Oases

The internet is down. I can’t work and I can’t not work.

So I’m writing this, which falls somewhere in between the two.

Today has been disgustingly Monday.

None of the cash machines near work were giving out money, so Lucy and I will have to have a lunch of half a rice cake each. Or we could use our debit cards.

I think the cash machine problem is the same as the internet problem. We’re going to be cut off from the world.

I watched the film Dredd last night. It’s pretty good (and very violent), but it’s making me think in terms of a dystopian nightmare state. Art imitates life. A pseudo-fascist police force administer brutal justice in the one, and cash machines stop working in the other.

I’m going to buy myself a helmet.

In between connectivity problems, I was able to open the Guardian’s Premier League: 10 talking points from the weekend's action column. I’ve read it twice. Sadly, the comments didn’t load. If they had done, I would be perfectly content right now. They can keep me going for the whole morning.

I like reading that column. I always scan to see if there’s a Saints-related talking point. There usually isn’t. It’s often about our opponents. I don’t think many journalists know much about Southampton, and they don’t want to rehash the same two talking points every week:

1.  We have a lot of young, English players who have come through our academy
2. Our team hasn’t been officially canonised, so when’s the Pope going to pull his holy finger out?

Sometimes, there are two talking points about the same match, and other matches are ignored completely. I can’t begin to tell you how angry that makes me.

But I haven’t got anything else to do, so I’m going to try.

It makes me SO ANGRY that

Hang on!

The internet is working again!

AAHAHAHA! I feel like a dehydrated desert nomad splashing through a fountain!

Hehehehe! *splash* Look! Coins! Ahahahaha!

I’ll never take this for granted again.

***

Oh. It’s stopped working again.

I feel like a dehydrated desert nomad whose fountain has just run dry. I was too busy skipping around and laughing that I forgot to drink anything. I really wish I hadn’t eaten all those coins.

I suppose this has taught me a lesson about desire and reward.

You don’t have to be careful what you wish for, because you’re never going to get it, whatever happens.

You’ll just die like everyone else: thirsty, alone, spread-eagled on the hollow hump of a desiccated camel.

I don’t know if “desiccated” is the right word to use there. I can’t look it up.

Hang on – I can use Outlook’s thesaurus.

Yes! I was right!

The human brain is a marvellous thing. And mine is, also.

***

Time has passed. Things are still not working properly. I did manage to get to the AV Club’s classic Simpsons review (Bart Sells His Soul – a good late-golden era episode) together with the comments. I also got the first page of the Guardian football comments too. So it hasn’t been too bad.

But now I’ve run out of comments to read. I’m stuck with my own thoughts, rather than the thoughts of assorted nerds and football fans. I’m a nerd and a football fan, but it’s not fun to read my thoughts.

As you’re aware.

***

This is getting silly now.

No internet makes life a disgrace.

My productivity has grinded (ground?) to a halt.

I mean, it’s usually at a halt. But it’s a halt of my own choosing. I dictate when my halts begin and end. I don’t want my halts to be determined by some outside agent.

It’s like being soaking wet. If you choose to be soaking wet - in a swimming pool or a bath, for example - then it’s fine. But if you’re made involuntarily soaking, by a sudden rain storm or a water balloon bombardment, you are inevitably going to be quite put out.

If I’m doing nothing, I want to be doing it on my own terms. I don’t like being at the beck and call of Monsieur Technologie.

We were better off in the old days. We didn’t have to worry about broadband speed or spyware. We were totally free to succumb to disease at twenty-five and stone blondes to death.

If I was a caveman, I wouldn’t even notice that the internet wasn’t working. I’d be writing this on a cave wall, and then going for a jog. Did cavemen jog? Probably not voluntarily.

Jogging is OK if you choose to do it, but if you’re forced (by a sabretooth tiger, for example), it’s less fun.

It’s just like the rain and the internet.

I suppose things aren’t really so different after all.

I’d like to do a chart that traces the quality of this blog post. There are peaks and troughs. The longer I go, the worse it gets.

I bet the chart will be too long to fit on the page properly.

***

It’s after lunch now. Things are slightly improving. I may be able to do some actual work. I may be able to post this online.

