Monday 29 May 2017

Bank Holiday Throwback - 'Blue Monday'

Normal blogging service should resume sometime in mid-June, with more missing persons cases and Dust Spank chapters. In the meantime, here's a deleted post from 2012. Heads up: there's quite a lot of complaining. 

Twenty-three days into 2012 and my New Year hopefulness has dissipated into a rose wine and full fat cheddar cheese blur of ‘’meh’ and ‘blah’. I can’t run. My stupid left knee has seen to that. (I refuse to accept any responsibility for my own dodgy knee. It has absolutely nothing to do with pushing it far too hard on the treadmill, but oh well, 6k in 45 minutes is ‘not very much’ according to the physio lady, who sounds like that teacher from South Park and keeps going ‘Mmmkay?’ at the end of everything she says.)

I still haven’t smoked, though, so have been giving myself big pats on the back for that, for not giving in to the temptation of sweet, sweet nicotine. I just kick and punch stuff instead, or slam doors. Maybe I should ‘run it off’.  Mr. W’s, answer to everything....’I had the most awful day at work’ ‘Run it off!’ ‘Some total twat drove into the back of me this morning,,’.....‘Run it off!’ ‘The doctor says I’ve got three weeks to live,’ ......‘You know what you wanna do? Run it off!’

I have just phoned him to talk about the sudden crippling realisation that if I died on Wednesday, say on the way home from work, my contribution to the world would consist of: (includes a brief itinerary of worldly goods....lump it all in together, why not?)

·         Some appalling teenage poetry
·         Embarrassing journals in which I write down sexts from a sometime fuck buddy and whinge about everything not ever going my way, as well as slagging off a lot of people, including some I call my friends.
·         A wash bag full of vibrators – when I was going through a chronically single patch every single one of my friends thought it would be hil-arrr-riii-ous to buy me a cock shaped vibrating toy. One girl bought me a glass dildo and said, ‘the bloke in the shop reckons you can hammer nails into walls with one of these!’ So when I can’t find a hammer I’ll know what might come in useful.
·         A not very impressive collection DVDs that suggest a somewhat schizophrenic taste in films. Pretty in Pink is on the same shelf as Pan’s Labyrinth (of course it is, they are arranged alphabetically.)
·         About a thousand paperback books, mostly purchased from charity shops, which means they carry handwritten inscriptions, like: ‘Debbie – this could be you! Here’s to more Long Island Iced Tea nights, whhhoooo, love Sandra. Xx’  (in a copy of ‘He’s Just Not Into You’)
·         Photographs of myself in my underwear on my new digital camera. Because I’m monitoring how body changes with my new exercise programme. On the camera, they looked OK. I put them on the laptop, and full screen I look fat, moody and there is a mug in the back ground that says ‘I Heart My Dad’ which just looks really weird when you’re taking semi naked pictures of yourself.
·         Several drafts of terrible fiction. I might at least win the Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Can you win that for something that hasn’t actually been published???
·         A few half used bottles of perfume, because my favourite ones I save for ‘special occasions’ which means I hardly ever wear them....what a waste.
·         Loads of dresses I am saving for special occasions, or when I finally achieve the body I want, which means I hardly ever wear them....what a waste!
·         Millions of buttons and beads and scraps of fabric.
·         Massive amounts of hair blocking the shower drain. It’s quite fun pulling out disgusting, slimy, clumps of ancient hair.  When I was little, me and my sister thought it would be fun to bury hair in the vegetable patch....our mother did not think it was fun and went mad.
·         About four pairs of glasses with old prescription lenses in them.
·         A pile of magazine that no-one will be able to work out why I wanted to keep, because I myself forgot why I wanted to keep them. Many, many years ago I forgot why I wanted to keep them.

The idea of taking the big nap doesn’t bother me, I didn’t know where I was before I was born, why would I care what happens after I die? So it doesn’t really make any sense that I should be so bothered about trying to find some meaning in my life. After all I’m not going to care too much when I’m dead. But it’s still there, that little wriggling, nagging feeling that wakes me in the middle of the night, tugging on my sleeve, whispering, ‘You! Hey you, thunder thighs! Whatcha gonna do, then? Same you always do! Get up too late, moan about shit and eat enough junk to negate the hour you spent working out. That’s what! You frickin’ loser!’

Some of the time I can silence the voice by having fantasies about famous men or thinking about nice things I can have for breakfast. The rest of the time, I lie awake in a paralysed, sweaty, panic until it all becomes too much and my overloaded brain shuts down and lets me get some sleep.

So please, please, please can someone not let me get what I want, but just tell me???