If apathy and low self-esteem were country-sized, mine would be Russia. Which is big.
I have had like everyone else a lovely chunk off work with Xmas and New Year's neatly sandwiched inside like a chicken fajita stuffed full of fun. The only problem is I've totally wasted it; the contents of the wrap being sparsely-filled shit. I've barely left the flat, I'm eating yellow food, and I've written NO MORE THAN TWO LINES of my shitty novel - and that's annoyed me the most; all that free time, and I've barely tackled my little project (not a euphemism for onanism, which has continued unabated, thank you.)
Instead I've sat in my room in front of my computer, almost about to write but never quite managing to switch off spider fucking solitaire, or being able to stop watching Ross Kemp on Gangs. Or Abigail's Party. Or Religulous. Or anything else I could dream up to watch on Youtube instead of creatively writing my way out of the rut that is my life.
I've chainsmoked. I've stayed up til 6am. I've wished I had a little more fucking willpower. I've tried keeping my spirits up, even as I've sat here, fag in mouth and beer on desk and sighing while Ross Kemp tries to look nonchalant in front of a South African rapist just as our fucking resident mouse runs under my bedroom door and pauses to look up at me in disgust.
On the plus side, I had a very pleasant New Year's with Ed in Central London - we went to a cocktail bar, I spent about £100.00 without meaning to, and got a free tube home at 3am with thousands of other revellers.
Xmas was suitably short; I went to stay at my Mum's in just-North-of-London, kept the TV-watching-on-my-arse to a minimum, and managed to race back to my flat as soon as possible for what became an internet-watching-on-my-arse extravaganza instead.
On the minus side - and this could be huge - my mobile phone is fucked, rendering the sending of text messages an extremely aggravating process, so I've not bothered. Apologies to any friends if you're wondering why I appear not to be keeping in touch.
Furthermore, it feels like I've regained all that weight I lost in October.
It's fucking cold out, and I am trying to come to terms with commuting back to work on my pushbike in a couple of days.
I am a non-writing, weak-willed fat bastard.
I am smoking a lot.
I don't want to go back to work. I think I can see myself quitting my job this year, with or without a finished novel.
I am not particularly angry, or miserable, or depressed. I'm just really fed up. Comments telling me to chill the fuck out will not be appreciated. Comments stating that you're fed up too will be just the ticket.
I'd love to be positive and full of hope for 2009, but truth be told it'll just be another year of the same old bullshit, interspersed with occasional bouts of nothing.