Depressed Crushed

I think it's true to say I think I'm possibly falling apart slowly.

I guess I'm sick of pretending I have even any slight interest in anything at all.

I'm not even sure I can be bothered to get out of bed tomorrow.

I'm tired, tired in a way you cannot understand.

I'm thirty in forty three days.
And I've played my last hand.

I wonder. Thirty years from now, will I be staggering out of the pub back to this flat on a Saturday afternoon and lieing in a stupour on the sofa watching the football results come in?

Will the microwave ping to let me know my Rustler Burger is ready?
And will a half forgotten memory stir in my head that once upon a time I actually did something constructive with my life?

Something to do with a red V sign.

And will my addled brain remember that one at time it could process more complex things than betting slips?

Will I remember that at one time I looked good in a suit?
That I was a petite little pretty boy, with specially cultivated curls which I could chew on if I pulled them straight?

I've spent all day brooding on this. Most of last week in fact.

I didn't do very well with the living fast, dieing young and leaving a good looking corpse. Too late for that.

I guess there's a time for everything.

And sometimes there's a time for realising that your life is just screwed up beyond repair and you might as well just anaethetise yourself any free moment you have, to get through the bloody thing as quickly as possible.

Man cannot live by bread alone.

Hope. Or plenty of Alcohol. You need one of the two.

Am I being depressing?

Yes, OK. I'm depressed.

The flat is spotless. That's usually a HUGE giveaway that I'm in a state of nervous tension. I haven't got the measuring tape out yet and started measuring the positions of the chairs to check they are flush, but I can see it coming (Yes, I DO do this when I'm really wound up. I'm not a cleanliness freak, but I am a symmetry freak. I do have a slight OCD about symmetry and when I'm wound up, it drives me mad. As an aside I'm going to tell you all something that people who know me well will make sure to remember, or deliberately forget, because they know it really annoys me. Embassy cigarettes, have a diagonal red band on them, pretty much the same width as a cigarette lighter. When I put my cigarettes down, I always put the lighter flush with the band. If people use the lighter and then put it back not flush, I will immediately position it correctly.

Put bluntly, this living on your own business sucks. I can't even concentrate to write a post and it takes me three times as long to read other people's posts.

I can't be bothered to cook and have had burgers and onion rings alternately with sausage and bacon sandwiches for a fortnight.

I'm really trying to summon up the will to carry on with the posts on the history of human systems, and the series of posts which is supposed to follow, but I just feel as if the life has been sucked out of me.

I was talking to Dizzy today. Here is the conversation;
Dizzy: Oh, look at your sad little face! What's wrong, you're not yourself.
Me: Oh, nothing. I'm OK.
Dizzy: It's not this being thirty thing is it?
Me: Partly, I guess.
Dizzy: That man on the internet isn't calling you Charles Manson again is he? (I did show her that, not that she understands any of it)
Me: No, no. Though that's partly it as well I guess. He doesn't let up. He believes it as well, you know.
(Pause)
Me: Dizzy, do you fancy coming to Brighton?
Dizzy: Who else is going?
Me: No, just me and you. For the weekend.
Dizzy: Oh, Crushed, we've been through this. I'm WITH SOMEONE.
Me: Yes, but no one need know. And it's not like that. I just really want to go to Brighton with you. I like you, Dizzy. A lot.'

And it's not about sex, I don't want sex with her. She's just really nice and I really want to be close to someone right now. Just for the weekend.

I may be turning thirty but I feel like I've returned to adolescence.