Let's start with an introduction.
The name's Howell, Dan Howell–sorry I've always wanted to say that! I'm a twenty-year-old high school teacher from Manchester in England –well, a farm just on the outskirts of town–and I'd class myself as nice with a bubbly personality, and before you ask, no –that's not code for me being ugly, but hey, I'm not Kanye either! But I am fab-u-lous and totally know how to work it!

"What do you look like then?"
I hear you ask. Well, where do I begin? I have short dark brown hair with a fringe swept to the side, large brown eyes and sun kissed skin, I'm happy with my colouring. I have a small, straight nose with average-sized lips, a beauty spot above my lip and dimples which I find excellent at getting me out of trouble! I am pretty slender for a guy. I'm six foot three: you know, average. My chest is…flat and –oh hell, who am I kidding? –my hips are pretty nice and big, but my waist is small and pinches me in all the right places.

I bet I know what you're thinking –where the heck is this little tale going and why is his story different from any other? What happened in his life to make him stand out? The truth is that what happened to me could happen to anyone.
I'm telling you this story as sometimes truly extraordinary things can happen to ordinary people, and sometimes it's good to be reminded of that.

My best friend once joked that my life would make a good book and so, here it is: my life laid out for your enjoyment.
Before we start, you need to know that this story isn't anything paranormal or so beyond the realms of reality that it's incomprehensible. There are no wizards or sparkly vampires who will appear and sweep me off my feet. There are no hobbits or elves who will request I sacrifice my life for the sake of all mankind, and I hope I'm not one of these annoyingly weak supposed-characters who make you want to burn this story.

Instead, this is the whistle-stop memoir of how a lower-middle-class guy from England one day changed the way he lived his life and set off on a bumpy path that ultimately led to his very own slice of the happily-ever-after pie.
So folks, grab yourself a bowl of popcorn, a glass of wine (I would suggest you make it a large one) and when you're sitting comfortably, I'll begin. "Well, slap my arse and call me Sally!"

The scene is set: groaning, moaning, the reverse cowboy and a rip-roaring orgasmic scream –and me, turning on the light to my supposedly devoted boyfriend going rodeo with his waif of a secretary in front of my very wide and disbelieving eyes.
What a frickin' welcome home this was turning out to be! If someone had tried to tell me what I would find on the inside of my front door that evening, I would never have believed them. However, taking in the image that has since been ingrained in my long-term memory, left me in no doubt about the reality I was facing. With a whip of his head in my direction, Michael, my lovely but somewhat currently compromised boyfriend, turned a vibrant shade of scarlet and said in a flustered yet surprisingly laid-back manner. "Hunny Bun, you're back early…erm…this is awkward…it…shit…it just…well happened…we were wet…mmm…from the rain and…well…we needed to dry off and things just kind of snowballed into…into…this…"
He drawled on without apology, while pointing down at their conjoined bodies. Like I hadn't already noticed that his chipolata of a penis was lodged in a vice between his secretary's legs. My eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets.
Was he for real? What a total and utter wanker! Michael straightened, pulling his living breathing blow-up doll with him, never severing their connection, and held out a placating hand towards my furious stare.
"Sweetie, listen, I love you, and now you're here, well, I've kind of had this fantasy… So, ah, why don't you come here and, you know, join in? Triple the people, triple the fun!" I don't know what bothered me more: the ménage a trios invitation or the fact that Little Miss Twig had continued slowly grinding on my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's dick like a Black and Decker drill bit whilst he explained to his, shall we say, less-than-impressed current girlfriend exactly why he was making the beast with two backs with his employee.
God only knows how I mustered up the Thor-like strength to restrain myself from launching forward and fly-kicking him, then smacking the waif directly in the porn-film smile that was plastered on her overly plumped-up lips!

