Had a birthday at the weekend. Woo hoo.
Don’t mean to be ungrateful. People were nice. Gave hugs, wished Happy Birthday, bought me a pint, spent time with me, got me cards. I’m alive to see 44. Lots of people aren’t.
It’s four and a half years since I started this blog. Ostensibly to show myself that stuff does happen in my life, and as the proverbial kick up the arse to Get On With More Good Things – like writing, for starters.
Yet here my sorry arse is. Fuck all to show since blog instigation. First Monday after my 44th birthday.
The day started with the dogs going barmy at insistent knocks at the door. I didn’t answer. I was lying in bed frozen in place, heart pounding, hoping they’d go away. Hoping they were for upstairs. When Dad came to collect the dogs, he bought in the hand delivered letter they’d left.
I thought maybe it was the mortgage company’s heavy again – no matter how much my payments go up, it seems I’m never paying them enough. But no, it was some people coming to take away my car. My old banger with the autobot logo on the front that makes small people smile. My insalubrious car that smells of dogs that enjoy spending much of their time in mud and manure.
I had a run of bad luck parking at work last year, accruing several parking tickets in the space of a couple of weeks (meetings running over, being so caught up with things I forgot the time my ticket ran out, etc etc etc.) The tickets added up to £300 (now £393). I couldn’t pay. I kept putting it off. I put it off further and further till it fell out of my mind.
I don’t open letters, because I’m terrified of them, and I want to persist in my little world of Everything is Fine.
And so now I’m to lose my car.
This is all entirely stupid and irresponsible. I am perpetually stupid and irresponsible. I don’t seem to be able to stop being stupid and irresponsible.
I’m constantly given advice about things I should do, things I could do, or indeed how my life would be vastly improved by being more like the advice givee. On an intellectual level I know all the sensible things people say to me are sensible. I understand about the spreadsheets and the planning and the Getting Stuff Done, but I just can’t seem to do it. I have to give myself a stern talking to for hours to get myself to pick up the hoover for five minutes hoovering. Most often I fail to listen to myself, as my carpets will attest.
I watched The Punisher last night, when (as ever) I should have been doing something useful – maybe even something to advance my own life-fullfillment. I love comics and comic book heroes. They’re often no-hopers, loners, people that don’t Play Well With Others. They operate outside the law, live outside society, occupy the edges – and they Get Shit Done. I want to be a hero, want to make the world a better, happier, more peaceful and greener place, but I’m trapped – not only by my own incompetence and inertia. I feel like a worker in the hive; looking outside and dreaming of flying, but stuck on the treadmill of capitalism. There’s never enough money. Never enough time in the day to earn enough money.
But then we’ve established I’m rubbish at Getting Shit Done. Can’t even manage to pick up the clothes on the floor in the bedroom. (Where do all those socks come from? And the tights that bind everything into a homogenous lump?) I’m not the type of person that Amounts to Something and lives comfortably. I’m the type of person that accrues debts and fines whilst entropy accelerates around them.
I know I’m extremely privileged to have a flat, and one with a garden at that – which includes a stunning silver birch, and a triffid – but everything within is broken. I guess my abode reflects me. It’s damp, mouldy and nothing works as it should.
I probably should and could have enough to live on. But I don’t. This month I gave my last tins of soup to the Foodbank (it’s ok, I can scrounge food from Dad) and I’m attempting to sell my roadbike (the only thing I have of any value besides the car) so I can afford to attend my birthday party on Friday.
Even there see – another example of stupid and ridiculous. Fines, debts and no food, yet I’m throwing a party.
There’s the thing though.
I’m plainly shit at life and failing to do anything especially notable with my time on this marvellous planet, but I still want to make the world dance.
Let’s just hope I can find a way to join in.