You shouldn’t worry about what others think

It only affects every aspect of your life.

Often, we are told not to spend so much time worrying what others think about us. It only matters what you (the person in question) thinks. Unfortunately, this is yet another thing that doesn’t hold up to much scrutiny. You should definitely worry what others think of you. What others think will decide how you progress in your chosen career (or more likely the career that you tripped and fell face first into and now have to live with forever). What others think of you will determine your relationships and subsequently your family life. Every aspect of your future is reliant on the whims and thoughts of others.

Which brings me onto my point.

We spend our entire lives forced to prove ourselves. First, it’s fairly easy, we must learn to control our bladders. Strangely, we’re the only creature on the planet that does this except for maybe the domesticated dog, but that’s only because we’ve forced it on them. Around the same time, it’s walking and talking.

Then comes school. This is the first of an endless string of proving grounds. You must prove your academic prowess…

*Side note* for those that are interested, the following paragraph is very much a message in one of the amazing short stories written by the great Watergipridget.

You must constantly prove your ability to read words and then to write words. Then you must prove you can grasp the arbitrary rules that surround the notion of words. Let’s be frank. Grammar is shit. For any self-confessed Grammar Nazis out there: not only are you a twat, but the very thing you hold dear was laid down by old dead men and subject to the whims of humanity. The rules of grammar are dictated by use. If we all decided the semi-colon belonged after an ‘n’, then by god this blog would look preposterous.

As you strive to prove you’ve obtained the basics of pedantry, you must simultaneously prove you’ve grasped the deliberately confusing world of numbers and their relationships. “A stall at the fair is selling punnets of strawberries containing 15 strawberries for £2.40 each. How much is each individual strawberry?” – What kind of fair is this? If they’re being sold by the punnet, what’s the point in knowing how much each individual strawberry is? No one’s going to try and by three strawberries.

You must prove yourselves in high pressured exams where you are awarded with letters that follow you around for the rest of your days.

But it doesn’t stop there. If your letters are good you can’t relax after losing your childhood to school. Then it’s the real world’s turn to run you through the ringer and then take a steaming hot turd on your chest. You must constantly prove that you are worthy of those letters against other people with similar or better letters.

You must prove yourself through job applications and then prove yourself in an interview. You must sit opposite strangers as they evaluate your life choices, your looks and your personality. What they think about those will determine whether you’re allowed the job. If you can prove you are better than others, then you can finally become a valued member of society and start earning money.

But it doesn’t stop there.

You can’t relax and think, ‘finally, I can let go of this anxiety and start enjoying life.’ No, then you must constantly prove that it was not a mistake that the powers that be employed you. You have to prove that you deserve to be paid over the thousands of other humans and fairly intelligent lemurs that can do your job. You must work hard. Put the effort in. Put the hours in. You must succeed. It’s not enough to just turn up, which in itself is a challenge.

At this particularly gruelling stage, the fatigue starts to kick in. Your muscles burn (figuratively if it’s an office job, literally if your job is laborious) and your soul starts to weep (always figuratively, otherwise I recommend seeing a doctor). It’s here you start to realise the futility of it all. The criteria on which you are judged becomes arbitrary or downright insane.

Then there’s that weird quirk of humanity. Often, we dwell upon and remember the negative events of our pasts and lightly skim the positive. In the world of work this is turned up to the n;th degree, by which I mean to the point of absurdity. One day you could leap out the window and fall several stories in order to provide a soft landing for a baby dropped from a slightly higher floor. You’ll receive barely more than a nod of approval before receiving an email stating that the time spent saving babies will be taken out of your lunch break. A few weeks later you might fall foul of simple human error and you’re pulled into a disciplinary. ‘but I saved a baby?’ you will cry. ‘We can all save babies!’ they’ll respond.

You’ll start to question why you bother. There’s no benefit to this endless proving. You’ll be unable to explain why the people ahead of are ahead of you. They’re no less deserving than you, but nor are they calculably less competent. You’ll become despondent and even be tempted to slack. But you can’t. The minute you slow down you’ll be overtaken by those behind you.

At the end of these endless trials, when we have eventually ‘proven’ ourselves (with varying degrees of success) as much as we can, we are rewarded with death. It’s at this point you stop wondering if it’s worth all the fuss and realise that it definitely isn’t.

