Drunken posting

My favorite drink for getting absolutely maggotted lately is the Evans and Tate Classic White, a lovely, crisp, citrussy Margaret River drop of sunshine that after exactly two glasses feels like a very powerful prescription-only sedative. Two glasses is all I had this time. I had three-ish the time before, after the soup dinner with the lying liar when my brain thought we had made a reconciliation but my body knew it was the end of an era and the end of all hope, and I proceeded to turn my hangover into a whole week of stomach flu and even missed my office Christmas party (on Chinese New Year but who's counting?). This time I've just had several solid weeks of heart-pounding, neck squeezing, eye-aching stress, non-stop, all day, every day at work, and so I can't do anything but work any more, can't read any books, can't go out, can't call anyone even when it's just work or an errand, and have been missing meetings all the time because I just don't have the energy. And today, admidst no less than nine incredibly urgent, COB today, world will end deadlines, we had an incredibly stressful launch of a new thing for our biggest client, and they are not happy because it's so late and so not working properly yet, but it's beautiful and full of potential and no one knows what hard work it was to do even this. Exciting work, web work, but thankless, like being an IT sys admin - everyone just wants it to work, all the time, seamlessly and quickly, and they only notice when it's not.

So I was there until 7, with the last man standing, finishing the last deadline, putting out the last forest fire. And then so wanted to burst out of the office and into a dark but cozy pub, and drink lots of beers and have several beers bought for me, and laugh and relax and regale everyone - "You won't believe the week I've had! You won't believe what we had to do today!" My horoscope even recommended it as a good day to relax and have fun with loved ones.

But I have no loved ones. I got $60 out on my credit card, because the pays don't go thru until tomorrow, and took myself out - aforementioned bottle of white, two lots of new Sopranos at Blockbuster, then bagels and toppings at the shop - my dinner, not breakfast or snack but dinner, was two whole poppy seed bagels with brie, paté and hoummus on top. And then I just had a Mountain Bread with four slices of cheese melted on it, which is my new fave snack. I just don't care. I'm bingeing. Carbo-festival. It's Friday. And I had a hell of a couple of weeks.

It's not completely new, I remember this same feeling of shock and abandonment at Uni when Friday would come and the routine in which I felt comfortable and excelled myself came to an abrupt stop and I had planned nothing for the weekend. The same shock and loneliness and feeilngs of "Nooooo! No! I don't want to do nothing! I don't want to be on my own! I want to go out and play! Why won't anybody play with me!" So, I'm sure I am still the same amount to blame for my predicament. But it hurts no less. In fact a bit more - I felt this way when I was 18, and here I am nearly 44 and I feel the same way still? It sucks, is what it does.

I am at the point now when I don't even know how to start to get out of this situation. The Philosophers have let me down, I'm not getting what I need from them and last time I saw them it just felt sad and defeated and second-best, and when I have the opportunity to see them I don't prioritise it any more (and certainly don't feel like I can't be my best self without them), I just feel it's all too hard and when I weigh it up against just going home and lying down in front of Biggest Loser (ironic, no?), I just pike and go home. Face it boys, I joined Philorum so I could get laid, and I'm not getting laid, and so I need to spend my time elsewhere.

Mercedes boy is not worth my time even worrying about, and besides which he doesn't call or write.

The online downloadable advice books, the free snippets I've read, are all the same - on one page telling you to have confidence in yourself and just be true to yourself and genuine and really love yourself and others, and on the next page say "Don't call him! If you even send an email first you will appear desparate and run him off FOREVER!" Fuck.

RSVP looked even more sad and desparate and damaged and sad than the philosophers last time I visited. I just can't face it again. Especially knowing me - what are the odds I'd find even a friend there, given how I work? The odds are zero, it will never, ever happen, I just don't work that way.

But I can't trust myself around Mr Averageness of the Universe Internet Guy, because I recoil and lash out and hurt them when they don't deserve it, and I can't trust myself about Mercedes Guy because he's a player and not boyfriend material and Just Not That Into Me and loaded with baggage anyway, and I couldn't trust myself with the lying liar because somehow even with sex taken explicitly out of the equation I still managed to come across as desparate and dangerous and made a fool of myself. Who am I going to meet? I mean, you can't even meet anyone anyway, Australians are incapable of friendships with anyone they didn't know in Year 10, and people in the general world won't make eye contact, and at classes everyone listens to the teacher and heads home, and the philosophers are all too shy or clueless or whatever to actually call me and say, "What are you doing? What are you doing right now? It's Friday, it's after work, meet me for a drink!" No fun. No people. No connections.

I'm not sure how long I can stand any of this, the stressy work, the no connections, the feeling old and life slipping away. I can't even read any more, much less write, much less sustain philosophical thought (brain damage from the car accident? the stressy job? the broken heart? or the half-bottle of wine?), much less have ambitions to write a novel at all, much less successful ones, much less important ones, much less have any impact on the fucking world at all. Work is all I can do, and even that I can barely do any more and here I am on a Friday night.

You're lucky I didn't drink the whole bottle of wine or this would be ten times more boring than it even is.

I can't think of anyone who I could be like this with any more, this morose and sorry-self way. I keep feeling really guilty of taking so much space to moan and complain here. But it's a blog! It's free space for boring and self-pitying speech! It's not a newspaper. It's not even a diary! I don't have to pay for these pages, or this ink (pixels) to make these letters. It's all on Google!

Thanks, Google.

I imagine a Dialectic. I imagine striding off through the flower gardens with a friendly interlocutor. I imagine him asking, "So, what have you been thinking about?" And the answer is only, "If I don't get laid soon, I am going to die."

Real profound, Watson.