In Which Our Protagonist Quantifies His Happiness.

Do you ever get the impression that everyone else has their shit significantly more together than you do? It can’t just be me. It’s probably something to do with my ‘life stage’, my age and the string of often poorly – or over – thought out choices that together form the tatty patchwork quilt of the history of I. Not bad decisions you understand, just not excellent ones, and in many cases the path of least resistance. Which doesn’t sound like me, does it. It might be televisions fault for filling my head with nonsense and pointing me towards a shiny, neon dreamland reality. The following is a bit rambly, without any real point but by now you should have spotted this theme, so no complaints. I can only work with what I’ve got here, and that’s me, so if it’s not for you it’s at least consistently not for you. If you’ve got something important to do, probably do that. Or if there’s something on, cos you don’t want to fall behind. If you’re bored though, it’s there, and I’ll try to keep it entertaining.

All around me people are in love or generating interest from the opposite sex. At the moment there seems to be a fashion for marriage, with almost everyone I know finding something to tie a knot in, which is probably more gratifying than I imagine. In my nearly two years of singledom, I have racked up a now past gentle obsession with a colleague, fizzling out to nothing but mild awkwardness, a stint of happy-on-my-own-ness which as we all know is transitory, and an attraction to and appreciation of persons either unavailable, wholly unsuitable, probably unstable or interested in somebody else. Usually somebody I know, just to rub it in. The likelihood of having to put up with my own company, long term, increases with every moment. I expect there’s a point when you just give up, get a cat and a cardigan, move into a semi detached bungalow in a neighbourhood watch area and spend your evenings casually leafing through the brassiere section of the Grattan catalogue, whilst watching The Notebook on an eternal loop. But I look like a twat in a cardigan, so that nirvana remains out of reach. Oh boo-hoo and waa, I hear you all coldly say, and obviously they’re both valid points: it’s not world ending. I have spawned, and the advent of the internets has ensured that the art of poorly lit, gymnastic lovemaking never be lost. Should I forget anything there is reference material. So buck up buddy, yes?

Then there’s employment. Keep it between you and me, but I quite like my job. Well, the people there anyway, and that’s what makes a job isn’t it. I loathe the work, obviously, well, not loathe, but barely tolerate. There’s no real interest there for me, but my time spent there is mostly enjoyed, so relative to previous occupations it’s a trip to Alton Bloody Towers. The interest is key though, because it seems to be an unattainable within the workplace, to me, and other people seem able to just dig in, entrench and get on. I hesitate to say give up, but that is how it can sometimes feel. There must be something else you want to be doing, should be doing, would thrive doing. Don’t forget about that, don’t push it to the back and file it under Pipe Dream. It’s all too easy to clock in, clock out and sit in front of the box, stuck in the routine of necessity. Blah, blah, I know, but I’m tired and my mind seems to have been swapped for the cognitive equivalent of an episode of Hollyoaks as I slept. Some people have jobs that are their passion, or in some way utilise an individual skill, and that’s what I’d quite like please. Currently, a monkey could do my job, and personally I suspect they may already be phasing them in.

They pay me though, which is pretty good of them considering. Problem is, I keep spending it on stuff and things and then when I need it, I don’t have any. Everyone does it of course, but I seem to have a particular talent for haemorrhaging money. I am able to remove any importance from currency until I have none, at which point I realise how foolish I have been, only to be reborn a financial retard come pay day. It’s not as bad as it was, but let’s say there’s room for improvement. I spent enough for a sensible fortnights food shop last night and had a flippin good time, so deem it a worthy spend, but by the 20th I’ll be living off Super Noodles and hope. Only one of which I can find in Sainsburys. This lack of cash-sense has, for the past year, found me living with a parent once again. Pater Familias. Though a perfectly agreeable and sustainable living arrangement, it is not ideal. Space is tight, further complicated when my offspring is with me, and being a normal person I simply desire my own place. Peers are getting mortgages, so as well as making me look a right chump, they are unavailable to flat share. Selfish. Not really on, to be ticking off life goals when some of us haven’t even made a list.

Funny thing is, I reckon this current malaise is due to actually being quite happy with most things, up to and including my current mental state, and thus emphasising the things that I feel I lack. Satisfying employment, a greater sense of independence/reduced sense of dwelling failure, a longer term approach to finances and someone to curl up and watch CSI with. Someone who says “please don’t be such a dick”, but because they care and not because they’d like me to go away now. Other than that I’m probably good, I’m just over thinking it, allowing my mood to be guided by external factors. It must be the weather, this drought has had me sweating so much, it’s felt like I’ve been rained on, constantly, for days. Possibly weeks. Hang on… My God, I can even generate confusion, disappointment and melancholy from a state of happiness. It’s a gift, really. It might be televisions fault for filling my head with extreme examples of failure and regret in a blue tinted, nightmare reality. So, in conclusion then: I should watch less TV, spend less, find a way of doing something I love doing in exchange for enough money to survive on, save enough of that money to get a flat, and after moving I should construct a robot wife. Or work on my personality or something.

All of which is bound to be really easy.