I’m a simple man. I’d quite like to spend my life sitting on a chair in contemplative silence (and the occasional scream of existential despair), every so often, I’d like to look out a window and maybe see a pigeon, though I could happily live without. I am denied that life as that would be too simple. No, I have to go out and ‘try my best’ as the television shows I watched as a child would tell me. You can do no more than your best. We’re all just trying our best and sometimes, our best just ain’t good enough.

I often wonder if I could be one of those people who reject modern life. Who gives up all material things and lives a life of quiet meditation. Then I realise that that’s impossible and the only people that truly manage it are eccentric rich men and odd monks who live in remote locations anyway, so they may as well reject the material because the nearest Apple shop is an expensive flight away.

We humans struggled with evolution. Really, we’re stuck in the tribal phase where ‘survival of the fittest’ meant just that. Those intent on proving themselves would charge around waving spears and bringing death and destruction to those that couldn’t prove anything. I’d have let them get on with it. I’d say ‘no more of this madness’ and sit down and look out a window. Those that could prove themselves did, and those that couldn’t died.

On the surface, we’re civilised now. Those that can’t don’t die. Instead, we linger on.

We keep going,

Hoping for the best

Think not too deeply on these words

I say them just in jest

Don’t let them tell you, you ain’t worth spit

because you failed their test,

After all, we’re all the same

Just some are better dressed.

Note: I have no internet, so had to tether to my phone. To save precious data I didn’t go looking for funny pictures.

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Time is somewhat shorter

Tomorrow is the 30th, which theoretically means the next day will be the first of May. May is a month I always forget, in my mind it goes: January, February, March, April, June, July…. May interrupts the flow. We should just get rid of it and pad February and August out a bit. However, that would make it seem as time is going even quicker than it currently is, which brings me on to my point: time is going too fast.

Tuesday will herald in the start of the fifth month. We’ll bid a tearful farewell to April and plunge head first into whatever shit May brings our way. It’s utterly terrifying. Just yesterday it was Christmas. The week before I was sixteen and my band had just won Hertfordshire’s under 18s Battle of the Bands. I had written a novel I was sure was going to be a best seller and could say with some degree of confidence that I was definitely going to star in a few blockbuster movies.

This year I turn twenty-seven. The band’s guitarist is putting on weight at an alarming rate, the drummer is having a child and I’m fairly certain the bassist died… perhaps in some sort of unexpected golfing accident. I realised my novel was shit so wrote some other, decidedly less shit ones which got rejected by multiple agents, and I was an extra in the Theory of Everything. It’s a film I have yet to actually watch and have no intention of watching. I don’t understand biopics. They’re either embellished to the point of pure fantasy or boringly accurate. Ultimately, we know how they’re going to end. Also, since watching Game of Thrones I can rarely get into anything that doesn’t involve a sword fight or gratuitous nudity. I doubt a biopic of the late great Stephen Hawking has any of that.

The point is, none of my dreams show the remotest chance of coming true. Which is fine, if we all achieved our dreams the economy would be in a state of disarray. But my next ‘big birthday’ is 30. We all know this is where the clock really starts ticking if you’ve not achieved anything interesting and/or don’t have a partner or indeed any sign of finding one (all of those are true for me). People in their forties might shake their head and tut at this, but that’s only because they’re living in denial. 30s is the beginning of the end. It’s all just a matter of waiting for death by that stage.

Having started a job (a fairly good one, but it’s too early to claim it’s a career yet), time is rocketing by at such a pace I am destined to wake up one morning and catch a glimpse of a haggard, heavily bearded man clad in ragged and rotting clothes. I’ll look into his worn and dead eyes and see me as a youthful man trapped inside, weeping. I will then scream and run outside and get hit by the bus of the future, which still won’t be flying, and a single will cost £450 in future money.

The weekdays zoom by, despite being at work, which is a notoriously dull place (again I quite like my job, but still). The weekends are gone in an instant. I go for a poo on a Friday evening and when I emerge it’s Sunday afternoon, Monday’s looming over me and I haven’t topped the electricity meter up.

Soon it will be summer, the worst of all the seasons and then it’ll me Christmas again, the worst of all the celebrations. I will have no more time to write shit unpublished novels, having time to find a love interest and then devoting time to the unnecessary convoluted human mating ritual will be but a mere fantasy and before I know it, I’ll be writing another half arsed blog about how my next birthday is 28, and things still annoy me.

