Aren’t you bored of these existential crises yet? Well, I mean, of course. But what else is there to occupy my tiny brain? Sometimes I think I was born under a bad sign. And so what? And nothing. What’s the point? I dunno. I keep trying to figure that out and then I keep trying to figure out whether there’s a point to me trying to figure out what The Point is. Maybe I just have too much time on my hands.
I don’t like summer. I don’t like heat. I don’t like time off from a routine that I spend three quarters of the year perfecting. I don’t like the way my hair looks during the summer, I don’t like my face during the summer, I don’t like the rate at which I sweat during the summer. Maybe I liked summer more when I had the option of drinking cider every night of the week. But I don’t have that now. Because life goes on. Because I’m not seventeen anymore and though I am unemployed, none of my friends are. They’re busy working and having lives in Limerick and Waterford and I’m somewhere in the middle reading books about love and sweating too fucking much.
I don’t like the summer. Summer makes me feel like I should be doing something. I should be doing something to soak up the sunshine and heat that is so rare in this country. But what am I doing? I’m lying on the grass in the garden, sneezing and rubbing my eyes because of my allergies, and I’m envying people who have a better life than I do.
My mother says, “We’re only existing, aren’t we?” As if that’s a bad thing. But what more could you ask for? What more can I ask for? I keep asking for more but right now it should be enough to be healthy. I lay on the grass earlier wondering what the point was and then I was eating an apple and I realised that there is no point. And that is perfectly okay.
I want a job. I want money. I’d buy books and clothes and perfume and I’d go to Limerick to see my lovely boys. No. I just want money to pay all these bills I’ve encumbered and maybe have a decent birthday this year. (In that regard, does anyone know where I could get my hands on a helium canister? Cheers.)
What I lack in money this summer, I more than make up for in time. With all this time on my hands, I’m attempting projects: I’m attempting self-improvement in the form of exercise and healthy eating. Vom. Not nearly as fun as nursing a hangover and eating Subway in bed in my underwear. Oh well. Maybe by the time my birthday rolls around, I might be fit enough to run around the party without breaking into too much of a sweat.
P.S. If you do want to donate to the cause that is Emma Norris’ 21st Birthday Party, you can throw a couple of Euros into my PayPal account at firstname.lastname@example.org, or you can purchase some of my clothes in The Magic Position Shop.