It’s strange to think about it. If I was just writing this to myself, in a place where nobody would ever see it, I would be thought of as an idiot, a psychopath and a loser.

But if I post it on my blog – even though nobody will read it there either – I’m part of a thriving online community, and will be lauded for my creative multimedia acumen.

I will.

I will be lauded.

I suppose I should tie up this sprawling mess with a clever conclusion, knitting together the various conceptual strands into a glove or a small blanket.

Today’s theme has been connection.

Not just technological connection, but interpersonal connection, temporal connection and woollen connection. The nomad, the caveman, and the internet commenter exist in a world of interconnectivity. No man is an island. No nomad is an island. Wherever and whenever we are, we strive to find a way to reach beyond ourselves. This may entail painting a buffalo on a cave wall or criticising David Moyes’s substitutions. It may be attempting to draw a literal line, tracing the flow of time.

Life is made up of an infinite number of individual moments. But through thought and graft and language and technology, we can bring these individual elements to create a whole.

We can unite the things into an everything. A beautiful, complex, exasperating, difficult, messy, exciting, liberating everything.

We can all conclude our blog posts in a way that makes us sound thoughtful.

We all have the power to produce a profound final sentence, and this power is what unites us.

I had a pie for lunch. We paid by card.

Intellectual Property Crash

Some new character ideas:

The Obligeisha

Dr Leon Respect

Lady Mode

Vacillator Alligator

Seven-Storey Dame

Lunch P. Ritter

Senator Yoke

I haven't got any descriptions for them, but I think they speak for themselves.

***

I sieve too much. I never cook, but I can't stop sieving.

Some things are fine to sieve. Flour, polenta, lumpy dust and many more.

But it's not enough. I've started sieving..|. oh, I don't know. A bicycle or some shit.

***

I've indicated with a red line (|) the exact moment where I lost faith in that idea. I might go back through previous entries and try to identify similar|

Tom!

I'm not incredibly bored. At least there's that. Some comfort there. Boredom would be an inconvenience. Worse: a burden. But I'm not bored. Boredom is so far away I can barely see it. I've forgotten what boredom is. I'm on a raft adrift on a sea of interest, with no shore and no radio and no provisions. Boredom? I don't even know the meaning of the word.

I might go and get something to eat. Not out of boredom, but out of desire to support the economy. We're all Greece now.

***

I bought a sandwich. It's 3.35pm and I bought a sandwich. This is unprecendented (that's an unprecedented spelling of 'unprecedented' - though, thinking about it, it's probably been spelt that way before, am I right?).

The bread's not fresh. Of course it's not. Homey don't play dat! ("Homey" is another term for bread.) But it's still an sandwich. I'm eating a sandwich while y'all are just eating an air sandwich (an oxygen atom surrounded by two thick-cut granary hydrogen atoms).

I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M TALKING LIKE THIS.

I've probably been poisoned again. That's what I get for sticking my neck out and injecting it with poison.

Luckily, I also bought some coffee. Coffee is nature's antidote. No poison can stand up to it. If you can die from it, coffee can... stop that from happening.

I've been timing myself since I was nine years old. My stopwatch is long-gone. I was an idiot back then.

Oooh! I have a text! Who's it from! Probably Tom Hanks with another pitch. And I'm all like "Tom!". That's what I'm like. Entirely like that.

Oh. It's from Vodafone. They want my help in finding their missing "ph". The f is doing OK, but it's not long for this world.

They don't have any information on the "ph"'s last known whereabouts, but they do have a photograph.

Oh. There it is. I'll text them back to let them know. "Photograph" doesn't need that second "ph". "Photo" is already an accepted abbreviation. The "ph" can go back to Vodafone, and the "gra" can go to... I don't know... Viagra. They can always use another one. Viagragra.

I'd buy that.

(I wouldn't buy that)

Brackets are funny.

***

It's literally taken me three proofreadings to realise that H₂O is water and not air. Why would that be air? Air's got loads of stuff in it, like Nitrogen (N) and Apartheid (A). Why did I think it was H₂O? I'm an idiot. My sandwich joke has fallen on deaf ears, and the ears of science.


It's raining. That explains it. I'm not an idiot. Also, I'm struggling to cope with the death of my neighbour. He loved water.

