This blog post started life suffering from depression.
It opened with the sentence “Let me begin by saying that 2015 was, for me at least, like a silent fart in an elevator.”
There was a completely asinine title: “New Year, New Me (Or Something to That Effect)”
There were cliches: “picking up the broken pieces” and “dotting the i’s”.
There was evidence of failures taken to heart: “I made big plans at the start of the year…”
There was passive voice.
It wasn’t working. It read too much like someone else, some cookie-cutter type who Googled the phrase ‘a deep and never ending sadness’ and regurgitated the results verbatim into a text box.
I became twitchy, easily offended, a touch insane. I asked a friend to read a story of mine. He said “Sure – but I’m busy right now.” I stomped around the house for a bit. Drank two glasses of milk and ate three Drifter bars in quick succession. I belly crawled to the Playstation for help, diving into GTA V and unleashing an artistic rage bomb on the artificially intelligent people of Los Santos. I drove around aimlessly, got a terrible haircut, smashed up a bus stop with my (Michael’s) bare fists. I lit an oil tanker on fire at a petrol station with a jerry can. I met up with two members of the Epsilon Program in the mountains, was abducted, drugged, robbed of my clothes and left in a field in the hot sun, stumbling around like a sick antelope. I got a text from Marnie of the Epsilon Program asking me to donate $500.
I donated the $500.
Then I switched it off. Nothing seemed to appease me.
Then I picked up a book and started reading. I’m a writer. I should be reading, a LOT. Or at least a lot more than I’ve been doing.
But, Netflix. You know how it is.
FUCK IT, I said. Off went the TV. And I felt sort of, kind of, a bit better. Also, I held a games night and got people I liked round and drank rum and shouted and let off steam.
So let it be known:
READING (& RUM) SAVES LIVES.