... just as soon as my fucking jaw rebones itself, and this angry ulcer that has surfaced on my lip - my body's way of screaming silently at violent dental surgery - has healed up.
I'm going to quit kickboxing this week. I feel slightly guilty (obviously), yet said guilt is massively outweighed by the sense that I'm getting some life, and some money, back. Now that spring has sprung and summer is fast approaching like an unbearbly stifling evening spent tossing myself asleep, I want as much evening time as possible. I'm going to join a cheap gym (cost: nearly a third cheaper than shitkicking, with some firm pecs thrown in), quit the fags (ha!), and attempt some healthy eating shtick. And on top of that, I'm going to peruse the possibility of writing my way out of my job. I'm at an age where I'll have to act now, or forever condemn myself to a lifetime of drudgery. For the five billionth time.
My sexlife is as dormant as Krakatoa (both last saw some action in 1883), Ladyfriend and I have exchanged an email or two that, while friendly, doesn't go anywhere and always ends with her ultimately not replying, plus I'm skint.
So, if I'm going to get a better wage, aim to buy that beautiful quarter of a million pound cupboard in a dangerous London suburb, and live a fuckin' little, I'd better get cracking.
Plus I'm going to be 33 in under two weeks. Oh goody.
I feel good things ahead. But then again, I always feel good things ahead either at the beginning of a new year, or else in the spring.
By November I expect to be a broken man lying in the gutter of shattered dreams, surrounded by a small hillock of discarded pizza boxes, and resting on a mattress of vodka bottles and crack pipes.
So come on, everyone, let's have a bit of PMA and enjoy ourselves. HOORAY!!!