The General Pointlessness of Being: coming of age for the disillusioned!

The General Pointlessness of Being!

Any idiot can face a crisis - it's day to day living that wears you out.

- Anton Chekhov

Notes of a Pathetic being

I wish this was a novel about being a tramp. I wish I could have witnessed the gulag, the concentration camps of world war. It would have given myself such a unique point of view, a voice to stand above it all... but my upbringing staved off any lucky strike at a down and out skid row experience.

For one salient fact, I live in the UK. It is trendy to take the piss out of tramps but not women, blacks or homosexuals. Funny that, fifty years ago it truly was the reverse.

Should we all not be in on the joke?

I do not know...

In other non-important news, I no longer have many friends straight or otherwise. I feel as though the world is mine for the taking. But nothing makes sense. My parents praised me too much as a child. The world was my own, I was the greatest kid to have ever played football. I never had to try at school. Trying was for people who were not me. I played video games. Me and my Dad and brother had a bond over video games. It was football and video games with my friends. I had sporty ones and stick people ones with bigger jam-jar-glasses-than-their-head friends. Some of them were fat. They never did lose the weight.

For all the natural intelligence I had back then I was a real dumb kid. It is only now that I look back and really think, that I see the dots that add up to what I could become. Perhaps Sartre would have something to say but then he's dead, his views null and void because he recanted them on his deathbed. "It was just a passing fancy," he said coughing up nothing. "...Just to fit in. None of it means anything."

"So David what's the capital of Uzbekistan?" Mr Morrison would ask.

"Terrorism sir."

"How do you know this my dear boy?" The Geography teacher humoured me.

"Because when you say the name of the country I shit my pants sir. Terrorism that is."

It's funny and the teacher couldn't help wonder at my self deprecatory humour.

"Always an answer for everything, isn't it Rutty."

I had no influences other than my father who I shall, if I ever finish a final draft of a novel dedicate to him for ever and always - Knows no wrong does no wrong - he would always say. Although platitudes and cliches and repeated words from the daily grind machine lose meaning in a world full of shouts and braggadocios ego's... on the other sleight of hand, my Dad's mantra for me, Knows no wrong does no wrong, has gained ever-more significance to me. It's as if my father from the age of naught saw something in me that was there before I or anyone else could know it.

The only thing I have learnt, through isolation, living like a perceived hermit is one can convince one's self of anything.

I wish I had bar brawls to tell you about. Whores who have more aids than Freddy Mercury and Kenny everett. Hipper pop culture references perhaps. But I don't. I have taken no classes and talk to nobody about my writing. I try to avoid being a cliche and in that I feel I instantly become one...

I wish I was on skid row and talked to many of the homeless and hopeless and helpless, what made them the way they were. I wish I knew their story. Had they been loved or were they married to the holy-yellow-boat kept on their head? I wish many things, but never to be different. I never would change a thing about myself and I don't know why. I feel an innate desire for greatness. No real need to burn out before I fade away. I'm not rebelling against anything because nothing makes sense, everything is obtusely-alien to me.