It is Friday night and I have returned home from work, yet I feel empty and strangely passionless, kind of like how I imagine a date with a quiet Scandinavian clotheshorse would be. (Nothing's girlfriend recently commented on how most fashion designers are Friends of Dorothy and don't care much for the fuller female figure, preferring instead the boney boyish lines of androgynous stickwomen which I found fairly interesting, but anyway...)
I am back home. Large Northern Flatmate has just left for an evening swim looking like a large bald Northerner condemned. I would normally head off to Tescos now to indulge in my regular Friday treat; a shit pizza and a shitter bottle of red, but I can't be bothered. I'm too tired and I want to avoid junkfood.
Instead I am preparing my easiest, most semi-healthy plat du Singledom, Tuna pasta:
Boil some dried pasta.
Add a tin of tuna and some mayonnaisse.
Wish you were dead.
On Tuesday night, I met up with Nothing and got pissed. Wednesday, I was mildly inebriated catching up with my Dad. Last night, I went back to Nothing to lift boxes up his staircase and discuss an offensive sketch we'd dreamt up - Crime Detective extraordinaire D.I. Stephen Hawking. We even discussed filming it. I don't think I could possibly ask my Mum if we can borrow her motorised chair, her only means of moving, just so we can be childish and film ourselves parodying one of the world's foremost thinkers.
But I could ask.
Today, I was hungover again and could barely keep my eyes open. Nipping out for a sandwich, I walked past a homeless gentleman who asked feebly 'Can you spare some change, guv?' Not wanting to pretend they're not there and ignore them (or give them any money), I always make a point of saying 'Sorry, mate.'
'Alright, Boris!' he yelled cheerfully in reply.
Dammit, I thought I'd outgrown that. So that's 'German Wimbledon Ex-Champion comment by complete stranger' number 1,306.
So I walked back and hit him.
I have uncharacteristically been leaving my bike at work every evening. When I cycled home tonight and it felt odd, as if I'd never done it before.
Even my stalker's texts have dried up. His last one told me to meet him in a pub and ask for 'Anders Nokram'.
'Strange', I thought, 'I don't know any Norwegians.'
Then I realised it was a rather simple anagram for Mark, aka Haggis, being very very bored in Boston.
So that was nice.
* Tumbleweed skips past *
Eurgh, this tuna tastes like Whiskas and I forgot to refrigerate my pesto and now its grown a beard.
I asked LNF before he left for the pool if he'd like to go out for a quiet drink tonight.
'Mnnn, could do,' he muttered distractedly as he headed for the door, as if he was contemplating washing his pants.
Christ, I'm as bored as the one interesting opinion Paris Hilton has skitting around the immense void that is her head. Nothing could perk me up right now. Normally, I want to do something, even if it's doing nothing in front of the TV. But tonight I am an absolute blank canvas.
What the hell has happened to my life?
Oh. Nothing. It's always been like this.
Perhaps tomorrow will be interesting. I'm off to Hippy Dave's girlfriend's birthday party in a beerhall in town. There promises to be lots of new women floating around who may end up regretting they ever talked to me.
Actually, I may pretend to have a girlfriend. The last time I did that (although I should add that I was actually going out with a girlfriend at the time), I ended up having illicit, cheating sex. I felt awful afterwards but a) My relationship with my then girlfriend was already in its death throes and b) I had illicit, cheating sex with a bisexual Swedish nymph and said sex was FUCKING BRILLIANT. I heartily recommend bisexual women as a carnal partner (if they let you), as they've made a conscious decision to choose cock that particular moment, thus resulting in a pretty wild evening - particularly if that cock is yours.
Hmmm, do excuse me for a minute, I'm just off for a very long shower...