So, a month has gone, and despite all of my good 2015 intentions, each days rolls into the next, as uneventful as the one before.
Unless a job comes through.
And then I jump to it because (a) I can, (b) I don’t have to reveal anything about myself and (c) it pays.
But, apart from that, it’s generally a more boring version of Groundhog Day.
I still haven’t gone to yoga. I still haven’t gone to the gym. I still haven’t put my flat on the market. I haven’t written anything, not even my blog.
I have been reading though, and have just finished a book called ‘Life After Life’ by Kate Atkinson where the protagonist keeps coming back and reliving the same life time and time again, a concept which I found pretty horrifying.
I mean I’m willing, well, resigned to sticking this incarnation out, but coming back? I mean surely it’s like the Big Brother house? Once you’re out, you don’t have to go back in?
Or if you do have to come back, can’t you choose another more advantageous person/body to be for your three score years and ten? For a start, I wouldn’t be a woman. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. I didn’t even get to procreate this time.
Or an animal? I’d happily be some kind of four legged creature, ideally in the wild please?
Or even a different woman?
But to come back as me? Again and again and again, fucking up left right and centre, until, on my eightieth incarnation I actually nail it? Maybe.
That’s just fucking mean. Because I know I’m not hitting it out of the ball park this time around.
And I still haven’t really got a plan.
My ad hoc plan is currently living vicariously through the housemates in this year’s Celebrity Big Bro, which is fucked up because (a) it’s shit TV, (b) they’re nearly all even more mental than I am, and (c) I actually found myself arguing with some other freak on Twitter about whether being amused at Perez Hilton’s jibe at Calum Best (‘I’m gonna stick my dick up your ass!) means that I supported rape or not.
Given that I myself was a victim of a real, honest to goodness, pin-you-down-force-cock-in-fanny assault, that rankled somewhat. Especially as it was an insult not a threat, and big butch Calum would squish effete little Mario like a bug if he even glanced in his direction.
So I found myself arguing online on a Sunday night with a complete stranger over some pitiable, pathetic, narcissistic ‘celebrity’ who neither knew I existed and would probably care even less, and that’s when I realised that I could spend the rest of my life doing this wasting shit, and no one would intervene and save me from myself. Not only that, but there were more of my kind out there desperately following and emotionally buying into these crappy shows so that they didn’t have to face how pointless and meaningless their own lives are.
So I closed the conversation and stopped watching reality TV.
Oh and I’m eating! I’m eating loads and turning into a right little butterball, so I now have a goodly layer of fat to protect me, along with my other avoidance and repelling tactics. That should keep the men at bay!
Yes, F-E-A-R is still in da house, peeping nervously from behind the burly, threatening bouncer like frame of my ‘Angry Protector’, whilst his erstwhile brother the ‘Avoidant Protector’ turns on the box, breaks out the boxed sets, shovels cake in my gob, and does everything he can to keep me in the Colditz of my own making.
But unlike those POWs and indeed, unlike those ‘C’ listers in the CBB house, I can actually leave this place if I want to.
And I’d love to round this post off by promising you that I will walk out and stride forth and get involved in my life of my own accord.
But I say every day that tomorrow will be different, but then tomorrow becomes today and all bets are off.
Plus, if I’m gonna have to come back time and time again, what’s the rush?
It might be Colditz inside but…