I am on the train home and I haven’t even begun to think about how to tell my dad I had an existential crisis, quit my job and plan to coast around until I have only enough money to spoon beans into my arid mouth.
Imagine telling god you wish not to exist.
Imagine meeting your maker.
Dad, I’ve lost my shit and I sort of don’t give a fuck either.
The mighty catfish sunk to the floor
It sunk so far it could go no more
And then one day it saw the light
Saw the light and decided to fight.
It raised one whisker up from the sea bed
Raised it way, way above it’s head.
It said, “Hey World, I think it’s time
To stand up and to take what’s mine!”
And sooner or later it was flying high
Flying high in the media industry up in the sky.
It’s frustrating. Like the reoccurring dream where I try to remove a garment and it snaps back on. Don’t you get it? I just want to remove my dungarees.
There are questions inside of questions. Tiny questions hiding inside big questions like why do I exist like this and should I eat less meat? I shout the questions to the abyss and nothing comes back. I am Zack Braff, Peter Sarsgaard and Natalie Portman. I am shouting in the rain in a bin bag, every day.
And every day it’s total annihilation. Drunk and sad, and sex with married men and drugs and shrugging and 2am messages to the man who never, ever, loved me. And I’m empty and I’m lost and I wish it were a game of hide and seek. I just want to be found.
But I’ve always been an angry drunk.