Kill Me Now

Pic Steve Bliss

I’m going to kill myself. The method: sleeping pills. It’s lame, I know. I wish I had the balls to kill myself in a way that was more epic or flashy or hip, like slitting my wrists whilst watching Clueless or jumping naked off the roof of my squat, but I’m just too much of a loser to go through with it. Yup, my death will be an anticlimactic death to end my anticlimactic life, and everyone will just keep on eating and sleeping and jerking-off and dying their hair and doing ketamine and I’ll be dead and no on will give a shit. Despair.

I spent Saturday afternoon clearing out all my possessions from my now ex-boyfriend Blaine’s apartment. The whole process was super depressing. The worst was when I mistook his having pity on me for us having a “moment,” at which point I lent into to kiss him, only to have him pull away in disgust. So embarrassing. I then made a similar attempt about an hour later but was greeted with the same reaction. Eventually I gave up all hope of maintaining any dignity and just started begging him to have sex with me. No avail. I think at one point I actually said, “Please, you won’t have to do anything. You can just lie there while I masturbate.” What was I thinking? My life is one of rejection and shame.

After being repeatedly shunned and humiliated I wandered over to Lidl where I spent ten minutes crying on my own in the frozen food section. Then I stole a giant block of Brie which I ate with my hands on the bus ride home.

When I arrived at my house all I wanted was to take a shower, but obviously our new squat doesn’t have one so I had to take a cold bath out of a bucket. Next I ate some out-of-date tuna salad that my flatmates and I fished out of the garbage bins behind Marks and Spencers. I couldn’t wash a fork because there was a huge slug on the sponge so I used my hands to eat that as well.

That night I went out in east London. I took some ecstasy to try and make myself feel better but just ended up getting so fucked that I gave a random guy I met on the street a blow-job behind a dumpster. I think his name was Paul. Or Patrick. Whatevs.

Now I’m in my room on a comedown trying to decide what song I want played at my funeral. Bunny is lying next to me. He’s depressed too. He’s always depressed—at least that’s what he says anyway. He’s thinking about the cast of Friends. He didn’t tell me this, but I can just tell. He’s always thinking about Friends. It’s sort of creepy actually.

“Are you thinking about Ross?” I ask.

“Oh my God, for the millionth time I’m not thinking about Ross,” he says. I don’t believe him.

“Then what are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about how I want to wear my white jeans out tonight, but they have a giant piss stain on them and I don’t have enough money to go to the laundromat…” This is the beginning of the end.

What Are You Wearing?

Originally written for Vice Fashion. These are the mutants that inhabit the hell that I live in (aka south London).
.

Is south London cooler than east London? We went to investigate by interviewing some of Walworth Road’s locals.

Danielle AKA Guessforever, student

Hey, you look cool. What’s this look all about?
Danielle AKA Guessforever: It’s me, the style of me.

What’s hot right now?
T-shirts and cut jeans. You gotta cut the jeans.

What trends do you hate?
Everyone is trying to be all naked and hot pants and shit these days. Are you from New York?

Yes.
Shit, am I going to be in a magazine in New York?

Well, you’ll be on the website.
I can’t believe I’m going to be in a magazine in New York!

Penny and Maureen, full time mothers

So how would you describe your look?
Penny: Funky but, like, also normal.

I like that. Do you always dress alike?
Maureen: We’ve only just started. We just bought two more matching dresses.

What do you look for in an outfit?
Maureen: Voluminous colours.

Um… your baby just threw up.
Penny: Oh for fuck’s sake, hang on. It wasn’t on our new dresses, was it?

Hannah Logic, stylist

How does it feel to be way hotter and more fashionable than all of your neighbours?
Hannah Logic: Wait… I’m not very good with words. What’s a word to answer that? Um… good?

What about “satisfied”?
Whatevs.

Who’s your style icon?
Pippy Long Stocking.

What designers are you into?
Charles Anastase, McQueen, Ann-Sofie Back.

Dodgy Fella and D. Griz AKA “Famz”, rappers

How would you describe your style?
Dody Fella: Urban. I don’t follow no style, I’m just me.

Are you smoking a joint?
D. Griz: Yeah, you want some?

Sure. I like your anklet, is it Chanel?
D. Griz: No, it’s an ankle monitor. Big Brother, you know.

Did you do something bad? Money laundering? Drug dealing? Murder?
D. Griz: Yeah. Fighting and shit. You know.

That’s hot.

Dave the Stall Guy, entrepreneur

Who is your style icon?
Dave: Nobody. I don’t give a shit about fashion and stuff like that. I’m common.

