So this is life.

I’ve been off work sick for the past week and, strangely, do not relish going back to my dull joe job. In fact, had I been less ill and so inclined I might have, finally, made an effort to push for better employment prospects. I’ve had enough but then I’ve had enough for a long time and enough still hasn’t been enough to really motivate me. Very little motivates me. My life is, in the cold harsh light of any illumination, something of a shambles: crap job, horrendously in debt, unmotivated, perpetually bored, constantly tired, filthy (oh it’s filth redefined at the moment) flat, I’m fairly anti-social because, tragically, I’ve been feeling fatter and more pathetic than usual lately, not nearly enough companionship, and absolutely no sex (even I’ve gone off me which just screams trouble). I’m lazy but that’s an excuse I’ve worn into a pale sickly shadow of its former self. So lazy, in fact, that I’m not sure I can even be bothered to be lazy any more. I’ve had enough of this very dull stasis in which I’ve been existing. Let’s face it; I’ve barely lived in quite a while. Life has been a series of routines that largely include too much time spent doing nothing much or travelling or waiting or working. I’ve even managed to make a routine drinking session – yes, that’s how habituated I am, even my alcohol intake is routine. It’s that last one that really spells tragedy to me. Well, that and my commenting ad nauseam about how bored I am. I think I’ve been bored forever, apathetic forever, and forever too extravagant with my descriptives. Forever, always, hate, adore, loathe, really, stupid, tragic, bored, and bored, and bored.
And I was talking about my life. I think, oh, the countdown’s starting. I’ve done enough of killing time. I feel like a has been who hasn’t been and then I think that I’m wrong, it’s my entire mentality that’s wrong. Too extreme – and I have ever been one for extremes. I never could stomach the idea of an ordinary life. The life that, presumably, I could easily have had, had I wanted it. The life that my, and I choke to describe it thusly, hometown and school prepared me for – the one with the quarter acre, the 2.4, and the bargain hunting at the shops. The one that seemed to be the only other alternative. There’s more than one way to live, you know? And this is why I hate small towns – because they make you forget it. I couldn’t even stomach the idea of a proper career, a profession, too much like hard work, my sweet, not my style at all. I wanted, want, to be something extraordinary – how many people are extraordinary? And, given the current mode, who would want that anyway? I fear that I am one of those people who cannot achieve contentment. And, worse yet, in acknowledging that, ceases to try. I’ve chosen to be dissatisfied through lack of effort. A complete lack of effort at that.
For example, I probably could, if I wanted, have a quite nice enjoyable little thing going with someone but I let it slide. And I let it slide. And I let it slide. I don’t have to let it slide. There’s very little in life to stop me. But, oh, I let it slide. And now I’m really starting to wonder why I let everything slide. Is it because I want it to come to me, that I want life, oh and so many other things, to pursue me? Is it because I feel perpetually gauche – something which, even if actual, I probably wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t quite so self aware, self obsessed perhaps? A giant stop sign to life and progress and all that’s fun because I feel awkward. I feel awkward, oh, pretty much all the time anyway. I still get nervous purchasing a newspaper and I’m so much better than I used to be. Worse than that, I put myself off-limits. I go to lengths to make myself unattractive, well, maybe not lengths but I certainly don’t try to attract. Then there’s my charming personality – oh but you have to be robust to cope with that. And who has such a healthy ego? Who knows, I’m not sure I do. It’s only wit, I’m sure I must tell myself before I go to sleep, if it doesn’t terrify people into running from you.

I’m in serious danger of hating myself for pissing away my youth on nothing more tangible than fear. Fear, quite frankly, is pathetic. And now I’m sick of the boredom and dissatisfaction. I have to try and remember my good points, to dust them off, and use them for good instead of the creeping evil of my worst intentions. I need, in short, a purpose (and a cash cow, any takers?). I’ll work on that, shall I?