I have no reason to write right now. Okay, on reflection that was a stupid thing to say when you’ve taken the effort to sit cross legged on your new double bed with your back against the wall and opened a word document. I spent a good ten minutes between the opening credits of the Sopranos and staring open mouthed at my girlfriend’s Facebook page umming and ahhing about whether I should try and justify this evening of sloth by putting finger to keyboard. I have thousands of reasons to write; I just said that I didn’t to look cool. I started this pre-meditated article like that so it would look like I pinch out an article with the same ease that a dog shits on the pavement. The truth is that I can’t I just want you to think I can so I make up excuses not to write things. So that aside, here are some of the reasons that I have tried to suppress in order to fully realise a state of feeling sorry for myself. As I mentioned before it’s a pretty good way of making you think that you’ve done something productive with your day. I guess that says a lot about me; if the only way I can feel good about what I’ve achieved in the daylight hours is by saying I managed to do something with my hands while I sat down apart from masturbating. I just imagine a Mercian serf coming home to his small holding after a long day of back breaking labour and avoiding ox excrement when his unwashed serf wife asks him what he did with his day and he replies, “Oh, I lay down for hours on end and then moved into a sitting position so that my hands would be nearer my face to shovel Doritos down my gob”. Another reason I have for writing is that it expels all those nasty feelings of loneliness from my life. Of course writing isn’t the only thing I can do to forget how cripplingly self-absorbed the time I’m spending awake is. I’d normally read a good book, browse some pointless websites or walk up and down the stairs. These processes have done me well in the past. I feel visibly smarter when I read a book; it’s a rewarding experience. I feel like if I nip down to the co-op for a pint of milk people are going to look at me as if engorged grey matter is pressing against the insides of my temples; that people would look at me as if I had pointed out to them that the reason their car wasn’t moving was that the wheels were square. The problem with all these things is that writing’s the only thing that actually gives me a release for the mounting piles of pure bat-shit insanity in my head. Maybe it’s being in a house designed for four all by myself where lights randomly flicker on and off or just refuse to turn on at all. Generally this style of living has contributed to my already high anxiety levels topped up by nicotine boost after nicotine boost. Every time I hear someone walk past the window I assume a) they’re either going to try and leap through my 1st storey bedroom window proclaiming that Cthulu the dark lord has come for my soul or b) they’re going to be massacred by Cthulu springing from the shadows. In the distance earlier this evening I could hear some sort of firework display/ random celebratory explosion event and I kid you not, I prepared for the impending vengeance of the Cloverfield monster.Is this the behaviour of a mad person or the behaviour of a bored person?