I'm a worrier, is there such a word? It's a curse, not unlike back hair (no, I don't have any of that) or renal failure or being ugly or, of course, stupid. I worry about everything. The state of the world? The state of urban planning in Melbourne? What I'm going to do with my life? What I'm going to do for a job? (No, I still have one, but that doesn't stop me) Not being able to write any more. Leaving my JK Rollings shot at literary (I use literary and JK Rollings in the same sentence with a sort of poetic licence) fame too late. (How about my Sam Sheppard shot at literary fame)What the hell am I going to buy Sam for Xmas? I don't reckon my standard issue family present of chocolate will quite cut it. I'm worrying about my cat not wanting to sleep with me any more. Bitch! Bad timing you fat slapper, as the cat food bag is empty. Ha, ha.
I never used to be a worrier, I'm sure? It's too time consuming. Who could be bothered, I ask you? It is a thankless task. But then, I had a peaches and cream kind of childhood, you know, where nothing ever went wrong. I never worried about the future, bring it on. I couldn't wait to grow up, it seemed fascinating. I never used to be scared of heights, either.
It's just when you get to be an adult, you realise how badly you were sucked in by it all. You know, the standard stock issue lies that parents tell. It must be straight out of the parent's parenting book. Santa and the Easter Bunny was just the tip of that putrid iceberg. You realise how quickly it all whizzes by - there really is no time for getting anything wrong.
So here I am sitting up in bed at 5am with cranberry cereal and my laptop, worry about being able to stay awake tomorrow, um, er, today.
No comments:
Post a Comment