Then one day, I’ll realise I’m 86 and that it’s time to die. Death will come wandering in, I’ll get up to try and nut him, but dislocate a hip. And he’ll say, ‘You know, it only feels like last week I saw you being born when I was passing through the hospital to geriatric wards.’

I’ll ask him if I’ve led a good life.

He’ll say I’ve led a distinctly average one.

 

 

 

 

Sci-fi Satire extract Pt II

The last extract of my current work in progress got me more likes than my blog has ever got apparently. A whole 11 or something like that. Anyway, here’s another bit because I want to capitalise on my success.

 

Chapter 3

Olliwoo chimychim mawoolie sooly.

  • An old Verdradt saying.

Loosely translated to English, the phrase reads ‘I have lost my hat.’ To a human this seems meaningless. Just buy another hat, they might say. That, again, falls down to a lack of understanding. See, the Verdradt were born with very odd shaped heads. No two heads were the same, but all were equally as ugly. The Verdradt condition was one of constant insecurity and self-loathing. They’d look at themselves in the mirror and feel nothing but disgust.

Then the hat was invented.

The hat was a marvellous thing as it finally allowed them to cover their unsightly noggins. Each Verdradt, as they came of age, would start work on their very own hat. It would, over the years, be added to. Ribbons, bells and all manner of ostentatious ornamentations would be added. Like their hideously misshapen heads, no two hats were alike. The hat became the individual. The hat became life. Everything a Verdradt did, everything one achieved was shown on their hat. The hat became them.

For a Verdradt to lose their hat meant to lose their way in life. To forget their purpose. A verdradt who lost their hat, lost all their drive and ambition. ‘I have lost my hat’ wasn’t a trivial complaint, it was a howl of anguish, a cry of despair. It was admitting failure, it was a thing of tragedy, it was crumpling in defeat.

Maybeck often felt as though he had lost his hat. Yet there were also times where he felt his hat sat too heavily upon his head and was going to crush him. He didn’t know what feeling was worse.

Ill Thought Out Ranting.

In theory, with education your life should follow this progression:

School – GCSEs – A levels – University – a reasonable job.

Or

School – GCSEs – An arguably less, but still reasonable job, but without the wasted 3 years and mountains of debt.

As it happens it actually seems to go like this.

School – GCSEs – A levels – University – Nothing, absolutely nothing you’re going to have to fight for a job in a pub which will work you 47 hours a week for very little money until you wish you were dead.

Universities are no longer educational establishments. They are graduate factories, built on an unsustainable economic model. They use fancy marketing, with huge open days and lovely catalogues that show beautiful nineteen year olds smiling giddy smiles as they joyfully expand their knowledge.

There’ll be a page of numbers that tries to bamboozle you into thinking that those with degrees are 120% more likely to get a great job when they leave with their degree. They’ll be so likely to have a great job that many will have a job without even realising it, some will have two, a few will have so many they won’t know what to do with them.

The government are in on this too. It was not so long ago that David Cameron, then Prime Minister, said he thought 50% of people should go to university. Primarily because it keeps the ‘unemployment’ figures down and lands people in debt and Western economies are reliant on people being in debt, but we’re not here to talk about that.

They then go on to drop random statistics saying n% of graduates are in employment, so the system works. The survey is often flawed at best, however taken at face value, the statistic is usually impressive. However, may statistics fail to take into account the capacity in which these people are employed.

We live in a world, where more people than ever are degree educated… and yet, we are not in a golden age of efficiency. With so many university graduates, surely the business world would be booming, the world of science should have discovered flying cars by now and there shouldn’t be a place on television for ‘Love Island’.

Instead we have history experts waiting on tables, English Literature nuts pulling pints, astrophysicists working in milkshake shops.

Why is this?

I do not know.

Perhaps it is just the very fact that so many people have degrees, devaluing the whole system. Unfortunately, we live in a time where unless you have the best degree, from the most prestigious of all universities, you will find yourself in employment limbo. Retail and hospitality won’t want you, they’ll see your degree as a sign that you’ll flee at the earliest chance. Companies looking for graduates won’t want you, because they want the best of the best.

With a 2:2 you’ll find yourself cast aside and left to flounder in mounting debt and lack of fulfilment. People’ll say ‘why not try teaching’, which in the current climate you’d be better off blowing your own legs off, you’ll earn more from your disability allowance.

Then there’s the issue of experience. Graduates will routinely get turned down for jobs based on their lack of experience. In order to get experience, you will need to get a job in your preferred sector, but in order to get a job in your preferred sector, you will need experience, and to get that experience…. Well shit.

