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???
