I usually travel with the comfort of earphones in my ears, blasting out all manner of music you probably don’t know about because I’m well cool*. I do this for one very important reason: it blocks out the sound of the world.
Now birds I’m fine with, the chirping little twats. Some cars annoy me, like the one up the road that has a monstrous engine and just seems to be left idling for 20 minutes every single morning. Wind can be gustily satisfying. Other miscellaneous noises: I will allow.
But it’s the people. People and their incessant need to talk. I don’t mean to me – I look like the kind of person who would sooner make a plaster of Paris cast of your face in my secret dungeon in order to have you over for murderdrinks rather than actually engage you in polite discourse, so people aren’t exactly tripping over themselves to talk to me.
What I mean by that, of course, is that I am described as ‘aloof’. And am definitely not a murdering plaster of Paris modelling freak bastard from hell. Definitely not, no siree.
Yet these people still insist on talking, and when I don’t have the two-pronged defence force in the shape of my (terrible, horrible) earphones I often have to listen to these idiots wherever I am.
And – not that I want to have turned into one of those people – but around here I have to hear the conversations of a lot of students. And it’s turning me into one of those people who hates students because shut the fuck up.
I have even tried to make a game out of it, hearing a snipped of a conversation and imagining what it’s about, what brought the topic up or, if they’re on the phone, what the person on the other side is saying.
Unfortunately, as I’m really very funny, I end up making myself laugh. While walking down the street. Alone. Already looking like I’m going to poP your face off. It’s… not the most desirable outcome.
So it is I rely on music to keep the inanity at bay. To keep the mention of “I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE DID” away, because I can believe what he did because he is a person and people do whatever he’s done all the fucking time, unless what he did was suddenly sprout three extra arms before carving a perfect copy of the Venus De Milo out of an assortment of fine (and not-so-fine) cheeses.
Then you can say you don’t believe it.
If, like is usually the case, he drank a lot or he cheated on you or he didn’t do the washing up or he was just a prick who plays rugby or some other wanky sport, then you can believe it. I allow you to believe it. Please believe it. I want you to.
And your pissy little film project for uni? Yeah, it won’t get you anywhere. You’ll end up alone, cold and dying like the rest of us do. Quit now, never try again, learn your lesson.
Happy sunny day, kids!
*Or you do know about because you told me about the band as I am incapable of finding out about music of my own volition.