Why don’t you care about fashion?
Because I ain’t gay!

You’re gay?
No, I’m not gay. Why do all yous kids think I’m gay? Do I look gay?

Yes. Fashion week is right around the corner. Which shows are you excited to see?
Why are you asking me these questions? I’m just your basic sad bastard.

Assorted friends sitting on a bench outside Tesco, unemployed

Hello. I like your outfits. Who are you wearing?
[Inaudible responses, confused glares]

Uh, what do you think about the way people dress in this neighbourhood?
Woman in black T-shirt: It’s shit!

Why?
This neighbourhood has always been shit. You can’t even go poo without someone knowing!

Yeah, totally.
Your tights is… Your tights is…

Sorry?
Ripped. They is ripped!

Yes, it’s very on trend right now. Are there any trends you’re following this season?
You can’t even go poo without someone knowing. Can’t even go poo.

So you’ve mentioned.

Noah

I’m gunna tell you a story. The story of me. But we don’t have much time so you gotta read fast. It shouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to get through this so don’t even think about getting up to piss or pausing to daydream because time is of the essence. Now breath in.

So I guess I’m sort of like a God. A messiah, if you will. I can make people fall in love with me. People fall in love with me all the time. Guys are always tripping-out over me real hard. I don’t really care because I’m not gay. Fuck that shit. I mean, yeah I’ve fucked guys before but I wasn’t really into it. I’m more into girls if I’m into anybody, but most girls are dumb fucking bitches anyways so I don’t really give a fuck about them either. I prefer the fucking fags to the fucking bitches, if I’m honest. Fags give better head. They get way more into it. Maybe it’s because they have dicks too, so they know what they like. But don’t ask me, I don’t fucking know. I mean, yeah, I’ve sucked dick before but I didn’t like it or anything. I just did it for the cash. If I was hard it wasn’t because I was sucking dick. It was more about the situation—the human contact. No one’s immune to that feeling you get when you’re really close to someone, no matter who you are or what fucked-up shit you’re into. It doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m with—if I want to, I can get pretty hard pretty fast. And my dick is pretty big too.

This guy I know, Joel, sort of exists beyond the constraints of gender and lurks in that misty realm between male and female, boy and girl, human and the divine. He’s got jet-black hair and these pale blue eyes that sort of make you feel like you’re high if you stare at them long enough. He’s really tall, but the way he stands his body sort of hunches over, making him look shorter than he is. He’s so thin that his pelvic bones protrude out over the top of his jeans, giving the allusion of hips. His long, lanky arms fall clumsily at his sides and his toes point in just a little. He’s basically in love with me.

I first met Joel in Central Park about a year ago. It was around midnight and he was wearing a girl’s white nighty and a pair of DMs. Sort of like a Kurt Cobain rip-off but he still looked cool. He was standing in the park alone all hunched over and from a distance I thought he was a chick. I mean, he’s got long black hair that covers most of his face and he was wearing a dress, so it’s not that weird. He was staring at me and even from afar I could tell that he wanted me. He just looked available. I can’t explain it. I can always tell that kind of thing, though. I guess it’s because I’m like a God or whatever.

So I motioned for him to come closer to me and he walked straight up out of the blackness of the night and as soon as he reached me he knelt down and started unzipping my jeans. He didn’t say a word. He just took my dick out and started sucking it. And all this time I was still thinking he was a chick. And as he was sucking me off he was looking up at me with these big, icy blue eyes that made me feel all dreamy and fucked-up and all I could do was stare deep into them, they were so beautiful. His face was basically perfection—the way his freckles scattered across his pale skin and how the black of his eyelashes crashed into the white of his eyelids. I was tripping-out over him bigtime and his beauty made me think of sex made me think of drugs made me think of death made me think of blood and right as I was about to come I dropped my fist hard into his perfect face and smashed the shit out of it until his blood spattered all over me and all over him and all over the night.

I sort of have a girlfriend but she’s a fucking loser. She’s always trying to be all hot and sexy but she’s just fucking dumb. I would break up with her but I’m too lazy and she always just seems to be around so I just deal with it. I don’t even think I ever asked her to be my girlfriend in the first place. I think she was just around so much that eventually she started calling me her boyfriend and I just went along with it. When she gives me head she’s always saying things like, “Yeah, do it Noah. Come in my mouth. I want you to come all over my face, Noah.” She thinks she’s being hot but it really just turns me off. Most of the time when she’s giving me head or I’m fucking her I’m imagining that she’s Joel and imagining that Joel is a girl, if that makes sense. I guess I’m sort of in love with Joel, but Joel as a girl, who doesn’t really exist. Not in this world anyway.

