Welcome. This is a blog about a man, aged thirty four, who still hasn’t got past ninety ninety four. That was the golden era. Super Noodles were good for you, not full of cancer like they are now. Since 1995, my life has peaked in a trough of sludge. Despite the loss of virginity thing in 2005, and the fucking in Plymouth in 2009, there has been little to celebrate. Sex is pretty much the only thing I enjoy, and that is scarce. Probably because I look like Tosh Lines from The Bill.

They say that women are attracted to men that make them laugh. Well, that’s rubbish. I’ve made countless women laugh, and my relationship history numbers two. Of course, it doesn’t help that I look like an animated rotten egg.

I thought i’d do a normal entry for you, every day. I used to do this, back on LJ. Now, with a bigger audience, (12) maybe i’ll make some more friends. Twitter is a good place for that. Meeting people relieves the boredom that I suffer. Boredom to me is synonymous with depression. A deep, drowning, throttling ennui. I often fall into this in the evening, while at home. Nothing helps. I try to write poetry, tweets, anything. This helps briefly. But then I am faced with a big chunk of nothing.

Perhaps it’s getting older. I used to feel every single emotion in pin sharp focus. Now, I feel little more than a consistent lethargy.

But, like I said, writing helps. Writing a journal has bought me friends and lovers in the past, I would do it again, just to meet some like minds.

Of course, this is primarily a comedy blog, so it’ll be more of that than this. On with the show.

Work yesterday, and another tiresome day working with the boss. On Monday’s it’s just him and me. Nit picking, looming about, criticising my work as usual. It’s one long chore. I’m pretty sure he’s going to sack me at some point. He doesn’t like the way I work, and I really have no energy to bother trying. I’ve had quite enough. Part of me wants to just get on a train and go somewhere, live in a forest, eat some berries, get a stomach ache, vomit in a lake. I don’t know. Working’s crap, isn’t it?

After all that, I did what I usually do after work, I got drunk. I walked home with my Ipod on loudly, and stood outside my house on the street smoking while singing the crescendo of a song. I began to swing my keys in time to the music. A stylish arc, roun and around, gleaming swishes in the moonlight. My keys are attached to a PIMMS thing, with an elastic string that extends a metre or so. This meant that I could swing the keys in a huge circle. I chortled as I swung, until the keys left my hand and dissapeared. I panicked, ripped out the earphones and stared around. No keys, I looked under cars, in hedges. Nothing. I began to think of the consequences. Those keys contain work keys. They cost a lot to replace. I walk around impotently, murmuring “NO. NO, please no. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. This is not good. Not good.” I look around for twenty fucking minutes, grimacing, finding nothing.

I go back to the place I was swinging the keys. I figured that the motion would have taken the keys over to my left. I had been looking there for all that time. I decided to look the other way. Immediately, I saw my keys. They were about a foot from the place I was when I lost them. I picked them up and kissed them, dancing with glee. I did a victory jig, said “YES! JESUS!” hopped indoors, into the bathroom and shat a relieving shit, peppering the bowl with a brown victory. It was like cheating death. It was like an orgasm for the relief glands.

If you lose something, finding it feels good. Perhaps I should just keep losing things.


About neilstilwell

Abseiling into trouble, a sewer rat staring at the stars. Disgusting. You can assist my search for the one ring by buying a Kindle version of this diary from here. It has some other stuff in it, and a dreadful cover.
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