On junk and other lost causes.

I managed to lose one slipper. One obviously from a pair of two. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is? I turned my whole room upside down inside out to find the other one back and I didn't.

I don't exactly know what bugs me more: the fact I lost it or the fact I basically cleaned all of my room, which is a real 'capharnaüm' by the way, for nothing. It's a pig's nest, a shambles, a big, big mess.

And amidst of it all, in the middle of my bright red rug, stands one slipper. Desperately waiting for the other to resurface. It's some kind of reminder of how terribly empty-headed I am. I look at it and get angry at myself, which might get me to do something productive instead of taking naps for no reason (I once read sleeping too much is a sign of depression) or lounging on the sofa doing nothing but squandering the net hoping for some flicker of interesting business.
But there isn't. Of course; it's the internet.

I get up in the morning, I stumble on that slipper in the dark and a wave of fresh frustration wakes me up. I kick it through the room in the evening to lose some pent up energy before going to sleep. I even remember religion because of that stupid slipper. I pray Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost articles and the seekers of lost articles, to help me find back the other one. Yes, I am crazy. So shoot me. Or pray Saint Rita 'des causes déspérées'.

A human being shapes its life around a goal. When it hasn't got any, it's looking for one. When it doesn't feel like looking (and I actually don't feel like anything) it still needs focus, something to build its actions around. Even if that thing happens to be one slipper. The thing has become such a thorn in my eye that I can't enter a room with a shoe lying about without picturing the lost one. It's gained so much importance in my pig nest I might just as well place it on a pedestal.

Amazing, innit, how stupid objects or people take such place in people's lives. Emotional value, let me laugh, as the Dutch would say. I'm a hoarder. I keep so much useless stuff in my room one day I swear it's gonna go through the ceiling of the living room below. Right on the pool table, now wouldn't that be a sight, a collection of old books I haven't opened in years, of markers that don't work any more, of newspaper articles outdated by years, of magazines I'll probably never read again, of broken earphones, of souvenir seashells, of plastic bags filled with presents I didn't like and would never use. Bath bubbles. Colourful but itchy woollen mittens. A pink and glittery Santa hat. Booklets from school trips destined to my brother. Scraps of paper I kept because in some way or other they praised me. I'm fucking vain.

And on top of all that junk that'll have landed on the pool table, among the coloured balls, there'll be that one slipper.  Because failure is always what one sees first.

I never wanna go back to school.

I'm on end-of-sick-leave. It basically means that I have the voice of an old frog, that my throat is killing me and that someone's finding it funny to play djembe in my head, but at least the world doesn't turn around when I stand up any more, and I don't have the urge to sleep all day until two in the morning any more...

It also means I've missed a day and a half of school, which I'm going to need to make up for, but at least I didn't miss any tests, cause that really is a pest to catch up.

It also means I'm missing the MT editing afternoon, which is really not nice of me, but I doubt the djembe playing person would have let me do any good work.

But it also means that for the first time in many, many, (too) many days, I spent an entire day doing nothing productive. Not nothing at all, cause it's impossible to do nothing at all, but nothing worth anything. All I did was sleep till 7 PM, listen to the radio for two hours while doping myself on aspirin and lemony throat pills + syrup and then sleep till two AM, toss 'n turn for another hour, then fall asleep again until my alarm went off. It was fucking bliss, aside of the 'feeling like shit' part. I don't know if you've ever seen the film 'Alexandre le Bienheureux', which is about a guy who decides to spend the rest of his life in bed after he is freed from his wife, who bossed him around for decades. God damn, that man is a genius. I never saw the film completely, but how I like the general idea!

And why would I need to go to school? I've spent enough years there by now to know how to read and write, and what would I need more if my dream profession is, indeed, author?

Okay, I admit that being a writer is a plan A that will have to be pushed back as a plan B, because success doesn't come when called. But I really don't know what I want to do yet. I got myself a delay of year by signing up for the AFS School Program, but it's not like I'm going to be illuminated over there. (Gosh, now I re-read this I've suddenly got this image in my head of me dressed up as a Christmas tree)

I feel another wave of wobbly non-nausea coming up, so I'll leave this be and will go back drinking Coke, cause mom and dad say it helps against nausea. And if they say so, it is that way. Amen to the God of Sarcasm.

Sunday afternoons are the greatest cause for suicide.

When you feel like you're losing grip on everything, what do you do? I'm only asking 'cause I need some advice about that. I've got the feeling my whole life is saying 'fuck y'all' and is leaving, smashing the door closed. I want to not exist anymore. I don't want to go to school, I don't want to think about the future, I don't want to read, write, surf, sport. All I want to do is sleep. I feel like nothing is worth it anymore, you know?

It's like that stupid song 'The usual Sunday with the flu'; everything is conspiring against me. Mostly I'm willing to fight life, to show I'm the better person and fuck you, Destiny. But now I'm suffering from that dashed thing 'ennui', you know. I want to stay listening to that stupid Sunday afternoon radio programming. I want time to stop. I want to be able not to give a fuck. But truth is I'm so fucking responsible, you know. I have to take care of MT, school work, my AFS application, my theatre group, my weight (there we go again, stupid hormonal teenager shit).

Francis Cabrel is singing a folk song, and even the upbeat Phil Collins song that follows can't get my moral up. It's like I'm feeling the down from last night's up particularly sharply. It's cutting through my chest, right to my heart and makes me realise I'm a lonely pathetic fuck up. I'm not yet eighteen and my back hurts from all those years of hunching my shoulders forward. Give me ten years more and I'll look like the hunchback of Notre Dame. I disgust myself.

On the good side: I had fun last night. Alone. With my dad. Because everybody was having fun in Brussels with their boyfriend, or in Boutersem at the Message Party with their friends. Or in lost places of Belgium with the scouts. And I was looking at all those half-drunks on the dancefloor, half-dancing with their beers half-swaying with their partners. And even though you might think they were the most pathetic ones, sloshing their beer all over the place, I was actually wondering if it wasn't me, dancing alone in a corner. In the middle of all these 'old' people, who where around 25.

Back home at three. Way to early, the stuff was only getting started. But I'm so fucking lame I slept till noon anyway.

I want the ads on the radio to stop and the lame music to start paying again.

Come on, Classic 21. Numb my mind. Be my drug, my alcohol, my cigarettes.

Make me live through Sunday afternoon.

Free Time

Ah! It's weekend! Seriously, this part of the week took forever to arrive. Like it mostly does.
I'm sure there are loads of people who said fantastic things about the weekend. Let's take a look to all those guys who had the art of the good reply. (I'm only doing this 'cause I don't really feel like writing today. Not right now, anyway)

Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. -- Bill Watterson

Tell that to my parents!

There aren't enough days in the weekend. -- Rod Schmidt 

God how right you are...

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day
And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday.
-- Henry Carey

I truly couldn't have said it better. Except I love Saturday even more than Sunday.

Give a man a fish and he has food for a day; teach him how to fish and you can get rid of him for the entire weekend. -- Zenna Scha 

How deliciously controversial.

 Always strive to excel, but only on weekends. -- Richard Rorty 

I love a party person, don't you?

I thank all the great people who allow me to develop a sense of wit.