Second last day at a job I’ve had seven weeks.

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.

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