Gregory had an ugly confession to make. It was the kind of confession you’d rather be mumbling to someone well-proportioned with a gun, or some spindly-legged 18 year-old American teenager who hadn’t taken his pills…or to be more specific to no one at all. Gregory had to have a few swigs of his favorite brandy before even having the interview with the Narrator.
The fact was that Gregory was ‘over-estimating his age and responsibilities’. These were the word that bounced out of his father’s mouth with the ferocity of a paper shredder. His poor mum simply shrugged off two tears teetering on the tips of an emotional outburst. To be even more honest, Gregory wasn’t a professional programmer. He did love computers, and electronics…but the only major success he’d had in his short-lived adult life were the few comments anonymous people threw at his blog.
Gregory was a reasonable lad, and this sort of confession was normally far beyond any twenty-four year old…but the inevitable had landed on him. This was probably more painful to admit than his previous fabrication of his identity.
Mrs. Tweedle had a dear a fragile face. Gregory had once heard that ‘a face is nothing without eyes’. He thought about this, and decided that Mrs. Tweedle had fragile eyes, careful hair, and a tightly worn mouth. Come to think of it, it could only be the eyes that were fragile because everything else in Phillipa Tweedle had had the urge to resist gravity as much as possible. To be more specific Phillipa was one of those people that words like toilet, sex, slippers, bath, and hike were seen as fearsome challenges rather than exciting possibilities.
Despite this she waddled over to the foot of Gregory’s bed one evening. She sat down rather promptly and in her dear voice said, “Munchkin…there’s something we need to discuss…”
His blood went cold. This was not because The Wizard of Oz has given him nightmares fifteen years earlier, or because she had taken control of his legs and voice at the same time. His blood turned violently cold because she spoken that ‘cursed phrase’ that hadn’t come out in a very long time. Every time she spoke it, his dignity rarely lived to tell the tale (or in most cases, the saga). Soon after the morbid introduction Gregory came to learn the following…he was to move out of the house.
His mum had made it sound so simple and silly, that he’d hesitated on uttering ‘yes’ to her rhetorical phrases and suggestions. Basically he’d learnt that they were doing a lot of kicking…and he simply had his hands in the air like a criminal. This wasn’t a misrepresentation either. A few weeks later – still fuelled by the injustice – Gregory had crawled into an internet café and posted his thoughts on his blog.
20 ways to leave home, get a job and become a psychopath
Recently I was kicked out of house and home. By recent I actually mean that I got this news a good couple of hours ago. It’s so fresh in my head that I still have to remind myself I’m moving out tomorrow and being banished from freedoms, and thrown into the chains of commercialism and the claws of capitalism. Allow me to demonstrate with a list resulting from three magic words, no well-meaning citizen should ever hear.
They kicked me:
- Out of the house.
- Out of my warm bed and blankets
- Onto the grimy streets that await me.
- Into the company of people (drunk and hung-over). I heard that one of them studied Philosophy soon after he had memorized ten shooters from the eight clubs he’d been to.
- Into unemployment, and millions more strangers staring at me.
- Into a house full of people. They politely call this a ‘Communal Dwelling’ which feels more like a concentration camp of chaos.
- Away from the Internet (which was my intellectual warm bed and blankets).
- Away from my parents. Despite my swearing at them, this means I’m still going to have no one to drive me to the bus stop every morning.
- Into the murderous rain. This is due to pt. 7 and other ways that they are telling me where to stick it.
- Into Laundromats, filled with the lower class somberly staring at the cycle of clothes and suds. All I was thinking was: Where The Fuck Is There Telly Around Here
- Into dirty newspaper stands. Because after a few evenings in the pub you forget about the news, and because you’ve spent you hard-earned money drinking…you now have to squint at the headlines of The Guardian, through the rain and with a hangover.
- Into the hands of the Coppers. (see pt. 18)
- Into a fast food store. The most words you’ll ever say over the phone are “Please stop shouting at me, I’m only a cashier.” And then very occasionally, “I can’t make the cooked-spider disappear from your fries.”
- Away from people that had a good sense of hygiene, and table manners.
- Far away from any kind of domestic animal. The only thing I can pet is my drunken roommate when he’s throwing up in the toilet bowl and not my sock drawer.
- Away from people who have a sense of moral decency to remain sober. (The opposite is equally frightening – see pt. 4)
- Away from a clean fridge that stops food from going off. (i.e. it never malfunctions)
- Out of the reach of my favorite breakfast cereal. The last time I saw it was in a supermarket. It was the very last one in the aisle, and so it was between me and the old lady.
- Onto the street (with millions other people who don’t mind poking you in the eye with their umbrellas when you forgot yours in the door of a train).
- Into dirty internet cafés (where I’m typing this and trying not to think about the yellow stain on the left-button of the mouse).
Months later another computer geek got hold of this very post and decided to email it around to every school mailing list he could hack into. This did not go down well for Gregory. Within a period of a few days he was subsequently armed with a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a lawyer, a dietician and two social workers. When a tabloid reporter later asked the reason for all of this he replied, “My Mum’s eyes are the only thing about her that is fragile.”
After a year bulleted by, the newspapers (thankfully) had now found another Tsunami to investigate. It left Gregory to his lonely devices of drinking, insomnia, gaming, smoking, and watching late night TV. When one stray reporter did remember to do a follow-up…Gregory gave him the number of his shrink. Which made the newspaper read:
When I asked about the condition of the infamous Kick List Conman, his psychologist reported that “[Mr. Tweedle] is in an emotional, but stable condition.”