Being in love with real people is too easy because they’re right fucking there. You can have them if you want them, which so of destroys the fantasy. I’d much rather be in love with someone who exists solely within my own deluded delusion, but who is also vaguely physically and emotionally represented by a guy on Earth called Joel who I guess I sort of love a little but who I’m not fully into because I’m not gay.


Photos by Bella Howard

Hate

Our new kitten, William (who I don't hate)

Do you need a reason to hate stuff? I don’t think you do. Arbitrarily hating things has been a passion of mine for some time now, and nothing but good has ever come of it. So in that vein here are a few things I hate for no reason other than I just do, and that I’m going to keep on hating because I feel like it.

Lentils

They taste like crap. They look ugly, and whenever you see someone eating them they always seem so pleased with themselves, like ‘Yup, just eating some lentils. No biggie. My body is a temple. Never mind the fact that I smell like a junkie drenched in incense and haven’t brushed my hair since the 80’s.

Masturbation interrupters

I live with ten people, all of whom are masturbation interrupters. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve I actually had to fashion a sign for my door out of cardboard that reads Do Not Disturb. Masturbation In Progress, and I still I can’t manage to jerk-off without at least five different people barging in to ask where the can opener is, or if can they borrow five pounds, or if I’ve seen that video of the toddler high on LSD on Youtube because it’s sooooo funny.

Nicole Kidman

Why is she so tall? It’s so annoying. And why is her skin so pale? And why does her husband highlight and straighten his hair? And why when she smiles does she look like a walrus sucking on a lemon? No wonder her two adopted children refuse to call her mom.

People who say ‘Have a nice day’ but don’t really mean it

If I had a penny for every time someone gave me an insincere ‘Have a nice day’ I’d have at least 78p by now. It happens most in places like supermarkets, cafes and clothing stores, and every time it does I have to do everything in my power not to turn around and scream, “Really? Do you REALLY want me to have a nice day, you sad, deceitful bastard?”

People who read really trendy books in public with that smug look on their face, oblivious to how huge of a tool they are

These are the same people who emerge from movie theaters shouting “It was OK, but the book was way better,” loud enough for everyone to hear. You know who you are.

The Intruder

This is a short story I wrote a few months ago

I love jerking off in the shower. It’s the perfect way to start the day, if you ask me. Actually, you could probably go as far to say I’m addicted to it. For some people it’s methamphetamine. For me it’s that perfect, glowing moment. That instant where the rest of the world seems to disappear and all that’s left is beautiful, sublime nothingness. If I believe in God, this is why.

This is a lot like how the story I’m about to tell you started out. Me, tugging at my morning hard-on, like usual. There I was, spraying my orgasm across the frosted glass pane, those thick white teardrops of spunk raining off my cock. My liquid kids. When suddenly, I heard a loud bang come from down the hall- my bedroom.

I quickly rinsed the soap from my shaggy blonde hair and ran naked down the narrow hallway to my room. Empty. Then another bang, but this time it came from inside my wardrobe. I pressed my ear against the door of the antique wooden cabinet. I could hear someone breathing. Careful not to turn my back on the mysterious intruder, I quickly grabbed the Walther P99 semi-automatic pistol from the drawer of my bedside table.

“Listen you fuck,” I shouted, gun pointed at my unknown target. “You’d better come out or I’ll shoot!”

No response- only the faint sound of muffled laughter.

“I’m serious,” I said, putting on my deepest, most commanding voice. “You don’t want to mess with me! I’m a badass motherfucker!”

Still no answer. More laughs. I was beginning to get annoyed.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded, forgetting for a second to sound intimidating.

“Badass motherfucker?” answered the voice, finally. “Who are you trying to fool? I’ve been in here watching you for days. Your mom washes your underwear. You jerk off to the lingerie section of the Sears sales catalog. You’re a pipsqueak. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Am not!” I shouted back. Although to be fair the thing about the Sears catalog was true. “You’d better watch your fat mouth because I’ve got a gun and I ain’t afraid to use it!”


“Alex!” called my mother from downstairs. “Who are you talking to?”

“Don’t worry mom,” I shouted, keeping my eyes on the target. “I’ve got this under control.” I pressed the barrel of the pistol against the wardrobe door and slid the cock back until it made a loud click.

“You hear that?” I said. “Now if you don’t come out of that closet with your hands up right now, I’m going to paint the walls with your brains. You understand?” I stepped back to allow the intruder space to exit.

