Situations that usually would make for great material for my writing/books.
Instead of opting to overly-analyse and break these events down to their molecular basis I decide to react in that moment. Rather heatedly and most often dejectedly. I am no contrarian, as I hate those kind of shits.
But my moods and the swinging of this mood to that, is leaving me angry at myself.
I feel like how Russell Brand must feel on speed – that is how erratic my emotions have been.
I always have some quip or sarcastic comment to provide.
Instead, from my gut I am just letting it all out.
“Leave me alone, I am busy enough with my own shit, to worry about yours,” – was something I told a new guy recently, after badgering me over and over on something I had detailed for him; if this were the other way around, a role-reversal, I’d be sacked.
Sometimes it is good when you’re your own boss.
I often respond to co-workers, or higher-higher management, and general shit-cunts with that Paul Merton look that I have down to a tee (or I mean a P): that totally baffled, confused facial expression, that you can read so many things in; but at the centre of such a facial-reaction is to convey utter befuddlement at whatever is being brought to my table – my table of life.
I have pondered on my susceptibility for shitty situations and grievances that belly-flop onto my life-desk, and it is funny, after the fact.
At this moment in time, I just can’t hack it.
Like a walrus with too much human contact, these situations/people and their load of shite comes in a walrus-like blubbery mess - pushing important papers and memorandums aside so my focus is on the current culprit expecting to be fed, entertained and nurtured, all whilst still when walrus dictates, to cater to this wild animals wild side. I have no time for myself, let alone other people’s issues and fuck-ups.
Still, it is a domino effect. That circles back to me. Only me. Well, it seems to be that way, or I could just be totally wrong, and like any other shit-cunt out there that I so eviscerate and get a kick out of shaming/highlighting and mocking, I am the issue.
Since I was wetly released from my Mother’s…you know what, I have been a shite-magnet.
Weird, wild, sometimes make-believe levels of peculiarity and annoyances enter my orbit and stay there like Sputnik – perpetually orbiting me just to hammer home the reality of who is actually in charge.
We are here to push, devolve, and test you, these strangers, these human beings, and I bet my existence is acknowledged in the same manner. These people, these shit-cunts, seem to be saying in their actions/behaviours and odd-ways, when near me, “Cooeee, it is me! I am here to piss you off and to print out a roadmap guiding you to the nearest cliff!”
As one matures, these personal traits, these coping/not-so-coping-mechanisms grow rustic and need oiling/or to be thrown out and replaced by a newly pristine version.
But, it can go either one of two ways.
Firstly, they can build and build and never change - only mutating into something altogether worse.
Secondly you learn and try to better yourself from such experiences, that you seem to goad into existence.
That, or your mere existence encourages to infiltrate your pretty little life plan. The ideal plan. The ideal blueprint we can never truly stick to.
I thought I was doing a fan-tabby-dozy job on the second one. But, nah.
Since the death of Dad, my tolerance is at an all-time low.
My focus is off.
My passion for hating life and moaning seems to have even petered out.
I am a disaster zone.
Cratered and full of excess poison and radiation, left after the impacts other people leave in their wake.
How I handle certain situations is writing/typing about it, and mainly moaning, whining, bleating, crying – but, my wifey told me I had grown moody, yet never ever angry in a physical manner, but my presence was not a good one; especially for the household, and in my wife’s words, “The dog is really triggered by your moods, sweetie, try and perk up” – yeah, well Rufus can go lick his crusty asshole.
Fuck the dog, what about me?
All my anger, hurt and woe goes onto the white blank digital pages on whichever digital device encourages my pointless ramblings.
And it is only now at this point in time, post-Dad’s demise, that I have gotten back into writing.
I am writing about struggling to write. Fuck, that is a paradox I do not wish to indulge in.
I am prone to getting into all sorts of scenarios. All kinds of shit.
I went out a few night back to treat myself and wifey to a dirty midnight snack, in the form of ALIBABA-KEBOB’s famous lamb-kebab to only be forced to witness a young girl showing her tits, rubbing them against the meat counter, and then accusing everyone looking at her of mini-raping her.
By the time Mr. Ali got her out and locked up, and ignored the smear stains she was creating with her nasty ass sweaty tits on the Kebab shops front window, she went off, drunkenly or druggily or both, and we all laughed it off. Ali gave me a thump on the shoulder, opened the door, making sure to lock it on my way out. I recommended closing early, and he agreed. Then, five minutes later, I was stopped by a policeman a few doors from my home and questioned about the incident. I asked if I could drop off the food, to which they said, no.
I was left having to appeal to their better nature and asked them to take me back to the site of the incident. They did. It wasn’t clear if I was accused of anything or the coppers literally legged it after getting a call from the slutty sweaty titted tramp, and Mr. Ali sent them out after me, a witness making his way back home, perhaps lost forever to the night.
