From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

Thank you for your letter. May I ask from where or from whom you acquired my address? I try to keep my everywhereabouts under wraps.

I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Human slang can be perplexing. In the time it has taken me to consider your query, a thousand galaxies have been extinguished. This is negligible.

I enclose a signed photo, which will change your planet forever.

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

I'm experimenting with new intro techniques. There isn't a person alive who would deny my success.

I've been tired this week. I'm always tired, but this week has shown a noticeable decrease in my energy levels. The standard levels are so low, that a noticeable decrease is quite significant indeed.

Yesterday in particular was difficult. I spent the afternoon at work listening to soothing and depressing music, trying to strategically open my eyes so as to convince my colleagues of my sanity.

Maybe I'm ill.

I don't have any other symptoms, but I might be ill. That would be much better. I don't want to be ill, but at least it would provide some explanation for my inadequacies.

It's funny that illness is understandable and a valid excuse for pathetic behaviour, whereas simple laziness or sleepiness is pathetic in itself. A doctor's note means your body is to blame, no doctor's note means you are to blame.

But it's the same body. We've convinced ourselves that our bodies and ourselves are different things.

Sometimes our body will let us down. That's the bodies fault. It's not pulling its own weight.

Sometimes we let ourselves down. That's our fault. Our bodies are blameless. We have no-one to blame but ourselves.

I suppose the difference is consciousness. If we've made conscious decisions that have led to our tiredness, it's possible to recognise a failing in your self.

If it's illness, there's no decision-making process at which to point your finger (unless you decide to point your finger into an infected wound).

I don't think I've been doing anything different this week, as far as consciousness is concerned. I'm pretty sure I've made the same bad decisions as I usually do.

So I'm going to blame my body. My stupid body. Or germs or something.

It's not my fault. It's his.

If I don't feel better next week I'll have to take the drastic action of writing another blog post about it.

***

Film review time!

I've seen quite a few films recently, so I'll offer some pithy analysis. Everyone loves pithy analysis.

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

I tried to do some serious reviews, but found myself dull and lacking in credibility. So let's do this quickly.

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

I've recently joined a site called This Is My Jam. It's a social networky type thing where you post the song you're currently digging. You can follow other people and listen to their jams too. (I'm on there as diamondbadger)

Aside from the terminology (for me "jam" will always be an abbreviation for James), it's lots of fun, and I've listened to some interesting things. This was posted by someone and I've become moderately obsessed by it. I've played it a few times. That probably isn't obsession, but I like to lay claim to some of the more glamorous mental disorders.

***

I'm wearing a white shirt. It makes me feel like I'm grown-up and professional. I can be as lazy and disgusting as I like - the shirt provides me with credibility (though obviously not enough to review films).

Only organised people wear white shirts. White-collar workers are the best workers. They're dull and soulless and live a life of tedium and regret, they destroy passion and economies, they are cold to their children and spouses, but at least they don't sleep-in until noon.

I did sleep-in until noon. But this shirt acts as slobs' camouflage.

I can eat a pie full of cigarettes out of a belching wrestler's gun, and it doesn't matter because of the shirt. I'll still be respected because of the shirt. Even if I'm nude from the waist down. (The "if" in that last sentence was unnecessary)

The only risk in the white shirt technique is the stain. If you spill a stain on a white shirt, you've committed a cardinal sin. Do not eat anything tomatoey. A spaghetti bolognese and a white shirt go together like oil and water and a white shirt.

If you wear a stained white shirt, it's worse than wearing no shirt at all. You lose your credibility IMMEDIATELY.

The people who used to respect you now see you as a charlatan, and seek to have you removed from the neighbourhood. Your parents will stop mentioning your name in their newsletters. Your pets will shun you with snobbish resolve. You'll have to put on trousers again, just to swing the approbation pendulum a fraction in the right direction.

But I'm going to take that risk. The respect earned by the white shirt is worth it. I'll just have to make sure I don't eat or drink anything red. Except for blood, which (when combined with the shirt) adds to a classy vampire aesthetic that was very fashionable as recently as 2009.

***

Dear Universe

I'm afraid your photo never arrived. It was held by British customs because of a supposed "violation of physical laws". Would it be possible to remove the concept of "customs" from yourself?

I've enclosed a signed picture of myself, which you may want to show off to your cosmic chums, such as Eternity and Imagination.

Keep up the good work.

Love 
Steve

P.S. I found out what the deal was by reading an inflammatory pamphlet.