I’m Not Even Procrastinating

I watched a meeting today in which Real Madrid footballer Ronaldo and UFC fighter Conor McGregor meet and discuss how hard they have to work to be what they are; pinnacle people.

Men of the kind of wealth which makes you immortal, athletic monsters with hearts of purest gold, confidence and determination to be the perpetual “better man”.

I was pleased not to have been invited.

They would have stood there with their six packs, bank balances, glories and futures, whilst I would have sat there in a t-shirt that states: “I sometimes writes blogs”.

The kind of guys who recline by leaning into their rock-hard starched back muscles which never unstiffen owing to sheer will. Cooling their feet in bank balances.

They have fans. I’m entirely on my own.

I slobbed yesterday.

I’ve survived my slobbing period and have slobbed much fiercer than I did yesterday. However that was back in teenage days, in which I committed to appropriate slobbing just in an attempt to have some ounce of fat on my bones.

Appropriate slobbing.

I woke early, made my wife a packed lunch and walked her to the train station for work, kissed her a farewell and ran home to make a day’s worth of the day. Oh boy, I was going to be so proactive I might just tick it off permanently.

I then proceeded to eat chocolate and ice cream, potato chips and wine, fast food remnants and the daylight – all devoured into nothingness. I sent the occasional email and told my wife I was working in an effort to excuse myself owing from being a real adult.

I excuse myself with the fantasy that I’ve worked hard and the universe will one day require outstanding one-in-a-million Candy Crush skills, the likes of which only I have seen.

Thank goodness I masturbated so much; it was up to me to slog it out alone there.

My occupation of chairs is a compliment to full utilisation of buttocks.

If it hadn’t been for my snacking, we’d all be a lot worse off. I leaving all the healthy grub for you folk; get broccoli.

At least heroin gets you out of the house.

I’d call this procrastinating; but I’ve found something else to do.

This is nothing; completely nothing yet never nothing completed. One cannot get ‘nothing’ ticked from the list.

So the best idea, as is usually discovered by the collectors of plastic bags, cats, and drool, is talking to oneself.

Bitch.

Bitching at myself to stand and walk.

Be in a situation that need not necessarily be good for the serenity but sure is a blessing on the stories you have to look back on.

Having stood and walked, I compliment the good grief out of myself and perhaps I suggest going outside.

That’s something.

It’s not nothing.

Perhaps I suggest I’m the greatest human to ever live, stick my tongue in my cheek and live like that’s the way I’m supposed to.

Excuse me, I’m going out.

Sam