Uh-oh. Why is that sentence running off the edge of the page? What did I do? Is it something to do with that little '2'? You know, the science one. I'm not going to type it again, in case...

Gah! That's illegible!

What, am I going to have to keep pressing return now?

Like some kind of chump?

I just got another text.

It's from Dominos.

They want my help in finding their missing apostrophe. 

I have no time for that. Maybe they can make do with the "gra".

They can become Iron Dogmas.

I'd love to have an Iron Dogmas pizza. It sounds delicious.

As long as toppings didn't include:
a) iron
b) dogs
c) pineapple

Hey, you know what would be funny? 

If the whole glitch where my text is extending too far doesn't show up when I publish it!

None of the above will make sense!

None of it!

I haven't even finished my coffee. I'd better get back to it. You've distracted me. I'M TRYING TO CHANGE THE WORLD!!!!

Ignoredom

FIGHT THE BOREDOM!

Don't let it get you down. You are its master/mistress/Ms, so take it by the scruff of its neck (boredoms have big scruffs), shake it violently and say "I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU RUN MY LIFE"!

There's a whole world of interesting things out there. From the lowliest eagle to the most magnificent camcorder. There's no time to be bored. You'll be dead soon!

So turn that frown 180° upwards or downwards (same result!) and leap into the future. Boredom is only a seven letter word. Unless you spell it with an extra 'r'.

THERE'S ONLY ONE 'R'!

Why not write a dialogue between a PE teacher and a sentient fox fur?

FOX FUR: I am but a shell of a being. As a noble woodland creature, I gambolled around the fens and follies, nursing my cubs, trotting at peace amongst bracken and hedge, pond and electric substation. 

But I was killed for sport. 

My being was stripped away from me, along with my dignity, so that a wealthy woman with no taste for the modern compassion fashion can string me around her fat neck and sweat on me at a dinner party.

P.E. TEACHER: I am a P.E. teacher.

FOX FUR: Oh God. I'm so sorry.

Why not do that? You could do that.

That's what I did.

Why?

Because boredom is not invited into MY party. And, yes, this is a party. Look at the punchbowl. Filled with water.

Water is a type of punch.

All oxygeny and hydrogeny.

DELICIOUS.

YOU CAN DRINK IT WHILST NOT BEING BORED.

Why not write a list of the ten greatest evils in the world?

THAT'S WHAT I'DLL DO.

1) Evil

2) Spelling bees

3) Some sort of mountain that falls on people

4) Closed-mindedness

5) Fennel

6) Goading

7) Genocide

8) Bullfighting

9) Nine

10) Flippant nephews

There. You could have done that.

WHY NOT DO IT AGAIN?

I won't. Because I might find it boring.

And borredom isn't in my vocabulary.

You get out of life what you put in.

I've put in a dialogue and a list, so I should get one back, if there's any justice.

JUSTICE IS BORING.

THE ONLY TRUTH IS IN ERRATICISM.

If you grab life by the balls and boredom by the scruff, keep tabs on which is which.

You don't want to mix up balls and scruff. All manner of problems might emerge.

And wear gloves.

Enjoying yourself?

YOU CAN'T ANSWER BECAUSE THE LAUGH-TO-WORD RATIO IS A MILLION TO ONE.

Who could be bored by me repeatedly breaking into CAPS LOCK?

I'll tell you who: a Communist.

But boredom is written into the works of Marx and Engels. They accounted for it - it's part of dialectical materialism.

BOREDOM exists.

An ANTIBOREDOM emerges.

The two annihilate to create a new SUPERBOREDOM.

That's why Marx was an idiot.

We can't be waiting for superboredom. We've got to fight it now. With hands, not concepts; sticks, not sociological forces.

THIS TANGENT HAS BEEN A MISTAKE.

Let's go back. Right back to the beginning.

Revisiting the past can be boring, but not if you do it in a French accent.

Scroll to the top of this post and read it again, imagining the words in a French accent.

There are several key jokes that you'll only get if you imagine it in a French accent.

I'll wait for you here.

Go and do it.

GO AND DO THAT INTERESTING THING.

...

***

Are you back?

Did you spot the jokes?

That's right: punch.

I mentioned punch because it sounds funny in a French accent.

