Ennui. Basically, ennui is boredom, at least if you check it's woefully brief entry in online dictionaries (the kind that give the definition of 'ennui' as 'boredom', and the definition of 'boredom' as 'ennui' just to keep you chasing your mind tail until your sanity collapses under the pressure). However it's more than that, it's a kind of boredom on an existential level, a boredom with one's self. I'm bored of myself, basically. I have so many things to do, I could write, I could build a spaceship on Second Life, I could make a song, I could go for a lovely walk in the sunshine, but I've done all of these things. Now, when I sit down to start writing I just get a feeling that can only be described as 'meh'. Same when I try writing any music. I get vaguely excited as I make a particularly nasty sound on my synthesiser, make some kind of dancey bassline with it, but then instantly get bored when it comes to recording drums or anything else. I could go for a walk, but my general misanthropy soars to new heights whenever I expose myself to the turgid mess that is the general public. It's not helped by the fact that there's a gang of workmen down my street who seem to have been employed straight out of the prison release queue for newly ex-con sex-offenders. I kid you not, I just walked down to the shops and there was a young woman in front of me. As she walked by the potential rapist who was stood next to a skip, he leered at her, mere inches from the poor girl, and once she was literally only just past, said in that foghorn voice that these kind of brain donors always seem to have,"Ey, lads, did you see the fucking tits on that? Fuckin' 'ell, I'd give her one." I only resisted the urge to smash the shitwits' face in because his four mates might have something to say about it, though if I ran fast enough, hopefully the friction of dragging their knuckles along the floor would give me enough of an edge to escape.
Then there's the arseholes you see on the street. What is it at the moment with men and alpha-fucking-male contests? One particularly cunty behaviour I've always seen, but seems to be on the rise at the moment is this. You're walking down a street. In the distance, you see a guy walking the opposite way, so you move off to one side slightly to let him pass. Only he sees this, and moves to intercept you, forcing you further in to the side. Only he then moves further in to the side, to the point where, by the time you meet, you will either have to collide with him, or move far out of your way, quite needlessly. The latter alternative is what they want to happen, because basically, it's a typically testosterone overdriven my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick contest, and if they can force you out of their way, they win. If you collide with them, it turns into an out and out confrontation, with lots of "Look where you're going!" and, "Fucking watch it!" bandied about, despite these cunts being the ones who made a beeline for you in the first place. I have developed a new way of dealing with these bollock-brained retards. When I notice them veering toward me, I pull out my mobile phone and pretend to be texting someone. I stop, leaving most of the path for these people to walk by on, and become apparently completely oblivious to them. One guy actually did walk into me when I did this a few weeks ago, and when he came out with the old favourite "Watch where you're going!" I responded with, "Dude, I'm standing still. I'm not going anywhere. Why did you walk into me? Did you not see me stood there?" Obviously my being 14 stone something and tall adds to the effect. If I was five foot four and built like a pipe cleaner I'd probably think twice about this method of countering male cuntiness.
And I would go to the park to sit in the sun and read, only there's a better than average chance I'd end up getting hit in the head by some sort of ball, because it seems to be an automatic reflex when a man has a ball within a ten foot radius, what precious little consideration they have for what goes on outside their thick, heavily brow-ridged skulls disappears in a puff of testosterone, and suddenly they are whooping like chimps and bellowing like dying elephants and kicking heavy footballs into surrounding crowds and then getting all pissy when people don't kick the fucking ball back to them due to them rolling around the floor tending to their broken nose and concussion thanks to the impact. And if it's not a football, it's a rugby ball. Or a tennis ball. Yes, I have seen grown men kicking a tennis ball around the park because they had nothing else at all in their nanoscopic, underdeveloped minds that could possibly have occupied them better than running around and bellowing incoherently like a mortally wounded buffalo.
So, I feel a dose of ennui. Nothing wrong in my life, I have a fantastic girlfriend, I love my wicked flat, I have all the time in the world to indulge my whims. In fact, the only fly in this rather lovely ointment is that I still haven't had my £200 graphics card replaced under guarantee.
I should perhaps try to get out more. I realise that it has been quite some time since I saw most of my friends. I've been living in hermit like seclusion for almost two years, partly because of a tiring job last year, partly because I enjoy spending as much time as I can with Miranda, but mostly because I'm an idle, antisocial cunt who enjoys sitting at home drinking coffee in his bay window and spitting vitriol at any flecks of human shit that drift past. Then writing about it. Online.
Yeah, on reflection, getting out more is a good thing to do...
Oh, by the way, apparently Michael Jackson died a few weeks ago. I'd care more had he released an album worth hearing since the '80's.
Then there's the arseholes you see on the street. What is it at the moment with men and alpha-fucking-male contests? One particularly cunty behaviour I've always seen, but seems to be on the rise at the moment is this. You're walking down a street. In the distance, you see a guy walking the opposite way, so you move off to one side slightly to let him pass. Only he sees this, and moves to intercept you, forcing you further in to the side. Only he then moves further in to the side, to the point where, by the time you meet, you will either have to collide with him, or move far out of your way, quite needlessly. The latter alternative is what they want to happen, because basically, it's a typically testosterone overdriven my-dick-is-bigger-than-your-dick contest, and if they can force you out of their way, they win. If you collide with them, it turns into an out and out confrontation, with lots of "Look where you're going!" and, "Fucking watch it!" bandied about, despite these cunts being the ones who made a beeline for you in the first place. I have developed a new way of dealing with these bollock-brained retards. When I notice them veering toward me, I pull out my mobile phone and pretend to be texting someone. I stop, leaving most of the path for these people to walk by on, and become apparently completely oblivious to them. One guy actually did walk into me when I did this a few weeks ago, and when he came out with the old favourite "Watch where you're going!" I responded with, "Dude, I'm standing still. I'm not going anywhere. Why did you walk into me? Did you not see me stood there?" Obviously my being 14 stone something and tall adds to the effect. If I was five foot four and built like a pipe cleaner I'd probably think twice about this method of countering male cuntiness.
And I would go to the park to sit in the sun and read, only there's a better than average chance I'd end up getting hit in the head by some sort of ball, because it seems to be an automatic reflex when a man has a ball within a ten foot radius, what precious little consideration they have for what goes on outside their thick, heavily brow-ridged skulls disappears in a puff of testosterone, and suddenly they are whooping like chimps and bellowing like dying elephants and kicking heavy footballs into surrounding crowds and then getting all pissy when people don't kick the fucking ball back to them due to them rolling around the floor tending to their broken nose and concussion thanks to the impact. And if it's not a football, it's a rugby ball. Or a tennis ball. Yes, I have seen grown men kicking a tennis ball around the park because they had nothing else at all in their nanoscopic, underdeveloped minds that could possibly have occupied them better than running around and bellowing incoherently like a mortally wounded buffalo.
So, I feel a dose of ennui. Nothing wrong in my life, I have a fantastic girlfriend, I love my wicked flat, I have all the time in the world to indulge my whims. In fact, the only fly in this rather lovely ointment is that I still haven't had my £200 graphics card replaced under guarantee.
I should perhaps try to get out more. I realise that it has been quite some time since I saw most of my friends. I've been living in hermit like seclusion for almost two years, partly because of a tiring job last year, partly because I enjoy spending as much time as I can with Miranda, but mostly because I'm an idle, antisocial cunt who enjoys sitting at home drinking coffee in his bay window and spitting vitriol at any flecks of human shit that drift past. Then writing about it. Online.
Yeah, on reflection, getting out more is a good thing to do...
Oh, by the way, apparently Michael Jackson died a few weeks ago. I'd care more had he released an album worth hearing since the '80's.
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