One day, all the people with experience will die. Then where will we be?

Well, no worse off than we currently are.

Whilst there are jobs (much like the truth) ‘out there’ the number of people looking for them are much higher. Supply and demand comes into play and unfortunately, whilst you may show some of the desired attributes, employers will decide to go with candidates that better suit their criteria… though they will helpfully wish you luck with your job search.

You’ll need it.

 

Make me feel less like a failure and download my kindle book. It’s reverent, silly, playful, self aware and incredibly cheap.

If Love Makes us Human, I Wish to be a Potato.

The majority of us will occasionally have day where we get punched in the heart. Depending on how attractive/charismatic you are (or in most cases the lack of such qualities) you may experience this on a number of occasions. I am of course referring to that oft mentioned feeling of unrequited love. If you have never felt this, then fuck you.

We’re obsessed with love and the loss of it, and the never having of it with particular persons. Just look at the history of song writing. Sorrowful love ballad after angry ‘why don’t you love me song.’ In order to understand this feeling it’s key to understand just what love is. Now the best minds throughout time have struggled with this one. It is in essence, what makes us human. There are infatuations, which can range from mild to severe, crushes, which are always mild… and there are the odd ones where you fall in love with an actress you’ll never meet and email her agent video clips of you weeping.

Then there is that feeling. The profound, inexplicable feeling that rests in your chest and drops down to your stomach and then shudders through you whole body. This is the real deal. This is love, and it’s scary and irritating and disrupts your sleep, and makes you late for work, then they say “why are you late for work?” And you say “I’m in love!” and they say “Well whatever, we’re docking your pay!”

There is no explanation from this. That is what makes it a truly human feeling. It is safe from the clinical eyes of the scientist who has a deep rooted obsession with trying to break things down into their constituent parts and give them long, sciencey sounding names. It is separate from lust. For when you get this feeling, sex is often far from your mind. In fact, you will be prepared to watch an entire season of that ‘Unbreakable Kimmy Shmidt’ sitcom with them, just to be in the same room. To give you an idea of just how profound that statement is, the ‘hit American sitcom’ is awful… it is, my flatmate watched the whole thing, and even when I wasn’t in the same room I was filled with the urge to smash some plates and use the shards to gouge out my own eyes. Words do not do this feeling justice, so to adequately describe it, I want you to start screaming. Not in a shrill way, nor a scared way an interrupted, disjointed scream that has no external cause.

Have you done it?

I’ll know if you’re lying… good.

Now there are two things you can do (technically three, but the third involves snapping and murdering everyone) when this intense feeling of love is not reciprocated by the unwitting vessel of your adoration.

  1. Act cooool it doesn’t really matter. It’s only feelings at the end of the day… nobody died (apart from you… on the inside) let’s continue with an amicable friendship. Push those feelings down, bottle them up until they mature like a fine wine.
  2. Go down fighting. List, in a reasonable way, all the reasons why loving you would be beneficial for everyone. Make sure they know just how you feel. Play them the above sound clip if needs be. Fight back against all their arguments. If they bring out the line ‘I just don’t like you in that way’ thinking that would be the end of it, grab a hold of their leg and scream “LOVE ME!” whilst oceans of tears leak from your besotted eyes.

Neither one does much to quell the potent brew of sorrow, regret and anger. Yes there is anger, anger directed at the world for being so cruel. Why give you these feelings if they will amount to nothing? Save to bolster record sales?

People will try to placate you, play down the tragedy that has befallen you.

“There’s plenty more fish in the sea.” Is what many like to say. Alas, this is an outdated phrase as, due to over fishing and pollution, our fish stocks are rapidly dwindling. The phrase should be “there ain’t many fish left! Fuck, what have we done?”

I get the point however; there are lots of people in the world (potentially incorrect use of the semi-colon there, please feel free to say so). The laws of probability dictate that no matter how unlovable you are, someone will be able to power through for the sake of killing loneliness.

When you are reeling from a shattered soul, a pulverised heart and a crushed mind this is not helpful, especially if it comes from the person you love.

There may be plenty of fish, but those stricken by love are taken by one fish. And, this phrase seems to forget the old adage: it’s quality, not quantity that matters. There is no helping at a time like this. The only course of action is to drink a lot and be alone with your self-pity.

