Okay. As I’m sure all you regular followers are thinking (was that an echo...?) it seems this blog-of-sorts is ripe for a fresh injection of wit, wisdom and well, an injection of anything really. Yes, I admit, whatever the hell the rules of this blogging are, I’m sure I’ve been stretching them slightly through the general lack of activity this last couple of months. You see, it’s alright for these be-slippered people who pad about their plush townhouse apartments all day drinking coffee whilst flicking through the arts section of The Guardian. When inspiration strikes, all they have to do is put down the paper and wander through to the office where their Apple Macintosh awaits invitingly. Yes, anyone sensing a tinge of jealousy here is of course most astute; what most of us would give for such a trouble-free existence, where the only distraction from a work-in-progress might be a leisurely lunch with some dolly-bird in a trouser suit? For the rest of us, or in this particular case me, making it into the sack at the end of a 22-hour day still breathing is an achievement in itself. So, as you can see, getting those rare ideas down on paper before you’ve thought about them long enough to realise that they are in fact terrible presents somewhat of a problem for the average bedraggled blogger like myself.
Anyone reading this, and there will be one eventually, even if it’s under duress, will know only too well of the stresses involved in balancing noodling on a laptop with successfully existing in this insane world. Accordingly, the last thing such a person would want to witness is me moaning on about how there is never enough time to do everything. It is nonetheless a fact that I personally have a rather cast iron set of extenuating circumstances to explain all those cobwebs dangling from the extremities of the surrounding blog posts. Any of you followers paying attention might possibly recognise this general theme from an earlier post, entitled “The Eventual Fourth Post.” However, given the absolute certainty that no one of this earth has actually read that post, I feel quite justified in doling out a fresh list of excuses to get me off the hook with all those suits down at Blogger HQ. Furthermore, what you are about to read constitutes what is sure to feature in a doctor’s report sometime in the near future as background information surrounding the possible causes of the immense heart attack that I am destined to sustain. It is therefore essential that I get them off my chest sooner rather than later, as, in the recent words of one of several therapists, these things lose their power if shared. Admittedly, he may not have been referring to a potentially worldwide audience, but what the hell, allow me to fill you in on some recent events that have taken up far too much time...
1) I recently embarked on a relationship by mistake.
We’ve all heard the expression once bitten, twice shy. Well, suffice it to say that I can relate to this old chestnut very easily, particularly if one substituted the bitten for “dismembered,” and the shy for “terminally reclusive.” This just about sums up my attitude to the dating scene following a brace of failed enterprises with a roll call of unstable women that reads like a psychologist’s wet dream. It therefore goes without saying that an impenetrable wall clearly visible from space was subsequently erected around my person to protect me from further incidences of heartbreak. And so it was unfeasible for any woman to come along and shimmy over the top to catch me unawares in my Sesame Street pyjamas; but shimmy she did, in the guise of an earthly descendant of Venus.
Had I known the descendant in question to be of the flytrap variety, my instincts would certainly have been to run a mile. Sadly, I was caught with my defences down after a particularly heavy bout of drinking to celebrate a colleague from the morgue’s 40th birthday. Without sharing unnecessary tactical information, we met, exchanged numbers, and embarked on a string of romantic dinner dates about town, and on one occasion at her grandmother’s rest home. Reduced to a genital torpor by fantasies of coital malfunction, I campaigned for the platonic ticket until such a time when my lycanthropic appetite for flesh might burst from retirement. When this suggestion was endorsed, I actually did briefly wonder whether I had finally found the woman of my dreams.
Only days later however, events suggested that I had in fact found the woman of someone else’s dreams. Looking back, the tennis racquet attack was probably the first hint of some behavioural issues that might have needed addressing had we actually survived as a couple for longer than six weeks. As it transpired, time was too short to follow through any necessary remedial intervention, which after the incident resulting in a lifetime ban from Starbucks I had suggested might include anger management classes. Alas, my well-intended olive branch was ignored, and I was forced to submit to the niggling doubts already engulfing my entire form whilst this tempest in vest-top continued on her course untamed. By now a man of experience in the field of atomic hormones, it soon became clear that a future apart might be the best option, particularly when my claim of a bedtime headache one evening was retorted via a head which had demonically revolved atop a scantily-clad torso. So, after a precautionary appointment with a leading probate solicitor, I chose to act fast, hoping to avoid unnecessary emotional pain, and also any voodoo curses that may have been bestowed upon my possessions.
Now single once more and consequently of regular heartbeat, I wonder how my resolve to die a bachelor’s death had ever been broken. As a result, I have recently taken steps to fortify further the bubble in which I exist just in case I am ever again caught napping by some new femme fatale. It might not be full of thrills and spills in here, but at least the only thing my tennis racquet will be hitting for a very, very long time, is tennis balls.
2) My therapist attempted to take his own life.
As alluded to earlier, owing to several challenging situations of late I have rather embarrassingly been forced to seek solace in the leather-upholstered world of therapy. For various reasons, this solace seems today as far away as ever, despite the soothing efforts of a string of shrinks who have all listened patiently to my endless indulgent monologues extolling the teachings of Nostradamus. This latest therapist, whose services had been insisted on by the “Desperate Measures” department of the local Samaritans porta-cabin, had at first seemed a worthy ally in my personal battle with existence. I had admittedly hoped this time out to secure the services of a white-coated ex-beauty queen who may have attempted to counter my various neuroses with a sympathetic ear and dubious morals. However, these hopes were of course cruelly dashed when I found myself slumped on the figurative couch of a dead-ringer for the actor Karl Malden. Despite this disappointment, I soon began to feel better in myself, and after only six appointments had already abandoned my intentions to attempt the first ever cordless bungee jump from the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
This progress was to continue at pace, buoyed by a rapport between counsellor and patient that eclipsed any professional relationships with former counsellors, who had usually greeted my constant nerve-fuelled riffing with comments along the line of, “Well, unfortunately we’re out of time...” This newly-found friend, or more accurately, “victim,” was actually providing me with the confidence to finally penetrate my self-imposed shell to the point where I had at one point considered enrolling in a local neurotics’ discussion group, where all manner of hang-ups were reputed to be casually analysed in a social context. Sadly, as had historically proved the case, just at the point where I was considering re-evaluating my cautionary opinion of the whole process as “a load of mumbo-jumbo,” events started taking a pronounced therapeutic downturn.
