Stupid is as...

I grew up watching tv.
I was one of those kids for whom it was a surrogate parent and teacher, secret lover and educator. Glowing subtly in her cathode cave, like a scantily clad librarian that dares you into smoking on the fire escape, she taunted me with what she knew of the world out there.
Trying to share those nuggets of sieved information when back at school, I realised she had tricked me into showing the difference between me and those with me, that being that I knew things they didn’t.
That was recognised and remembered – on both sides.
For years, I tried to belong while others would look for proof I didn’t.
For years, the something different in me was what mattered, and I worked to hide it.
Now, that something is what I look for.

Thinking about how I used to calculate the best alcoholic percentage per pound spent from the age of 14 onwards, I remember Hunter’s serious ”drug collection” in the boot of a Red Cadillac and how easy it was for an addict to get stuck into one.
Now, with 2 cans of g&t and some 8.5% ale in me, I am into the Bailey’s Irish Cream and celebrating the “Hunter” and collector in me. I want to sneak out to the offie for a quick refill, but can’t find my keys to get out of the house. A letter in Viz about how to get alcohol by putting perfume in the fridge is knocking at the back door but I’m giggling too much to let it in.

Instead, I remember a slogan for an unfinished web idea, that being my imaginary dog, Fructose, celebrating the “stupid in you”. Don't think bad of yourself for your daftness, you are just showing the stupid in you. Done something twattish? That'll be the stupid in you.

Three trips into the kitchen for more Bailey’s Cream and I’m queasy in a way that is surely only legal at Christmas. A Bailey’s hangover is like waking up with a dead, fat man in a red suit next to you, your mouth tastes of Santa’s spew and you will cause small children to cry. And you want to empty your sack.