Punch.

Ahaha.

If only I could indicate accents as text. But I can't.

I bet you're not bored anymore. I know I'm not.

I've shown the world. I've picked myself up, dusted myself off, bled myself dry, drunk myself blind and egged myself on.

This will be my life from now on.

THERE'S NO STOPPING ME.

I'm going to put an interesting photo at the top of this blog to make it EVEN MORE EXCITING.

LLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFFFFFFFEEEEEEEE


(I just punched the air)

***

[Hehe. Imagine if a French person had said that. "Punched the air". Hehehee.]

'A' Fever

Nothing interesting has happened to me today. Which in itself is quite interesting. Most people would have had something interesting happen to them - even if it was only mildly interesting, like seeing a coin, or using a napkin to mop the brow of a friend who'd accidentally dipped their brow in acid.

So to have had NOTHING interesting happen is quite a rarity. So quite interesting. Which is a paradox. But not an interesting one.

Of course, I've set quite the standard for uninteresting days. For me, nothing happening is actually the norm. No not that interesting at all.

I have a cold.

I suppose that's interesting. I spend the majority of my time with my head not full of fluid. So this is like a holiday. Except I'm not wearing a hula skirt, just an expression of mild discomfort.

And a hula skirt.

Which reminds me of something that's been happening at work. This is an extremely interesting thing. Pretty spectacular. You might want to sit down or stand up, depending on your current perpendicularity (<-- a="a" br="br" can="can" chaise="chaise" if="if" judgement.="judgement." longue="longue" on="on" own="own" re="re" slumped="slumped" use="use" word="word" you="you" your="your">
 
Which reminds me (I'll get to the interesting thing at work in a bit - it's pretty amazing, and no I'm not building this up too much) my computer at home is being slow, even by its own standards. As I'm typing this, it's struggling to keep up. I keep finishing a sentence, and then having to wait for the letters to appear on screen, one at a time.

It's disconcerting. I can see my delayed ideas trickling into the world. As though my computer is saying "This is what you wrote- and it's stupid. You thought it would be good, but just look at it. Look at this word. Look at the next one. You're an embarrassment. But you can't change it. You've already pressed the keys."

Then I delete them, proving my slow computer wrong. Everything I've written here is carefully edited an chosen for maximum impact. I'm abdominally precis.

I need a new computer. The fan is still making loud noises. I can't abide a computer that's slower than I am. I might as well start using pencil and paper, and cry onto both.

Back to the interesting thing at work - brace yourself - ...

I've started capitalising the A in my name by accident.

PAul.

Interesting, right?

I do it all the time, and I don't know why. It's only just started happening. But I can't stop. PAul. PAul. PAul.

I can't imagine that my name (a word I've typed many times before) could all of a sudden be giving me problems. I blame my work keyboard. The shift button must be sticking.

I HAVE AN INTERESTING LIFE.

I have a cold. I think I mentioned that before.

It might be "man-flu".

I hate that expression. Man-flu.

(I just accidentally typed "man-glu" which is something else.)

Man-flu is one of those ideas that has become accepted as fact by society at large. Men complain more about colds! Women have colds all the time and don't complain! Ahahaha!

I think this idea is stupid. In my experience, the rate of complaints isn't dependent on gender, but on the individual. I know both men and women who complain a lot about illness, and both men and women who take it stoically. Man-flu is a myth. Everyone gets ill and deals with it differently.

I think it's a conspiracy to balance out the stupid gender generalisations that men have always maintained, like women being bad drivers or rubbish at Subbuteo.

I suppose it's only fair for them to have one of their own. They'd need a lot more to even get close to being even. But two wrongs don't make a right. And two stupidities don't make a clever.

(In a similar vein to "man-glu", my slow computer almost got me to write "like women being bad rivers".

That isn't a gender generalisation. I don't think it's a controversial idea. Women really are rubbish at performing the function of a river - housing fish, being composed entirely of water, eroding earth etc.)

So I hate the idea of "man-flu". I don't want to be seen as part of some ridiculous synchronicity of male whining.

The trouble is, I do tend to complain a lot. Which weakens my position. I'm groaning and whinging and snuffling all day long. But it's not because I have "man-flu". It's not because of the configuration of my genitals. It's just because I'm an idiot.

