Birthdays

Birthdays

I never really understood how much I appreciated my friends until I found out how little they appreciated me.
Birthdays are a great indicator and even though I tell myself it’s no big deal I still resent them for not remembering the fucking thing. What makes this worse is that I’m being laughably hypocritical. I can’t even remember my own sister’s birthday. I couldn’t tell you which half of the year it’s in.
That’s a kick, no?
Well today’s my birthday and I am humbled by the lack of interest. We go through life absolutely certain that we’re the centre of the universe because to us we are. How could we think otherwise? We live inside our skin and take the starring role so it comes as a shock when we find out that everyone else is too busy performing their own solo to notice yours.
So what to do? Rant and rave, howl at the moon, get blind drunk and ring ’em all, showering them with abuse? None of that would be very constructive but who said I wanted to build anything?
Of course I could just stay in. Bury my head in the sand and mope, then, in a few days when I start getting a few sheepish apologies as they finally remember that they forgot, I could tell them not to be so stupid in a petulant, sulky voice and hang up. God that would be the truly English way to handle it wouldn’t it?
Hold on…that’s the phone.
My mother, ringing to wish me a happy birthday. I told her that no one else had got round to remembering. Her response was as predictable as it was unhelpful. She said that if I had a girlfriend then it wouldn’t matter what anyone else did or did not remember. A girlfriend is her solution to everything that’s wrong in my life. The most annoying thing is she’s probably right.
No thank you, can’t be dealing with that. Not yet. The scab is still not ready to come off; the flesh underneath is still too tender. The healing process I’m going through kind of makes it hard to recall what it was like when things were good and I was happy.
Alone feels safe right now; alone I can deal with but to feel so cut off, that’s what is making today so goddamn hard.
Still not even mid-day. I could sit in the sun but ever since I told the wankers at the bank to fuck off, sunbathe is about all I’ve been doing. I have spent the past three months sitting in the sun reading. Put that on my fucking CV and see where it gets me.
I could have a beer. So what if it’s just gone twelve and the only thing to pass my lips today was a luke-warm cup of tea – it’s my birthday and I’ll drink if I want to. Then again drinking on your own can be boring, (not to mention sad and a little too close to my father’s alcoholism). I should know – that’s the other thing I’ve been doing non-stop.
The thing about unemployment is that you go from a highly structured, reasonably comfortable schedule – one that most of the adult population abide by – to an avalanche of freedom. Getting anything useful out of a day becomes a real struggle when there’s no one twisting your arm.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. I went in there and told ’em exactly what I thought of them and their job and for the next couple of days I felt like a total badass. Then I started going out on the lash on Tuesday afternoons and now when I look at my bank account I get the shakes so bad that I have a drink to calm the nerves.
I keep telling myself that there’s no point in me signing on the dole because I’ll get another job any day. It’s not worth the hassle of all the paper work. I suppose it means that now I’m neither paying taxes to the Man, (okay – VAT and shit like that but not directly), nor receiving handouts from Him I don’t exist. There’s a comforting birthday thought.
Scared of cheating on the present I fail to think about the future. I’m stuck between now and then and neither one looks much fun. That’s why drink is so appealing. If you’re a drinker then you’ll always have something in common with God – you don’t give a fuck.
I open the beer but to compensate for my guilt I put some bacon under the grill and smear a thick layer of butter onto a couple of thin slices of white.
I eat my bacon sani and sip my beer whilst contemplating what being twenty-seven MEANS to me. In the end I’m pleased to discover that the answer is in fact FUCK ALL.
So I’m twenty-seven; so I’m unemployed; so I’m on my own. Welcome to the new millennium, an entire generation infected with a seam of detachment running so deep that the only way we can imagine digging ourselves out is through drugs. No wonder the nut houses are overflowing.
Dead Time – that’s how I’ve been living lately. I don’t even bother switching the TV on anymore unless I know there’s something I’m actually going to enjoy. Sounds obvious doesn’t it, but it’s unbefuckinglievable how often I switch the bastard on and end up watching two or three hours of truly dire daytime nonsense. Programmes about MDF shelves painted mauve and fat housewives having makeovers. They package them up in neat little half hour segments that nibble your life away one tiny bite at a time.
Guilt is the only thing that gets me out of bed. There’s nothing to stop me wearing a dressing gown all day and then slipping back into bed that night pretending that I hadn’t just lost another day to the great big nothing my life has mutated into.
This really is living life on the sidelines but for all my dark thoughts on the current situation I can still remember well enough how empty I felt trudging into a job I despised everyday. One big no-fucking-win situation if you ask me.
You only become worthless when you admit you have no worth. Is that right? Where did I get that from? – some book or other. Well I’m not sure it’s true but it’s as good a reason as any to believe in yourself. I mean you may well be a worthless good-for-nothing but what’s the point in admitting it?
I think my problem is that I don’t like any challenges that I haven’t set for myself. If I’m going to bust my hump trying to get something done I need to know that whatever I’m doing is going to enhance my life and not just make a few more quid for some inane corporation.
That’s the phone again…
It was Sid (he’s got a laugh like Sid James). He’s made a few calls and got in some persians, mustered up a bit of a crew for tonight. Meeting him when he gets off work – gives me…four and a half hours to kill; easy money for a pro like me.
Funny how a little self-pity can send you off on one, eh? Oh well, bollocks to the above. I can always get a job tomorrow, who knows, I might even pull tonight. That would please my mum no end.
End