"Gee, Hunny Bun, that sounds tremendously tempting, but I think I'll pass. In fact, I'll tell you what," I said in the overly-patronising voice normally saved for only the stupidest of kids that I teach, my index finger firmly in the air to exaggerate my point.
"I'll just grab my things and get out of your hair and then never see you again…as long as I live…how does that sound?" I didn't stay to hear the response and quickly ran into the bedroom, away from the carnal sculptures currently making arse-shaped indents on my prized Italian leather L-shaped sofa.

I bee-lined straight to the sliding wardrobe and drawers and proceeded to pack my largest suitcase as fast as humanly possible. What a prick! With every colorful pair of boxers and black pair of socks I pushed into my Super Mario suitcase, I became more and more infuriated. The sheer audacity of him –and her!
Did she not realize the impact of her little romp? Sheesh, mental overload: my so-called knight in shining armour, the future father to my kids, was apparently a closet Hugh Hefner. Fighting the urge to commit cold-blooded murder, I lugged my bulging suitcase in the direction of the front room, getting myself ready for my whore of a boyfriend to begin the begging and pleading for forgiveness by planning witty and dry-humoured comebacks that would make him feel as bad as I did right then.

You would think that's what would happen next, right? That he'd grovel, tell me it was a mistake, that he loved me and that his fling meant nothing? Not in this story, folks! I opened the door to the front room, my anger spilling over, ready to demand, well, something –any form of apology, some explanation, a reason, just anything!
But, there he was, my sad fucking version of Ron Jeremy still pumping into that over-processed Barbie in the budget rendition of Debbie Does Dallas. Did I not even exist? As if he was still doofing the blonde, carrying on regardless after the love of his life had just caught him in the middle of vaccinating another gal with his meat injection! Lord have mercy! Who and what have I been with for the last three years?
Like a curtain signaling the end of a performance, a red mist descended over me, and the inner queen bitch I had nurtured and relied on all these years reared her fabulous, if not slightly psychotic, head and screamed, "You are such a dickhead, Michael! Are you seriously going to continue boning her while I'm here, while I'm packing to leave you?" He was.

That was evident by the fact that he was still wheezing profusely and struggling to hold her legs-a-kimbo at the perfect angle in the air.
Michael had terrible asthma and any over-exertion caused him to sound like a kettle brought to the boil. "Mmm…aww," wheeze, "…baby…aww…shit," wheeze, "…yeah…there…slap me hard, that's it! Like that…" wheeeeeeze…What? Slap me? That's new! Michael then proceeded to flip the twig into a wheelbarrow position and resume the vigorous pummelling, avoiding any eye contact with me standing frozen in his line of sight.
"Arghhh, you know what, Michael?" I bellowed over the grunts. "You, are a waste of time; you are selfish, arrogant and for the record –" I swiftly turned to Miss Humps-A-Lot, "–not that good in the sack, so knock off the fake orgasms, Blondie. His dick's way too small to deserve those kinds of noises!" With a cough and splutter, Shade Platinum Blonde 01 kindly turned down the pipes.

In hindsight, it was probably not the most productive thing to have done, but I had a sudden urge to turn to my massively unfaithful boyfriend and ask, "Michael, out of curiosity, why did you never use the Kama Sutra moves on me?"
He looked me dead in the eye and replied with a cold smile. "That's easy, Hunny Bun. Twinks don't maneuver too well." Well, on that note…After taking the dignified high road of flipping the middle finger at the protagonists of the blue movie currently being enacted in my, no, my former living room, I made my way out into the cold, dark street, dragging my suitcase with me.
I crammed it into my little banger of a car and decided on a walk. I needed to clear my head, bloody hell, not just clear it, I think only a good old lobotomy or an extensive course of ECT would be the only thing that could erase the last thirty minutes from my frazzled brain.
I set off wobbling down the road in my work-appropriate moderately nice vans and laughed at the fact that the contents of my life were currently all stuffed into a rusty Nissan Micra.
How could this be happening to me? It was all going so well and to plan: move to the city – granted it's only Manchester and ten minutes from home, but it was what I'd always wanted.

