Eternal Frustrations of A Befuddled Mind

Why, oh why are people so tiresome?

Do you get that way? It doesn't have to be something that concerns you directly. It could be anyone around you and suddenly all that they've been/are going through becomes your own personal pet pain in the neck as well.

I get tired sometimes. I get so caught up with everyone else's woes, problems, miseries that I forget about me. Like even now, I'm eating my dinner of greens and chicken but I'm not tasting anything because my brain is in overdrive with so many issues concerning so many people that I can't even taste the bloody food I'm eating. My eyes tell my brain that I'm eating chicken and greens (no carbs = excellent) and my hand manages to coordinate with my mouth and shove food in but I am not tasting anything. I am eating like a train engine. My hand is the engineer that shovels coal into the furnace and it all stops there because my brain is absolutely jam packed with a whole load of other nonsense that I cannot taste the bloody food I am putting in my own mouth anymore.

And if that is not fucked up ladies and gentlemen, pray tell, what is?

Because my fingers are flying across the white keys of my macintosh trying to synchronize themselves into forming words, sentences and other coherent sentences that make some bloody sense of everything that seems to be sloshing about in my head.

Pardon me. I did not mean to come across as utterly pissed off and irate at myself but perhaps I am. I don't know. Therein lies the problem. I don't bloody know what the hell is going on anymore.

You see I wake up in the mornings and open the papers and all I get is bad news with the R-word thrown about randomly like a bingo number, Retrenchment, retrenchment, retrenchment. If not that then it's floods, droughts, bush fires, arsonists, Rihanna getting clobbered by Chris Brown. Dear Lord, is there no end to the bad news?

And so I proceed to drag my sorry carcass to work and plod through the day in a manner most befitting of an ox headed for the slaughterhouse asking myself again and again, why the fuck I keep doing it when I have no desire or heart whatsoever to even PRETEND/FAKE interest in it anymore. The word MONEY comes to mind and I suddenly feel another overwhelmingly nauseating wave of disgust directed at my ownself for being/behaving like a cop out.

Plus there's the fact that I have to bite the bullet and think about my mother and brother and that stupid piece of paper that I am slogging for. It's not just the paper that kills me. It's also the fact that I seem to have professors from hell who are probably siblings of Freddy Kruger from Nightmare on Elm Street who insist on plaguing your dreams each night with impending and never-ending deadlines that you know you will never be able to meet. It's knowing that you've paid all that money to guarantee yourself a lousy grade. To be honest, I would prefer to barf in my most expensive pair of Nine West shoes.

Oh my darlings, I am not done. I can rant some more. Read on if you will. Go away if you don't care. I cannot be arsed either way.

Let's talk about personal life shall we? After all, the personal life always includes another person. Sometimes it's ALL about the other person. You just sit there and play the insignificant stableboy part. Consider yourself fortunate if you have the stableboy role. In other circumstances, you might just be horse feed.

Horsey oatmeal or stable hand, just when you think you have it all sorted, your past pops up like an awful reminder of your first period/facial hair and you suddenly start to ask yourself, "Did I make a mistake here, somewhere, somehow?" What do you do when an old flame starts sending you impassioned proposals of marriage after you've been going out with someone else for two years? Do you play along and flirt shamelessly and then reprimand yourself for being a tart afterwards? I go on an almost Catholic guilt trip. I feel defiled and impure and want so desperately to consecrate myself by throwing myself into the Ganges. (I said that on purpose. I know my religions well enough thank you.) I can't believe I have to give disclaimers for the things I say on my own blog.

And what do you do when you've just had your birthday pass and you think to youself, "Is this it?" Like seriously, is this freaking it??? You mean, this is all there is to this bloody life? Was I put here on this planet, in this era, in this place for THIS mindless reason alone? Sometimes I wish I were Paris Hilton. I want the simple life. I want the most complicated scenario of my existence to revolve around deciding which pair of pyjamas will make me look more like a slutty praying mantis on the telly, Damn it, I want to be Forrest Gump, I am Sam and Derek Zoolander all in one.

*exhale*

*inhale*

*EXHALE*

I'm sorry. No wait, actually I'm not sorry. I should not be bloody apologizing for anything I say here. If you don't like it, then don't read because I clearly never asked you to. Think about it. You're only here because you're nosy. And if it's not because you're nosy, it's because you know that I am willing to say all the dastardly things that float around in your head but you don't have the guts to say. And if that's not the reason either, then it could only be two other things. You're either a real good friend of mine or you're pathetic tosser with nothing better to do with your time. Don't worry, I'm not judging. Be what you want to be. If you're really bored, send me an email and I'll send you some links to some interesting porn sites. Cool?

Right, enough then.

P.S. I really want some ice cream right now. But a cigarette will have to do.