For fuck's sake...
I've written those 5 new chapters, and I'm still not finished.
So I've stopped writing to take stock of myself, only to realise I've gained enough weight for other people to notice, and I'm smoking like a laboratory beagle.
And in this absurdly slow literary process, I've realised that I'll be 70 by the time I finish which, as a smoker, I'll be lucky to get to but if I do, that makes me middle aged right fucken' now.
How the hell did that happen? I've achieved absolutely bugger all with my life, sired zero shitting machines forced out from the once-tight chuff of a beautiful woman I don't actually have, and I still live above a fucking chemists in a crappy rented flat with a fat, bald man.
I read an article yesterday about Jim Fixx, the man who made the insanity of jogging look normal, and discovered that it wasn't jogging that killed him (directly), but a blocked artery due to years of smoking.
So I've stopped cycling in case I die. The weather's gone all shitty, plus I'm finding it hard to breathe anyway.
And thus, I'm in stasis again, a self-imposed limbo that has me staring at supermarket displays for dinner options and pacing around until I plump for a shit yellow disc with cheese on it, for the third day running.
Plus I really wanna quit my job.
In other news, I've been hanging out with the lavender folk, attending Gay Paul's birthday party and meeting yet another Jewish New Yorker broad in the street outside (I managed to offend her by saying there is no god, while the gay chaps I had been chatting to got her number instead), I woke up at 4am the night after that, convinced I was about to die (I'd gone to a BBQ in East Anglia and consumed enough booze, cigs and meat to kill a herd of elephants on crack), and I spent last weekend alone - that's alone - in my room, writing til stupid o'clock, as I downed a bottle of wine, four beers, and some left-over cocaine I found.
It felt all rather Hemingway minus the talent, until I woke up the following morning with the shakes, a Eurasian-seized sense of shame and self-loathing, and a really shit book.
If this damn thing ever gets finished, it'll be a fucking miracle.