“Honey!” shouted my mother a second time. “Do I need to make a call to Ms. Allen?” She sounded disappointed. Sort of like the time she caught me beating-off with my dad’s belt strapped around my throat, only not as bad.

Defeated, I put the neon green, plastic water pistol down on my bed and opened the door of my wardrobe. Empty. Not again, I thought to myself. Second time this week. I looked down at my scrawny, naked body. Massive boner. As I pulled my wrinkled, navy blue school vest over my damp skin, I couldn’t help but wonder, why does God hate me?

***

Ms. Allen, the school councilor, smells like a mixture of rose petals and olive oil. Her hair is red and so are her nails. Later that day- the day with the intruder and the gun- I was sitting in Ms. Allen’s Scooby-Do themed office, fantasizing about what sounds she would make if I stuck my blue ballpoint pen up her pussy. I don’t want to fuck her really, but the idea of her cunt still gives me a total hard-on. I’ve never seen a real one up close. I cunt, I mean. So if I’m telling the truth, I’m not very picky.

“So, Alex, how’s school going?” Ms. Allen smiled sweetly. I’ve been through this so many times; I’m just going through the motions now.

“It’s ok,” I answered, lazily.

“Anything new or exciting going on?” she asked. I want to hate fuck you…I didn’t say that. I just thought it.

“There’s an intruder living in my wardrobe.” I said that for real. “He’s been in there for days.”

“Can you see this intruder?” she asked.

“No, I can just hear him, but I know he’s there.” I was talking to her like normal but in my head I was thinking of wet pussy, anal gaping, deep throating. Anything to keep my mind from thinking about this. Reality. Right now.

Ms. Allen looked deep into my eyes, as if trying to see the inner workings of my brain through my pupils. “I think we should make an appointment for your mother to come in,” said Ms. Allen’s wet lips. “I think the three of us should have a chat.” Cunt. Fuckhole. Gangbang. Anything but this.

***

I arrived home later that afternoon to find the contents of my closet scattered across my bedroom floor. Did I do this? I thought to myself. I don’t trust my memory anymore.

“Pssst. Alex, is that you?” I heard the familiar whisper coming from inside my wardrobe. “Open the door and let me out!” I slammed my backpack down onto the messy floor, now littered with cum-soaked Kleenex, dirty laundry, and half-empty jars of Vaseline.

“I’m not falling for that one again,” I said aloud.

“Listen you scrawny, zit-faced piece of shit. I said open this door right now!”

Embarrassed at my own gullibility, I reluctantly opened the door to my wardrobe. Inside, sitting cross-legged, eating my leftovers from yesterday’s lunch, was a small pink thing. Something like I had never seen before- sort of like a cross between an elf and a small child, only uglier. Unsure if what I was seeing was real, I gave my cheek a pinch. When he was still there, I smacked myself around the face.

“You’re a fuckwit, you know that?” said the tiny body, bits of ham sandwich dropping from his lips. “You think this is a joke?”

“No,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just that sometimes I see and hear things that aren’t really there, so I have to double check.” I looked down at the small, disgusting creature- his pink skin and stumpy arms, his fat belly and hideous little eyes- and I couldn’t help but think how satisfying it would be to show up at Ms. Allen’s office tomorrow with the his severed head on a stick.

“I’m going to kill you and mount your head on a stick,” someone said. I wasn’t sure if it was him or me, but I hoped it was me.

“Did I say that or did you,” I asked?

But the stupid little fuck just laughed, like I was some sort of a comedian. That really ticked me off. So you know what I did? I grabbed the pink little shit by the throat and squeezed hard- hard enough that I could feel the crunch of his trachea on my palm. As he spasmed in pain, crumbs flying from his mouth, I used my free hand to grab the heavy-duty garbage bags lying on the floor next to me. Then I shoved the squirming, helpless creature inside the bag head first, double knotted it, and threw the convulsing sack back into my wardrobe. That night I fell asleep to the sweet sounds of his muffled screams.


I arrived at school early the next morning with the garbage bag slung over my shoulder. Ms. Allen’s office was empty. I untied the bag and looked down at the now lifeless figure inside. The creature’s once pink skin had turned a grayish green- his eyes rolled back in his child-sized head. I pulled his rigid body out of the bag and dropped it onto Ms. Allen’s large, wooden desk- careful not to spill any of his leaking bodily fluids onto the immaculate, pale blue carpet. I’m a neat monster. As the creature’s head hit the hard mahogany of the desk, his lips parted ever so slightly, revealing the tip of his salmon tongue. I noticed that his dead, fleshy mouth- faded pink and damp with condensation- looked surprisingly like a pussy. Or at least the closest thing to a pussy I’d ever seen in real life.