I planned to get a good job, make good money and enjoy my well-structured, traditional, normal life. There was not a part of the plan that involved my less-than-monogamous boyfriend power-driving a stick insect! Could this day get any worse? It had all begun with being late for work: another jumper off the Manchester eye had caused a huge tailback.
Then I walked into school and boom – parental attack! I received a bollocking from a student's mother for supposedly introducing her child to the 'Dark Arts'. Yep, the Dark Arts. After setting a book report on a Young Adult thriller novel (that was written specifically for use in schools may I add), the horror-filled face of Mrs. Reilly blindsided me as I made my way into my classroom. Apparently fictional vampires and wizards taint the sanctity of blood, encourage magic and give children impure thoughts that could result in evil behaviour.
Naughty Mr. Howell, swaying the youth of today to the dark side with child-friendly and demographically-appropriate English literature. Just call me the modern day Darth-friggin'-Vader of the English private school system!

Then the day had concluded in spectacular fashion with Michael having his unfaithful fun on my much-loved sofa; the one saving grace was that we had at least paid for the Safeguard coating and the love-fluids currently being spilled on the chocolate-brown upholstery could be easily wiped away.
Every cloud…I bowed my head and let the sorrow wash over me. I had never been one to wallow in self-pity, but given the day's events and finding out that my ex was a closet exhibitionist who couldn't stop nailing his tramp for two minutes to kindly explain what the fuck was happening to our relationship –I mean that's unheard of, surely? –I was going to allow myself a short reprieve and have a pity party for one!
So with a sombre gait, I meandered down the street and the many dark and dingy roads of central Manchester, trying to come to terms with the fact that my life had just been flipped on its head. After ten minutes of aimless wandering, I tilted my head and smiled in confusion at where I had ended up.
The cinema. My mother would bring me here every Saturday growing up to see the current 'picture show', as the oldies called it.

I walked to the grandly decorated foyer and looked at the walls plastered with posters of current films and all their stars. I moved from poster to poster and studied the actors and imagined their lives. I bet they didn't have a care in the world. They had it all –fame, fortune and the job of their dreams.
Lucky bastards. What did I want to be? What were my dreams? It was so long ago since I'd thought about that sort of thing, I couldn't actually remember –how sad is that? I walked back outside and tipped my head to the sky.
Then, like a crazy person, spread my arms and began to sob, begging the gods for a sign of what to do next, where to take my life.

I waited in silence, the only sound coming from my heavy breathing. Nothing. No shooting star or flash of divine intervention, just the sound of a bottle being smashed in the rowdy pub across the street. With a huff of a laugh at my desperate cry for a mystic solution, I took one last look at the theatre and flinched as a light bulb on one of the poster frames popped, almost in my face.
Even slightly less illuminated, I could see that the man on the poster was perfect –pale, tall, brooding expression and pure gorgeousness. I bet right at that moment he was living in a million-dollar mansion somewhere, making love to some Amazonian goddess, not a care in the world. Some people have all the luck.
As I headed back to my car, I tried to figure out what to do next. I passed my favourite bookstore and smiled at the window display –Jane Austen month, my idol. I took in the famous titles spread on luxurious red velvet, the most popular perched high on pedestals: Persuasion, Emma, Mansfield Park and of course Pride and Prejudice. The books that keep most women warm in bed but ruin our lives when we realize that real Mr Darcys do not come and save us from a life of loneliness after swimming through a lake.
Just as I was about to turn away, my breath caught in my throat as my wandering gaze fell on a small piece of paper showing a quote by the lady herself, tucked next to Sense and Sensibility.

"Why not seize the pleasure at once, how often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparations?" Jane Austen Was this my sign? Was this the sign that I had asked for? Was Ms. Austen sending me a message from the grave that the anecdote to my current fucked up situation was to seize the day? Or was I going completely nuts? I knew it was likely to be the latter, but who isn't just a tad off-kilter? So hell, I went with it!
I grabbed my phone, which I'd dropped to the ground during my impromptu séance, and tottered off down the street. A short way down, I turned a corner and walked straight into a homeless man sheltering in the alcove in between a row of bars.
He steadied my wobbling frame and smiled at me with a toothless grin.

