Gimbal seems to be settling

Ahem.

Certainly makes things interesting when one decides to start a blog blind drunk. I've just spent fifteen minutes divining the email address I created to do so, and another five parsing why exactly I created the security question that I did. I'm hoping to reach the point at which I regard myself with wonder as a sensitive voyager through life, absorbing all vissicitudes, rather than with abject horror as a total cunt. These sorts of things don't help.

And nor does time. Time time time. (Imagine it said like my name, with a shaking of the head and quiet exasperation; Brewski Brewski Brewski. Like walking down the steps outside a brothel. There. You have it). I will be forty in two months, and the last four years have kicked the shit out of me and continue to do so, wearily putting the boot in. Life is what you make it so they say, and I have curled up like an outnumbered loner stupid enough to walk down a British high street at midnight on a Saturday. The cowardly kicks of course numbed by pints of the black, for who would do that shit sober? I might be stupid, but I'm no mentalist.

So life has taken a strange turn for me, and I'm struggling. Fucking great word 'struggling'. I am lathered in guilt. Festooned with my own inadequance. Besmirched with grimy mistake. And fighting valiantly not to disappear entirely up my own arse. You would experience the same, I'd warrant, if you moved to a new country and failed utterly to make new friends, to become a useful member of the community, and to keep your shit together. Let's not forget, of course, becoming known to the local constabulary as 'a person of interest'. Fucking hell, I'm not sure I should write this shit, it really brings it home. Speaking of home, have you seen 'Moon' yet? Watch it as soon as you can. Not only is the score superb, but the scene where Rockwell is sobbing "I want to go home" with the Earth doing it's Earthrise thing made me cry. And I don't mean a gentle seeping of melancholy, I mean full-on primary school lost his gym-kit shit. And I haven't spoiled the plot for you, so stop it.

Imagine, if you will, not seeing any friends of yours for ten months. Imagine complete isolation in a strange town in a country that existed only in your youthful memories and is therefore a fucking myth. Imagine further that you'd come to this place in search of paternal truth and clarification, and found instead deathwish and the mirror of all that's worst in yourself. And then imagine this doing your head right in. I'm just saying.

So, smacked on the arse little fuck that I am, I remain.

Ever looked into the rape of India? Arundhati Roy should be read.

Sirrah!

"smh" You.