That's Life, You Can't Deny It

I am like an ancient Roman leader each song is a lone Gladiator awaiting my judgement.  It’s fucked and I cannot stop.  I am also a ruthless library master.  The satisfaction that I get from throwing a 3 star rating on Radiohead’s House of Cards is a gross indicator of my station in life. When did things get so pathetic that I take dirty pleasure in this?

Not to mention that rating begets more rating. I like nothing more than to sort my library by rating. Listening to pure 4′s and 5′s for hours. Decadently awesome. But like enjoying any of life’s pleasures to excess, I quickly become bored with the selection. Sure I can get a quick fix from downgrading some 5′s to 4′s and some 4′s to 3′s (that’s the best), but in order to prolong my high indefinitely I must scour the dusty depths, finding more and more songs to rate. One hit wonders, singles from the 90′s, old CDs that I find in boxes, and yes…even Coldplay (I know). Plus there’s the constant taunting of the great unrated. 90% of my music remains unjudged and frankly it’s not good enough. 

Actually, the only thing stopping me from never leaving the house again is my half-baked notion that there’s no point in rating below 3 stars.  In reality, I am one life-issue away from breaking permanently from society and rating each and every damn 1 star song. I want to; but I won’t. Like drinking before noon.

Like everyone on the planet I had trouble finding a pair of socks in amongst the laundry. Well not quite like everyone, unless everyone has a pile of landry resembling Mount Kilimanjaro..no? In any case, my sock troubles escalated. My frustration levels escalated. No matter what I did I couldn’t find a pair of socks when I needed one. Not.at.all.

I knew that I had to play these socks at their own game. So that is exactly what I did. I held in my hand 6 odd socks. I chuckled bitterly and looked at them laying smugly on top of the washing machine. Then I spoke to them in a quiet, faux-friendly yet aggressive manner; carefully implying that some future horror might await them. Like someone from The Sopranos might talk to a snitch who is about to be whacked. So, to be clear, 6 socks:

Thus came the crucial point. Much like Frodo putting on the fucking ring for the first time. A massive lightbulb popped up over my head in a giant bubble, and I realised…if I just keep looking for, and collecting socks I will eventually have a pair. It’s inevitable. Right?           

Wrong. Pretending to the socks that I was totally calm (I was angry), I began ever so casually walking around the house picking up each and every sock I found and adding it to the gang I had bunched up under my arm. “Oh, look at that. Another sock!”, I would sing-song through gritted teeth. Never allowing the black boiling rage to spill out; not for a second. I could not let the socks in on my game. I was burning on the inside though. With each odd sock I found I felt the hot tension creeping up my spine . I could only hope that the socks were not as street smart as they appeared because my acting skills were failing me (they knew). 

Now my house is messy so as I wandered from room to room I found more and more, and more and more socks. Now, less like Tony Soprano and more like De Niro towards the end of Taxi Driver. “Oh reeeally? Another sock. No pair yet eh? Ha.Ha.Ha”.

I ended up with 21 individual odd socks. Not a single pair.

Evidently, the socks had won. They were silently mocking me and I was hurting to save face.

I lay each and every sock out on top of the washer and dryer. Then I slammed my fist down with controlled anger. I swore to that pile of socks, that from that day on I would no longer be a slave to the pair. Two matching socks would be meaningless to me.  I did the only thing I could do. I showed those socks that I did not care for their rules. They could not win if I did not care. I will never hunt down a pair of socks again. If I happen across a pair I’ll wear them. If not? Oh fucking well!

Check.Mate.

Every day I experience something so profound that there can be no other word for it. It is a fucking miracle.

Today I was boiling a some frozen vegetables in a bowl in the microwave. When it came time to drain I looked around for the colander and there it was stuck at the bottom of a pile of gross dishes and tea-bags. Pieces of ramen stuck in every crevice. There was not a hope in hell that I was going to wash it at this critical moment.

The radioactive fuelled heat from the bowl was already threatening to remove the top layer of skin from my hand so I had to act fast. What happened next will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I rashly decided to tip the water out of the bowl and into the sink, without the aid of any kitchen device. Just sheer will. I fully expected disaster but as I tipped the bowl, two pea pods floated to the pouring point simultaneously and formed a small dam, allowing the water to flow out freely but containing every last vegetable.

I recently quit smoking. Again. This puts me in one of three categories with you. If you smoke, I am to be viewed with suspicion and disgust in equal amounts. If you used to smoke you will be thinking of all the ways I’m doing it wrong. If you’ve never smoked I am a disgusting gross nobody and I deserve to die horribly.

Anyway, I’ve quit multiple times. I would say successfully. Almost no-one agrees with me that you can successfully quit and not stay quit. I call bullshit. In any case, I’ve quit enough times to recognise that there are 7 stages. I am a self-proclaimed expert on quitting. A legend in my own tar clogged mind.

Stage 1. Self Loathing (Day 1) I hate myself. This is a terrible evil habit. I’m throwing money away. Burning money! I’m going to die. I’m a loser. I’m disgusted with myself. This is it. I WILL NEVER SMOKE AGAIN.

Stage 2. Resignation (Day 3) The insane manic fury of Day 1 subsides leaving a wave of cold depression in its wake. This is my life. I am no longer smoking. This is the right thing to do. Sad face, sad face, sad face. I am like a saint. I am a martyr.

Stage 3. False Confidence (Day 5) This is fucking easy! Why didn’t I do this years ago? I can run up these stairs…yahooo! Look at me. I look 10 years younger. Manic happiness and pride and gloating so intense that you cannot even see, for one second that everyone around you is giving you pitying looks; fully knowing that you will be smoking again by the weekend.

Stage 4. Projection (2 weeks) People who smoke are gross. What is that smell? Is that someone..smoking. How can they do that? I’m in my car and I can smell the smoke from that person waiting at the crosswalk.  Eurgh. Why am I so unhappy?

Stage 5.  Opportunity (2-4 weeks) You will sneakily have a cigarette/steal a cigarette butt and tell no-one.  

Stage 6. Rationalization (3 months) From some deep, twisted, dark part of your psyche comes a nagging voice; seducing you with the promise that you can have a cigarette. Why not? You’re an adult? You’re not addicted anymore? What… you can’t enjoy a smoke with a beer on the weekend? You baby! What’s your problem!? Like Gollum and that fucking ring. I hate this stage because that it just makes so much sense.

Stage 7. Dickhead (6 months) You are either smoking again or boring people to death about how you quit. Congratulations!