"Alreet, pet? Ya look bloody miserable, like. Life's never that bad." I stared at the man for what seemed like an eternity and proceeded to…laugh my flippin'arse off! Here was a man with no home, no job and no real prospects attempting to cheer me up. Oh, the irony!
"You're right!" I shrieked, causing several magpies to scatter around me. I stood there in the rain, overlooking the Eye and the twinkling blue lights of Greggs The Baker down the road.
I took a calming breath, inhaled the delicate aroma of cheese and onion pasties and Lambert & Butler cigarettes, and thought of the many legends that this town had created –Sting, Jimmy Nail, Ant and Dec –and said to out loud, "Man up, Natasha; you are a true Howell: strong, focused and as hard as nails!"

"Atta girl!" My new hobo life coach shouted. "Don't suppose you could spot me a fiver for a pack of ciggies?" He shrugged. Laughing, I pulled out my wallet.
"Here's a twenty, splash out on me!" I set off walking again, knowing there was only one place to go from here –to my best friend Tyler. He would sort me right out!

"Dan!" Shrieked Tyler, as he opened the pink-and-purple door with superb dramatic flair, wearing his trademark light blue skinny jeans, V-neck and pastel purple hair swished up.
Before I continue, let me briefly fill you in on Tyler Oakley. Erm…Tyler. How to describe Tyler…? I know! Think pink, glitter, unicorns and fabulous! That's him in a nutshell, and he is my soul's significant other.
He's the Ying to my Yang, the Ben to my Jerry and the Ziggy Stardust to my David Bowie. Tyler and I became best friends in High School after we met in a 'Beat-the-Bullies' group in Grade Seven. I know what you're thinking: surely these two amazing kids were in the popular crowd?

But alas, Tyler was as bent as a butcher's meat hook, and I was as happy and glad to be alive as most wished to be. Not the most sought-after attributes when picking your mates in the harsh corridors of our high school.
One day, after I had been sacrificially rounded up and captured by the Grade Ten boys and symbolically roasted on a manmade spit (this really only consisted of a set of rugby posts, extra-strength electrical tape, a hockey stick and two boys rotating the device), it was 'felt' by the headmaster that I should seek comfort in a group of fellow bullied victims, and by 'felt' I mean 'forced to go', because obviously this group would prevent further bullying!
Tyler was in the group after he decided to appoint himself as the head, and by 'head' I mean the only, cheerleader for the boy's rugby team.
One look at Tyler in a triangle-cupped bikini top, strap-on fairy wings and matching pink tutu ignited the long-lost aggression needed in the players.
However, the aggression did not take place on the pitch as preferred by the coach, but on Tyler's face and groin. We had been best friends ever since, aptly naming our little pairing the 'Fairies'. I ran into Tyler's arms.

"The shit has hit the fan!" I said, shaking my head.
"Oh, my Gods of glitter!" His hands began to flap, and he jumped up and down on his welcome mat, which read 'Please Enter if you are Pretty and Witty and Gay'.
"You've got drama for this pretty little mama. It's okay, Whisk" Porn-related nickname. "I'll guide you through this transition, and let me just say on behalf of the LBGT community, welcome to the land of unicorns and rainbows," He said with a graceful bow.
"Tinkerbell," Fairy-related nickname. Walking into the warmth of his three-bedroomed Victorian semi-detached in Jesmond Dene.
Five minutes later, inside 'Casa Di Tink', away from the prying eyes of the suburban cul-de-sac, bags dropped in the hallway, it was safe to let the drama unfold. Tink, eyes bright with curiosity, demanded, "Okay, spill it, what's up?" While removing the ingredients for my favourite drink, a strawberry daiquiri, from his kitchen, which was modelled on the Emerald City from the Wizard of Oz: no joke.
It's amazing how much green crap you can purchase on eBay. With a fortifying breath I told my tale, all of the gory parts included.

