Since I have given the title of a writer to myself now, an obligatory post about the meaninglessness of life and its depressions and troughs.
To be perfectly honest, there’s not much to say at this juncture. There are too many wants in my life. Desires, not needs. Foremost, I need more money. I seem to get more every year from my employer but it goes places I have not yet discovered. As more money flows into life, more expensive interests are born out of it. I want a better bed, a bedside table of some sort, an actual table too. There’s more on the list but I have forgotten about it. They are desires you see, fleeting and fickle. We accumulate them all our lives, never breaking the endless cycle of wants. Cars, houses, things to put in said houses, kids, things for kids. It never ends. Moving on, I want a better career. I mean, who doesn’t to be honest?
There’s people like me on one side of a pretty green pasture looking over the fence into greener ones. There’s people in there too, but all you see is their backs, all the better to place a target on. But you don’t think twice about why they have their backs to you. You see, they’re busy painting targets on the backs of people on the other side of their fence. And on and on it goes. I’m sure there must be some pasture where the grass is so green and so thick that even our insatiable desires would be satisfied. Here, I can graze in peace. At that point though, the target on your back must be spectacular. But then you can face the would-be’s and repel their attacks for you have no more fences to look over.
I want a degree. I am not certain which one. The infamously expensive, famously empty, but also reliably pocket stuffing three letter one is the basket where my eggs currently reside. There are options that I could explore, but going off the beaten path is not something I am good at. I get lost easily and would probably be robbed blind. Very gullible that way. Yes, there are options. No, I am not qualified for any of them. Yes, I am trying very hard to get myself to try and do something about it. But I keep putting things off to some distant future where I will take charge of my destiny and procure myself the dream job. What it is, I know not. How I will accomplish this, there is no plan, but only a blind, stupid, moronic faith that it will sort itself out. I should start smoking up if this is to be my life plan.
I want a woman. Hush, feminists, I am more of an equalist than all you lot combined. I just don’t brandish my principles around on social media like a dick. A woman of great importance to me is necessary. I can’t just have a girlfriend. Not like that. Yes, sex is necessary and important and companionship is good too. But I am drawn to far more heady stuff than that. Such qualities are nigh impossible to find in girls and I haven’t the first clue on how to go looking. I found one long ago, but she slipped away. Now the issue of comparison remains that refuses to go away. Standards, some people would call these things, requirements is what I prefer. But since women do not present themselves in handy IKEA do-it-yourself kits, the search carries on.
So I have no prospects, no woman and no plan to acquire either. Hence, the ennui of life. What is the use of it all. It goes nowhere, crushes you ‘neath its moronic routines, makes you suffer fools, morons, ass-kissers and backstabbing rats. Gives you no quarter, kicks you in the face, asks you to smile for its trouble and pay for it as well. Meaningless she is, and yes it must be a she. For a tempestuous beast such as Life must be a woman. Men are far simpler creatures and come with a handy one page, three step manual of operation.
All of this blabbering and blubbering hinges on the tiniest of things, a change of scenery. A bit more travel, more adventurous friends, a victory of some sort might uplift the spirits like a balloon rising fast into the sky. But until such an occasion presents itself, the balloon of this writers life lies deflated, pricked by Life and devoid of all colours except blue.