I’m bored of Blogging. Intensely, achingly bored of this self-indulgent, bleating, whining, ranting waffle. Oh, look at me, I’m miserable. Oh look at me, I’ve been somewhere. It’s just dull.
I’ve done the odd post that wasn’t entirely dull, a post where I’ve admitted something profound about myself, but I’ve covered everything now. There is nothing left to tell you about me. It would be endless repetition from here on in.
A precis, if you’re new to this blog: I’m a depressive; I’m a house husband and part time cleaner; I’m paranoid; I’m reclusive; I’m anti-social; I’m self indulgent; I’m pretentious; I’m full of whining and hypocrisy. I veer between the sickening whining of a comfortable middle aged white man and the boastful pontificating of a middle aged white man.
You could try hating me as much as I hate myself, but I doubt you’d manage it. I’ve had years of practice. Some people think that they wouldn’t hate me, but that’s only because I’ve managed to fool them with the odd bit of superficial charm. I’m a pretty loathsome individual. I’m selfish, parasitical, narcissistic, deceitful and cruel. I have a wife, but I’m pretty sure she’s still here through Stockholm Syndrome. My kids like me, but only because I make sure that I appear nice when I’m around them. I need my kids to like me so that I can maintain my fragile self esteem. It’s not easy having a massive ego with nothing to feed it. I have no accomplishments, so I can pretend that having children who like me is a reflection of something positive in my character. Sadly, it’s probably just another case of me relying on the hero worship of people who don’t know me very well.
I had a psychologist assess me once. She reckoned Depression linked to Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Didn’t she understand that it’s not Narcissism when you ARE simultaneously the worst and most fascinating person EVER?
That was a joke. Sort of. Like all the best jokes, it’s based on truth.
The trouble with blogging is that it doesn’t feed my ego enough. Nothing ever has. It’s no good writing stuff unless its a bestseller or read by millions. It’s no good acting unless you’re revered worldwide. Relationships are pointless unless the other person is utterly devoted to me.
It’s sad that you can understand your own psychology but be powerless to fix it. A girl once said to me, “You know, you only use humour as a defence mechanism because you’re afraid of being hurt.” I told her that OF COURSE I knew that. What’s the other option, though? Be serious and get hurt? Be serious and be DULL?
This blog is dull. The funny stuff isn’t funny enough and the sincere stuff is fucking boring.
The insincere stuff, where I write reviews or talk about clothes, has, at the very least, got me some free pork scratchings. I think that’s a win.
I’ve had two people tell me that they enjoy this shit. I haven’t the slightest idea why. I’ve always distrusted people who claim to find me likeable or interesting. Those people are either gullible, stupid or mad. Probably a combination of the three. Why would anyone like me? I know me pretty damn well and I don’t LIKE me. If you do like me, you don’t know me well enough.
I have two friends. One likes me out of tradition, I think. He’s known me since I was thirteen. He finds me amusing. We see each other once every six months or so. It’s easy to like me if you limit the time you’re actually around me. My other friend sees me once a fortnight on average. He likes me through a mixture of pity, amusement and nostalgia. He also needs someone to dispose of his unwanted items, he’s too lazy to go to a charity shop, the idle bastard.
Don’t think that I’d top myself. I’m too cowardly and I do have some sense of decorum and duty. There are people that rely on me. My existence is comfortable and, from time to time, enjoyable. It’s just I’m not sure that I can keep writing about it. It doesn’t always feel like writing. It feels like dragging my wounded mind across the page and leaving smears of thoughts, like blood stains. I look back at what I’ve written and it just highlights what a damaged and dull little creature I am. I’m like Gollum but I don’t even have the Ring to drive me, I’m just sitting in a cave, blogging about the fact that I don’t like raw fish very much.
The world’s off to hell in a hand basket and I’m droning on about what a poor trampled little snowdrop I am. I might have to stop typing just to punch myself in the fucking face.
My wife once pointed out to me that my prime emotion is Disgust. I’m disgusted with everyone and everything. Please be assured, all of you and all of creation, I’m more disgusted with myself.
Right, I’m bored of this post now. To finish off, here’s a picture of me with a dog that no longer wishes to be associated with me.
Go on. Fuck off and read a blog about nail varnish. Those blogs get millions of hits. Not that I’m bitter. “Ooh look, I’ve done my nails!” WOW! That’s fucking revolutionary! I must quickly tell all my friends to read about this!
Might be a bit bitter.
Is this because I have a beard? Is it?
Oh fuck off.