When I was a teenager and I used to moan to my Mum about needing to diet for the five billionth time, or else I was bitching about school/ college/ work or the lack of a good woman in my putrid fucking life, she’d roll her eyes and sing Sinatra's "I've heard that song before."
Don’t ask me why.
Point is, I clearly complain a lot - and normally about the same old shit.
But I still need to go on a diet.
And my job sucks.
And I really need a girlfriend, but I'm getting increasingly shyer/ fatter/ older.
And for added decoration, since turning 36 and thus the wrong side of my Thirties and nearer my Forties, some kind of switch has flicked in my head. You see, I always used to console myself that things can get better, that we are the author of our own destinies plus something will always turn up, but as time passes and we get older and the positivity begins to fade, I’m beginning to think that all that might be some huge preposterous lie.
If only I had kids, I’d be living my now dead dreams through them.
But, oh yeah, I don’t.
Frankly, I’m just getting too old for this. I can’t help but notice, as all my friends plead Marriage and Children as reasons why we don’t keep in touch anymore, that everyone else is getting on with their lives while I remain mired in situations that are frankly beneath me.
A while back, for example, my sister and nieces visited, when sister had to leave for ten minutes. Oldest daughter (12) went with her, while her youngest (9) stayed at my desk messing around on my computer (I logged her on as a guest, meaning she couldn’t access my filth, even if she tried). I, meanwhile, had a badly needed shower.
When I returned, my niece seemed frightened and muted, almost as if her very soul had been permanently scarred in the five minutes she’d been alone.
It was a week later when I opened a drawer at my desk, and found pornography I didn’t even know I had. Teens With Tits 4 was winking up at me, bold as brass, with a less-than-subtle picture of a spit-roast just in case the title wasn’t specific enough. Sadly, my youngest niece is the cheeky, drawer-spying type. I know she’s seen it and I haven’t seen or heard from them since.
This wouldn't have happened if I was married, and with a proper job.
Neither would I be getting drunk. Age is making the whole process feel, I dunno, unbecoming, or something. Maybe it's not even age, but situation. Living a mid-Thirties existence that's virtually identical to my student years doesn't exactly make me feel like a grown up, particularly when I'm waking up with a hangover and a sense of dread, like I stripped naked on the train home or danced on a pub table or something. The reality is never quite that bad, although I’m clearly giving off vibes of total desperation. Last night, I went out for a drink with Martin, and found myself accosted by a group of proselytising Christians. I refused to answer honestly when they asked if there was anything I wanted praying for (I pretended to think for a bit then said, “Nope, everything’s great”), and found myself smiling politely when a nervous young woman laid a meek hand on my fat shoulder and asked her friend Jeffrey or someone to come into my life and give me a great big spiritual hug forever.
I was very touched on a metaphorical level, even if it was all pointless in reality. I also decided against telling them I’m an atheist Jew.
After being prayed upon, I asked if she could help "The man downstairs", but she looked at me quizzically and asked if I was joking. Martin then walked back upstairs from the toilets and scowled at them, and they all left.
Ten minutes later, we walked outside and got accosted by a different group with the same conversion tactic. Either the local church was on a promotional tour, or I looked really needy. I actually think it was the latter.
Things are so bad, that a friend of mine wants me to go to therapy. I’m really struggling against it. It’s like Martin’s suggestion yesterday that I buy myself a hooker for the night. Both options feel like an admission of defeat somehow.
Tonight, I went to a radio scriptwriting seminar with Ed. Then we went to the pub and had beer. In both locations, I was hoping to just bump into Her, The One, the future Mrs Ebola, but if she was around this evening, she chose to display her interest by avoiding eye contact, or scowling.
Fuck me, something outta change. This is boring enough to write. Christ alone knows what it must be like to read yet more depressing angst every other week.