I have been doing nothing, and I was loving it.
Following one £100+ weekend blowout, I've spent the last few weekends purposefully living on Easy Street. Or Fat Avenue. Or Lazy Bastard Crescent if you prefer, watching dvds and not doing much else in an effort to save some money for Christmas.
Except I'm suffering from premature elation. I've done too little - absolutely nothing in fact - too soon. The international season of excess, the conspicuous global two-week riot of obscene consumerism, gluttony, getting drunk with 30% less guilt and trying to undo all the damage later has yet to begin properly and already, eating crap in front of the TV now seems rather passé. I still have presents to buy, I've done zero fucking exercise for some considerable time, and I'm beginning to resemble a cunt.
And all this has dawned on me long before another fucking year hits me with its sudden return to work, worse weather, and the unceasing guilt caused by an unremarkable existence wasted in an orgy of apathy, unnecessary overindulgence, and hideously pointless self-examination twatting me sober like a crackhead's alarm clock.
I have one last week of work this year, and I resent going in. All calls at this time of year, all visiting customers, all directives from above, are pissing me off. And when freedom comes in four days, it'll be spent at my parents' house, sleeping in a strange bed. My only exercise will be opening the larder door. I'll lie in 'til 1pm. I'll get dirty looks from my stepdad. I'll remember that Christmas itself is overrated and a little bit irritating, particularly when surrounded by people who are either deaf or seven.
I'll get fidgety. I'll start to mourn the non-existence of a partner, and wish I could start enjoying the season through the excitable, lit-up face of my progeny being showered with presents I can't afford.
And in the meantime, general shit continues unabated.
I attended my work Xmas party recently, this year held in a large indoor arena with hundreds of other small companies. I somehow managed to achieve zero contact with anyone and, if that wasn't enough, was publicly humiliated by a hired dancer. Just as the dessert plates were being collected, the music was suddenly pumped up as a cute girl - part of the evening's entertainment - caught everyone's attention by dragging from an arbitrary table one random gormless idiot - me - to be hauled up onto the central dancefloor. Politeness dictated that I had to take it in good spirit, swing her about, then break off to perform awful 1970's disco stabs in the air.
Then she ran off and I realised I was all alone on a vast raised and empty dancefloor with 1,000 pairs of eyes judging me as I became officially too old to think I can dance anymore.
In other non-events, I have comitted Facebook suicide and deactivated my account. Most of my friends were in one virtual place and I was beginning to feel guilty for not popping in more often. Furthermore, the thought of having fifteen simultaneous and incomplete games of fucking Scrabble somewhere in the Internet ether was pissing me off.
But I did attend a fantastic and grown-up dinner party at a friends' house, replete with another friend's lovely newborn baby daughter who I got to hold whilst chatting maturely about mortgages or something equally fitting, while a very sweet teenager with autism rocked a lot and yelled frequently in the corner. Then I thought about the autistic kid's parents, how sweet they were, and how emotionally fraught it must be to look after him. Not long after that came thoughts of how sodding random and sad life is, so I ran off to smoke, then drink a Mojito comprised mainly of neat Bacardi, smoke some dope once the kids had gone, and went to bed next to a grey lizard and a box of wide-awake crickets.
In the morning, I made a four-year-old cry, trod on a shard of glass, and lost my phone.