I’m notoriously the Samantha Jones of my friends, but recently I have begun to feel nonsexual.
My body feels inside out and made of wet, brittle plywood. The kind of freeway flotsam you see ditched on the M2. Like the subject of a Roger Ballen photograph..
Accidental eye contact with Sainsbury’s grocery clerks as I buy microwave meals is the closest I have to game right now.
The naked mole-rat is God’s greatest mistake. Well, that and letting Man with a Plan be renewed for season 2.
Lately, I've felt cogged with the odour of copy-ink, Wite-Out, the smell of bond paper, and the endless stress of pointless jobs done to little applause. I thought renting a video on Amazon Prime and popping Nitol was enough. Spoiler alert: it isn’t.
I watched a Trump speech today.
His arms tend to outstretch like the arms of a mother weeping for her kidnapped child, holding forth samples of her missing child’s pyjamas to the CNN cameras.
Recently I feel like all my friends are characters in Melrose Place.
The script writers have all given up coming up with personalities or characteristics for the characters; no-one could tell the Brad from the Brandy. So they just went psycho. One by one. One Minion meme at a time.
Today, I loaded-up my bank account balance on my phone and shrieked. It was hideous. It reminded me of driving through Barking on a Thursday night.
Some of my pals are returning from half-years spent in Europe recently - returning faces showing relief at being able to indulge in Wetherspoon’s topped chips, fluffy white Muji towels, and Dulwich farmer’s markets. But also faces that are gearing up for the inevitable “what-am-I-doing-with-my-life?” sadness that always bookends a European pilgrimage. Back to the stale marketing desk in a flat-pack Ikea-furnished block just east of Mansion House then.
Others are too busy showing someone photos of their recent holiday to South Korea visiting animation sweatshops to sleep.
These same friends bark at you like someone with an iPod going full volume being asked for directions when you bring up the topic of their beds. But for me, it’s all I know. I’ve been unemployed for over 10 months now and, sans from unpaid internships, I haven’t had a steady cash flow since, well, when did Britain’s Got Talent stop being relevant again?
copyright © josh milton 2017