'Yes,' I replied, 'but writing something great will take sweat, effort, and seizure-inducing waves of self-doubt and mental trauma. Not to mention the fact that it probably won't get anywhere. To win the lottery, you only have to spend a pound at the newsagents and bugger off.'
Winning the lottery isn't laziness on my part, but my only Get-Out plan. I can't see any other way for me to a) buy a house in London, b) chill the fuck out, and c) become instantly attractive to women.
I got rejected from a job application today. It was the best one I've seen for, well, years...
"Talented writer required to write the online content for this popular TV Channel. As well information, you will be involved in writing on their blog sites and be involved in the social networking sites such as Myspace and Facebook."
The talented writer bit rather worried me (no comments to the contrary, please) but, nonetheless, I gave the application a real go. I re-wrote my CV to tailor it specifically for the job. I mentioned this blog (but didn't give out the address, for obvious reasons) and alluded to my various badly-written novels, scripts and sketches. I rejoined fucking Facebook. I decided not to rely solely on Monster.co.uk's lazy one-click-submission process and tracked down the recruitment agency to introduce myself there.
After hearing nothing for a week, I emailed the agency again to see if they'd received my CV. They did, for ten minutes later, I got this one-line, unpunctuated reply...
'Thanks for your application unfortunately you do not have the right skills or experience for this role.'
So that's that down the shitter of crushed dreams. My only career option now is suicide, but I don't like the pension plan.
So, like everyone else in the continent, I'm going to
Then, once I win (and I will with odds of just 1 in 76 million), I can buy a nice pad overlooking Regent's Park, make a good couple of dozen friends and family members millionaires too, and travel the globe with my message of fraternity and world peace.
Or I could save myself some cash, stop daydreaming, and wank into the gutter for pennies down in Soho.
At least it's Thursday tomorrow; I can see the weekend at the end of the tunnel. Maybe I'll catch a play. Perchance I shall be a gentleman flâneur and stroll along the Thames. Or I could hit the pub at 8am and drink away the interminable misery of being me whilst chainsmoking moody duty-free cigarettes in the rain.