Insanely bored

Did you ever open your eyes after sleep, only to realize your body isn't awake and you are quite literally trapped inside it? It happens to me all the time. Imagine you can see the bedroom, the cat might be around doing something stupid or there's a  random insect creeping up on you and you'd really love to get up and do something about it, but you can't move a muscle. The first couple of times this happened to me, I tried to scream or at least produce some kind of noise to have somebody wake me up, but that didn't really work, either. The only thing that works for me is to focus on one single arm or leg as hard as I can. Usually takes a while, but what do you know - eventually the damn thing starts twitching and my body wakes up. Woohoo!

My receding hairline and my magically shrinking shirts aside, I don't physically feel the effects of my age, yet. To be fair, 30 years isn't exactly biblical, but I do have friends who have recently started complaining about aching bones and joints and all kinds of old people crap. I don't need boner pills, either - knock on wood! :P

I'm not entirely sure where my brain is headed, though. I've had the occasional phase of literally sleeping with my eyes open since I was a kid, but for the past decade or so, it takes me several hours to fall asleep every night. Not because I'm particularly worried about anything, I don't really suffer from nightmares, but I'm constantly talking. To myself. Not literally, mind you, but inside my head.

There are several people in there. Most of them are me, one of them is a cat. It's kind of a long story, which nobody would believe anyway. Let's just say it's pretty damn crowded and everyone has something to say. And they never shut up. Actually, it's not as alarming as it may sound. They're not like imaginary people (or cats) filling the room everywhere around me. They're just voices. One of them tells me to grope the Clairebear's boob while she's asleep, the next one says he wants ice cream and one of them made up this very text right here, while I was trying to get some fucking rest. It's 4 in the morning while I'm writing this.

Imagine that. Imagine you close your eyes, you try counting sheep or whatever the fuck you do to stop thinking about all kinds of stuff and somebody inside your head screams TITS! and somebody reads out your next meaningless blog posting before you've even decided whether or not you want to put that shit online. The logical consequence was to get up two hours later to start blogging. Yes, I also groped the boob, but we're all out of popsicles, dammit!

Now, to rule out all possible misunderstandings - this is not a complaint or a cry for help. I'm quite happy with myself, thanks a lot. It does, however, make a regular, normal life the way average Joe pictures it pretty impossible. A life, which, all things considered, doesn't really need me and could quite easily take care of itself without me around, but that's a different story.

One problem about constantly having random (and often useless) thoughts flashing through my brain, having them screamed at me and having no possibility to take a break, is that it's impossible to focus on anything. I'm trying to fix my PSP comic reader, posting on my MW3 clan forums and trolling a friend on Facebook this very moment. Whilst writing this thing. Imagine you have all these voices nagging at you, telling you they want to do something, telling you that you're missing out on something and you have to pay your undivided attention to something right there and now. Every minute of every day. Then try to have a regular day-job. It's boredom on an entirely new level.

I've been fired from nearly a dozen office jobs. I've done everything from slaving away as a worthless data typist to accounting. I always get the job. I got my last job before becoming a writer by stating I'm Grand Inquisitor Xavor of planet Schlork. With a straight face. The boss himself wanted me in his office before anyone even spoke to any of the other applicants, just to ask what the fuck is wrong with me. Once you reach my level of boredom, you stop being scared. 


You probably haven't got a fucking clue what I'm talking about. Well, imagine an office job. Any kind of office job, really. You go there every single day. Travel up and down the same road, meet the same people on the bus every day or at least drive past the same damn landscape every day if you're lucky enough to own a car. Get to work at exactly the same time, do mostly the same kind of routine crap, go to the same cantina or restaurant, put up with the same co-workers... you get the idea. You do the exact same shit. Every. Single. Day. One day perfectly interchangeable with the next.

One problem about having too much routine is that I memorize it all, I just end up going through life without paying much attention to it and the voices will get a little louder each day. So loud, in fact, that everything around you just fades out. Suddenly, you don't really hear your co-workers talking crap behind each other's backs anymore, you no longer notice their fake smiles when their weekly victim walks in on them and you no longer flinch when your supervisor is having a bad day and decides to take it out on you. It all fades to grey.

At some point I wondered if I could break the routine, escape from the whole boredom by going there naked. Maybe just wear a cowboy hat or something. At some point I pictured myself shooting everyone in the office. Now, don't be alarmed - I didn't particularly hate those guys and I'm not potentially violent. I just wondered what it would be like. It seemed like a perfectly valid way to break free.
Now, before the cops kick down my door - I don't own a gun, I'm not planning on hurting anybody and the last time I could be arsed to leave the house was to take a piss on my neighbour's BMW. You've got nothing to worry about. Well, unless you're a douchebag who gets a kick out of parking your fucking car in front of my house just for the sake of showing off.

And at some point you stop caring. You no longer fear the consequences. In fact, I wanted those consequences, just because I figured they'd be more fun than making every single day as boring as the next. So I put porn on my desktop. I called my overweighed supervisor a fat slug. To her fat face. I declared every day casual Friday, stopped shaving and stopped getting haircuts. Turns out all of that "You're an asshole, but we're keeping you because you're doing a good job" crap only works on tv.

You'd think I'd be pretty useless around an office, what with my concentration issues and all, but this is how I get all those jobs in the first place. I ace all the tests, score higher than the idiots around me, do my work twice as fast as I'm expected to. When you don't give a shit, you don't get nervous. When you're not nervous, you don't make as many mistakes. And when you always feel the urge to do half a dozen things at the same time instead of just one, you tend to get things done faster.
Problem is, people tend to let you go when they realize that somebody less efficient might fit in better with the rest of the staff.

One thing I love about being a writer is how routine is impossible. Yes, being a freelancer I tend to get the crap all the other critics don't want to write about, but that's irrelevant. Sometimes I get to write about a game, which is utter shit and I'm only supposed to focus on all of its positive aspects. Contrary to popular belief, proper reviews don't work that way, but paid advertising does. Reviews are even more fun, because when I do have to give out a rating, then there's no way around describing just how shit the game in question is - without actually using the word shit. It's challenging. And since every shitty game is shit in its own way, it never gets old. Of course I do get the occasional good game, but that's not as enjoyable.

Most importantly, though, it shuts up most of the voices or at least keeps them relatively satisfied. Take a screenshot, double-check on something you're stating as a fact, think of a witty caption or a fitting score for some abysmal pvp. A review is composed of so many different components, I never have to sit down and concentrate on only one boring thing.

I'm just not sure if this is enough to completely satisfy me for the rest of my life. Don't get me wrong. It's the best damn job I ever had and I'm loving every moment of it. But I'm an arrogant bastard. I feel like I was made for something bigger, something more important. Maybe a late night show. :P
I wish I could bring up the concentration to finish that book I've been writing on for so long. Or to write a book about something completely different. I feel the weird urge to publish a fucking book. Maybe I need a manager or something.

With that out of my system, one of the voices is finally shutting up. There are some leftover prawn crackers from last night's Chinese dinner, so maybe those are gonna shut up ice cream guy. And Claire still has one ungroped boob. Not entirely sure what the cat wants. I don't understand cats. But it makes me do things.

This headache is killing me.

-Cat