Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Rage State

So I'm on a diet. It's been two days. And it's boring. This is The Diet though - at least I think it is ~ the Big Kahuna, the Long Kiss Goodnight, the Cappo di Tutti Weightloss.

And it's weird, because it doesn't feel like the All Guns Blazing assaults of old. Rather this is the tired, grim resignation that I've gotta sort this shit out, and before it's too late.

You see for quite some time now (i.e. every fucking day), I've been sensing that I'm Missing Life - I'm capitalising that because I'm aware that 'Missing Life' simply is my life now; biding my time, complaining a lot, and waiting for something better to just happen. As a result waiting's all I ever do, and I do it listlessly. Whatever I'm waiting for, like tomorrow and a girl I once dated, it never comes. So I keep waiting. And I don't do anything. And I don't affect change. I just remain in limbo.

And that's a ridiculous way to exist.

I've been thinking about the trajectory I'm on, and it scares the living shit out of me. Somehow, it's given me foresight. Without any change - I'm sure - I'm guaranteeing myself just more of the same. And then I'll die.

Hurrah! Funpost.

Needless to say, I don't want that. I really, really, really don't want that, and as someone who seems unable to know what it is that I want, it's nice for once to have the certainty of knowing what I don't want, in a million, billion suns. And that's my current existence, with its lack of excitement, and direction, or exit.

But it is the easy route though, the lazy route, the path of least resistance with its HD TV promises and cheese-covered loneliness, the road to a billion wanks in the dark with a gut full of chocolate.

It was an anonymous commentator on my last post that finally got me thinking. He, probably a he but I suppose maybe a she, wrote that I should "get into a rage state, look at myself and say fuck this, ive wasted enough time," and I like that. Mainly, I like Rage State, particularly as I get those on a daily basis. The absurdity is that they're always via mundane things out of my control, like the tourists who'd stopped to listen to their guide yesterday, blocking off the entire pavement for pedestrians called Me. And on the train home this evening, I had to sit arm-to-arm against a behemoth of a man who occupied all his seat and half of mine, whilst giving a full job description to whoever was on the end of his phone, causing me to stop reading my book so I could flare my nostrils and stare intently at my shoes.

That shit gets me into rage states all the time. It envelopes my world and gives me focus to live. It's negative as hell, but it keeps my fat corpse standing. I could focus that vast reservoir of energy into self-improvement but I don't. I never have. Instead, I just get stressed, allow that tumour in my head to grow, and eat the pain away.

I checked out my BMI this afternoon. It transpires that I'm obese, and I didn't even know it; a sizable 8lbs in the over overweight zone. And that didn't do my fragile ego any good at all.
Then I read the disclaimer that the index can "wrongly suggest fatness in people who are athletic or muscular". That bit, I liked, even though I'm neither, just stocky.
Yet despite this my ego rose up to middling.

So my diet started yesterday. It didn't feel like a diet because I ended the evening stuffing huge wraps of bread down my yaphole, a technique I like to call "Eating the Evidence" as I'd forgotten to consume it during my Sunday night junk food feeding frenzy.

This morning, I decided to bin the remaining wraps.

So it's Day Two, and it's about time I did this. And when I fuck up - and I will fuck up - I'll just get back on it the next day.

Primarily this is going to be for the next two or three months, to shed a couple of stone and get my confidence back. But in the long term, I'm trying to adjust my thinking, and my habits. Because I have to do this for life.

Of course, only time will tell just how full of shit (or not) I actually am, but I know I can't go on like this. I'm now the wrong side of my Thirties. I haven't had sex in four years. I'm single-handedly ruining the best years of my life - you know, the ones where my knees still work and all bones are my originals. Plus I want to write. I want to write and be creative for a living. I can't do an office desk job dealing with customers much longer.

I'd like muscle definition and a decent career by year's end.

Failing that, I'll accept filthy, random sex. That would be a good enough consolation price.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

More Of The Same

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.

Tschh.

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Sweat

Just in case anyone's panicking that my life seems to be going well, don't worry; everything's absolute atrophying shit.

Most unpleasant is the overwhelming feeling of loneliness and isolation I've now got in my lovely new flat with friends who can't commit to come over.

Another couple however were coming to visit a few days ago, but oh brilliant! - I felt somewhat out of sorts on Friday afternoon, and went home from work only to spend the entire bank holiday weekend either shivering and wrapped up in a duvet, or else sweating like a thieving royal in a newspaper sting. And that's all I've done. I've not left my flat for three days. I haven't even opened the blinds. I've hardly eaten - which means I'm definitely ill. All I've been doing is sleeping, or sweating to Sky Fucking TV, meaning I'm slowly turning into a moron. I knew this was happening when I found myself riveted about a possum stuck down a drain.

I'm basically turning into one of those men that when my neighbours are interviewed by the news once the bodies are discovered, they'll rightly be able to claim, "He was a bit of an odd-ball".

But even without Manflu, my self-esteem over the last few weeks has been pretty dented. In fact, it's been imprisoned in an Austrian cellar by my lack of dignity and raped lots of bad vibes into my flat, and I'm struggling to keep my spirits up.

Again.

Basically, I removed my Indifferent Ex-Girlfriend from Facebook, and have been disappointed to see in the three weeks that have passed that she hasn't noticed, or couldn't care less. Frankly, either scenario really depresses me.

The only time where I felt alive recently was at a brilliant houseparty that was full of beautiful South American women. I talked to several who were good enough not to scream back in terror. By the time I left however, I was informed that one - since gone - was "Desperate for a shag, just at that particular moment, for one night only", and I had allegedly been in her sights. She had breasts and a pulse and everything. More in keeping with my success rate however, I spotted the last girl I'd been talking to in floods of tears by the time I said my goodbyes; probably relief that El Diablo was leaving.

And finally, I went to a barmitzvah which was loads of fun as my sister's going through a messy divorce, forcing me onto 'Brother-In-Law Watch', just in case he went ape-shit crazy or somesuch. I was even asked to be on standby to accost him if need be.
As it turned out, he was fine, but I wound up sweating profusely as I found myself in a room full of people I haven't seen for a good 15 or 20 years and, well, it transpires that I've turned shy. I think this is because I've got fatter, I'm 36 and still single, and I'm paranoid that everyone's judging me and assuming I'm gay. I'm also no great success in the career and general life department, so I had nothing to offer but awkwardness and sweat, forcing myself to be unnaturally polite which was at odds with my default position of offensive drunk.

You think with all this sweating, I'd have really good skin.

Coming up next: My inevitable suicide.