I’m really fucking bored. I’m bored of the same places, the same seats, the same faces. I’m bored of the routine. Bored of how I can’t see a way out of the debt that enforces the routine. Bored of the hypocrisy and idiocy I show by going out and spending the money I should save if I want to rectify that last statement.
Bored of boring people. Bored of boring lives. Bored of people who aren’t boring. Bored of you. Bored of her. Bored of him. Bored of not just getting the fuck over that. Bored of this laptop. Bored of the internet. Bored of needing to go to the shop in a bit. Bored of staring at the 17-year-old checkout girl. Bored of questions. Bored of answers.
Bored of your life. Bored of your job. Bored of your funny stories. Bored of your sad stories. Bored of your jokes. Bored of everything about you. Bored of everything about me too. Bored of music. Bored of silence. Bored of TV. Bored of books. Bored of games. Bored of films.
Just a bit bored, really. Only boring people get bored, etc etc etc etc etc bored of writing etc.
Or maybe I’m just regretting watching the computer race a car around on Gran Turismo 5 for the last hour in a B-Spec endurance race. Who knows?
Sorry to be boring and talk about this crap again, but I’m very tired and need to go sleepsies soon. Anyway, I know you all secretly love every time I write about losing weight and that you all want me to succeed and feel every knock to my confidence when I hit bumps along the long, winding road of… umm… yeah. Whatever.
This has been the absolute worst week for my health kick since I started it all of not that long ago. From the “I’m so hungover, tired and drunk that I literally can’t do anything other than order some fried chicken” or last Sunday, through the stupid work stupid meeting after stupid hours where I stupidly got a stupid kebab and onto yesterday’s “yeah, whatever, pizza is fine” I’m not doing so well.
Naturally I just ordered a burger. I’m hungover and tired again, leave me be.
Hopefully when I weigh myself on Tuesday we can all see that I’ve lost some pounds and will therefore be able to continue this style of ‘not really doing it properly’ and just shoving my stupid face full of cheese and shit all the time.
Yeah, that’s your lot. No apologies for the shitness on show here. No retreat, no surrender, no remorse etc etc.
I was dicking about earlier today looking at holidays to silly places (namely Bora Bora, close to Tahiti). I thought it would be a good little experiment to see how much of my yearly salary as a percentage it would take to have one week in a luxury resort, with everything included. Now, I’m not going to divulge the exact figures or %s here, but it wasn’t looking pretty.
Then I saw it.
There are times when you are surprised at something – in this case, prices. You are surprised, but at the same time you knew damn well it was going to be like this. You feel a combination of shock and pride, as you are taken aback by the number that confronts you, yet smug because you predicted it would be about that. But this other number… this was something special.
On the island paradise of Bora Bora, it was possible to rent a three-bedroom mansion/palace/some shit like that for around £156,000. For seven nights. And I’m not even sure if that was all inclusive. One hundred and fifty-six thousand pounds, and you don’t even get to keep the house afterwards.
That might not shock some of you – in fact I’m sure it won’t. But it’s the first time I’ve ever made a number that big come up when I’ve clicked on things. Even back in my youth when I got a Chrysler dealer in Sheffield to quote me the price of a Dodge Viper (he didn’t know I was 15) the number wasn’t that big. I didn’t feel shock and pride this time though – I felt shock and like I’d just been neutered. I will never, ever be able to even think about possibly ever even considering thinking about possibly ever going near the ‘book’ button for that particular “deal”.
I mean obviously I booked the place, but that’s besides the point.
Shared housing is a big bag of sweaty balls (sometimes literally, depending on how many men you live with), and I don’t like it. I still have to do it, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to afford the beans I like so very much, nor the fake Pot Noodles. It’s an unfortunate situation, but as soon as I’m not crippled by debt I may be able to get my ass out of there and away to somewhere where I can actually live how I want to without some pathetic, petty nonsense causing someone to complain at me.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about living with friends here – I don’t really class that as shared housing per se. Though it does come with its own problems, it’s nowhere near as bad as the minefield of fury that is living with, as they say, “randoms”. The main reason for this is quite obvious – I could go into details of individual examples, but that would be boring and irritating. For me. The main reason is this: random people are exactly the same as strangers, strangers are members of the public and – as we all know – members of the public are contemptible shrews of humanity. Boring, devoid of positive elements of their so-called personality, petty, ugly and stupid. Very stupid. Basically, it all boils down to this.
Oh wait, I live in shared housing. Damn.
Sorry this entry’s a bit phoned-in today. Lacking any drive to rant/joke about anything and I only have one hand to type with. First person to make a wanking joke wins the prize.
P.S. I feel a bit daft about yesterday’s entry, as it turns out this weekend has been one solely comprising of ITV coverage. Curse you, FA Cup. You mean my praise of Sky was less relevant than it should have been, and that I had to put up with Tyldesley saying clubs should have some kind of long throw training, and that he was surprised clubs didn’t have players capable of long throws, aside from Stoke. The man is a fucking dillweed.