The sun woke me. The blinding light subsided and I was alone in my bed with the strangest feeling. I felt fresh, absent of a hangover and a companion. There was no desire to lay in bed or the need to flee. I had had an early Saturday night void of alcohol, fun of any kind. I was inspired to seize the day. Pub with pen and paper. Breakfast, shower and house hold chores done before noon. My house mate was shocked to see me so alert and active on this tranquil morning.

Johnny Cash on my laptop. The man in black dressed me today. Black jeans clean. Long-sleeved black t-shirt and a black shirt that was actually ironed. My Sunday best. I felt very cool, I obviously wasn’t. If I had seen a fellow traveller dressed in this attire bearing this self-satisfied grin I would think, “what a faggot.” And not the cool type of faggot that has fantastic taste, are charming party animals and loves to suck dick. I mean an actual faggot, self-adoring douche that believes their mere presence is a present to others. An asshole, hetero or homo. Today this was me, I personified the faggotie asshole. In hindsight I will always try to wake with a hangover or at least a little self-loathing to protect the world from my cuntishness.

With my drive I thought I might as well try and write. I had said I would for days. I do not know why I had been saying to others I would go write. Probably to convince people I didn’t know that I wasn’t a completely worthless humanoid. I needed to vacate my room anyway as I had spent the previous twenty-four hours staring at the four blank walls that cocooned me from the rest of the world.

Jotter in my satchel, it’s not gay Indiana Jones had one, and my pen in my pocket I headed. Struck by the sun as I left the house, I had left my glasses in work. Thankfully really, as a man in black combined with sunglasses on a mild February morning probably deserves a slap.

I still had my Aryan princess on my mind, even though I fucked a stranger on Friday night and Saturday morning, I couldn’t shake her. I wonder if she will call me or text me on Monday.

Friday night was my first attempt at writing this weekend. I sat in certain that the pages were going to appear. All I managed was one shit paragraph, four bottles of beer and a White Russian, abide. My mind was a blank and my brain was sober, ish. I marched to the cheapest bar/club that was also closest to my house. Unfortunately it was a Friday night and I forgot this was the evening that the humans go to drink florescent cocktails, dance to shit music, fight, fuck and fingerbang. I hate them.

A former bar colleague was working on the door, she let me straight in. that girl was always sweet to me. I hope she is happy wherever she may be. I pushed my way through the crowd to get to the bar. Passed the pumped up boys excited for boisterous fun and the pursuit of easy vagina. Through the swarms of false females. Abusive to the senses. The mist of perfume stings the nostrils. False hair, eyelashes, tits and too much makeup irritate eyes and perception of reality. Their deafening screams are reminiscent of a Korean torture scene. They are so loud they actually throw me off balance. Purely from necessity and instinct I clawed at the bar with my fingernails and yanked myself forward. I had entered my arena. The screams went silent, my vision narrowed. I was focused, at the bar and ready. I locked on to my friend behind the bar. My experience saw me served immediately. Go fuck yourself rugby team, nice try fake tits. Tom James is at the bar and he is getting served. “Double bourbon and ice please sweetheart. I’m not leaving here so when you see me empty you come save me… keep the change gorgeous.” Always respect your bar staff. I eventually went outside for a smoke. I got talking to a quite pretty and quite drunk girl. We did the dance and went back to hers. I was just the right amount of drunk to be a good fuck, I made her squirt. My ego had a bigger erection than my pasty body. I was a god. In the morning we fucked again, if I said it lasted two minutes I would be lying. Swings and roundabouts. It was fun, she was fun but she wasn’t Miss German 2012.

Thankfully my eyes were able to adjust to the sunlight. I put my earphones in, thinking of my deutsche desire I listened to the music that was playing last time we were naked together. I began my march to the pub. The sun beamed, music blared and I did a gay dance as I walked up the street. Pretty sure this was happiness again or at least contentment.

A quiet and empty pub, this is defiantly happiness. I bought a pint and sat in the corner my pen. I could be perceived as a pretentious prick. I detest those that sit in a coffee place on their laptops writing their screenplays but I was alone in a bar with pen and paper. I only hope the passers-by or I could see the difference in attention seeking tactics. Pen and glass flowed. As time went on loneliness griped, either from boredom or the lack of words written. I desired a friendly face.

The bleach was burning my eyes. I awoke disorientated with my cheek kissing the porcelain. My eyes focused and I was staring at a thick broth, a mixture of toilet duck and vomit. I sat back against the cool bath to find once again I was naked on the bathroom floor. My tongue was swollen and home to the taste of stomach acid and regurgitated bourbon. A refined palate would be able to taste a hint of gin and the faint aroma of cheap tequila. My left hand stretched out to the rim of the sink. I hoisted myself to my feet, several minutes pasted before I lifted my head and peered into the mirror. Soaked in a cold sweat my hair clung to my face. Some of my homemade broth was still in my beard and there was a slight panic in my otherwise dead eyes. I rinsed my mouth, my teeth felt soft, before I stumbled back to my bedroom.

I had been successful, there were tights on the floor and a used condom, my lover however was missing. Memories began to return. Before I blacked out I can remember while throwing up hearing the sound of a door slam and a car driving away. My maiden’s carriage must have whisked her home after prince charming abandoned his chambers in search of his porcelain thrown.  

