I don’t want to be one of those seasoned pricks who is a thirty-something performance poet with a bookshelf full of DVD box sets. I am surrounded by idiocy and inefficiency, by stupidity and complacency. The kids are morons, their parents are morons. Everyone is so earth-shatteringly painful.
I am in a good job but I find myself looking elsewhere just to surprise myself and be unpredictable. I’m absolutely sick of milling around in circles and knowing exactly how everything will go. I can feel my brain slowly shutting down. I fantasise about suicide, I become pointlessly reactionary, and I escape into video games, as I always have done in the past. Is this just what happens in one’s mid-twenties?
Nothing I write is worthwhile because it serves only as personal catharsis. That’s fine, I suppose. I’m so angry. Whenever I have energy, it always seems to be angry energy. The rest of the time, I dissolve in a haze of alcohol and films I’ve watched a dozen times before. The ambition is almost definitely ebbing away. People who expect ambition from me, irritate me.
I don’t want to be one of those seasoned pricks who ekes out my lack of identity by becoming obsessed with a job. I don’t know.