In the weeks that follow, the outside world will become a terrible place. It’s filled with them. The happy people. The people that walk around holding hands with their significant other, desperate to show the world just how happy they are. Look! We’ve found love, isn’t that nice? They’ll parade this love before you, mocking you with it. Some will even go so far as to embrace – in public! Fuck them. They are bad people. Happy people are terrible people.

Every person you meet will somehow, unbidden, mention a boyfriend or a girlfriend. You, being bitter and twisted will enquire as to the quality. Hoping to pull at a thread that unravels their love, leaving it one ruined and smelly knitted love jumper. TAKE THAT LOVE!

But they’ll disappoint you ‘we love each other!’ of course they do, or worse – they’ll be in that content stage of a relationship, where they are effectively one person, their love doesn’t need to be spoken, it’s evident in the fact that they have week long arguments about washing powder. People who don’t love one another don’t waste time with such conflict.

Love is painful. It’s very very painful.

If love is what makes us human, I wish to be a potato.

TheFuzzyRambler.

Stupid Manhole.

Stupid manhole. It’s always there on the way to work, this irritating little manhole in the middle of a busy road and as I wait for an aeon (whatever one of those are) for the green man to allow me to cross, I have to listen as car after car clatters across this stupid manhole. Each time it emits a sharp noise that startles and enrages me. Clat-clat, it goes. Day in and day out. I hate it. I hate it so much. Not even sure it classes as a manhole, more a sort of square drain, but manhole sounds better.

This annoyance plagued me this week, no matter where I was I couldn’t stop thinking about this manhole. At my desk, tapping away at my keyboard. In meetings, in the shops, in the pub as I stare at my own gaunt reflection in the dregs of my beer. It followed me around, it wouldn’t let me sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, all manners of grey hues creeping about. I lay there, heart pounding, and sweat sticking my neck to my pillow. I felt like some sort of giant slug excreting a coat of slime. Clat-clat… Clat-clat.

Stupid Manhole.

It was when I was staring at it on my way to the bus stop that I realised just why I hated it so much. This manhole represents all the annoyances, the constant irritations, the anger inducing scenarios that we have no control over. I can’t move the manhole, I can’t get the cars to stop running over it, can’t alter the laws of physics to prevent the noise that irks me so. That manhole, that stupid manhole is life.

Then, unbidden a tidal wave of things I hate and cannot seem to change crashed into the side of my brain, which hurt. It represented petty people in positions of authority. It represented those annoying people you see at the customer service counters in shops, shouting at a poor young girl because they bought an iron and it doesn’t work, and no they don’t have the receipt. Before you know it, they’re making casual comparisons between the customer service lady and Nazis.

Stupid manhole.

Represents the slow decline of the planet’s climate, which despite what the Green Party tell us, we are powerless in stopping. I read somewhere that all the recycling we are doing, all the measures we are putting in place to reduce CO2 emissions are primarily combatting pollutants sent up there in the 50s and 60s, so we have some way to go. Not to mention, that no matter how many tons of coke cans we flatten and reuse, how many jam jars we rinse out and put in our little red bins… America and China are still going mental.

Stupid crappy manhole.

That seemingly innocuous bit of infrastructure represents poverty, corruption and world hunger. We can’t do anything about it, we can’t. We’ve been trying for years and made no headway. It represents the endless stream of pointless shitty little wars that humanity seems intent on pursuing, displacing thousands.

It represents Donald Trump (cunt) and Boris Johnson (slightly less of a cunt, but still a cunt). It represents Isis and the ever present threat that some arrogant turd could blow you away in the name of some deity you don’t believe in, because no doubt they’ve been led astray by mad, petty men in positions of authority.

Fucking manhole!

It represents my own irrepressible anxiety and impotent anger. I’ve tried meditation, it’s a load of shit. I’ve tried breathing techniques and I just start hyperventilating. I’ve tried all manner of pseudo-psychological nonsense. I’ve even had counselling, but I was kicked out my last appointment for questioning her choice of career!

Stupid Fucking Poxy Manhole.

It represents our constant grappling with the notion of our own mortality. The rampaging advance of time, which we are powerless to stop. It represents the very idea that we are all rapidly decaying, charging to the point of expiration on a planet that is dying. On a planet we played our part in murdering.

Clat-clat. Clat-clat.

Stupid manhole.

 

So Many of Us Feel Lonely That it’s Probably Alright.

So many people seem to consider themselves lonely that it’s probably alright.