The night was returning to me in reverse. The sex was awful, offensive even. All the knowledge, moves, tricks and technique I had acquired over the years went out the window as two barely conscious adults slammed their most delicate parts against each other, seemingly trying to avoid any pleasure. Both focusing on the same ultimate climax, that I would finish as soon as fucking possible. On reflection, shame on my woeful performance and her ability to mimic a bag of sand. I would surely apologise when we next meet but her name and face are still absent from memory.

More of the night returns. It is almost closing time, I’m stumbling across the dance floor. The most important moves to me are putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to head-butt the floor. Other care free characters concentrate on moving with the beat and throwing their hands into the air. Mine remain at my side, one hand clasping an empty glass. Once every few minutes I will attempt to drink from this resulting in disappointment. I see my conquest smiling; we must have already spoken earlier. “Let’s go now” or to something of that effect and charm. For some reason it was vitally important that we retreated immediately to fuck at my house. In hindsight, she must have been more overindulged than I to go along with my plan. Maybe it was just the urgency in my voice… “Fuck, what was her name?”

My thought and blink lasted four hours. I’m in bed with the mother of hangovers, dehydration and pain. Guilt arrives right on time along with the full details from the previous night. The beginning of the evening and fun with friends is not important. Hours in, after a mixture of beverages. I am outside, smoking and speaking to a beautiful girl. A beautiful girl I have already slept with and like. Truly out of my league but there was a bond. Continually amazed by the females ability to look beyond appearances and find attraction in an ugly man’s redeeming features. My intention at the time was to take her home for fun, coitus. To fuck again like we had before, a performance that I was proud of. To my recollection a true master class of the sex act. An array of positions, one seamlessly becoming the next, screams and orgasms. The stamina of an Olympian, only needing a few minutes rest between each session.  Weak legs and by the end both aching in painful bliss. So I recall. She is and would be a prise bond in my ‘wank bank’ for a long time. The night proceeded and I began to drink heavily and wander around. Closing time approached and it was time for me to collect my prize, a beautiful girl willing to touch me again… AGAIN. This is when I clock my mysterious floozy. Another who was unwisely willing but without the connection, the beauty and the foolishness of actually caring for a sleazy deviant like me. Simply a new girl to fuck. Sacrificing the pleasure and joy I grab my new harlot and cowardly made my exit.

“Why did I do this, why do I continue to do this and why can I not get back to sleep.” My head is splitting but ill hide under the blankets from my hangover and shame. “Please let me sleep” I know it is still early. I grab my phone to check the time. “Shit, a text and a missed call from the beautiful one. Fuck, I hate me…

by Tom James

This is the justification of my own ego and a way to correct my shit life. I am a twenty-four year old degenerate, lacking drive and direction combined with the laziness of a fourteen year of boy, limiting my exercise or any physical activity to once or twice furiously masturbating in my bare dark room. My personality mirrors a sixty year old beer beaten curmudgeon yet my ego or ‘hidden’ potential is that of an eight year old. I believe, or have to, that I am destine for greatness. I am a well of untapped genius and my name will echo in eternity. In fear of the truth my creative soul can always lay dormant until tomorrow, my present can lie in bed till the afternoon, wake up, wank then be about his business of realising I missed today but will start first thing tomorrow.

The above paragraph is the first I have written in months and I feel some sort of accomplishment yet I look down to see I am sitting on my bed in tattered pants, the pages are resting on my pale, hairy, shapeless gut and my haggard beard is tickling my chest. Physical potential masked in my shit lifestyle. I am far from the man I thought I would become. My fourteen year old self would recoil in terror under his semen soaked sheets if confronted with this scrawny, penniless, melancholic future self.

So from hopefully rock bottom I am going to pursue my potential and happiness or ultimately find I am a failure and end it all with some masturbation suicide. Maybe that orange in the mouth, stockings on legs, belt around neck game those celebrities are so fond of. Baby steps to begin with, so some short stories, no point leaping in trying to re-re-rehash old shit screenplays or even start a new one, though first I would need at least one fucking good idea.

My house mate and friend is an artist and he uses Tumbler as a way to show his work. Recently I have seen that this has brought him joy. I thought Tumbler was for fucktards and pretentious, bloggy, fashionestas that can’t keep their fucking mouths shut even when they are alone so they use Tumbler as a way to shout “Woo, Look at ME” over the internet. I always hoped the loneliness would eventually be too much for them and they would take their own lives. Now I am not a complete ass clown fucktard and can see the irony in a lonely twenty-four year old, egotistical prick with delusions of grandeur sitting in his pants alone going “Oh LISTEN to me, hear about my life and wonderful stories” but since I am writing this I can’t very well go play a game of dodge the trains or Knify-Dodgy. But if you have just stumbled upon this page from your own page of photos of kittens, black & white photos of girls smoking or sexy people in cool clothes, smoking while holding kittens feel free to go play.

As I have no ideas I am going to write little tales from my life that will have been altered for dramatic effect. I would like to believe this is a form of Gonzo journalism or maybe my great Irish story telling skills are just coming through. I am Hunter S Thompson with a pint of Guinness and a potato… this is BULLSHIT. I am a pathological liar that believes the shit he shovels. If you ask me to tell you the same story five times they would become more fantastical and eventful as they went on yet I would swear that is what really happened.

Thus my pretentious title, Indubitable Fiction. My Tumbler will be my recollection of the events that have happened to my friends and me. Until I can come up with some fucking original ideas anyway.

I guess this is the end of my first post. Thanks for reading or go fuck yourself I couldn’t care as I’m going for a wank then a smoke or smoke then wank…

S.Adeyinka