Staring down at his corpse, I could feel my dick growing hard inside the leg of my trousers. I wanted to fuck his dead mouth so bad. I looked around for any possible witnesses, but could spot no one. I carefully unzipped my trousers and grabbed hold of my cock. As I shoved my erection into his child mouth, I realized that the inside of his throat was dry, so I pulled my dick back out, hocked-up a big, green wad of saliva and spat it down his neck before reinserting. It felt good- wet and tight and perfect. I thrust hard, pulling the back of his head firmly into my pelvis. I could feel my climax coming as I fucked harder and harder. I closed my eyes. Saliva dripped from my lips as the spunk erupted from inside me, filling the thing’s mouth, and spilling out onto his face and neck. I kept thrusting, harder and faster, pulling him into me. I could hear the bones in his neck snap under the firm grip of my hand. Oblivion. Ecstasy. More bones shattered until his head dangled loosely from his body, connected only by dead flesh. Euphoria. Enlightenment. A moment of clarity in which I realized… if I believe in God, this is why.

When I was done I put my raw, inflamed dick back in my pants. Next I took the blue ballpoint pen from my pocket and scribbled the words The Intruder onto the creature’s moist forehead. I left confident Ms. Allen would get the message.

New Squat

Last night at Squally...

I’m sitting in the front room of our new squat which, ironically or not, is the ex-HQ of a seriously massive drug operation.

“Are the Nigerian drug lords going to come back and kill us?” asks Dale, worriedly.

“I like it here,” smiles Dominic. “It’s like living in a crime scene.”

The new squat is a semi-detached terrace house on a lovely street in Elephant and Castle. Well… as lovely a street as you get in Elephant and Castle, anyway. When we moved in all the windows were masked with wooden boards and tin foil. The entire house was filled with plant pots and giant bags of dirt. Most of the floorboards on the ground level had been ripped up- we assume by the police. The vague scent of marijuana still lingers in the air…

“How do you pronounce this?” asks Hannah, holding up a piece of paper with her last name scribbled on it.

“You don’t know how to pronounce your own name?” asks Bunny, confused.

“I could never figure out if it was Kremek or Kremeeeek…”

Bunny makes a face I can only describe as hanging somewhere in the realm between sadness and disgust. “Dumb bitch.”

I’ve been feeling a lot happier since moving into our new squat, as our last days at Squallyoaks reached a level of grotesque I’m actually embarrassed to recount. Everyone just gave up on the place. I took to taking a few bits of a meal and then arbitrarily throwing the rest of it at the wall. A middle aged man from the neighboring council estate nearly OD’d in our living room. I caught Bunny pissing in the kitchen. The attitude toward everything was just… why not?

As such, the ten of us have collectively decided that we’re going to treat this new home as a new beginning. No more messes. No more wild parties. No more strung-out drug heads whom none of us recognize crashing on our couch for fours days at a time. It may sound like a fantasy, but there’s something about blind optimism that really turns me on.

“Does anyone besides me think it’s slightly odd that no one thought to bring any cutlery from the old house?” asks Amy, annoyed.

“I know,” answers Hannah. “I just buttered toast with my Oyster card.”

Someone: “Life sucks.”

I have a ticket back to New York in two days but I don’t want to go. I’ve become addicted to escaping reality with my subversive companions or bohemian trendoids or gay freaks or whatever is it they’re calling them these days…

R.I.P. Our Stuff

As it's only a week until our beloved squat is being smashed into a pile of rubble, yesterday my housemates and I decided to drag all of our worldly possessions out to a nearby street market and sell all the crap we can't be fucked to lug with us to our next residency / shithole. This included the majority of our furniture, some clothes, about three thousand VHS tapes, some miscellaneous junk, and some music equipment we later realized was actually our neighbors. Woops.



Selling everything was sort of sad as it made us feel all warm and nostalgic. Lauren (skeleton costume) actually was brought to tears at one point. However I think that may have been partially because she was on acid and kept thinking everyone she encountered had a machine gun hidden in their bag.



Oddly enough, that basketball hoop used to be in our bathroom.



Cat smoked lots of opium and spent the majority of the day in this wheelchair asking, "Wait, what day is this?"



The high point of the day for me was definitely when an absolutely wasted Kerri (above) attempted to sell an old Muslim woman a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary on tape for £400, claiming it was a collector's item.



R.I.P. our stuff.