Dead blog, dead blog.
I’m not sure I can keep this up.
I’m having a bad time.
I’m pissed off.
Since I got back from Burnley on Wednesday, I’ve been in and out of London on public transport for reasons of work. And I know I’m not well mentally because I find myself despising people with a passion which is clearly disproportionate. I’m like Grenouille in Perfume. I even despise their smell. Everyone stinks. And they talk the most infuriating, banal, stupid nonsense. Everywhere I turn, smoke, farts, cloying scents, alcohol, Jesus Army, television, views. I posted Howard Beale last week. I’ve since become him. Minus the compassion.
And my online life has changed too. In spare moments, which are few and far between at the moment, I’ve been trying to write about my dad. My mum. My family. My childhood. And I can’t. I just can’t do it. What I’m writing is turgid, overblown, judgmental, dull. And I can’t do it. This is the first time this year that writing for this blog has not come easy, and it disturbs me.
Another thing that disturbs me is that every time I lift the lid of my laptop, there is a new comment from my resident loon. On average I’m getting two a day now. I didn’t want to mention it because I don’t want to encourage her. Or him. But it’s starting to do my head in. It’s starting to get really disturbing. In the middle of one I received yesterday or the day before was the line, ‘I’m scared of myself and who I am’. As well as the general overall freaky tone of the comments, what worries me is that I’m starting to understand what this person is going through.
I feel like I’m one step away from a serial killer movie.
Plus I’ve been trying to find somewhere to live on Gumtree and in the process I’ve been bombarded with Nigerian scammers trying to get me to transfer money to a friend or relative using Western Union, so that they can then steal it. This scam has even made it onto the news. As far as I can see however, it’s got to be a piece of cake to fake a transaction and catch these fuckers red-handed when they go their nearest money-wiring agent and attempt to pick up the cash. I’ve been trying to convince people at Gumtree or Western Union to help me, but all I’m getting is stock responses, unanswered telephone calls and morons who are basically doing a job they simply don’t give a damn about. And this fucks me off immeasurably. I’ve actually been trying to do something decent, trying to do a good thing, to help people, and I’m being stonewalled every step of the way. No one gives a fuck. Except the scammers. They work hard. But nobody else could actually care less. Fine. So be it.
And now I’ve got to commute into London. The writer I’ve been doing research for wants me to do more but suddenly he wants me to do it from his home, sitting in the same room as him. Why, I don’t know. Presumably so he can keep an eye on me, make sure I’m concentrating hard enough. He isn’t paying me enough, frankly, to enjoy this level of supervision. Plus he farts. It’s hideous. I’ve asked him not to but he finds my discomfort amusing. I despise him. I despise everyone. Even the research he has me doing has turned dull. I was better off writing financial copy. At least I could do that from the privacy of my own stench.
And on top of that, everywhere I turn there are fuckwits like Giles Hattersley, the writers of Scallywagga and the readers of thelondonpaper and frankly, I don’t know how long it’s going to be before I find myself a couple of semi-automatics and bring Hungerford to the city.
When did my life turn into this thing that I dislike so vehemently? How did that happen?
It's amazing how quickly a little perspective can fade.
Anyway, how are you? No, not you, you psychopath. You. Doing anything nice this weekend?
Friday, 17 October 2008
Dead blog, dead blog.