Wednesday, 5 June 1996 8:35am
Had that lunch with our Father yesterday. Depressing affair, all told. Basically, these ideas of going back to Uni are shot, they really are. It’s the people I work with, they’re always going on and on and on about how crap it is here, so I guess I’m conditioned to think that. Then they all go on about how I should o to Uni ‘coz ‘you’d love it’ but what do I do there? Arts? Maybe I’ll just skip the Uni course and make myself homeless now. The fact is, if you’re crap at maths (as I am) then you’re fucked. There are no career options that might generate a decent salary available to you. The way I see it. I just have to buckle down here, try and make myself numb to it. I’m suited to nothing. As I said, a depressing affair, all told.
There’s nothing for it, I guess I’m gonna be poor forever. I should just get used to the idea. Lots of other people are poor, I’m sure they all think their lives are worthwhile sans the creature comforts. Fuck I don’t want to be here, Sis. But there’s no where else to go, is there?
It makes me so irritable. When some workmate lolls past my desk every morning saying ‘good morning’ as they do, I compose in my mind these little sentences of abuse to fling at them. Like full sentences, you know what I mean? I actually form the words, it’s not just some amorphous antipathetic feeling, it’s a sentence with a beginning, a middle and an end. They say good morning, I compose my poisonous little barb, and then some innocuous pleasantry seeps out between my morning-cold lips, and the nastiness folds in on itself. And you wonder, then, is anybody as they seem? What’s the point of talking to people if you can’t really know them? The bitterness of old age and professional impotence sets in. Sorry about this, it’s not really light reading is it?
Friday, 7 June 1996 8:40am
Someone’s put sugar in my coffee. I didn’t ask for that. Why’d she do that? (The Croissant Connection Girl). I thought I was actually a little rude to her this morning. Maybe it’s not sugar, maybe it’s got a plash of pee in it form the jar of urine they keep beside the cappuccino machine, to deal with nasty customers.
My diet is going great guns, but don’t tell Mum. Whenever I tell her I’m on a diet she huffs and puffs with her arms all crossed and says ‘You’re too thin already. You’re going overboard.’ Poor dear Mum, she doesn’t understand how it is to be a male in this age of truck-sized Calvin Klein boxer-shorts ads – NO FAT ALLOWED! (You should know how it is.) I guess Mum is there with you by the time this letter gets to you, her flight leaves today. Say hi to her for me. You don’t show her my letters do you? Bloody hope not.
Anyhoo, ’til next time, cheerio.
PS Happy Birthday Brady.