And idiocy is gender neutral.

Writing this has been the most interesting part of my day so far. Thanks for enjoying it with me. Now I'm going to snort some Lemsip powder and fantasise about buying a computer I can't afford.

Yours snufflingly,
PAul

Profoundly bored

Do you think it's possible to undergo a profound spiritual change through sheer boredom?

I think it might be. I'm close to reaching a nirvana-like state of dissatisfaction. I'm sure this kind of thing is supposed to come from meditation or prayer or hard work. But I think I've had an epiphany based purely on angst.

I can see why it might not be appealing to others. It's difficult to imagine anyone making an arduous pilgrimage to a remote Mongolian monastery, only for me to greet them with a shrug and a sigh.

"Come in, my son," I would say. "Your journey has been long and hard, but you have yet to take your first step."

"Teach me."

"Before you can join me in the spirit world, you must first realise that everything is a bit shit."

"Even this conversation?"

"Especially this conversation."

"So, what's next?"

"Oh, who cares. I'm bored. And tired. Look, just go home. Or sleep out here or something, I dunno..."

"But it's one in the afternoon."

*YAWN*
*GUNSHOT*
*YAWN*

A whiny optimist is the worst kind of person. I am a whiny optimist.

I acknowledge the beauty of the world, but I'm too lazy to transfer that belief into day-to-day emotion.

If I wasn't such a fascinating miracle of matter and imagination, it would be quite a downer.

But I just can't keep the sunshine out! I'm exuberant. That's what I am.

I used to be uberant, sure. I was uberant for a long time. But I've put that behind me. No more uberance!

SuperCrazyRocketshipFunTime!

Here's my attempt at a dirty limerick:

There once was a girl named Regina
Who was born with a liquorice vagina
Coping well with the stress
She became a success
And didn't let her condition define her

It's a feminist parable. I'm like Germaine Greer in lots of ways...

***

I tried to write an entry yesterday, but I was bored.

Utterly, profoundly bored. I was bored on a fundamental level. It was a deep, physical boredom that penetrated my very being. Even my organs were bored, doing the same old job. My heart wanted to breathe. My lungs wanted to hear. My kidneys wanted to yodel - so bored was I.

It wasn't a trivial boredom. It was a heavy, depressing shroud. I could easily imagine someone committing suicide because of boredom. It would have to be something quick. None of this tedious sitting in a garage full of fumes. Slit wrists? Forget about it. I'd lose patience halfway through and turn on the telly. Hanging? Boring.

Of course death would be the ultimate in boredom. Imagine killing youself out of boredom, and then realising that you were still conscious after death, but stuck in your body. Same old coffin, same old view. Now that's boring.

So, yesterday, I was bored. Did I mention that?

I was bored on a quantum level. Even the minute fundamental particles, particles that behave in crazy unpredictable ways, were chugging along in a uniform line. They were bored.

You wouldn't think that I'd have such a short attention span, given that I'm pretty laid-back and let's face it: lazy. But I get bored so quickly. It's not a good quality. Also, it seems to be getting worse as I get older.

It reminds me of that Armando Iannucci sketch where someone is literally dying of boredom. Brilliant, it's on youtube!



So the entry I was going to write yesterday was about my annoyance at having a cold. The reason is: it makes me look stupid. With my nose blocked up, I have to walk around with my mouth open like a special-needs fish. People who breathe through their mouths are supposedly stupid. 'Mouth-breather' is an insult.

I don't know why. Why is one breathing channel more sophisticated and intellectual than the other? I suppose the nose looks more streamlined and futuristic than the mouth.

Don't get me wrong - it's no eye. The eye is by far the most advanced bit of face aparatus. But the nose is pretty good. The mouth is just a hole.

I got bored writing that yesterday. Can you see why?

So this whole entry is about boredom. It makes me think of when people say: "the only people who get bored are boring people".

Am I bored or am I boring? The answer is clearly 'both'.

That's a stupid expression anyway. That's like saying "the only people who get raped are rapists" or "the only people who get pissed off are urinating".

Yes, those are exactly the same. Directly comparable.

***

I've decided to open up a gym called Futility (in truth, that seems like hard work, but I might sell off the name).