The first cracks to appear came during a session in which my impressively-nosed shrink had suddenly declared himself a lifelong fan of the pianist Liberace. This bombshell did little to quell my recently hatched suspicions regarding the sexual orientation of this closest of confidantes, and consequently forced me to conduct a hasty review of any references I may have made regarding events in the boudoir of a previous ill-fated marriage. Subsequent sessions had proved notably less productive, where I would habitually clam-up whenever the subject of physical relations was raised. This was highlighted during one particular session that dealt with dream analysis, where my animated therapist had waxed eloquent on the Freudian significance of a recurring dream of mine that featured a large unfired rocket aimed at the sky. This particular hum-dinger was to prove the beginning of the end of our professional relationship, which unbeknownst to me, was in turn to trigger an alarming downward spiral in the psyche of this high-functioning but hormonally ambiguous clinician.
Suddenly sensing that a miraculous recovery from suspected bipolar disorder might help ease this new discomfort experienced at the hands of my former saviour, I feigned inner peace for the subsequent sessions I felt able to attend. This apparent upturn was greeted with suspicion by my soon-to-be-former counsellor, who had by this point admitted his attendance of several recent Village People conventions. However, eternally grateful to him for his immense help in returning me to the land of the rational, I soon terminated the course with no small sense of relief.
Little did I know that following my last session, the man was not to be seen for six days. Whether he had been experiencing his own personal struggle with the planet I do not know, but thankfully he was eventually discovered with only minor injuries at the foot of the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I only thank God he jumped off the wrong bit.
3) To protect what limited sanity remains, I must find alternative employment.
Those readers to reach this point who have actually been concentrating may recall an earlier remark suggesting my employers to be the local mortuary. Well, admittedly, this may be bending the truth just a little bit, although of course the reference was intended to reflect my abhorrence of my current professional role. This may of course only be an elaborate red herring from an eccentric creative genius who earns his sizable crust from writing, and wishes his readership to believe him employed in some 9-5 hell for reasons of modesty or amusement. However, I shall allow you to reach your own conclusions on this point, based on any literary worth you may have detected during the previous 1,826 words or so. Whether you believe it or not, the fact is that my “day job” is in dire need of change.
It is perfectly normal to become “stale” in many ventures, whether they be a job, hobby, or as for me was once the case, a marriage to Godzilla. Although this may be true, it is one thing to be stale, but surely an entirely different kettle of fish if one finds oneself Googling suicide techniques late on a Sunday evening. This second category is regrettably one in which I have recently found myself, following far too many years confined in the mind-numbing daily ritual of professional purgatory. No one likes getting up on a Monday morning to be faced with a mundane week at the office merely to secure the roof over our heads. However, if thoughts of an acid bath offer infinitely greater appeal, perhaps the time has come for a career change.
So, what can be done to inject some will to live into this terrible predicament I find myself in? All anyone ever talks about whenever the subject is raised these days is recession, and the total abyss to be found in the global job market. This may well be the case, but surely is no justification in accepting one’s lot to share endless working days with a bunch of misfits whose idea of job satisfaction revolves around successfully groping a neighbouring divorcee during lunch break. This classic Catch-22, pitching a mid-life career crisis against the worldwide economy has inevitably begun to take its toll on my mental and physical well-being.
Prone to vivid dreams at the best of times, I have recently fallen victim to the most hideous work-related nightmares, even on one occasion waking in the firm belief that a Neanderthal work colleague was on the loose in my apartment dressed as Ronald MacDonald. Of course, these hallucinations may in part have been caused by the alarming acceleration in my alcohol consumption, which has risen in direct proportion to this vocational despair. In fact, such is my devotion to the alcoholic Mecca that is the local off licence, I was recently offered an attractive sum of money to donate a defective kidney to medical research. In addition to this worrying affliction, I have become aware of a steady expansion in girth that may too be apportioned to the acute depression brought on by such an untenable rung on the career ladder. This undeniable trend was unnecessarily highlighted just last week by an annoyingly muscular bather at the local leisure centre, who had sarcastically directed me towards the aqua-natal class just underway in the nearby learner pool.
So, you can perhaps see the necessity for some miraculous remedy to the above hellish scenario. One thing’s for sure, if something doesn’t happen soon, I can sense a sudden and catastrophic relapse into the arms of that elusive ex-beauty queen therapist, wherever she may be. Maybe a position at the morgue would be the answer after all; at least they don’t have to worry about global recession.
Well, there you have it. I should point out that the above distractions form only part of the defence of my intermittent blogging activity of recent months. However, as insurance against the blogger’s block with which I am sure to be confronted at some point in the near future, I shall save these minor catastrophes for a later post.
For those to have made it this far, I only wish I had such spare time to sit and read nonsense like this. Having said that, thank you for sharing my recent inconveniences; I hope you have enjoyed them more than me. It has nonetheless been of some emotional benefit to write them down here for your entertainment. In fact, having shared them, I think they may be losing their power to depress already...
Have any of you ever considered a career in therapy?
© Jenko, September 2011.
mattofjenko@yahoo.co.uk
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