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...