Monday, August 15, 2011

The World's Most Pointless Individual

I have hours left until my summer holiday is over and I go back to work. Frankly I am in two minds about it. On the one hand, I've gotta go back to work. I'll be rudely awoken hours before I'd like to get up, and I'll lose my liberty in a small room doing a whole bunch of shit I couldn't care less about. On the other hand, I get to rejoin the land of the living. I've spent nearly two weeks having my first staycation, not that I actually went anywhere or did anything barring the occasional night out with friends. Instead, it was to be my chance to stay at home and write like the blazes, and finish my spectacular novel. Which of course didn't happen. Entire days were wasted as I spent most of my time watching clips on YouTube, playing Spider Solitaire, and eating, and in said time I've atrophied and withered away, except in a fat sense - meaning I've actually grown. Then there's the other stuff;
  • The management company running my apartments are billing me out of the blue for services rendered during a 9-month period before I'd even moved in. Thus any creative time is spent writing sarcastic and offensive letters to them and I'm now about to embark on a one-man mission to get rid of the fuckers on behalf of everyone else.
  • And when I'm not doing that, I've been napping during the day. My days thus began with me waking up to eat, only to return to bed. I've reverted back to the life I led when I was born.
  • I’ve woken from vast, 9 hour sleeps with a completely wet head. I’m convinced I’ve had some kind of stroke
  • And when I've been awake, I've spent it sat at an unusual angle, semi-naked in a towel (No point getting dressed, you see). This has caused my right thigh and buttock to remain perpetually numb for a whole week now. When I do walk around my flat I'm limping. I'm sure it's a life-threatening bloodclot.
  • My anal fissure, a tiny rip on the base of my lower intestine, has returned, providing last Saturday with perhaps one of the most agonising experiences of my life, and I'm not exaggerating. Nothing in that particular department had been happening for a couple of days as I shovelled vast amounts of carbohydrates down my neck. Then, finally, I felt the grizzled presence of a chained Doberman growling at the entrance of my doghouse. I had to literally muffle my screams with a towel and was left panting afterwards as if I'd run a marathon. With all the sweat and blood, it was the nearest I'd get to childbirth. Although I'm pretty sure that post-pregnancy women can sit down afterwards.
  • I'd decided I needed more fibre in my diet so, looking for a quick fix in its absence, I grabbed the bottle of Laevolac I'd bought the last time my backside sealed itself up. Laevolac is a pretty powerful liquid laxative that hadn't worked in the 24 hours since I last took it, so I'd downed what remained. 20 minutes later, a Japanese bullet train was racing through my intestines. I am pretty confident you'll understand my eagerness for this holiday to end as I sat on the toilet sighing while hurtling underneath me to its watery death gushed the 3:30 to Osaka via that fleshy, airtight tunnel with the scar on the front
All I want from what remains of this year is to finish this motherfucking book, and perchance diet. And get a better job. It's just the doing all of that that bores me. And if I've learned anything from this farce of a holiday, it's that I'll only waste time if I've got it.

Friday, August 12, 2011


Last night I felt wretched.

I am currently on holiday having taken time away from the office but, for the first time in my working life I'm not going anywhere; no summer abroad, no lazing by the pool or clubbing at night as fat tears of regret roll down my sunburned fucking cheeks while orange women crowbarred into tiny skirts avoid me like I'm Joe Merrick in a thong.

The plan instead was to stay at home where I'd wake up early, hit the gym, then go to my room and write like the blazes, finishing the spectacular novel I'm eeking out like a bowel movement in the intestines of a constipated bull elephant.

I've been writing this fucker for several years now.

I knew, deep down, that if I'd managed to write even just an hour a day, a minor miracle would've occurred. Even every other day would've been a vast achievement. Instead, I managed a pretty good first few days only to atrophy into a kind of late-waking limbo where I'd watch crap on YouTube only to migrate at a late hour to my sofa to watch films once I was pregnant (and vaguely sick) with chocolate.

So it should've come as no surprise that this morning, at 2am, I found myself lying in bed having just got in it, mentally whining like a mardy teen emo except my issues were older and more boring.

I thought about my American ex, and checked my email. Despite the globally-publicised English riots, I noted that she hadn't dropped me a line to see if all was well. That would probably be because I told her 6 months ago to go fuck herself and never contact me again. And she hadn't. So I pondered another ex and had a quick stalk on my iPhone. There she was, still looking lovely in her nice black evening gown as she stood in an airy conservatory with her husband next to a playpen.

I'd dumped both women and, at the time, it had been exactly the right thing to do. Hands down. No question. But I've got as much success meeting and dating women as THIS GUY, especially as I get older and because I still don't feel 'ready'. My job's poorly-paid and can barely sustain myself. A girlfriend will bankrupt me. I also want to reach the giddying achievement of finishing this millstone of a fucking book that's hanging round my neck and breaking my back. And probably more importantly I feel too 'heavy' and would like to diet myself datable. And that's not happening while I'm trying to write. I can't do both at once.

I've been in this limbo for years. Now I'm 37. Thirty-fucking-seven. How I got this far I've no idea. Obviously time's passed but I feel like I'm 28 and now I'm boring myself.

And that's why I couldn't sleep last night, blah blah blah...