I had dinner with an old friend from school and his girlfriend tonight. This guy has been one of my close friends for over a decade, give or take a few brief and minor fall outs. He has been with this girl for about six or seven years, and I know her well. But I’d never really been able to care too much about her. Maybe that’s not the way to phrase it. She had never really made me feel much for her. She had always been pleasant enough, but just didn’t stir anything in me. But in recent weeks I’ve been spending a bit of time with them as we’ve all been living in the same city. This guy was the first of our friendship circle to properly move in with a girlfriend (in another state as well), and this was the first experience I had seeing their level of domesticity. I found it a little strange at first, and wasn’t sure how I liked the changes I was seeing in my old friend. But after tonight I’m convinced that I’m happy for them. Both of them.
She had just had some medical procedure this week and was still feeling very sore and groggy. She was upset, as the condition (though non-life threatening) is ongoing and will require regular surgical maintenance over time. I saw it in her eyes. For the first time since knowing her, I felt for her. I felt sad with her, I wanted her to feel better and be okay. My friend had taken time off work to stay home and look after her in the days after her procedure. Watching him speak about it, I saw seriousness and genuine care in his eyes. This doesn’t seem like a big deal, but he’s only 23 and he has really made her a part of his life. I am a cynic when it comes to relationships, especially young relationships. But this moved me. I’m not sure why, it just did.
I want a big arm tattoo, but I don’t want to go through the pain of getting it. I have been talking about getting a tattoo for years, but am still inkless. I don’t care about job prospects or coming to regret the tattoo. I think it’s a privilege to live long enough to regret your tattoos. What I care about is not being stabbed by needles. The pain itself probably isn’t that bad, but the thought of willingly and voluntarily turning up to be stabbed by needles just feels like something I can’t see myself doing. I have wondered whether there is a tattooist who would work on you while you’re under general anaesthetic. Or whether I could get blind drunk beforehand. But no. Always no. Take the pain you pussy, they say.
I don’t want pain, just like I don’t want to work. Why would I want to work? Why does anyone want to work? I don’t care about having lots of money. I don’t want to have kids or a big expensive wedding or mortgage. I want to wake up when I feel like it and go to the beach. Like sure, I want to work on writing or other creative interests of mine, but that’s it. I don’t want to get up early, drive somewhere and do shit some passionless person says for eight hours. I have a horrific attention span. Severe, debilitating ADHD. Always have. I consistently disappoint employers. And I don’t give a fuck. I will touch on this in greater detail one day.
I’m texting a crazy old mate of mine in my home town. Hoping to catch up with him next week. Shouldn’t neglect real friendships over time.
(above video is property of BBC Radio 1)
Woke up the other day and saw this video. I love Chvrches. Those simple but exaggerated 80s synths and arpeggios pulsating under that adorable Scottish voice. And the fact that they took Arctic Monkeys’ already perfect song (Do I Wanna Know) and somehow did it justice. Plus I want to marry Lauren. Convince her to leave freezing Glasgow and live in Australia with me. Spend our days at the beach in the morning and in our home studio in the afternoon.
1. Would play Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer on repeat until dragged kicking and screaming out of the booth.
I’ve been living at a distant family member’s house for a month or two. Nice man. But there is a woman living here who has been taking advantage of his good nature. She has been working and living here rent free for months, but claims to have no money to get a place of her own. He knows she’s earning money, he got her the job. I have found her secretively smoking weed a few times, and she’s asked me not to tell him. I haven’t told him, because I don’t want her to get kicked out, but now I kind of want her to get kicked out. She told me she has gambled. She comes home late at night and barely ever comes out of her room.
I was just downstairs in the kitchen preparing food for the week. She walked in the front door with a pizza (no doubt a $4.95 cheapo special from Pizza Hut), and realised that if she sat downstairs in the living room or dining area, she may be obliged to offer me a slice. So she said hello and then took the pizza upstairs into her room and closed the door. She is in her 50s.
I have wasted this Sunday. Did groceries for the week and thought that counted as some kind of achievement. Got home and realised it didn’t. May do some Pilates.
Why the FUCK is Friday Afternoon Traffic™ a thing? Where do all the extra cars come from? It’s not like pricks wake up on Friday morning and think “Boy, that was a restful four days of not going to work – I believe today I will get in my car and go to work.” A Sia song comes on the radio. I begin to reflect upon the bullshit publicity stunt she’s been carrying on with for a year or so. You know, the one where she stands with her back to the audience during performances, and wears gigantic wigs that cover her entire face during all public appearances? I’ve heard her reasoning for it, and although I can’t remember what it was right now, I know that I didn’t care about it. It’s stupid and ungrateful. Millions of aspiring musicians would kill to have the exposure and success that she has, yet she takes the piss out of it. Millions would kill to be able to make music for a handsome living, as opposed to the soul-crushing real ways they will actually have to make a living. Basically doing shit they absolutely do not want to do for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week because they have no choice. And real world work is particularly worse for aspiring musicians. Because they just cannot give a fuck about whether there are accurate records of which employees’ CVs are in the system and which aren’t, or whether the cap on that large bottle of degreaser is 100% screwed on before it goes on the truck, or whether they were able to convince a customer to buy a shitty cleaning kit with their purchase. They just cannot give a fuck about anything that isn’t their music or band or creative projects. And I don’t blame them. They weren’t born with the capitalist greed that the douche bag employers they will be forced to work for were. They just want to be creative. The successful business owners or managers they will work for have no passion in life, and thus have made monetary pursuit their default passion. But they will never be as rich as they want to be. And they will never know the satisfaction of creative output.
Fucking Friday Afternoon Traffic™.
Good coloured New Balance sneakers are not ever available. Or if they are, they are substantially more expensive than the same shoe and model in a shit colour. You google the shoe model and you see attractive, well dressed people wearing New Balance 620s in a nice black and white. Colours which will match any clothes. But you go to the online store and they only have the model available in fluro orange with a pink “N” logo. Except they do have black and white available in a few of the shitter shoe models, but for nearly double the price of the same shoe in fluro orange. You walk into a shoe store and they exclusively stock fluro coloured New Balance. They offer good prices, too. Always a sale. But always fucking bright yellow and green or some shit. The only pairs I’ve ever owned have been weird colours like maroon. Darker and more subtle, but still annoyingly colourful. If I were to pay the extortionate price for a black pair of New Balance, I might as well just pay for Nike Roshes or Free Runs and actually look cool like everyone else. But I am addicted to the guaranteed comfort of New Balance shoes. Can’t risk that shit on another brand. Plus I get the feeling Nike would give less of a fuck about me than New Balance. They’re too big. I’d be just a number.
New Balance has heart.