Talk to enough people and I wouldn’t be surprised if you found that a large number of them, at one point or another, start to lament their loneliness. They’ll decry their lack of social lives and apparently empty, meaningless existence. Even I occasionally glance back to my youth (at the age of 24 I suppose that’s a somewhat melodramatic start to a sentence), and think of all the friends I had and wonder what the hell happened to them? It would be satisfying to think that their sudden exit from my life was due to some dramatic world shaking event, like an intense and bloody war with invading, otherworldly creatures. ‘Remember Barry?’ I might ask, ‘what a great guy he was… shame he was decapitated by a Minotaur.’

Obviously, that’s silly; I would never befriend someone called Barry. Anyone called Barry tends to be really miserable, probably because their parents didn’t care about them enough to give them a decent name.

In reality, as I contemplate the complexities of life – usually on the toilet – Barry (the hypothetical Barry) is probably doing the same thing. He too, will be about to heat his beans for another bleak and isolated dinner. Then he might turn on the television to watch one of those popular sit-coms that, failing spectacularly to represent reality, shows a group of lovable idiots being sociable, and doing fun things and getting into a number of hilarious situations with their many friends. Countless people are doing this all over the country, all over the world even.

Or, if not doing this, their glassy eyes will be transfixed upon a screen, their faces bathed in their unnatural glows, as they scroll down page after endless page of Facebook, Twitter, or something else… something altogether more narcissistic and self-indulgent, like a blog or something. Because we live in a strange world, where we are all more interested (obsessed even) with other peoples’ lives. The lives of other people are infinitely more interesting than ours, even though, not to labour the point too much, everyone else is pretty much doing the same thing.

Even those who happen to be in one of those awfully insipid romantic relationship things are no doubt stuck within that inch or so beneath their skulls, which they cannot truly share with anyone else, try as they might. They probably sit there, wondering what happened. Why are they so dull? Why are they so lonely? I think I can safely say, without any doubt, that anyone in a relationship lies awake at night, looking at their sleeping partner, their chests rising and falling rhythmically and think ‘Why, why must it be like this?’ And when they wake in the morning their first thoughts will no doubt be ‘oh god! It’s happening again, why didn’t I just die in my sleep?’

I’m sure the above is true. If anyone argues with me, they’re obviously some sort of drugged up hippy. These are the thoughts that we have. This is adult life. It is completely incompatible with a social life. We have jobs and things, we have to get do the things to get paid, those really important things that if we didn’t spend 8 hours a day doing, the world would fall apart and we’d all fly into the sun (which wouldn’t bode well for me as I’m very fair skinned). By the time rent and bills have been paid and all that food that the government tells us we need to eat has been bought, we have no money to do anything on the weekend, other than sit on our lonesome wondering why we are so lazy.

I don’t quite know what my point is supposed to be here. I’ve had a bottle of wine. The issue is, we often live by the phrases, ‘you only live once’ and ‘life’s too short,’ two phrases that when combined put an awful lot of pressure on the individual to cram as much excitement into one day as possible. Problem is, excitement can be exhausting, difficult to work 40 hours a week and have fun and maintain friendships. Yet, we convince ourselves that everyone is living the high life, that everyone other than us is out every night rubbing shoulders with the cultural elite, or snorting exciting substances off the backs of beautiful courtesans. We feel, that if we don’t do something with our lives, that we’ll miss out, that we’ll fail life. Truth is, most of us don’t really know what we want to be doing. When pressed, we’ll probably panic and say sky-diving, but that will no doubt lose its appeal after a while.

I think the crux of my slightly disjointed, ill thought out rambling is that, on the rare occasion you do leave your house. On the odd night where you venture forth into the brightly lit outside world with other human beings, appreciate it. Enjoy it, really try your hardest to enjoy it. Immerse yourself in every moment, no matter how mundane. Really concentrate on the conversations you have, take in every detail and treasure it. Because you never know when Barry could meet his demise. Don’t do what we tend to do. Don’t spend the night desperately seeking out intercourse, because you’ll most likely go home alone and disappointed, or with someone, which just prolongs the moment you feel disappointed. We’re too obsessed with sex these days, we think sex gives us purpose. If we’re having sex we’re doing life right. It speaks of a certain level of shared insecurity, but that’s a ramble for another evening. Enjoy your rare moments of ‘unloneliness’ and remember, that when you are at home, feeling sorry for yourself and decrying your loneliness, remember that everyone else is just as lonely, so it’s probably alright.