So, the new year has come and gone bringing the grim reminder that despite Jules Holland’s tacky festive buzz, things are still the same if not fucking worse. I can’t decide on if it’s the weather; my inability to make productive, meaningful decisions; or this weird caffeine-induced nausea I have from my relatively late-night coffee. This time last year I started watching The Good Wife on Netflix and right now as I type it’s playing on in the background making me once again wish I picked anything other than media production for a vocation. I blame Julianna Margulies’ dead eyes, in all honesty.

I have key things I need to resolve for this year, the first and primary priority is doing the coursework I was meant to start several weeks ago but alas, each time I go to open the study books I have the strange urge to tear my fucking eyes out, and impale the bloody empty sockets on the nibs of the new gel pens I bought from WHSmith’s for the new semester. It’s dangerous how much I’ve thought that hypothetical fantasy through although it’s refreshing to be different from fantasising over all the joy I would be revelling in the roads not taken over the past two years of university. Perhaps I should take my own advice that I gave to my housemate who a few weeks ago was in a rage over ketchup consumption: ‘jerk off and go to bed, you’ll feel better in the morning if not with less self-respect’. I wonder how many wars have started in the world thanks to world leaders not taking that on board. Its fun to think we live on a planet where Bush declared war on Iraq because in some old dried up, hill-billy fashion he was just sexually frustrated. If not fun, at the very least sadly ironic and just another feather in the cap for toxic masculinity. Well not just toxic masculinity’s fault – maybe Margaret Thatcher, for example, just felt weird about getting intimate in No. 10 and decided to fuck the worker’s unions instead.

Christ, that was a tangent.

In other news, another sound resolution that I will definitely not take on board – or possibly even acknowledge in anyway outside of this piece – is to eat more vegetables because that incredibly cliché Jamie Oliver bullshit resolution is much more manageable than pressing matters. I don’t even know why I don’t eat more vegetables and I’m blaming all the vegan-bashing that I’ve been doing for the past year or so. I could go back to living off cabbage soup again and loose more weight that I desperately need as I slip out of David Tennant’s Doctor skinny and into the zones of an early-two-thousands Victoria Beckham. The M&S steak habit is becoming decadent, after all.

Two resolutions are enough, right? Fuck it, it’ll be fine and no one needs to be told what to do by an arbitrary date invented by Romans. That perhaps is another nugget in this weird ramble that should be taken on board more by people for self-improvement in the ever-arbitrary new year. Damn, I’m quite impressive with this sort of thing when I stop talking about myself.

Holy shit, I’m a narcissist – resolution three: don’t do that in 2018.


Tea Cups

There’s a horrible reality that at times, you get bored with people. I’m finding myself experience that more and more and I think that my underlying disinterest with people is aiding my descent into having a much smaller group of people that I can call friends. It’s like when you’re a kid and you love the old Thomas the Tank Engine show but now years on, even the thought of Ringo Starr’s narration sends you to sleep. The sensation is strange as you can remember the days when these people were interesting and you had all the time in the world for them but now their company has become as much of a chore as watching a kettle boil.

I don’t know if I’m alone in that but recently I’ve come to see that it’s becoming a real problem. Of the thousands of people we meet in our lifetimes it seems only a mere handful are worth paying attention to. Vladimir Propp and Tzvetan Todorov understood years ago there are only so many characters and stories to find. While our tastes differ and we all see something interesting in different people, there can surely only be so many times we, as human beings, can stomach repeats. I’ve found personally, that I have a very limited tolerance for reruns. It can turn an attraction into an irritation – which in turn can be a problem itself because when investigating why there’s an irritation that can turn into attraction again, creating an enormous shit spin cycle. I’ve witnessed people who I found captivating morph into dull dishwater before my eyes throughout a period as short as a conversation about pillow covers.

Maybe it’s a symptom of the modern world, growing up on a television culture where I require constant mental stimulation or I’ll start to die like a pudgy, slovenly shark. Yet, to blame society again is just another excuse that has served as a get-out clause for many an arsehole the world over. There’s a guilty feeling that you get in your gut made even worse when you feel that person, quickly turning just another faceless, boring television extra, is starting to warm to you as you did to them. It could probably be helped with relying some more on the superego than the id which tells every fibre of my being to run away. That bit of self-help is unfortunately impossible with the id being a subconscious and wild animal that can only be identified after it has torn through the china shop of our lives.

I really think we all need to probably accept that as a collective because it’s the conclusion I’ve come to: our lives, like our history, exists trapped in a cosmic Disneyland tea cups ride. It’s garish, nauseating and gives you whiplash but, inexplicably, we’re always holding out for an eternally interesting Mad Hatter to bring some twisted sense to it all.

Tea Cups