Ah the best laid plans of mice and men and also, women. I plan. I really do plan to do better at being an adult… but I feel like underneath this shell of having a job and a mortgage and sometimes paying bills, an unemployed and very obese person is crying to be set free.
Do you ever go home to your parents house (presuming you don’t still live there) and come across old drawings and notes and stuff you did when you were a naive little rascal full of potential and innocence and love for your dog and parents and teachers? (That’s the correct order, yes)
Does it give you a sinking feeling mixed with a kind of stale pride in the nice personality you once promised to develop… the useful, eager member of the human race you might have become… when you come across a poem you wrote for your friend when her kitten was crushed by the neighbour’s minivan, or the I.O.U a hug voucher you made for mother’s day, you fucking cheapskate? (But she liked that stingy crap better than the fucking bath salts now)…. I know I do.
You don’t even have to go that far back… for instance, today I was clearing out a week’s worth of handbag clutter (disgusting). And I came across something so foolish, well-meaning and ultimately depressing, it provoked a similar sad little smile and an internal, patronising shake of the head.
It was this:
Shit, I don’t have a scanner. It helped for the cute factor that my handwriting hasn’t changed much in 18 years. Who writes by hand, I ask you? Anyway, It was a schedule of things I was going to do the other day. It had very generous time slots allocated for resting, watching episodes of Psych, and getting shit done. I had also planned what I was going to eat, and written in huge demonic scrawls all over the page was “AND THAT IS ALL YOU WILL FUCKING EAT!!!!” (I’m supposed to be on a diet before I fly back home in 2 weeks and get my sex on with some lucky member of my phone book who was so drunk they don’t remember the horror of last time.)
I was going to pick up all the clothes from the floor and put them away neatly in the monster wardrobe I bought which was going to solve all my messyness problems. I was going to sweep up the remaining broken glass under the bed which I only really pushed away with my foot the other day. I was going to clean out my fridge with the newly purchased fridge-smell-make-nice-spray and I was going to mop the floor, load and unload dishwasher, organise my overdue bills and make a proper budget, varnish some furniture, inflate the tyres on my bike, pick up my skinny pills from the post office, talk to my bank manager and bring down the bottles and cans which are starting to attract insects to my balcony. (At least it’s keeping them away from my bed full of pizza crumbs) And I would still have so much time to do other stuff… And I was going to eat only miso soup and drink water. And snack on berries.
And what really went down that fateful day? I watched ALL my remaining Psych episodes. (Now commencing withdrawal symptoms. Muttering “you know that’s right” and “fist bump!” to myself like a demented person) I ate a frozen four cheeses pizza and a packet of hot dog sausages which weren’t really heated through but I can’t afford electricity any more, not like before. I drank a half bottle of wine that had been open for a few days. I didn’t do anything on my list. Actually I did paint a coat of varnish on a small table that was getting pretty manky looking… but that’s it. And after that I lay down all sweaty and felt like I had conquered and deserved to eat some of those biscuits I hid from myself. (hint: you can’t hide food from yourself. It’s retarded.)
Reading that well-organised timetable of productive person tasks is depressing. It’s not that hard to keep a tiny apartment tidy. Why do I collapse under the weight of having to hoover, like once every 2 weeks? And I know I’m not going to do anything tonight, because I’m going out for drinks and when I get home I will be drunk and hungry and will eat another frozen pizza. (They were on special offer in Lidl. Yeah. That kind of frozen pizza. I know, it’s shameful behaviour for someone who lives in Italy…) And I have no Psych left. Last night I watch blast from the past with alicia silverstone and george of the
jungle bomb shelter. Oh man I feel so fat and horrible. I’m at work as usual and the shelves are dusty as fuck and there is no way I’m cleaning them today.
And I look at my list, and I remember how fervently I believed I would actually achieve all those tiny, easy goals… I really did think I was going to GET THINGS DONE.
And I never do. Because I write myself an A4 page full of promise and wondrous productivity and I forget that things don’t get done on their own. I will actually have to do them myself. At work me is bored and stuck in a shop with customers thinking, “tonight I’ll solve one of my problems and then tomorrow I’ll have one less. It’s so easy to just get on with it and hoover the top of my wardrobe so every time I take down my skinny bag (the bin liner full of clothes I can’t fit into that I occasionaly delve into in the hopes of seeing some effect of my half-assed diet) storm clouds of lint and dust and MATTER don’t rain down on my upturned face and into my eyes.” And because I’m so bored, it seems like I’ll be bored at home and hoovering on a ladder will not seem so taxing and unlikely.
Except “home from work me” is not bored. She has food to eat and cigarettes to smoke and wine to drink and a motherfucking laptop to stare at in barely-amused-any-more addiction. And there’s porn. Neverending porn. Oh yes. There will be no chores completed. And if I sent my laptop in for repairs, I just know I would probably get nothing done either and I would just go to bed at 8pm and sleep until the alarm buzzes and go through the motions until he gets back home, my love, my life, my laptop. I just wish he wasn’t heating up so much, but can’t bear to be without him long enough to get him fixed. Last night I opened him up for the first time and realised with the keyboard hanging on by a sinew, reminding me disgustingly of a face transplant…(really horrible they actually take people’s faces RIGHT off, and for brain surgery too. Your FACE. It just comes off. Ugh.) that I don’t have any compressed air and I don’t have whatever that gel is that keeps things cool inside, what is it called, cooling gel? Thermal gel? And wouldn’t know what to do with it…
I’m way out of my depth here. I closed him back up and had only one screw left over. Not too bad! Go, wannabe nerd! Hands shaking, turned him on… he started up. He was still overheating by the ten minute mark but I realised how foolish I had been opening him up with no clue what I was doing and how lucky a save it was. Didn’t even know if my screwdriver was magnetic or not. But computer is still ok. So that was a massive waste of time I could have spent cleaning and all I did was remove a probably vital screw from a very expensive and essential posession of mine. NICE.
Now that I’ve voided my warranty, I probably have to fork out for some expensive computer repair guy who will want to keep him for days and charge me my left nipple for the service. I think what I need to do is start sleeping with a guy who knows more about computers than I do. A lot more. And then he’ll just fix it for me for free, and quickly. Except I can’t even get laid with my existing, wide, wide net, so I definitely can’t afford to incorporate “knows how to replace that gel/knows what and where is the heatsink” into my list of important qualities alongside atheism and not being skinnier than me. And other stuff too but can’t remember- it’s too long since I actually referred to any of my standards other than “is hot”.
Because really, honestly, from the depths of sincerity- that is the only standard there is. And even that falls away with a few beers. And still no action… Although there will be action very very soon because I’m going home for a week’s holiday and I’ll be able to go out get fucked up and find some homeslice to lick the stomach acid from the corners of my mouth. Home sweet home, motherfuckers!