Five minutes later…"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" Tink sang with a flick of his over puffed purple hair, whacking the ice cube bag in earnest, mouth gaping in shock.
"What do I do? Where do I go?" I sobbed, throwing my head down to the IKEA green laminate table. Ouch, that'll leave a bruise!
"You'll stay here, you silly cow. We'll be roomies once more, like we were before that dick came along and took my playmate away," He said sternly, clearly insulted that I hadn't trusted him to help with my accommodation dilemma.
He continued. "It's no secret that I thought that Michael was bad news, I just hope you use this as an excuse to actually throw some caution to the wind and start living your life, not purely existing, which you've been doing for most of your days with that slimy-skinned squid. You lost your sparkle months ago, my Banana"
I stared at my long-time best friend. Was he right? Should I throw caution to the wind and change my ways? Had I lost my sparkle, my je ne sais quoi? I thought back to the movie theatre filled with successful, happy people, and the homeless man who despite it all, found pleasure in a packet of cigarettes.
Then I thought back to the Austen display and that quote –the quote that was practically talking to me, begging me to change. It couldn't have all just been a coincidence, could it? Tyler pottered around the kitchen, preparing to blend, when I had an overwhelming surge of anger that this was my mess of a life –my one life that I needed to live to the max and make fantastic memories.

If the homeless man could be happy, so could I –granted, his may have been due to the Jim Beam radiating from his pores, but still, at least he found joy! I can't remember a time when I was truly happy. That's it. No more. I slapped my hand down on the table top and rose to feet (imagine me doing it in slow motion with 'Chariots of Fire' playing in the background) and I punched a fist in the air.
Tyler looked on with wide eyes and, feeling the significance of the moment, gasped in anticipation of my forthcoming speech, laid his right hand over his heart and fell back against the emerald-flecked granite work top.

"I am Dan Howell and I deserve to
be happy. I have a dream that one day the curvaceous vixen look will grace the catwalks again and I can channel my inner Marilyn with confidence and admiration; that I will succeed in life and be remembered as the best teacher that ever existed; and that I will love a man who loves me for me and my obsession with video games and Muse. Oh, and who doesn't mind that I'm a screamer and klutz. Screw all that has happened today! My new life starts right now, no more foolish preparations –Carpe Diem!" I tipped my head to the sky, arms spread wide, "I want something new, something exciting, I want to get away, I want…I want…"

"I want to break free, I want to break free…" Tyler interrupted with his best Freddie Mercury impression and, ever the committed showman, made a grab for the emerald-green vacuum from the cupboard, parading around the kitchen singing at the top of his lungs, "…I want to break free from your lies, you're so self-satisfied, I don't need you…"
Laughing, I jumped up and snatched the feather Magic Duster and became the Brian May of our budget Queen tribute band.
After the song was done –a rendition that we were sure would place us as the winners of Britain's Got Talent –we sat down on the red love-seat, grabbed our daiquiris and contemplated the events of the day.
With a sigh, Tyler laid his head on my shoulder and said, "Dan, you'll be just fine. You're gorgeous, you're an amazing teacher and the best friend a gal could ask for. I love you. You have always accepted me for me, and you don't know how special that is –I'm not your average guy by any stretch of the imagination, but you never judged me. See this as an opportunity to find someone who can make you the happiest person alive, be your everything. I mean –Michael? Sorry to say, Dan, but a beer-bellied, balding, albino-resembling furniture shop manager is not really your Prince Charming. You deserve much more. Take the sound advice given from Rocky Horror's Frankenfurter: 'Don't dream it, be it."

I wiped away a stray tear from Tyler's face with my thumb and hugged him hard, kissing his cheek. I looked down, shook my head and I let out one final sigh at the day's turn of events. There were no words. Tink patted my knee, held my two hands in his, took a deep breath and squealed, "Now let's get trashed!"

(A/N. I won't be continuing unless other's find this sotry to be in there interest. Please review!)