On mediocrity as a crippling vice.

My contribution to this blog has been wayward. Nay, it's been fucking dire, let us not beat around the e-bush here, for even a second. However, reading the words of a brother can be rousing and truely inspirational. Young Robert - you have a masterful command of HM's English. And it's within this framework that I will attempt to document a few of the goings on in my sexy little world.

And so quickly am I confronted with blankness and blind spots. Have I too not been living a life? Certainly not one of an active, virile 21 year old, my dearest bloggy-wog. This is a feeling that has haunted my every waking moment in these, my preceding months on God's green. Did you ever get the fear? The fear that life is tick-tocking away, passing you by so fast it makes your balding little head spin. It's fleeting, like those sought-after waking moments, you know the ones; before you wake up and remember who you are and how little you have to offer. Unlike Less Than Jake, all my best friends have jobs. Pesky fecking metal heads they ain't! Did no one leave a fat chunk of the pie for this cat?

Back on the surface though, I'm really alright. Sometimes, I think over-analysis and inward-centricity (such are the perils of the e-blogger, however made up the language may be) are my only real enemies. Hand to hand, I'm perfectly equipped to battle them. I have wonderful friends and family, a startlingly fantastic girlfriend, a promising local band (chortle) and a degree that I slightly care about. I think the real problem is hidden, and not so subtly, in this little list. The item that comes in last (in only a very vague order of preference) just so happens to take up all of my time. This is where one finds oneself wanting in the tasty tasty pie stakes. When this is over, will I get to enjoy what I've been blessed with? Or do I, like my esteemed colleague, find myself facing yet another dead end?

Call us whiny, but I think we've got a fucking point. Obviously, it could be so much worse. I don't ever, for even a moment, not realise this. Such is the guilt, in fact, that confronts me for even thinking about feeling this way. But maybe, just maybe, there's something worth worrying about? But hey fuck it! Everything will be okay right? I guess I just wasn't made for these times? Oh woe is me, put a fucking sock in it Brian.

Perhaps it's all just a bit of a mixed bag, just like my buddy Rivers, who I knew was right all a-fucking-long, puts it:

We are the angels, and we are the ones that are praying.

Forgive me my vices.

J x

p.s. I promise to experience something worth writing about soon. I promise to you but, foremost, I promise to myself.