Bereft of Inspiration.

I seem to be quite unable to write shallow and meaningless posts these days. That’s a shame because shallow and meaningless posts were always what I was best at. It’s just that the universe keeps on sending me subtle – and sometimes not so subtle – little messages that whatever future I have remaining to me contains little to look forward to, and I do so like having things to look forward to.

I found an old picture of me tonight, one arm around a pretty girl, the free hand holding a drink, and surrounded by the pals I used to party with. It was taken when I was playing the role of party animal a year or two before I got into a spot of bother at age nineteen and began walking the long and winding road to lonerism. I like the word ‘lonerism.’ I just invented it. I like ‘iddite’ too. That’s another word I invented. Donald Trump is an iddite. This is, at least, one of the benefits of being a loner. You find yourself inventing words because you’re tired of the ones in the dictionary which somebody else invented. It’s also a self-evident fact that being a party animal brings its own pressures, especially if you’re a deep and meaningful thinker with a penchant for shallow and meaningless expression.

Did I ever mention that MENSA once measured my IQ at 157? I think I probably did. It’s a big number, isn’t it, but I’m not at all proud of the fact. It’s of very little practical value if you prefer to engage in matters shallow and meaningless just because it’s easier and usually funnier. I once asked one of my partners whether the delectable comestible which she laid before my slavering presence was boef en croute. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘it’s beef Wellington.’ ‘Ah,’ I suggested jauntily, oblivious to my gigantic IQ, ‘let’s call it boef en boot.’ See what I mean? It does sadden me, however, that I managed to get through all those years without ever doing much that was useful in the way that people like doctors, bricklayers and postal workers do. I might just as well have abandoned my standards and become an advertising executive, lifestyle guru or football pundit.

And here I am talking about me again. If you think that’s irritating, how do you think it makes me feel? Actually, I’m just trying to cheer myself up. What else can I do if my brain (which is the size of a planet, by the way) is too addled to appreciate the shallow and meaningless stuff?