I just don't know what to do with myse-he-helf.
I think, with all this very specific lack of direction in my life, I'm becoming progressively more addled and turning into a cardigan-wearing combover like Bryn offof Gavin and Stacey, complete with the misplaced sense of own funniness.
This morning, for instance, I finally struck on the method to prepare perfect porridge in the microwave. There's a mathematical and scientific foundation to the perfect porridge you know, and it is this: Five scoops of oats (level), milk to within no less than an inch from the lip of the bowl, a 'flourish' of squeezy honey (I call it a 'flourish' of honey now) and precisely 2 mins and 34 secs of microwave later, the *ping* signals the arrival of breakfast manna. Even if it resembles a bowl of dead leper soup in appearance, its thick but not too gloopy consistency is a minor triumph.
I'm genuinely disturbed that space actually exists in my life to not only find this out, but also that it represents some sort of achievement in the day. What's worse is, this morning I actually said out loud, to the pot plant on the windowsill: "Uh huh huh, I get my oats every day honey." Now that's just fucking incredibly sad whatever way you look at it.
I'm sure the plant bowed its head a little and cried.
I then repaired to my bedroom and contemplated tidying it. My room is messier now than it ever was when I was working, and ostensibly busier. I like to keep it higgledy-piggledy, mostly for the exscuse to use Gerard Manley Hopkins phrases like higgledly-piggledly, but also for the illusion it conjures that yes, I am way too important and called-upon in this world to have time for mere domestic chores. Besides, I like the way my strung-out longsocks look like a trail of dead, dehydrated ferrets making for a drink from the toilet bowl in my ensuite.
In short, I am somewhat worried at the turn my mind is taking. I recline on the memory foam pillow, that's forgotten more bad times than good, and resolve to keep my brain supple. At which point I take out all my clean underpants and christen them with first names like Aristotle and Marmaduke, and then I serve them tea and fairy cakes in little china cups.
It doesn't work. I leave them on the floor with the ferrets and tell them not to fight.
I still feel a little dead inside, incomplete and numb in the brain. I needs myself a woman, I think, that'll give me something to get my teeth into. Specifically, a tall woman. I'm 6'1" and tired of stooping for the vertically challenged, God, so send me an elegant, lithe wrap-around woman I demand, post-haste. God listens and decrees it a tall order, and reminds me that I'm possibly jetting off half way around the world if things fall right for me, so I can't be going about the place continuously trying to put my hoo-hoo-dilly in the fandangoes of lanky lovelies! (As the man upstairs would say, if the sixth commandment were slightly different.)
But I swear, as God's my witness (he's there above, where'd you'd expect him to be) if there's one more of those awkward water-cooler moments at work I won't be responsible for what I do.
I go on to facebook next. It's where I do my most of socialising now that my life is rendered meaningless through lack of socialising. Someone sends me a rude quiz where you work out a virtual fine you owe to society based on your sexual adventures, the ruder the deed, the bigger the fine. "Have you ever used toys during sex?" goes one question. Yes, I reply, one girl was so shit that I whipped out an etch-a-sketch mid-coitus and drew houses to keep myself amused, does that count? I got no reply.
Ah well. Just a few more months treading water and then I know where I'm going, as opposed to just knowing where I'm not. Onwards.
The curse of automation
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