I'm sorry, that thing you're doing is scary.

Moving house is always fun. It's true, ask anyone. Ask the Obama's, they'd tell you it's the shit (particularly Michelle, that bitch has a foul mouth), or ask that guy from that thing who sold a paperclip for a condo, or ask Kendra when she was accepted into Hefner's inner circle; they'd all tell you, moving house is great. And it is; the packing of all your worldly possessions into the few scabby boxes Borders gave you, cleaning your old residency until it's the "same" as when you got it, even though it was covered in mould and smelt like debauchery and bongs when you moved in, paying half a months rent for two strangely attractive Israeli removalists to overcharge you and ask for petrol money home (no surprises there - not racist), changing over all your addresses with every possible company, account and person you've ever been involved with EVER, and then come those few days of not really living here or there; when your room is in disarray, where you can't find that box that contains your toiletries but you easily find that useless object that you just keep because you might need it one day, where the unfurnished house echoes like some gargantuan cave, when you're still sizing up your housemates, discovering their weird habits, what they look like in the morning and how shitty their mood is on a scale of one to ten at night, and of course, perhaps the most terrifying of all; toilet etiquette.

Now this is where I struggle (figuratively), but it's not in the 'toilet lid up or down? toilet roll forward or back? do you flush in the middle of the night?' way, what am I three? Those things are long answered (lid down - always, paper forward - back is just inconvenient even though I'll admit it looks more presentable and always - I don't care if those assholes are woken up by the gushing pipes, no one wants to find stagnant pee in an unflushed toilet at 8 o'clock in the morning), no no, my problem lies with stage fright.

I walk into the toilet, I'm making noise, everything is good, my housemates are doing their thang, my bladder is ready to empty and then suddenly, as I stand over the toilet, about to begin an act which I have done countless times across the course of my life, everything goes quiet and I realise that the entire world is at the bathroom door, listening for that soft (or hard, depending on how much I've drank and how long I've held on) tinkling. And that's when I just can't go. I swear people must hold on for days because of this. I know I do. No I'm kidding, it's not that bad, though it could become one of those things, you know, like those women who make you take your shoes off at the front door and wear slippers through their house, or those men who lick their forefingers with every page they turn of the paper even when it is unnecessary; an insignificant habit that has slowly evolved in the corners of your life, something you don't even realise is getting worse until one day you find yourself cleaning the bottoms of your converse with a toothbrush and it hits you that you're that scary guy everyone avoids on the street, whose glasses are too big and three prescriptions too strong, whose brown cardigan is a little too saggy and over worn - who is more or less a serial killer.

I won't become a serial killer, I promise. But if I ever do, I beg you now to gently remind me of this very blog and this very promise; without making eye contact of course, otherwise I'll probably stab you and take you home to my basement family.

But enough of this crazy talk. Moving house has been great, my housemates are three wonderful actors (yes, they only speak in Shakespearean and yes, we have crazy drug-fuelled orgies) and the house is BEAUTIFUL. So just ignore the last four paragraphs of hilarious negativity. Besides, I'm all for positivity, just ask those kids I throw rocks at for being stupid.

In other news, read classic Breakfast at Tiffany's, every gay boy's favourite 100 page novel, then sit down and watch Taken followed by 30 Rock Season 4, for some decent 'man goes on revenge path and literally kills every person he meets' action smashed with golden comedy from the greatest show to ever be screened (it's not Two and a Half Men!? Gasp!) and then listen to Eliza Doolittle's self-titled album for some springtime bubblegum pop (not as awful as it sounds).

Okay, the clock has struck midnight, it is time for me to go to bed, or at least finish watching Spice World. I want to know your potentially weird habits, comment below (you can do it without an account which is nice) so I can judge you and make myself feel like less of a douchebag.

I love you all.