Cyle

A quiet normal life (as if!
2022-03-22 21:42:14 (UTC)

From here to Addis Ababa

Sweet Jesus Clique’s ending was just so, so stupid. My god, by anyones standard this is nonsensical. I should have watched the IT crowd for the 10th time instead.
So, I made it 24% of the way through the week before having a mini breakdown. Nothing happened, but that’s the most worrying thing. At least if there was some car crash then I’d have some kind of explanation. The fact that just sitting there trying to get stuff done was too much for me is such a bad sign. Ugh. We try again tomorrow I suppose.
I’m going to go into the office on Thursday I think. Got a nice message from Dave today, so not everyone has forgotten about me. 5 days at home is too much. From a mental health and from a constructive workday perspective 3 out, 2 in (or 4 and 1 at least) is a much better balance. I just have to hope my car holds out now. If she gets back to work in September I’m getting it replaced. I’m getting it replaced before it literally conks out on me.
It’s 5 albums 66 this time. The early to mid 60’s were just incredible. Utter dross (the singles plus filler and covers) combined with some of the greatest albums of all time. Blonde on blonde, pet sounds and revolver, with loads of absolute rubbish. I’ll go with the kinks and either the stones or De Capo (means “from the beginning”, who knew?). It won’t take up much of my listening time between now and Friday week.
AirPods are on the blink again. I can’t afford to replace them, but then again I can’t afford any of the other shit I’m spending money on, so who knows? I’m like the Irish government now, spend now and worry later. 3 years ago there was no money to repair footpaths in town, they’d have fixed every footpath from here to Addis Ababa with what they’ve spent since then. Don’t worry, I’m sure Sinn Fein have a plan!!!
On to Courteney today and yesterday. If I miss the check in to the hostel on Wednesday night I can kip on her floor, she might even have a sleeping bag for me. It’s nice to have a back up plan. Any chance she can fly me back Friday morning? She won’t queue Thursday and asked me to the pub with her and Emmy. Nah, it’s the footpath in the rain for me! I didn’t go through all this shit not to be any further back than I have to be.
Jennifer offered to pay me for the ticket. Fucking N26 and their lack of a sort code might goose me. I’ll give her the AIB if I have to. Need to keep cash from flowing into the BOI accounts.
Speaking of Jennifer, she is next for the bio treatment. As per usual I met her through the 2 lads. She knows Courteney somehow. Maybe she met her online. The first time we were all together as a group I apparently spent time with her, which was news to me. I literally have no recollection of meeting her.
This is a sideline, but it’s weird not to be able to blame the beer for stuff like this anymore. Even 2 plus years on since my last drink, my first reaction when I remember something dumb I did is still “how drunk was I?”. I wasn’t drunk the day I met Jennifer first, although that morning may have been the worst hangover I ever had. I got fuck all sleep and I think I visited the communal shower 3 times to try and cure The Fear. It did not fucking work. Thank Christ that was a seated show, as I’d have been in no condition for queueing.
But anyway, Jennifer. You see, that rambling aside had a point. Jennifer is one of the most forgettable people one could ever meet. She looks plain, dresses plainly and (almost always) acts plainly. She is an old school suburban housewife, and on paper has everything a lady could want. Big house, in a nice Home Counties town. Wonderful family (2 boys), handsome successful husband, marble island in her kitchen, conservatory and a 3 car garage. The very picture of middle class living. It’ll come as no surprise to you from having read that, that she is frequently bored shitless. She’s going back to work now that the lads are getting older, but she hasn’t worked in years. She’s your typical housewife, run off her feet with errands, parents evenings and karate practise. She has settled for all of it. In her head she is still the gig going, festival loving, party animal girl she always wanted to be. We stayed up for night after night talking about what we did, what we probably did (if only we could remember) and what we wish we’d done. We connect on every level (from where we are now to where we were) and it’s mainly down to our bitterly cynical senses of humour. She is absolutely cutting when she wants to be and I love every second of it. She is so sensible now it’s an absolute embarrassment. She doesn’t own a thong and 90% of her underwear is black. She owns 1 skirt. 1!! She has loads of evening dresses though, for when hubby needs her on his arm at some function. She’d frequently text me from the loo, dying with boredom or anger as to how this is how it all turned out. She still talks about taking a summer off and doing everything she wants to do. It won’t happen. She has made her choice and is comfortable. She has settled. Our relationship? It’s the closest I’ll ever get to being Jarvis Cocker. Hubby is an exec in the beef industry and is away in Japan, the US and Argentina 6 months of the year. The thought of some glorious evenings pouring his expensive brandy down to the hollow in the small of her back, sitting naked on his work desk and hearing her laugh when she says “he is NEVER doing THAT to me” have me grinning like a Cheshire Cat as I write this. I don’t feel sorry for him, ignorance is bliss. We haven’t seen each other in ages, and we won’t often in future. I dare say she is starting to feel a little guilty. The practical considerations are a bigger impediment though and she’s also getting bored of me. I’m little more than an easy answer or a chance for some petty revenge at this stage. Cynical messages and cutting takedowns are all we’ll soon have left. We’ll drift out of contact in the years to come. She’ll live a comfortable middle class middle age, and will only occasionally think of me. Maybe when he makes some pathetic drunken attempt to go down on her. The joke is on me in the end of course. He’s happy, successful and with a bright future. I’m a manic depressive, harmless, laughing stock.
How’s that for honesty on a random Tuesday night?
Slán go fóill.




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