A
lot happens in the couple of months before and after Christmas.
Before, there is my daughters birthday, followed by the tedious build
up to the festive period. Then there is the festive period proper, a
period that is actually much shorter and less fantastical than one is
led to believe it will be. 2011 was my second consecutive Christmas
without a partner, so some of the family spirit was hard to muster,
though obviously it was lovely to spend the morning of the day itself
with an excited four year old. After Santa’s been, there’s the
New Year celebrations, a time to reflect on past events and prepare
for future ones, traditionally whilst shit faced drunk. I didn’t
really want to reflect, because it usually gets a bit depressing, and
near future events have a monotonous predictability that I’d rather
just pretend weren’t there, so I spent the night playing cards at a
friends. Rock and roll.
Once
the new year’s hurried up and bloody well got here, and by the time
everyone’s realised that the promises of this year are very similar
to those of last, it’s time for my birthday. This year: 30. I think
I’ve reached the point where magical annual celebrations are just
repetitive, dull entries on a calendar, where the crushing emptiness
of singledom provides a familiar, almost comforting melancholy, where
every second smashes helplessly into the next, creating the tick,
tick, tick from a metronome of impending death.
Then,
just when I’m feeling nice and cheery, with a figurative steel
capped boot to the balls, comes Valentines Day. A festival of misery
for those without a fleshy ego boost, and an expensive, corporate,
potential catastrophe for those lucky enough to have tricked a member
of the opposite sex into thinking they’re not a complete arsehole.
Well, obviously, I’m not going to be tricking anybody into thinking
that about me. No, I think that would be asking a bit much,
especially as there are some fifty posts on this very blog that prove
otherwise, and anyway there’s no one to fool at the moment. Sob. So
it is a little irritating when even my local supermarket is openly
mocking my loneliness. ‘Spend February 14th with someone you love’,
the meat counter instructs, as if you wouldn’t already be thinking
of doing that if you were in any position to do so. Sadly, the meat
counter, I DON’T HAVE SOMEONE I LOVE SO KINDLY FUCK OFF. And I’ll
take six small sausages. They’ll last the week, due to my dining
alone.
It’s
not just supermarkets either, Lord no. Every single thing in the
entire universe is intent on reminding me – and any other bitter,
paranoid people out there with an overblown idea of their importance
within the world – that as things stand, we shall die alone.
‘Everyone else has managed it, so why haven’t you?’ the world
sneers in unison. Well, if I must answer, I’d say it’s probably
down to my unreasonably high standards, abrasive personality and
complete unwillingness to meet any one, or thing, half way. Fine. But
even so, I don’t need to have my apparent inability to maintain or
begin a relationship shoved in my weeping, puffy face. For one thing
I simply do not require any assistance when it comes to making me
miserable, I can do that without the meat counter or entire universe,
completely on my own.
Anyway,
the upshot of this is that I am tired, so very tired. Employment is
directionless and without passion, living conditions are undesirable,
finances are dodgy to bleak and I am perpetually, unendingly alone.
I’d say ‘at least I have my health’ but I’m fairly sure I’ve
got some sort of horrible prostate cancer or stomach tumour eating me
from the inside out. Of course the temptation is to drink until the
days blend into one and everyone becomes an entertaining mishmash of
colours and sounds. I expect when the world’s like that you’ll
put your penis in anything. Unfortunately that isn’t an option as I
must maintain the illusion of normality in order to make money to
keep the fruit of my loin from perishing.
The
only thing that keeps me going when I’m feeling this way, is
remembering that everyone else is too, or has done. Or will. And
that, in some respects I’m quite stupid, so at some point something
will distract me from all this depression, probably breasts or a new
hobby or a future event I can cling onto as the last bastion of hope,
and I’ll think that really, everything’s alright. It’s in that
mindset, the short sighted, naive, shallow one, that I’m most
likely to find love, because it’s those fleeting, baseless traits
that appeal, isn’t it.
Yeah,
I feel much better now. At my least thinking, most retarded, I am at
my most attractive and desirable. No one likes a thinker.
Now
piss off, you’ve got little teddy bears holding felt hearts to buy.
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