Right, that's it.
I've tried to think about what I'm going to write, but I keep getting bored. So all the interesting thoughts I've had, all the funny scenarios, all the points I long to make will have to go by the wayside.
I have to write things as I think of them, or I lose patience. I think this might be the beginnings of a genuine personality disorder. The trouble is, it encourages loads of jokes in the vein of: "I've tried to think about being easily distracted, but I can't keep my mind on it". In fact I'm sure I've made similar jokes before. So, first thing's first, there'll be none of that if I can help it.
Writing spontaneously is quite exciting. It feels like going round a blind turn in the road, after which there may be a lorry heading right towards me, or a supermodel calender shoot. Lorry-load of supermodels plummeting to their deaths.
I have to be quick. If I pause for too long, my thoughts might catch up with me. I can't write anything considered, I just have to keep on typing.
So, if this seems rambling, it's because it is. Although 'rambling' connotes something too sedate. It's really more like a frenzied run through the jungle, hacking desperately with a machete. My thoughts are right behind me, and they're fast. Luckily, I've just had a big coffee, so I have the energy to sprint away.
Uh-oh.
He's behind me.
And now I'm thinking about things.
Oh God. Really? That's what you think? I can't write that. It's so boring.
Quick, Paul, sprint off again! What about a remake of Yes, Minister, set in the Napoleonic Wars?
That's no good. (You can tell I'm not editing that, because that was a shit idea).
What about the government installing a siren that is sounded at random intervals during the day? And whenever you hear it, you've got to draw a picture of an owl with charcoal.
Shit. My thoughts are catching up again. If I wait too long, I'll realise this is nonsense and delete it all. I need to run to the 'Publish Post' button, which is over there in the distance, bu that outcrop of rocks. The trouble is, there's a rickety bridge I need to cross, and I'm carrying a Grand Piano that belonged to Lenny Bruce. The idiot! Why didn't he play the banjo?
At this point, my mind caught up. Sorry, Paul. No more of this nonsense. I'll leave it here for posterity, though. It gives an important insight into my madness.
As I'm now rational, I'll share an email, which (as well as being insane) summarizes my indecision in one word: StickyKeys:
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 29 July 2008 16:43
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Things and things
Well, I'm bored now. I've had enough.
Hey, have you every turned StickyKeys on? I don't really know what it is, but you turn it on by pressing 'shift' loads of times in a row. I do it a lot, because I often can't decide how to begin a sentence.
Can I just waste time for the last half an hour?
Maybe I can write this for half an hour.
It would be good if you could turn StickyKeys on in the real world, as well as word processing.
If you were really indecisive (as we both were), and you went from thinking we should get pizza to thinking we probably shouldn't get pizza too many times, a big sign appears in the sky saying 'Changing your mind too many times turns on StickyKeys!' and it could also be read out in a booming Eastern-European voice.
And we'd be a bit worried, but mostly curious.
"What are StickyKeys?"
We'd think that, then vocalise it softly, then shout it at the heavens. But nothing would happen.
Life would go on as usual. Generally, things would be the same. Perhaps there would be a nagging worry in the back of our heads about the whole StickyKeys thing. But time would move on.
Years later, we may have started a family, moved to a different country, got jobs working as academics or pool boys.
Then, one day, we'd here the sound of something immense, thundering towards us over the horizon. A massive shadow would darken the neighbourhood. We'd be frozen. Transfixed. But somewhere we'd feel that this was inevitable.
StickyKeys.
They'd bomb down from the heavens, key-chain manically fluttering behind them like a dragon's tail. Giant keys smeared in treacle. We'd know it without even looking.
Run, we'd say. And we would run. But not fast enough. Not fast enough to outrun the giant metal birds, their sharp teeth dripping with adhesive.
Making a final descent, like some rusty pteradactyl, they'd strike, pressing themselves to us. We'd be trapped, our arms and legs bound by the treacle. The keys would spiral upwards - fast, faster. The key chain would rattle like the laughter of a dying god. The g-force would pound our faces into taut flaps.
As the oxygen thinned we'd begin to black out, the scream of the wind fading in our ears.
And like pin-hole light, we'd hear the Eastern-European voice:
"That'll teach you to be indecisive!".
---------------
We wake simultaneously. Just a dream we think to ourselves, knowing the truth. Shall we get up or stay in bed, one asks.
I.
Don't
Fucking.
Know.
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