Sunday, 15 March 2009

Sunday 15 March 2009

I have nothing but regret for my past and future actions.

So, after last nights somewhat weird exchange with Sara, I awaken this morning emerging on the other side of a dream where I have found myself being held hostage by terrorists for 21 days. Upon release my main concern appears to be my loss of earnings due to my going past the regulated five absent/sick days in a row. When I am released I sneak home and attempt to steal an extra sick day at home recuperating without notifying my company.

There is absolutely no indication in my dream as to just who the terrorist organisation is. Being my racist (apparent) temperament you would expect it to be Islamic but that’s not how I recall it as the memory fades and dies and becomes distant in my sea of insanity and mental issues.

I awaken far too early once more today, especially for a Sunday. I guess I did crash out early last night but to be up at 7.15 on a Sunday morning really does defeat the point of the Sabbath. And annoying such a jagged time means I miss the headlines on the news when I flip the TV on, not that anything appears to have occurred in the meantime. Didn’t I say this yesterday?

Today the survival instincts are kicking in this morning as I begin to consider/form a contingency plan and calculate just how far my resources would survive me this year should I become unemployed. The reality is initially rosy and suggests I could have a summer of fun but my conscience versus my mentality of responsibility in reality would not allow it even if I do feel inclined to dream it.

These days I am able to reconcile and justify my winsome and playful (really, slacker) weekends with the reality that I spent my weekdays working my bollocks off coupled with four hours squeezed onto trains with other commuter cattle and equally despicable members of society.

Early morning writing is the thing for me, a real winner in the face of potential misery. Watching the clock I decide to write and watch episodes of Californication until 10AM when I will do a newspaper run and maybe snag Guitar Hero 4. The plan is a great success as what I write is gold.

Venturing out is a breeze. I aim for the Sainsburys at Tollgate because to go to Tesco would just mean busy roads and entertaining the idea of road rage and Sunday morning aggro. As I drive along a Stanway road I see a person walking a Westie. Then mere seconds later I see two more people walking Westies and it is a beautiful thing, each looking like Snowy and Bobby while also looking different. Every dog looks happy and playful though. When did West Highland Terriers become the apparent dog of choice for/in Essex?

As I park up in Sainsburys and get out of my car I feel I should be wearing sunglasses as I smile at a sagging sexy lady with her shopping parked next to me. My demeanour and attitude today really does not match the reality of my appearance.

Things take a slight dip in fortune when once more the ATM/cash machine rejects my dogged Natwest bank card (just like it did on Friday when I was getting whore money). One lick of the chip later though and we are back in business. Ironically when I take my newspapers (Observer and Times) to the checkout I discover I have the correct denomination of change in my pocket anyway. Oh well.

I return home after tailgating a pension for most of the journey/ride – at what point this morning did my demeanour/attitude go sour? Back inside the sun suddenly comes out in full strength and unfortunately I know feel resignation at being stuck indoors now for the remainder of the day.

To compensate for such a potential low I put on “Fun House” at an unsociable level before chomping on my final four cocktail sausages.

Today is that Sunday in the month that Observer does its Music Monthly magazine. On the cover is that bland moose Adele (music for people who hate music), the thing that my American friend saw at the Roundhouse just before Christmas in an extreme act of mediocrity and banality. Her company that evening explained everything. I receive much derision and mockery from my friends for digging this magazine even though I admit it is not very good but realistically what the fuck else are you going to read on a Sunday? Fortunately the “Fun House” record is still playing as I read it, the perfect soundtrack to act as a timely reminder as to how the bands in this magazine should sound and act. And just as I type this I look down to see Iggy Pop rooted firmly at the bottom of the monthly downers section for his sell out act of advertising car insurance. There are another 1000 words somewhere else to be written about this little (BIG BAD) decision and moment in time.

Upon returning home I soon begin writing like a mofo getting a lot done for the second day running. There is only a certain amount of gratification from writing for myself and as I edge closer to completion of book #2 I find my heart pumping and my mind enthusing.

I continue to watch episodes of Californication season 2 until I run out of them. It’s a really likeable show, if a somewhat fantasy version of Generation X come good as beautiful people. When those episodes run out I switch to watching old Japanorama shows.

After overdosing today on vitamins and green tea I cannot face my Sunday can of Relentless so I never quite experience that final rush/high before having to leave for Sunday lunch.

Arriving at the olds for 3PM I am met by a very happy dog to see me. On screen the game on Sky is Tottenham vs Aston Villa but it soon gets boring. Afterwards when channel hopping I come across the American Office on Paramount and a particularly killer episode with Dwight having to do public speaking followed by the heartbreaking “take kids into work” episode with its subtle reference to Shockheaded Peter (this always reminding me of the Tiger Lillies and my tenuous link to them via Michelle in Earls Court).

Eventually once more I head home and finally manage to get my Freeview box and aerial working which sees me watching the climax of the original Superman. My god Christopher Reeve was smug and arrogant in that cape.

I fall asleep watching Talladega Nights which takes me back, reminiscing about the weekend I saw the movie in Leicester Square which was coupled with Jenny’s wedding, waking up in Harlesden, exchanging health tips with ladies of the night, watching Clerks 2 in Streatham and living a killer poker night that ended with me passing out on a bath mat in their toilet. Where/when did my life go wrong and stop being like that?

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