I then had to go back to the kebab shop, and Mr. Ali was there pointing a skewer angrily over the counter at the girl who was trying to barge back in, accusing Mr Ali of sexual harassment. Before I could get in myself the girl launched herself in, tripped, headbutted a wall, got back up, the police themselves looked like they didn’t want to go near her, as she stank, had one boob hanging out and had by this point cottoned on to this girls game. Then the girl threw herself into my arms and said, “He saw it, he witnessed it, didn’t you?” and I shoved her off me, annoyed she had squashed my greasy kebab parcels.
“You see that, he just sexually and physically violently assaulted me, it was him!”
This was enough for the police to put her in the car, and get our details at a later date.
Nothing came of it, eventually.
She probably had too many sips or sniffs and remembered nothing the next day. See, shit. And when I got back I was empty handed. I’d binned the kebabs, as they had grown colder than my Father’s remains.
I am the flame that shit-cunt-insects kamikaze towards.
Well, it feels like it.
No, it is not like I will be jumping into a Death Match, like David Arquette. I am not doing that. Just my attitude and gallows humour seems depleted. Man…Hold your neck all you want David, you do not go into a fight with Nick Gage and expect to come out grinning. Nor have I been driven by these emotions to sign up to the local pedo-hunter-vigilante committee, all because I need to take it out on someone; also those guys all give off weirdo creeps vibes too. I think they are closeted pedos and have to hurt and attack those they feel they could become.
I am just not coping well with this thing called life.
Life throws so much cheap store bought honey on you, you cannot ever be clear of it. Unless given a radiation shower. Like sand, it gets everywhere and stays with you. Insert Hayden Christensen’s sand scene from AOTC - go on, use this book as a Star Wars Scrapbook.
That is life, I guess.
It sticks.
It gets everywhere, and oftentimes affects beyond your own sorry ass self. That and it is a shit chat up line to use on Natalie Portman - if ever given such an advantage in life.
Life, which is merely a sequence of situations, is hard.
It was never ordained from the start - as you blink your new-born eyes and wonder why everything is so bright – used to the wombs cosy darkness - to be easy.
Life is of course what you make it - but outside circumstances do have a hand in shaping it - but the controller is there, it is yours, there to see your mettle. Man, oh man. Yeah I know, it is how you deal with it. And I am not coping.
Well, well, here we are, facing the hard facts.
The ultimate truth. I am not dealing with it.
As much as Peter Capaldi tells you Doctor Who is about death, I still think, well, sure, but sir, the Doctor regenerates, so it really isn’t about death, but regeneration, and rebirth. But, it is also about the perpetual cycle of a death, which is immortality in essence, right?
Life is about making the most of what we got. Sometimes what we get just doesn’t cut it.
Life is a sequence of moments, put there to charge you up, and to get that blood pumping, or to piss you off/to goad you/to try and revolutionise your character, beyond that of which you have cast yourself as.
These situations, these moments that I have recently handled without a lick of care or composure are often one’s created by my reactions and behaviours, that’re pushed and exacerbated by other fools that share the same air I breathe.
Why react in such a heated way? Why? Whywhywhy?
Why ball a fist and threaten to knock your dogs head off, all because Rufus wouldn’t shut up snoring?
Why snap at your wife when she makes her usual sarcastic comment.
(Not that it ever affects her as she takes every one and thing with a pinch of salt).
I have come to some conclusion my reactions are exacerbated, all because I need a reason to smoke.
Maybe I am reacting in such a way to give excuse to play up or have reason to not feel like me or to exhibit the usual me that I project onto this virtuality known as Reality.
Some situs are larger than others.
If I typed them out people would laugh and highlight them as examples not to follow.
And why am I reacting in such a theatrical way?
I think, in all honesty because all I want is to have reason to go back to smoking.
Sounds pathetic?
Yeah, for fucking sure.
But, we as humans are pathetic.
Lost and ultimately clueless creatures - putting on a front, as if we know how this will all end up; which we do – Death! – but, the lead-up, the filler, our personal history, we con ourselves daily that we have any fucking clue what we are doing.
We are autonomous, yet still held in this tractor-beam known as societal stricture.
***
So, my Dad has died. The cat was near death. My kid is doing my nut in, as per.
The wifey acts as if anything I do will cause a nuclear event. Old school friends have popped their clogs.
How would I react in the past?
Tears? Nope.
Confusion? Nope.
Paul Merton confused face? Most likely, which is a whole other variation of confused.
(That facial look from Merton is a whole other form of human externalisation)
My old favourite thing, that being notebooks, journals - that used to be brutalised with my terrible handwriting and spelling – were and are being neglected.
I had no paragraph pop into my noggin – where all the words you wish you said in the troubling situations can be immortalised beyond telling a guy to fuck off – reactions that so generates such overt re-reactions, that I go back to doing what, I like to think I do best, which is to type in a frenzy on my iOS phone. So far, so bad. I can have a pretext behind wasting nearly thirty quid on tobacco - if there is a big enough situation to push me to go buy a pack/pouch, to smoke to my heart’s content.
