WWN Opinion: Could You Just Fucking Not, Thanks

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In the first of a new series, WWN gives a platform to normal everyday people who should be fucking thankful we did. Today, Paul Fennelly asks ‘Could you just fucking not, thanks’:

I wasn’t sure how I would tackle this sensitive issue, but here it goes…

Honestly, it’s 7.15am on the LUAS into town and you’re jumping on in your gym gear at Windy Arbour with your laptop and your suit cover. Could you just fucking not? You’re not at work till what, 8, 8.30? Just lean against the window like any decent human being and fall the fuck asleep, only to wake up when you give yourself whiplash after nodding off for the 100th time you absolute prick.

The sleep in my eyes is still forming that gooey mesh on my eyelashes, partially obscuring my view and you’re just finished with your wank marathon or whatever it is.

I get it bright spark, I could go to the gym before work too, if I hated myself to a point where I needed to exercise but I don’t. I have just the right amount of hate, the type that channels itself into eating a full packet of McVites digestive biscuits and hiding the evidence. If you’re not careful you’ll spin me into an existential spiral. Ah, now I’m looking at my beer belly you dickhead.

You know Goodfellas pizza, it says on the box ‘serves 4’, I bet you’re the type of fucker who heeds that warning and only has two slices. What’s your fucking problem? Seriously! This commute is my cocoon of comfort. A safe haven, 23 minutes where I don’t have to do anything and you’re lording it over me with your ‘look at me I invented going to the gym’ bollocks.

Look at your one sitting across from you, she gets it. She’s out for the count and drooling enough to end any drought the third world is fighting. I’ve precisely 17 more minutes before Brian from fucking accounting says ‘some weather, huh?’ and I can see you, checking your fucking work emails on your phone. You could be using this time to be perving on your ex or something on Facebook.

And what the fuck are you drinking? It’s not, it’s not green is it? I’m not saying I hope you die, but there’s a newspaper headline in the future with your name on it and it will probably concern how your bowels were hollowed out by whatever radioactive vegetable juice you’re knocking back.

And Christ, the fucking head on ya. What’s with the hair? Look, I know everyone has the floppy bollocksy bit on top and then the tight bit at the sides, but someone needs to take a fucking stand and say enough is enough. Is it more aerodynamic? And if it is, why is that important?

Don’t mistake my clear distaste for you as somehow reflective of how much I loathe myself, it’s not, I allocate the evening time as my dedicated loathing time. That means morning time is strictly my ‘here, stop being a LUAS cunt’ time with additional time for daydreaming about scoring Mila Kunis or the winning goal in the World Cup final. So, as I said don’t read too much into this.

I’d probably be able to forgive the whole ‘I exercise before work look at me bettering myself’ shtick if it was wasn’t for those Lycra fucking shorts. C’mon pal, people are staring, specifically women and about 80% of them are licking their lips, I’ve enough to feel miserable about. Could you just fucking not, thanks.

Paul is a systems manager in a top 4,000 Irish firm and Thailand Tour is his favourite Facebook photo album belonging to his ex-girlfriend Michelle.

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