So here’s the post I’ve been intending to write, but only because it’s been a while. Truth be told I’ve been putting it off because, Boo hoo, it’s going to be whingey.
And that’s ‘cos nothing’s happened; nuh-thing, other than the passing of time. And gaining weight. I’ve tried eating a salad or some fruit, but it broke my pampered fat soul. So now I’m back to cake for breakfast*
But my main whinge is time. I don’t seem to have enough of it anymore (barring the weekend, but more on that in a moment).
I get home from work each night no sooner than 7pm, by which point I can barely be bothered to do anything thinky as I mainline Youtube whilst force-feeding lard down my neck. And there’s a delicious irony in lackadaisically watching TED motivational videos in my pants whilst playing Spider Solitaire.
Thus, motivated I ain’t, and it’s considerably hindering My Brilliant (ha!) Novel, a novel which I have been writing in one form or another for several years now. This last year for example – an entire year - has been spent plucking up the courage just to read my first draft (which I did in January. It was absolutely, utterly awful) – So my current re-write is ostensibly a brand new draft, and that’s the problem. This is becoming the Project that Never Ends, and I’m wondering why I’ve set myself this mother of all personal homeworks.
On the plus side, it isn’t too bad. There’s an actual story for starters. But on the minus side, I’m not actually writing it. Oh, and get this; my lack of imagination is so woeful that it’s essentially my autobiography. It transpires the fiction I’d attempted to invent was nowhere near as good as the crap I’ve actually lived, even if said life is now in its death throes.
So if I do ever finish this, it’ll be a one-book wonder.
But I’m not sure I’ve even got the time.
That’s because I’ve somehow found myself taking a leading role in my apartment block’s ‘Organisation of people what live here too’ (I could word that better, but I’m terrified of using keywords my neighbours could Google only to find this fucking blog).
Thus I’m spending my weekends at meetings, and contacting several ‘Companies what do Cleaning and Insurance and Stuff for Domicile Condominium things’.
This has wound up being massive, as I single-handedly discuss thousand-pound plans on behalf of 180 flats and houses that don’t even know I’m doing it. However, I have single-handedly sorted out our ‘Room with lots of Fitness Things in it,’ so I’ll soon be able to feel guilty about never bothering to visit the place just two floors below where I cry myself to sleep.
Although I’m single-handedly also fucking myself ragged on a daily basis - normally before I cry myself to sleep.
So, I dunno, I really seem to abuse my spare time. I don’t have friends anymore, so my weekends have become an orgy of measured excess, if indeed the definition of Excess has become ‘(noun) The state of waking up late, walking to the Co-op and buying one’s body weight in crisps and Fairtrade chocolate chip brownies, then going home to watch The Atheist Experience clips on Youtube before wanking into a sock and hiding under a table in foetal position as one’s body shakes with quiet sobs whilst every single mistake and lapse of fucking judgement spools through the mind’s eye like an eternal, neverending You’ve Been Framed! of regret.’
So come Monday, having managed to avoid writing more than a paragraph of my Brilliant (ha!) Novel, I don’t feel justified to write my blog, see?
However I’m trying to make my free time a little more beneficial. Last night, for example, I managed to finish season 1 of the near-decade old The Wire , and brilliant it was. It may also explain why I thought it a good idea to shave my Horrible Scrappy Red Beard™ into a goatee. I normally hate this peculiar fashion error but it wasn’t until I’d done it that I realised I’d subliminally accepted into my head that programme's several handsome alpha-male black men acting themselves silly with the same beard.
Trouble is, I’m not black, or handsome, and I’m barely a delta-male. But now it’s too late and I’m walking around with a ginger-fringed cakehole.
And that’s where I’ll leave it, I think. I have other issues, such as a perpetual weak left knee (that my boss has scared the living shit out of me by deciding it’s arthritis), and my head’s riddled with tinnitus - a consistent, neverending whistley hiss that gets louder the less sleep I’ve had the night before. Although I suspect inserting small buds into my ears and blasting House into them at high volume isn’t helping.
Oh, and I had an AIDS test because of the sex I had with that prostitute.
The results came back negative, which confused me for about three minutes. Positive, to my mind, is good. Negative ain't.
*I’ve not actually been eating cake for breakfast – well, not lately. I just like the way it sounds here. And tastes, on occasions when I have done it.