That way, their slogan could be 'Exercise in Futility!'.

Lucy has suggested that all the exercises are pointless, like in the underworld. There could be the Sisyphus machine where you push a boulder up a hill over and over.

I'm going to make one million pounds.

***

I'll bid you good day with one of my many excellent TV ideas that I've honed in emails to Lucy:

I'm going to write a TV programme called 'Don't Forget Smelly!'.

My first idea was a kids' cartoon about a gang of friends who always go on adventures. But as they're setting out, their parents say 'Don't Forget Smelly!'. And they begrudgingly take him along. Then it turns out that Smelly always saves the day with a piece of quick thinking or bravery.

My second idea is a kind of anti-war polemic. An aging world leader faces difficult decisions/pressure from oil compaines and corporations to go to war. Each episodes has a flashback to Vietnam, where he discusses the meaning of life with his army friend Smelly. These morals remind him to keep true to his beliefs and pursue a course of peace. 'Don't Forget Smelly', he'll say to himself, looking at a sepia photo of them both. "I never will".

The flashbacks will form a continuing narrative, where we're led to believe Smelly was eventually killed. The world leader will remember scenes with sad music, and say things like: 'this is for you, buddy'. But in the end, it's revealed that Smelly didn't die at all. He just turns up in the Oval office at the end of the series, and they go bowling together.

I should write TV.

Desolation

I had a terrible day at work, for no reason I can identify. I went through several stages or boredom and depair. In an effort to channel my feelings, I wrote the following emails to myself.

The first is a conventional blog entry.

The second is something I thought would be funny, but probably isn't (I can't be bothered to re-read this shit). I thought a diary in the style of a war journal, but describing office work, would be good. Was it? You decide.

***

From:	FUNG, Paul (paul.fung@oup.com)
Sent:	07 May 2008 10:56:35
To:	paulmfung@hotmail.com

At about 11 o'clock every morning, I find myself in a stupor.


It's not necessarily a stupor derived from tiredness (I recently realised even on work nights, I get much more sleep than the average Joe, or Jane, or Crispin). It seems to come from staring at a computer screen for two hours without thinking or moving or blinking.

Once, in my last job, I went to the toilet, and there was a woman in there, washing her hands. She had obviously mistaken the Gents for the Ladies (as the urinals were somewhat hidden, this was understandable). Anyway, I was in such a work-foggied trance, that I didn't express the required amount of surprise at seeing her there. I should have paused. I should have done a double take, perhaps looking back at the door, trying to see if I'd made some mistake myself.

But I didn't do that. I was so out of it, I just vaguely acknowledged there was someone else in the room, and wondered towards the urinals.

I'm sure she found this unsettling. Being in the wrong toilet is distressing at the best of times. But seeing a seemingly unconcerned member of the opposite sex go about their business (in a metaphorical sense) must have freaked her right out. She may have thought I'd lured her there by replacing the signs on the door, like someone from a Warner Bros cartoon.

Luckily she made the first move, asking: 'isn't this the ladies?'


I, of course, said: 'I don't think so".


This suggested an element of doubt, which wasn't accurate. I knew if was the Men's toilets. But you don't want to sound too certain. I didn't wanted to sound condemnatory (is that a word?). But my glazed look can't have helped her perception of my reliability. I think she checked the door, to see if I was right.

If this was a comedy sketch, it would be revealed that it was the women's toilets after all. It would demonstrate the nature of my stupor. But unfortunately, I was right, which renders this anecdote unsatisfying at best.

So, at around 11 each day, in an attempt to stave off this malaise, I get a big mug of black coffee. After I drink it, I don't feel any more awake, but I think my imagination is energised. I start thinking of funny things, and coming up with theories about the world. I am bursting with creativity.

But I'm at work.


So I'm just looking at spreadsheets. I feel trapped in my own body. Shouting internally, demanding my release, but silent and frozen behind a fixed smile.

It seems like a bit of a waste.


I'm overflowing with optimism and see potential everywhere.


But I'm at work.


So, my only recourse is to waste time until the caffeine rush subsides. Or, I can write it all in an email to no-one. That at least looks like work. I hope people don't realise that my job doesn't really require any typing.

