Well, this is a strange
feeling.
I have, in the
interests of keeping myself off the streets, peddling 'Mary Jane' and
'Jazz Cigarettes' to our impressionable youth, I have decided, once
again, to re-re-start this blog. This will document my boring little life, the
people in it, and any alcohol-induced thoughts that I might happen to
stumble across when I buy whatever beer or wine that has a yellow
price tag in Tesco's.
You see, gifted though
I am with a lot of free time, my ability to fill this time with
things other than listlessly looking at pictures of cats is lacking.
I am constantly filled with the desire to push myself to great and
noble deeds: to write the next great British novel, to lift a car
over my head and to play the saxophone on the back of an aircraft
carrier, whilst wearing a billowing linen suit-jacket.
However, though the
mind is willing, the body is sluggish, pasty and slightly translucent
from weeks of not seeing the sun. I will take a deep breath and rise
from my chair with a pressing desire to change the world – this
feeling tends to last between four and twenty seconds, at which point
I will sit down again, slightly out of breath.
It is clearly not I
that is to blame here, but society. When I am confronted with nothing
to do there is no pressing need to survive, as my survival is more or
less guaranteed unless I try to eat batteries out of the remote or
try to ride my bike down the stairs; these things would be my fault,
and as I am too lazy to try them, I remain alive through inactivity.
However, the choice I
have when deciding on things to do paralyses me: so high is this
level of choice I am no longer selecting one activity but eliminating
thirty others. This blog is a way of adding yet another choice to the
already heaving mountain of trite time-sinks.
Good
on me. I give myself a pat on the back.
Back in second, I just
need to check something.
I have discovered that
it is eight paces from the desk I'm sitting at to the front door;
handy to know, in case a gunman runs up the sixty or so steps to my
flat, runs past all the other doors to mine and kicks his way through
to my living room. That should give me just
enough time to lethargically rise from my seat before I am riddled
with hails of psychosis-fuelled gunfire. As I lay bleeding on my
charity shop rug I gaze through the lounge window, and the
last thing I see is the permanently shocked/perplexed expression of a
local pigeon.
Well, I've run out of
things to say. I might update this again, but knowing me I'll just
forget about it, because let's face it: I'm a bit of a twat. I'd like
to talk about cooking, and D&D, and bikes, and the horrors of
writing something longer than a blog post, and the heart-breaking
levels of abuse you must receive as a result of such an endeavour,
but we'll see.
I am now off to a place
where I will try and do a karate chop on someone then fall over,
giving myself a concussion.
Good day. I said good
day sir.
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