These situations are all personally for me the kinds of situations that correlate to when is the best time to go out, in a huff, whilst also anxious - and ready to ruin your long-standing fight against being a chain-smoker. You are thrilled, fucking THRILLED - to know you’ll be smoking soon. Every little thing is blown out of proportion, all so I have a reason to smoke. The vape is not doing anything for me. That real kick you get out of a nicotine hit from a roll-up is better than an orgasm. How your taste buds are destroyed, and all you want is to go back to the old days of coffee, cigarette, coffee, cigarette, roll-up, boil-up, smoke, slurp, REPEAT.
I have been responding to things far more dramatically both at home and at work than I would have before this steaming pile of crap hit my lap – and all due, perhaps, to my Father’s death and a miscellany of unrelated issues that have prefaced and bookended this awful event, the worst event so far of my life – the death of my old man.
Or, maybe they all are related?
Coming thick and fast, one after another – various fuck-ups and incidents/accidents – tied together in their proximity to one another to ruin my day/week/month/year.
All cloistered together, feeding the other, united by their cancerous spread throughout my system.
Perhaps all these small things are not so coincidental, and like my wife believes, come in threes, or fours, or whatever superstition she has going for her on the given day, when I actually seek some form of guidance and reassurance from her.
Shit happens. And it comes in packs.
They come in bundles.
They hit you in different ways, but all with the same end goal.
Which is to fuck you about and put you on edge.
They are really closer in relation than one gives THEM credit for - these situations, these incidents, these EVENTS.
I hate typing that, but they are.
Momentous moments.
Though others come off as far more fragmental in the shadow of one bigger, louder, and far more superior in its fuck-upper-y giving ways - against your own, but trauma cannot be minimised.
An OCD sufferer feels trauma each time their habits are ruined or thwarted.
An autistic person feels trauma each and every time something doesn’t make sense.
Continual trauma.
All these shitty-moments come together, all to steer you over Beachy Head or into the path of a fast oncoming lorry. I am reacting badly and extremely to things.
Getting agitated and ending up feeling hopeless, all so I have an excuse to go to the shops and buy a pouch of tobacco or a twenty pack.
My natural reactions to things have been warped, pulled beyond all recognition, as to how I might have responded before everything started to come undone.
Like, how I might have reacted to a shit-cunt on a bus, is totally opposite from how I would have processed and experienced this occurrence.
A frequent one, that we all need to cope with, that or figure out some way to mediate and thus compose ourselves.
All mental machinations and systems have burned themselves out.
There is a blank canvas, where only Jackson Pollock streaks and shapes are being flicked and thrown out. All red. All crimson. Instead of feeling hard done by or put upon or taking as it is and then cataloguing to write about it later, or in that instance on my phone - I scowl. I grunt, or tell the shit-cunt there and then my issue with them.
It is sick how our mind works.
I was so annoyed that our cat got run over the other week, as I thought, nah, that isn’t a big enough excuse to smoke, also I need as much money as possible to pay for the poor little shit’s fucked up legs and ribcage. But, if the cat somehow died, that would be a great excuse to smoke. In so many ways I hoped this cat would die, or nearly die, all so I had an excuse, a larger event than the others plaguing me, all so I could smoke.
An excuse as to why I smelt like a chimney/bonfire, and why it was reasonable that I had started the old habit, the one that I have struggled all my life to kick.
Whilst on the topic of smokes, they have shoved an extra back in there - in the tailor-mades - because paying nearly a tenner for 19 just doesn’t sit right, does it? The loss of an extra ciggie proved too much for the smokers of the world, and for a change the tobacconistas kowtowed to pressure. I just want to inhale, and feel that sharp hit, the juddery sensation a real nicotine hit gives. Fuck vapes, they cannot replicate that inhalation.
That burnt taste, offset by a blunter coffee.
♜ ♞ ♟
The situations all vary.
One end of the spectrum is, I decide to have a shitty day, straight from the off, where I know I am going to be in a foul temper, even if millions miraculously appeared in my bank account - and such a mood deserves to be rewarded by purchasing a pack of smokes, right?
The other is reasonable and logical – these things that make us seek comfort in an old vice doesn’t need to be huge. I mean, a smoke is merely that, a bloody smoke. It isn’t like I am drinking, like I used to, or seeking new heroin-based horizons.
Have I smoked?
No.
I ploughed through that, like a cow through a grinder.
I found solace in my mates, my wife, even my annoying irritant of a kid Matilda, and of course SDP, who has given me a platform and place to house my writing for all of last year.
This piece is about coping with the shit that is thrown at you. Also, it is as per, a piece recounting all the sticky, weird, oftentimes unreal things that have happened to me.
⏭Marcus Meltdown lives in Bolton and is the author of Stop Being a Shit Cunt and If Only I Could Fucking Choke You Out.
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