Whilst sauntering through town on Monday on my way to the dark place, work that is, I happened to find myself walking towards some of those shiny people who hand out handbills for shiny nightclubs. There were two of them, one skinny shiny woman and one ultra skinny, ultra shiny boy. You know the sort – hair by Fraggle Rock and clothes by Helen Keller. The sort of people that wear their cardigans ironically and sport sunglasses all the time. They wear cardigans and look “cool”, I wear the same cardigan and I look like an old fella trying to stay warm. Sake, even their accessories had accessories.

Idiots.

They needed a good dinner or twelve stuffed down their scrawny throats too, there’s more meat on a butchers apron. It wasn’t their “hip” dress sense nor was it their waif like figures that caused me the bitterness, it something much sadder than that.

Much much sadder.

I had my headphones on and was bopping to the twee indie stylings of Camera Obscura, well as much as anyone can bop on a wet Monday afternoon whilst heading to work. As I got closer to the thin twins I popped out my hand in readiness to collect their lovely leaflet. Thin twin the female made eye contact, she smiled, she peeled a handbill form the large pile in her other hand. I made eye contact, I moved my arm a little further out to collect it. It was all very slow-mo. Just as I reached to collect it thin twin the male grabbed her arm and shot her a filthy look. It was part puzzlement and part “Him? Are you fucking mad?”

What did she do?

She withdrew the handbill, that’s what. She took it from the very near clutches of my sweaty man hand. She, under the guidance and arm pulling of thin twin the male, retracted her invitation. I was left walking away looking very camp with my right arm outstretched much like a supermodel on a catwalk. Ok you have to bend your mind to imagine that, more a supermodel on a catwalk in bizarro world.

But what was I to do with my arm? Obviously the smart thing to do would have been to quickly drop it to my side but not me, oh no not me. Instead I left it out there, limp and hanging. I was trying to act cool, like I hadn’t been reaching for a handbill all along, like this is how I walk around town normally. I was aiming for nonchalant but instead I just looked creepy and weird.

I soon dropped my arm as I figured I was fooling no one. With the status of my arm having been resolved I soon switched my attention to what had just happened. Thin twin the male had judged me, in a matter of seconds, and found me to be lacking the required street cred, the requisite look and probably the mandatory youth befitting the club he was whoring for on a Monday afternoon. Well fuck you, you dinner dodging slave to the styleosophy of the naughties metro sexual void. I wouldn’t darken the doors of your tawdry discotheque even if I had the energy, which by the way, I don’t.

They are still called discotheques right?

Pre my Thin Twin encounter I was feeling chipper, dandy, and dare I say even perky. But post my Thin Twin dalliance I was positively melancholic. Can you be positively melancholic, unless you are EMO that is? Well I was depressed anyway. Two emaciated “fashionistas” had found me wanting and had effectively ruined my day. What did they know anyway? I have a very fine collection of check shirts at home that could be matched up rather snazzily with some slacks and comfortable shoes.

Who am I kidding?

But fuck it one day they will get hungry, one day in the future that is, and they will wander, in that slacker way of theirs, in my direction and then the fun really will begin. I’ll show them what rejection really is.

Mwahahahahahaha!

Now where did I put that comfortable ironic cardigan of mine?

Feel like you have read this before? Well you probably have. Due to technical difficulties, I’m some what sicky poos, I had to reluctantly repost an old WDF post. Sorry bout that. I am back here tomorrow though with fresh coddle.