I noted with ample terror not three minutes ago that it’s February, and has been for six days. Apart from the fact that this probably means all my library books are overdue, and I’ll soon be sodomised by late-fees, it has reminded me that I have failed to find a job. This aspiration (for such is the Olympian scope of my ambition) is not a New Year’s resolution or any of that old bollocks; it is simply a means of survival. To survive is not asking a terrible amount, but the longer I carry on as I am the more useless, lazy and physically shambolic I become. This makes finding gainful employment an embuggerment of the highest order. And seeing as I already have at least one metaphorical buggering barrelling towards me like a frothing, bestial rapist, I am keen to shield my fragile (metaphorical) posterior from further horror.
In all then, this evening has been one of unpleasant revelations. It’s February. My library books are overdue. I am unemployed and unemployable. I’m perilously close to running out of cigarettes, and I won’t be able to drown all this dreadfulness in corner-shop vino for another week. Truly, this time of year is the biggest pile of arse imaginable. It is the Everest of Arse, and I am stranded on the summit, having lost three fingers and my left buttock to frostbite.
At least reading Voltaire in April instead of revising has finally paid off. Just like reading The Picture of Dorian Gray the year before instead of the same paid off in its own good time. Chaps, I am making long-term improvements to my life without even noticing. You hear that, mother? I AM A SUCCESS.
Jamie
