Happening upon happiness December 1, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
It’s all conflicts of interest at Château BiB at the moment. All black and white. And twains never meeting. But not conflicts of interest in a nasty, underhand sense. Just interests and desires diverging diametrically.
I wish the Russian would hurry up and catch up with me in age. He’s still wanting to explore, discover, experience. Whereas I’m as stale as a pint of gold-top that’s been left on a sunlit doorstep for days on end. The Russian wants to climb mountains, discover new continents, try new narcotics. Whereas I would happily have a Stannah stairlift connecting me from my current perch leading right down to the pavement where a chauffeur-driven motorised wheelchair would be waiting.
J’exagère, of course, and I don’t want my staleness to have folk reaching for pills/knives/the off button. Because I mean it to be the opposite. Perhaps it’s gloom disguising itself as something else, or me pulling the wool over my own eyes, but I can’t help feeling sometimes I’ve stumbled across something called contentedness. The ingredients for which recipe should have me being carted off to the nearest loony bin. Because, as I see it, contentedness à la BiB, in 2006, is being skint, detesting my job, living in a country where I have the language skills of a retarded toddler, and a boyfriend who’d rather I was someone else. But life seems fine, in an odd way.
I’m not sure what the moral of this non-story is. Trial and error? Striking lucky? Low expectations? Age? Being mad? But I just cannot force myself to want the things I’m meant to want. I have nothing against money, by any means, but if doing my ludicrous job provides me with enough to scrape by in relative comfort, then I’d sooner have that than no sleep and working my nuts off. It does also mean no car – I can’t drive anyway, but, actually, Annie’s getting me one for Christmas – and no weekends in Honolulu and no rent-boys smeared in caviar, but I can heroically do without.
Anyway, it’s only the today me writing. Perhaps because it’s a lovely day. And perhaps because I’ve managed to convince the Russian that he needs to hurry up and get old. (Actually, he’s making a special effort and is having a birthday soon. He declared earlier, “You can buy me either a trip somewhere or a new bookcase for my birthday.” I was on the IKEA website before you could say, “Not another fucking flight.”) Tomorrow it’ll be all gloom, suicide threats and lamenting my tragic fate.