Mr. Ruin Your Birthday

(so in answer to your immediate question, no I’ve not had a good day)

I’m not a follower of fashion; nor am I one of those people that insists on there being definite ‘good’ and ‘bad’ looks – fashion is an art, and so is to be judged subjectively. At least most of the time.

There is one exception to this rule, one combination of clothes making up one’s outward appearance that is not just objectively unpleasant, but actively harmful against the laws of morality and culture. One set of clothes that has never looked anything other than diabolically painful on anyone, that has transcended from an outfit actual people wear to a catch-all term epitomising wardrobe malfunctions, a singular fashion faux pas to end all fashion faux pas.

And today I saw someone wearing this most heinous of outfits; a fool waiting for a train at Finsbury Park station, whose choice of attire had managed to ruin my otherwise fantastic birthday. He was wearing socks with sandals.

Not just any socks and sandals either! A pair of sleek, Nike sandals that probably cost 65 quid and have been featured in a TV advert alongside Lionel Messi for no discernible reason; a set of pristine white socks, that bore a striking resemblance to the white trim on the sandals, giving the awful impression that this attirical combination had not come about through some freak accident, but was planned. It was coordinated. It was intended. It was probably ordained by a god to ruin my day. And it did.

The wearer of this hideous ensemble even got on my train! He was following me, his path predetermined by some natural inclination to annoy me, to pester me, to remind me of his existence and that of his unfashionable footwear. He wasn’t even in the same carriage as me, but I remembered him throughout the journey, as he subjected me to some kind of horrific psychological trauma by staying far enough away that I wasn’t overcome with an urge to punch him in the face and remove the world of this problem, but close enough in my mind to prevent me forgetting about him and moving on with my life.

And he’s stayed with me. It’s four hours later and I’m still raving about him, unable to let go of his tragic artistic misstep. And I’ll probably never forget; I’ll be unable to look at a pair of sandals or even my own beloved white socks without triggering PTSD flashbacks of those few minutes at the platform, where my sanity was rocked to its very core, and my view of the world cracked into a thousand cascading pieces, warped, incomprehensible, and tumbling into the oblivion between the train and the platform.

Happy birthday indeed.


19 thoughts on “Mr. Ruin Your Birthday

  1. I’m despicably late. So we’ll pretend I’m not. Let’s not deal with the belated hoo-hah. May your birthday be happy. You’re nineteen! NINE PLUS LEA TEEN(S). Dix-neuf! Twenty minus one. The square root of Z-shut-up-no-one-cares.
    Hope you didn’t eat coconut water cake. Or other things you don’t like or do or make of care to run down to Sainsbury’s at some ungodly hour (I don’t stalk your blog I SWEAR I JUST READ THINGS ONCE AND ABSORB).

    Bye. I wanted to write aloha but that’s the opposite.

    1. This. Everything about this.

      The square root of Z-shut-up-no-one-cares is my new favourite number. Also you’re making references to old posts just like I reference pop culture things – it feels awesome and narcissistic!

      And baloha. Baloha.

      Also did you just follow me? Haven’t you been followed for, like, ages as it is?

      1. It’s a complex number – OH NO I just laughed out loud at my own joke there. Ya know. Complex numbers. They’re the shit. All the cool kids do them nowadays.
        *cackles* well now I shan’t ever awkwardly hold back references.
        I’ve been following for like, ever, yes. One word: phone.
        I hate accidentally unfollowings. Humph. Curse you, tiny screen!

        1. I’m still upset you unfollowed for a little bit. I might have cried. A lot. And I cried more at the maths joke. So much more.

          And please go for the references – makes me feel like a Tumblr page or something.

          1. TWO “frakking” (omg my first frak, as in usage of the word) seconds, Casey! Or Patrick Casey. It’s not double barrelled so I’ll stick with the Casey last name.
            Tears, eh? I feel evil as this is a birthday post I’m commenting on. *repents with virtual Doritol offering*

            1. OMG I nearly fell off of my bed. QUOTE ALERT.
              I’m in stitches. I sound like a pre-pubescent hyena, suppressing this laughter (miserably).
              I wonder what would happen if it were two weeks…nah. Stuff that. I’d notice before you would.

              QUOI? You have got to be kidding me. In the nicest way possible, what happened?

            2. I’ve decided to eat actual food. I know, I know.

              Also I have a mental image of a prepubescent hyena cackling and tumbling off a bed. It’s both hilarious and sad, so I thank you for that.

            3. I’m gasping. Not quite tutting, but not quite approving. Though – oh here we go again – I do remember you not feeling all that good and wanting more substantial grub at one point. (My memory’s disintegrating.) This is like factual recall in Bio. But far more interesting.
              Oh hold on, what happened to the copious amounts of toast? (The kind – as in thick or wholemeal etc – never specified?)
              You’re welcome.

            4. Good to know my life has reached the point of being a more exciting biology exam. Also I’m cutting down on toast too – recently it’s been tofu stir-fries and bean burgers!

              And it was thick white toast, for the record. But now it’s wholemeal with my peanut butter sandwiches because my parents, and not me, decide what we’re buying.

            5. Aw soz for the, well it wasn’t a comparison but the mention, yes.
              Wow. How long have I not kept up with your WP for? O.o
              Welp. You’re doing better than me. I’m eating pasta right now. I had a mango earlier on though.

              Peanut butter, something I’ve never tried but heard of multiple times in American sitcoms. Not sure why that thought popped into my head.
              Pasta. It changes people.
              Ah yes you’re not in halls. Do you go back into halls in like, autumn?
              Remember FICKLE YR 10 HERE, knows no uni stuff; considers you to be person or beacon of you get the gist of further educational knowledge.

            6. Nah I’m moving into a flat with friends next year. And by ‘moving’ I mean ‘nervously laughing and walking away from estate agents whose properties are literally eight times what we can afford. But peanut butter is very nice – we’ve only got the crunchy kind but I think I’d like the smooth kind more.

              Also it changes people? I thought it, like, fed people?

            7. ERMAGERD. This isn’t meant to sound condescending, it really isn’t. But. It’s just the thought of it is so..well, foreign to me, that it sounds dreadfully grown up. Are you all English students?
              Never knew there were two kinds. You learn something new every day.
              Nah. Think of it like before I was a zebra or something. Now I’m a zebra on stilts.
              BABOOM. (NOT BABOON. BABOOM.)

            8. It sounds dreadfully grown up to me, which is a bit of a problem when all I want to do it sit around and play InFamous. But yes, we are.

              Apparently there are two kinds – I kinda hope so because I’m not a fan of the crunchy kind.

              Also now I’m picturing some awful zebra-baboon-hyena thing and the image has become much less hilarious.

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