So I'm dieting and I've lost over a stone now (15lbs, in Colonial money), and I have been uncharacteristically pleased with myself. My clothes are getting baggier as my waist shrinks and my upper body becomes more defined. Even my penis has made a reappearance.
And in a moment of continued positivity, I'd mused upon my near 10-month cigarette abstinence, and wondered how in the name of Dawkins I'd managed to turn everything around.
I didn't stay happy, of course, because no sooner had I thought that, than lurking in the background like Gary Glitter in a kindergarten bush was the thought that I couldn't last the distance; that I'd either reach my target weight and celebrate with pizza enemas until I'd stuffed myself fatter than before, or else I'd have given up in a matter of days, only to go on a Doritos feeding fuckfest (thus stuffing myself fatter than before.)
Plus I'd be smoking for good measure too, just to wallow in self-defeat, because I have to assume I'd be following in the footsteps of all my previous attempts to better myself, attempts that have all had a 100% success rate in failing.
But that hadn't been the Terrifying Realisation of Existence - not even close. All of the above are just the usual, bored, sabotagey thoughts of the cake-deprived. No, what actually terrified me was worse, far worse, and was based on something wonderful and positive - Because that's what my brain does. It imagines something marvellous, then stamps on its little positive head.
And here's what it was:
I keep not smoking.
And I don't smoke again.
I feel pretty good about that, because it was a Big Thing and a Bad Thing and I'd beaten it.
And I do lose all that weight, and what with my natural stockiness that as an overweight gentleman renders me a walking rectangle makes me, when thin, golly, it's almost too beautiful to contemplate - (cough) - Sexy.
But, and here's the thing... then what?
And that's what's terrified me. For years now, I have put up with these supposed obstacles that I've convinced myself have prevented me from "Living", and from having this fantastic and fulfilled and effortlessly brilliant life...
... but what if they're not the problem? What if they've never been the problem, just some superfluous stuff, mere coping mechanisms that had gone out of control?
Because the real fucking problem has been life itself.
I can't handle life, that's my problem. I can't handle all its bullshit, and the bills, and the natural disasters and murders on the news and other people doing well even though they're Machiavellian bastards, and throughout it all is the stinging loneliness as I can't meet anyone because I've got a limbo-dancer's arsehole-distance-from-the-floor opinion of myself and I sell paper bags for a liv...
Oh crap. It's my job.
That's the real problem, my Job; it's what I do, what I earn, all that makes me what I am on this spinning useless arse of solar-revolving cock.
I've gotta get a proper job, one that I enjoy and I'm proud of. A writey job. A decent job.