It’s my birthday soon. I’ll be 28. Usually for somebody of this age, it’s a time for celebration. I’ve not been feeling most acquainted with a celebratory mood due to the fact of my forever whinging attitude to life, and the blame culture of which today I’ve convinced myself it’s completely fine to uphold.
The blame on my father for leaving us to get remarried, ultimately landing on my fragile head the role of “man of the house”. Of course no members of my family purposely attributed this role to me, it just so happened. But I’m over that now. And that role isn’t mine. Though if I did man up a little, some pressure would probably be taken off of my mother. Even though she’s given me her bank card to get a hair cut tomorrow and be able to get in to town to meet somebody who will become a part of my online magazine team. Hardly helping with relieving the pressure, huh?
The blame on the government for somehow being the cause of my jobless effect and the tirade of application rejection of which I’ve yet to become accustomed to, even after a year and a half. Of course in the latter stage of this period of time I hardly put in the effort to get a job, so I’ve relinquished such blame in an absolute way, none entirely though. Today, I read another rejection, and for a job I really really really really wanted. The repetition of “really” is only to convince myself, and you the reader, that I did in fact really want it. I think deep down, I was just kidding myself. Because what I want to do is go forth with my own business, which leads me on to the next point.
The blame on my uncle & auntie for stealing my name for the benefit of them. Now that I am the owner of an apartment, however lovely that sounds, I have no rights to any benefits that are so due to me. I hate benefits but they did ease me of the torment of staying couped up inside with my narcissism and random negative conversations I have with myself, and quite the bad attitude at times too. Although my name is on the apartment, I reap no rewards from this; a pawn in heavy tax avoidance, that is me. No benefits, no little tiny hint of life, no real progression and interaction with the world. They’ve drained me of my freedom, the one thing that my spirit so needs and the one thing I had control over.
I could probably be artistic with the above, I’m an emblem of these times, of a horrid government. If only I could paint I’d decorate the canvas with pain, boredom, loneliness, helplessness, depression, stifled claustrophobia, lack of self esteem and lots of cigarettes. Ironic that I could maintain the luxury of smoking through all of this; yet another reason to beat myself up, taking from the poor (my family, who by definition are not poor but just making ends meet) to feed my habit. That’s by the by.
I am a person of strength, a quiet strength, a lonely strength. I battle with myself most days, quietly, unassumingly. My sexuality, my personality, my ethnicity, my roots, my social circle, my ageing skin, my body, my penis, my lack of job, my lack of role in society.
On the plus side, my friends are coming over to mine to devour my mother’s home cooked curry, of which she hasn’t done since we moved in to this new house last March. That in itself has put a smile on my face and I am so fucking over the moon that people are coming around to see me, little old me, on my birthday. They probably don’t know how much I appreciate it right now, and I probably won’t have the balls to tell them, but maybe that can be the conclusion to this random and unforeseen post:
tell everybody who counts how much they mean to me, and give thanks.
And then I listen to music and it’s like a big hit of heroin.