This is what I did on day one:
I decided to have a last coffee and a little spliff before I got writing. I thought I might as well listen to something bias confirming on YouTube while I smoked my spliff and drank my coffee. I finished my coffee and slowly washed my cup and a few pots and pans that were lying around. The caffeine began to kneed my bowels so I sat and shat and read a few posts on Twitter. Everybody was being very rude to everybody else. I thought a skinny little roll-up would make a good dessert so I joined in being rude to a few people on Twitter while I smoked it. Wankers. I felt a bit tired after this so I went for a lie down. Was horribly aware of what a pathetic sight this was, a man on that tricky edge between middle and early old age, not working, not doing anything, just shuffling around in the dark in his flat, not thriving, coasting on the coattails of a dead relative who’d worked all their lives for the money I was pissing away. Felt too ashamed to sleep so had a quick wank, which didn’t make me feel any more empowered. Cracked open a can of lager and rolled another doobie. My phone buzzed. I turned it over so I didn’t have to see who I was hiding from. What was the point of writing a bestselling novel, anyway? When the idea first occurred to me as precocious and already somewhat disturbed child at the age of about ten, I was motivated by a desire to impress. I will write a book that people will love, and they will be in awe of me. Then as a teen, I was motivated by a desire to impress lazily. I will write a book that will be so succesful that I can cruise to my grave through a career of appearing on chat shows, being interviewed and stroked for my opinions. As a young adult I thought I was Charles Bukowski. Now, I just want to somehow make enough money without leaving my dark, smoky kitchen to never have to engage with the world outside and always be able to hide from everything. I haven’t written more than a few hundred words at a go since I was a teenager. Everything just kind of dried up when I hit my late teens and drugs, prescribed and otherwise, came onto my scene. But I’ve got the time – and no more excuses. If I don’t do this now, then I’ll be looking for a job at McDonalds in just under a year’s time. I’ve got to do something with this time, or I’m doomed.
I cracked open another can of lager. Fuck it anyway. Went to take my Citalopram, the current opium of the people – certainly all the people I know. Mental note to self to ring surgery in the morning for medication review. Tried to think of an idea that I could sell for a fortune. Wondered if maybe I should be an artist or musician instead of a writer.
Didn’t do any writing.