold, wearing shoes and other healthy things like that. Today I got up and put on some thick socks, ready for my highlight of the week - my visit to the Job Centre.

"Mr Cock-Ring?" asked the advisor as we sat at the desk.

"No. Corcoran. Think of the Corrs, or Corke. Or just pronounce each Cor separately. Cor-Cor-An."

"Cor-Cor-An," repeated the advisor, clearly struggling with the concept. "So, any luck?"

"Yes, I have an interview for a job as a sterilizer."

"A sterilizer?"

"Yes - at the hospital. A Sterile Technician."

"Ooh, that's good."

"Yeah, it'll be great at parties, won't it? 'What do you do?' 'Oh, I'm a sterile man!'

"Well, at least the Technician part sounds impressive. So, what would you be sterlizing?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe surgical instruments - maybe people. Regardless of which, my next novel should be an interesting one."

"Okay, Mr Cock-Ring, if you'd just like to sign here..."


The reason I'm mentioning the careers advisor is simple: she's the only woman who's shown any interest in me for the last three months. And by 'interest' I mean she didn't instantly frown at me on sight and actually made the effort to crack a smile at one of my jokes. That's tantamount to a handjob in my books, the dirty slut.

Anyway, this morning of Cock-Ringery followed a night out with my Aunty and cousin, Matt, a more refined and uninhibited version of myself who smokes cigars and oozes bisexual grace. He spent most of the night staring at the girls in the cafe, whilst my Aunty's conversation could be summarised as follows:

"Buddhism... Buddhism... You're such a handsome boy... Buddhism...Ghosts... Why don't you have a girlfriend yet?... Buddhism... Yoga... Look at all the pretty girls here... Buddhism... Tango... You really should talk to some of these girls!"

The girls in question were the typical spread of Falmouth students - the kinda girls who study at the sacred feet of One Tree Hill and Beverly Hills, long hair and retro-sub-hippie-non-comformity-conventional clothing dancing around their starved-thin bodies.

Music was blaring from the cafe's speakers, so as usual I failed to convey even a single word of coherent speech. I was busy trying to keep pace with my cousin's drinking (It's never cool to be half a pint behind the next man), as well as trying to think up topics to steer my Aunty away from the 'You're-such-a-handsome-boy-what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you' campaign.

The closest contact I had with the females was at the end of the night when I had to crawl around under the tables looking for my car keys.

They were the same as ever. Truly it's a skill I have - to make every girl's face look exactly the same: a blank, vacant stare of total bemusement. Why is it in that in the movies, two people connect and start having knowing word-duels, but in real life the world is painted with 'What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about' expressions?

It's very inconsistent - I wish Hollywood would catch up with what's really happening in the world.

My cousin and Aunty didn't have those faces, but only because they were in their own little worlds, like most people in the cafe. No one was exploring anything but their own agendas, projecting onto each other.

Don't get me wrong - I do the same thing. But when I project onto women I imagine them as wild and spirited sexual creatures, full of adventure and excitement. I think this projection is a damn sight more flattering than the crap husband/silly-old-man/father-material/pervert images that women project onto me.

Relationships are terrible things at the end of the day - at least in my experience. All that shit with women pretending they know who you are. Fuck that.

I think that's why I like insecure women - cos at least they shut the fuck up and give me a chance to speak. It's hard enough trying to translate the inner soul to the outer presentation without people monologuing in your face.

Anyway, after finding my keys, I left the cafe and walked back to my car, alone as always.

Earlier that day I had finished the final draft of my novel, and it was this, more than my thick socks, that brought me comfort.

Countless other men had succeeded in shooting white fluid out of their cocks on Valentine's Day. But I... I had completed a great work, one that will outlive the best orgasm and the greater number of human relationships.

I took solace in that today and fell asleep in my thick socks, waking up with hot feet and the terror-sweat of novel-induced nightmares.

I dreamt I was Henry V in the modern day, fighting as an immortal in Saudi Arabia.

This ghost in my house is an arsehole. Maybe if I avenge his death he'll start sending me some erotic dreams instead and I'd stop looking like a psychopath when I go out.

Time to solve some crime!