Now this is probably going to be a rant and slightly ‘diary entry’ ish so feel free to skip it. I say probably because I don’t know what I’m going to write yet. I’m just going to start writing and see what hideous creature I give birth to. I doubt there’s going to be a point to it; I just really really need to rant.
It’s only Tuesday night and yet this week already feels like the longest, hardest, most depressing, constricting, claustrophobic week ever. I mean what the fuck, really. Can it get any more annoying? And the stupid thing is I can’t even pin down what, exactly, is making it this way.
I say, this week is shit, and then I say, why? and I have no answer. It just is. The little things. Every single little thing. Everything is hard. Everything takes effort. Everything seems so very very not worth it. I look around and it all just looks like maggots flailing around in primordial ooze. Pointless. Not worth my time. Sans nourishment.
I’m aware of this mood, conscious that obviously something in me is currently askew and I should just try and ride it out, shut the fuck up and get through it, see things as perfectly fine and not one great difficulty after another. But I can’t.
I can feel the unease, simmering just under the surface. I’ve felt it before. Soon I’ll have the irrational thoughts like wanting to quit my job, sell the house and piss off to some foreign country just to see what happens. Or daydreams of standing up in the middle of the office to yell obscenities, tell every idiotic pissant they’re an idiotic pissant, and storming out.
Of course, if I can hold out until the rational mind decides to return from hiatus, I won’t do these things. All the more pity. I should. My world is too constricted with the rules and regs. I can’t breathe.
The other thing that bubbles away at times like this, is my old friend ‘why?’ Why why why why. Why am I here? Why do I put up with this? Why am I letting myself get the shit kicked out of me? Why do I continually do things I don’t want to do? Why am I doing things that don’t inspire me? Why am I persisting with the unhappy? Why can’t I get my shit together and just sort this crap out? Why why why.
What am I waiting for? The second coming? Is that when I’ll finally renovate my house (so I can get the fuck out and away from the neighbours with their seriously fucked up granny taste in music which they like playing louder as the night gets later and they get drunker and what the fuck is with her droopy tits and her bad peroxide job anyway)? Is that when I will finally go after a job that inspires me? Is that when I’ll finally grow some balls and take some risks?
I mean I could get proper sideswiped tomorrow and go all bug-on-windscreen and lights out, and this would be all I have made of my life? How depressing is that? It’s a fucking travesty.
“Here is a life. Do with it what you will.”
oh ok, just let me think about it for, say 3 or 4 DECADES before I decide what I want to do with it.
“Ok well don’t take too long; you don’t know how long you’ve got it for, you know.”
yeah well i’m really trying but this shit is hard you know.
“No it’s not, you’re just being a pussy. You’re just taking life too seriously. You’re just letting the rules get in the way of a great comedy.”
I need wine. Lots of wine. And for this week to be over. And for either my sanity to return, or my insanity to start making some very convincing arguments for a permanent move to lala-land.
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