Ramblings of a Confused Kleptomaniac

As I lay there in the bathtub trying to think about something that wasn’t a box, packing or bill related – it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t posted anything in a while. A month to be precise. I’m always aware when I don’t post for long periods of time but that’s when I hit the writing wall, where I struggle to think of words to put in a sentence to be regurgitated onto a website.

Forever fearful of posting any old rubbish – as I am now – I like to fall back on musings and recapping of what’s been happening since I last posted anything half decent.

So here I am sat here amongst bags full of old bank statements, boxes full of herbs, spices and gravy granules as well as big plastic crates of what looks to be assorted crap. I’d like to announce that I’m moving. Yes, again. Only this time to a grown up place, a 2 bedroomed house to be exact – my own red bricked, ex council, good old gas central heated, with a drive and a decent living space… house. Alone. Not with Mrs Ste or a housemate. Myself.

Ever since  I can remember I’ve always had an unspoken/unwritten rule, scared of being mocked by my peers I always kept them to myself and so now I unleash them onto the ever curious and nosey World Wide Web.

From an early age I’ve always watched my parents work and just about make ends meet. My pathetic attempts at helping them failed as I found myself wanting to help my friends retrieve the football from the neighbour’s garden or trying (and failing) to hide my smoking habit. Watching your parents struggle from an early age plants something in your mind, something that you’re not born with or able to develop in a short space of time – motivation.

I hate not being to do things for myself so to cut a long story short, I refuse to fail in things that are within my control so in my head I’d think of what grown ups were doing and would want the life of a ‘grown up’. My own house, car, motorcycle, stunning missus, a talent that not everybody has, a strong group of friends, a decent job earning decent money and now I have all those.

But as I sit here tapping away at my laptop with the broken DVD drive, staring at (what I assume is) a spit covered screen, surrounded by stuff I steal from places I visit (as a momento of course), I get the horrible feeling that it’s all just beginning.

I’m now going on (or it actually might be) 2 months out of the gym with a smashed ankle and I feel less and less motivated about going back. Every single day I think about training but the dull ache in my ligaments prevents me from doing anything. I can’t even run. Instead I’ve settled for a life I never in a hundred years wanted – to come home after work and sit in front of a box playing shapes, colours and sounds which mean nothing and can’t improve my life.

Stressful is the life of a quarter century year old man whose body is in bits who would give up everything to go back to rolling on the floor and punching people in the face tomorrow.