I'd better crack on with some spreadsheet work. Hundreds of rectangular boxes containing numbers and words and formulae. What am I doing here?

Does everybody else feel like this?


They don't seem to be typing as much as I am...

***

WAR JOURNAL #10

The heat falls from the sky in heavy globs, congealing like honey, caking my breathing holes; humming, buzzing, vibrating. Life here is a junkie's nightmare. The metal and wood sags and buckles under the weight of us all. The people wince and nod, and smile baited-hook smiles, and they've gotten used to it all.

I've only been here ten days, but I can't remember anything about home. Where did we keep the sugar? I just don't know. A cupboard, I guess.

The campaign is going well, they tell me. We've won victories in SAP and ABC. And AHEAD… Whew! You shoulda been there, they say. You shoulda seen the looks on their faces, they say. And I agree. Of course I agree.

The guys in the unit are alright. They were like me once. One of them seemed like he wanted to take me under his wing, call me 'kid', split his rations. But his eyes fell. My eyes fell today. I reached to pick 'em up, but they've been stomped into the dry ground, mealy shit - a meeting place for the flies.

The boys play games, but I can tell their heart's not in it. I make a bad joke and one of them coughs. We eat like we're using a little girl's china tea set, but our hands are two clumsy and bruised to manipulate the utensils.

Excel drills at sun-up. I can't move, but stumble down towards the machines. Lucky it's downhill all the way.

When you're smiling...

What am I doing here?

I ask, not in the existential sense, but in the physical one. Why am I in this office? This office. Why am I in this organisation? This city?

It wasn't choice, was it?

That's not to say that it's terrible here. Or even particularly tedious. It's just that I'm sure I should be somewhere else. Surely, someone with such a wide range of egotistical beliefs should be spectacularly failing somewhere expensive.

I am egotistical. It's just not always clear because I'm quiet and shy, and most big-headed people have a mouth to match. (The fact that I literally have a big head and mouth is irrelevant here, I think). I don't think I'm the best at anything, but I'm pretty good at loads of stuff, and I'm exceptionally brilliant at being falsely modest.

I'm certainly more talented than, let's say, Chris Moyles. And I don't hate Chris Moyles. But I could do what he does. Except he's louder than me. That's why he's a success.

And why I'm sitting here, being reasonably well paid to do fuck-all on a computer and drinking coffee from a mug that's dirty because I'm too lazy to go to the kitchen.

I'm lazy and quiet. A dangerous mix. Perhaps I should sellotape a megaphone to my mouth and snort cocaine at the beginning of each day, and I could zoom around the city spraying feedback and invention over the fools that live each day, moderately volumed, moderately hard-working, and unwilling to whine on the internet about their lot.

I'm lazy and quiet and afraid of being part of organisations. I hate the idea of 'working my way up the ladder', or being part of a system. I like temping because it's like tying a rope around me and anchoring myself to my bed so that I can't be sucked into the real world. I hate acronyms and forms and people talking about the quirks of colleagues. If I learn the names of everyone in my office, it's time to leave.

My only hope of success in a field I'm interested in is someone important plucking me off (easy, now) the street and thrusting me into the limelight. Which is difficult because when I'm on the street, I'm listening to my iPod and avoiding eye contact with passers-by.

I'm lazy, quiet, afraid of being part of organisations, and inherently optimistic. This optimism stops me from coagulating in the mass of reality, but also gives me unrealistic expectations.

A long time ago, I realised that I wasn't the main character in my own life. Now, I'm not even part of the cast. I'm just someone who lurks on an internet message board discussion of My Life, and I sometimes think of something to say, but don't post it because I might miss a typo, or because Match of the Day is on.

Hmm.

I'm not sure what that metaphor was about. It didn't really make sense, did it? In fact this whole post didn't make much sense, either. I'm actually pretty happy, and only wrote the above because I'm cold and bored and caffeined up to the arseballs (you heard me).

Well, at least I've added to October's post count! Take that, September, you nonce!

I feel a tremendous sense of achievement in writing about myself, to myself.

I'm lazy, I'm quiet, I'm afraid of being part of a system, I'm optimistic, and I'm so fucking egocentric it makes me want to puke

or dance or something I dunno....