anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,
anotherlongshot
anotherlongshot

34.

It feels appropriate to write an entry on my (34th) birthday even though I haven’t written in here for over a month. The good news is, the paucity of entries here is directly related to the near-daily writing that I have been doing. That is: I am (finally) writing a novel, a proper one this time, not the fanfiction crap I did two years ago. Having said that, there’s no good or immediate reason why writing a novel has to lead to my not writing here at all. Still: there hasn’t been that much to say, has there? It’s not like my life has been teeming with excitement, new opportunities. It’s still the same old shit; only difference being that I have Covid as a handy excuse for the complete non-event that my life has become.

In all honesty, my life has never felt as pointless and dull and empty as it does now. I have no career; as expected, getting the PhD lost its lustre the second it happened; and the realisation that I am 34, thirty-fucking-four, and have pretty much nothing to show for it, have done nothing of significance so far this year, is pretty damn depressing. Sure, I am playing the game, the academic game, but half-heartedly at best; and the paltry money I’ve made has only eased my finance-related worries somewhat. It has not made me happy. Finishing the novel might make me happy, but I’m certain that once it’s done - if it’s done – I will hate it and put off the revision until it becomes just another Word document in my hard drive. And I honestly don’t think it’s going to be any good anyway.

Clearly, I have not found the solution to my perpetual negativity. Sigh. I don’t know why I’m like this.

Here’s a tiny silver lining though: E and I are going to move into our own flat sometime around the end of the month. I can’t wait. It’s been trying camping out here in his flat, mostly because one of his housemates, this 20-something dude, is probably one of the most disgusting and dirtiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune of living with. He’s also rather socially awkward, and mumbles when he talks so I don’t understand what he’s saying half the time, so I’ve stopped trying to make conversation. I’ve even stopped saying hi when I see him due to the couple of times he’s said nothing in response when I tried to be polite. So why bother? Also, it’s already bad enough that he’s a carnist; but he buys these really crap, cheap meat and cooks them without seasoning and at a very high temperature, so the whole flat smells like burnt dead animal body part (which is fucking disgusting in and of itself) whenever he cooks meat. The smell even lingers until the next morning. And because he doesn’t wipe off the surfaces properly, the hob still smells like his cooking the next day when someone else (usually me) uses the hob. I really can’t wait until we move out.

This entry wasn’t supposed to be a complaining one about a person who will have absolutely no significance in my life very soon. But I don’t have time to get into the thing that has been troubling me for the past few weeks, and which provided the impetus for my novel, because I have to leave the flat in 20 minutes to meet John, who’s coming up from London just for my birthday. How nice. He’s forgiven for not remembering when exactly my birthday was, as Raffael revealed to me in our group chat.

Lastly: I am supposed to be in Singapore now. The plan was to return to Singapore in July. I am obviously not in Singapore. This Covid shit, the sin of ALL carnists, has fucked with my life so badly. Thanks to Covid, I didn’t vote in the General Election last Friday. I think my homesickness may reach a fever pitch that I would just risk catching Covid on a 12-hour flight and fly the hell home in December.

Have to go.
Tags: birthday
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