Drivin’ on 9

I’m nose into the arse end of the first week of March and totally unable to say how I got there. I am, however, stuck fast and unsure of how to get out. I’m thinking of backing up slowly but I suspect that time will not kindly follow me and if it did we’d just be repeating the same patterns, the same boredoms, and the same tedious conversations. I’ve quite had enough of conversation. I’m not sure if it’s a peculiarity of mine or it is endemic to the interaction but mine are never straightforward. If there is a tangent I will pursue it. If a bird flies into my head I will mention it. Heaven forbid if you have a point.
I wonder if the wandering point and possible pointlessness of my conversation owes something to my own intrinsic pointlessness. Or, perhaps, if the habit – developed at school, I swear – of trying to be the weirdest and most interesting person in the room is the problem. I somehow rewired my brain to throw out and throw up oddities. This has the painful, slapping, ring of truth to it. There is a part of me that is partly sick of this part of myself. And then I engage in conversations that are so banal that I can speak both sides after the first sentence and I applaud myself for generally refraining from being so extremely dull. Better to be peculiar than predictable or predictably peculiar than demonically dull.
I am, of course, and as ever, finding myself oddly fascinating in comparison with, oh, everyone else. Well, I’d need to, wouldn’t I? How else would I function? How else could I magnify my neuroticism and tedious tales into the magnificent text you see before you? How, indeed. There is also, of course, the need to satisfy my public. Those folk who, bizarre as it seems, seem to have missed this semi-apocalyptic train-wreck during my unintended hiatus. You’re really a bunch of cute kids. I must have you all buy me alcohol units at some stage. No really, I insist.