Coming Up Empty.

8929399302_5b10da7eb2_qI keep trying to find a topic to write about today. But i keep coming up empty. So i’m not even sure why i’m even typing this… I mean i have know where to go but to just type and see what comes out of my fingers.

I could tell you about the books i’m reading right now. A robert Ludlum spy thriller called ‘The Cry of the Halidon‘ and ‘Red Moon‘, a story about Lycans’s, werewolves, living among us, but of course there is a fundamentalist group among them. Can’t help but see the parallels to all the current terrorist shit. Thing is i don’t what to talk about that either.

I could go into detail about the redecoration i have planned for my room. Or the trip to the US i have planned for next year. Or how much i don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Or how much i hate myself for not getting a different job, one closer to home that would mean i don’t need to commute for so bloody long . Or how little i’ve done, again, this weekend. My weekends are Sunday and Monday. How i have lots of things i want and or need to do, but don’t. That i either sit around reading books or sitting here, surfing the net, refreshing web pages hoping that something will change, something that will capture my attention for a short time. I how i just remembered that i didn’t collect my suit from the dry cleaners today because my mind wonders to much. That my suit is a work related thing, and outside of work i try not to think about work or any facet of work. Which is why i only just remembered, five minutes ago, to recharge my Kindle, which i only use for work. Reading it on breaks. Sometimes on the bus ride to and from. I could tell you that i’d want to read ‘Red Moon‘ all night. To reach further into the five-hundred and thirty page book (currently on page 88). That i could stay up all night reading it, and sod work. That i once stayed up until 3am on Monday night watching season one of Breaking Bad and the first two episodes of season two. That i didn’t care about work, about being tired at work and not being about to properly concentrate on my job. Fighting sleep all day. That i think that i subconsciously try to get sacked. How i won’t take shit from my managers. That they don’t seem to realise that a happy work force is an efficient work force. That simply paying them, what the London mayor calls, The Living Wage, which is about £18,600 a year, minimum. You can’t live in London if you earn less then this. My P60 last year told me i earned £16,000. That i’m 36 years old and can’t afford to rent a studio flat let alone a one bedroom flat. That i feel defeated and useless most of the time. That i wonder why i bother. Why do i bother working the way i do for so little, running out of money at the end of each month with nothing to show for it. I could only spend my wages on my rent (family rent) travel and food for work, bills and paying off my credit card. Then i might get a few hundred quid to save that month. That i have two suits for work, one is usually in the dry cleaners, that they are getting old and i need new ones, but can’t afford it. That when i say food for work, i mean a 500ml bottle of cake and two tracker bars. That every now and then, suicide sometimes feels like the best option. That i can’t concentrate of editing my book. That it’s going to take a lot longer then i’d planned. And that that is something, probably the one thing that makes me hate myself more then everything else. That i say i want to be a writer, that i want to be an author, to be paid to write, in my own time and my own pace. To write books for a living so that i can do away from managers, be self employed. To live at my own pace, do my own thing. Went i want too.

But i don’t. And that, above all the rest……….

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