Whinging waffle on a sunny Friday.
All is not well in the land of the fat cat. Words are being typed arseways, jobs ignored, ennui is rampant, a hollow feeling of lacklustre nowtniess persists.
It was there when I went to bed, it was there when I woke, it's here now.
It's nothing grand, no large scale blow, just a sense of, "meh"
Whence did this malaise come?
Wither the funk?
Too much law and order? Too much CSI? was NY too much?What's going on with Gary's face?
It can't just be me. Surely all of us at some stage have patted our contented bellies and sat back to soak up the relative peace of our lives only to suffer a spike or jab, a whisper of, 'something's missing.'
I got up today and wandered down stairs, I made coffee and, as it is another beautiful day, I went out to the newly shorn garden to drink it. A small pride of cats followed me.
'Puddy.' I said, for she was the only one who sat under my feet. 'What is it? What's wrong with me? Is it because there's nothing wrong that I feel so out of the loop?'
Puddy considered my words most carefully, but in doing so fell asleep -she is old- so I was left to figure it all out for myself.
In my ridiculously mis-spent youth I lived on my nerves a lot, I left home in a rage at 16 and was forever on the cusp of being a total and utter fuck-up. Many a time I tipped over the edge and swam about in the pool of fuckupidyness, but somehow I always clawed my way out.
Now here I am, thirty-four, content, happily ensconced with a good man, I have a good job and yet I'm sitting about like a twat, pondering the unponderable, naval gazing.
Maybe it's because there is no more danger to be had. With Memnoch off foreign the weekly terror is gone. Oh I know that sounds over the top and dramatic, but really, I feared him, we all did. And going to that sad excuse of a class last week just reminded me that not only did I fear Memnoch I respected him. It was a one or twice a week lesson in rage, terror, pain and triumph.
'Oh thank you' we'd cry, picking ourselves up and wiping the sweat from our eyes, checking ourselves for cuts, limping from his class, beaten, but alive. Thank you!
Or maybe it's because I'm getting sensible. I don't drive too fast anymore, I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, hell and this might shock you most, I don't even like to get drunk! (although I do like to drink, don't get confused).
Or perhaps it's the fear. You know, when you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stuff going well? Don't worry, something will happen, just you wait and see.
Maybe that's it, maybe I'm just the suspicious sort. Maybe the good weather is getting to me. Where's the rain and the clouds? The biting wind? Why can I sit outside in a t-shirt drinking my coffee in April? Why have I got a tan?
Meh, I don't know. Perhaps I just need to give myself a good boot in the arse, actually that's probably it.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to ring my mother. I'm going to tell her that I'm considering becoming a Wiccan.
It was there when I went to bed, it was there when I woke, it's here now.
It's nothing grand, no large scale blow, just a sense of, "meh"
Whence did this malaise come?
Wither the funk?
Too much law and order? Too much CSI? was NY too much?What's going on with Gary's face?
It can't just be me. Surely all of us at some stage have patted our contented bellies and sat back to soak up the relative peace of our lives only to suffer a spike or jab, a whisper of, 'something's missing.'
I got up today and wandered down stairs, I made coffee and, as it is another beautiful day, I went out to the newly shorn garden to drink it. A small pride of cats followed me.
'Puddy.' I said, for she was the only one who sat under my feet. 'What is it? What's wrong with me? Is it because there's nothing wrong that I feel so out of the loop?'
Puddy considered my words most carefully, but in doing so fell asleep -she is old- so I was left to figure it all out for myself.
In my ridiculously mis-spent youth I lived on my nerves a lot, I left home in a rage at 16 and was forever on the cusp of being a total and utter fuck-up. Many a time I tipped over the edge and swam about in the pool of fuckupidyness, but somehow I always clawed my way out.
Now here I am, thirty-four, content, happily ensconced with a good man, I have a good job and yet I'm sitting about like a twat, pondering the unponderable, naval gazing.
Maybe it's because there is no more danger to be had. With Memnoch off foreign the weekly terror is gone. Oh I know that sounds over the top and dramatic, but really, I feared him, we all did. And going to that sad excuse of a class last week just reminded me that not only did I fear Memnoch I respected him. It was a one or twice a week lesson in rage, terror, pain and triumph.
'Oh thank you' we'd cry, picking ourselves up and wiping the sweat from our eyes, checking ourselves for cuts, limping from his class, beaten, but alive. Thank you!
Or maybe it's because I'm getting sensible. I don't drive too fast anymore, I don't smoke, I don't take drugs, hell and this might shock you most, I don't even like to get drunk! (although I do like to drink, don't get confused).
Or perhaps it's the fear. You know, when you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stuff going well? Don't worry, something will happen, just you wait and see.
Maybe that's it, maybe I'm just the suspicious sort. Maybe the good weather is getting to me. Where's the rain and the clouds? The biting wind? Why can I sit outside in a t-shirt drinking my coffee in April? Why have I got a tan?
Meh, I don't know. Perhaps I just need to give myself a good boot in the arse, actually that's probably it.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to ring my mother. I'm going to tell her that I'm considering becoming a Wiccan.
posted by fatmammycat at 12:09 a.m.
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