I don’t own an axe

What sort of cunt writes a blog anyway? I’d always wondered this before feeling the itch myself. Because let’s face it, who gives a fuck what you think? What I think? Or what anybody fucking thinks? It’s surely one of the most self-gratifying things you can do in this ever increasingly anonymous age. But I decided to give this a go to try and disprove my own theory. Maybe it isn’t self-gratifying at all and it can just be used as I intend it to be. as a method of self-help, therapy if you will.

I suppose it’d be courteous to introduce myself, but I’m not gonna do that. What I can tell you is that I’m a guy very much struggling with everyday life at the moment. I’m unhappy. I have no particular reason to be unhappy, which makes me more unhappy. I hate where I live, I hate my flatmates, I hate my job, I hate my boss and I hate the fact that I hate at all. Boo hoo hey! Don’t get me wrong though, this isn’t some note I’m leaving before going on a killing spree, this isn’t American Psycho, I’m not listening to Phil Collins or Huey Lewis and I don’t own an axe. Shouldn’t I be grateful that I have a house and a job? Yeah sure. But we want more don’t we?

I’m currently sitting at my desk at work wondering how I’m going to waste the rest of the day rather than face the monotonous tasks that await my attention. My boss (who recently had his head shaved so he now bears a striking resemblance to Lex Luthor) sits opposite me reading the Financial Times and drinking ginger tea. What a premium bellend he is.

“Check your Norton subscription now.”

Even my trusty laptop is on my case today.

The truth is, it’s easy for me to blame my boss for my unhappiness in the workplace but the buck has to stop with me. If I hate it as much as I say I do then I can quit and find something I actually enjoy rather than just spending the rest of my mortality as another office-bot, another statistic.

It’s not that easy though is it? I’ve gone past that age where I can go through life on a wing and a prayer. Social stigma and financial commitments mean you must remain in employment, keep on towing the line. I had a chat with a bloke in his fifties the other night who had to stop working a few years ago because of a head injury and he seemed genuinely happier than me. How is that fucking possible? How can his life which consisted of lackadaisical masturbation and drinking himself into a daily stupor provide more fulfilment than mine? In fact, scratch that, silly question.

Fear not though, as there is light at the end of my gloomy tunnel. My girlfriend (who is one of the things I do love dearly) is due to give birth to our first child later this year and I shall be moving in with her soon, which eradicates the need for me to further tolerate the bullshit of my flatmates. Yet despite being overwhelmingly excited about the birth of my child, it also fills me with dread. What sort of father can I be when I allow myself to be so consumed by hate? My father was a fuck up of epic proportions so what’s to say I won’t be the same? I’m sure there are those of you reading this who have children and have maybe had the same worries but that doesn’t make it any easier for me to wrap my head around. Do I raise my offspring to be like Lex, with the ginger tea, Financial Times and undoubted coffee enema or like the serial masturbator? Can I even guide somebody in their life when at this stage I have no idea who the fuck I am and what I want? Time will tell, I guess.

I wish there was more point to this virginal blog of mine but I’m afraid there isn’t. I just wanted to introduce myself to begin with and thereafter start writing with more purpose. If you give a shit though you might be pleased to know that hastily typing this up this morning under the ever judgemental glare of Lex has provided me with some enjoyment so there will certainly be more to come.

Not that you give a fuck of course. Why would you? I’m the sort of cunt that writes a blog.

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