Do you remember when you'd pull faces when you were younger, and your mother would warn you that the wind would change and you'd be stuck like that forever?
Instead of pulling faces, I've been either sitting on my arse trying to watch everything on Youtube, or working said arse off in a small office in Central London. And the wind has changed.
I have nothing to declare. There are only so many times I can blog that I've gained weight and wanked myself into a coma until someone decides they have to kill me.
My boss has since returned from a two weeks sojourn that I'd spent running his company into the ground. The Sunday evening before his return, I was overjoyed with happiness. I'd worked a fortnight from hell, smoked my last cigarette ever, and was ready to dive back into writing my (Ha!) novel. Even that strange, swollen, stressed upper lip I'd gained in his absence had begun to simmer down.
Then I get to work on Monday morning and he hands me 200 Japanese cigarettes as a slow death thank you. For some reason, that gift gave me the green light to forget cycling to work, allowed me to avoid lettuce and fruit smoothies, and somehow sanctioned spending my evenings chainsmoking while I watched atheist geeks from Louisiana 'pwn' Young Earth Creationists, whilst simultaneously playing Spider Solitaire (wins to date: 1,748; losses, 7,082)
But mentally, I'm okay. I accept my uselessness. I am a failing human being, more than a bit crap and lonely. Noting my recent futile attempts at reconciliation, my American ex-girlfriend decided to email me for British chocolate, which I dutifully posted off to the East coast. She returned the favour with a picture of her looking lovely, leaving me feeling a little bit sick and remorseful.
In other news, I bought myself a smart new winter overcoat, several months too late. (Reduced from £130 to £47 though. I practically shat myself when I saw the discount.)
Yes, that's my news; I've bought myself a coat.
However, it's a magic coat, one that renders me 7% sexier. Last night, on the tube, I sat opposite a gorgeous Chinese girl who stared at me repeatedly without vomiting. It was the single most erotic moment of my life, barring those infrequent times I've had sex. I almost considered putting up one of those pathetic notices in the newspaper; 'To the gorgeous Chinese girl on the Central Line I sat opposite. You were glamorous and elfin, with shimmering, pink lips and glowing eyes. I was sweating profusely and grinning like I was trying to appease a mugger. Please contact this paper to improve Anglo-Sino relations. In bed.'
But the icing on the cake these last three weeks has to be my mate Russell coming through for me. He's set me up with one of his many lady friends. We are currently at the emailing stage. Blundering along with outrageous inevitability will be the number-swapping moment and its awkward conversations, followed by the eventual meet, which will either go a) surprisingly well or, b) badly.
I hope I have sex phenomenally soon - Sorry to be blunt, Russ. I have to have sex, and quickly. (Ironic choice of word, as that happy moment will probably last about five to six nanoseconds. I can see myself in a dimly lit bedroom, frantically removing my shirt or that of my lady companion's, then pausing to sigh as I turn and squelch off to the bathroom to remove my jeans and unleash a tidal wave of premature ejaculate onto the cold, tiled floor.
If it wasn't for my daily self-abasement, I'd basically be a lump of hardened semen on legs.
All of which makes me realise; I last enjoined in coital congress with a female human lifeform during my 32nd birthday weekend (ironic again), back in 2006.
I haven't had sex for three years. That's THREE FUCKING YEARS. (Kindly don't point out that it isn't.)
No wonder. No bloody wonder.