Ten things you need to know about pandemic influenza

Oh come on.

Like you actually thought this was going to be about pandemic influenza? This is about me.
It’s always about me. And anyone who comes here thinking – ‘why doesn’t she write about something less shallow than her life’ – Go away. Be gone. Get lost.

I’m not here to please you. You are here to humour me.
If you have no time for my ramblings, I am more than dandy with that.

It’s almost 3am and I am at work. Pretending to work on a pitch. No, not pretending, trying. Really trying. I’m nervous in this office. I can’t stop thinking about when I will get to go home. This is my first night here – I’m not sure where to sleep, or whether I should sleep at all.

I can’t believe this kind of trivial crap goes through my mind most of the time. It’s like it’s on over-drive but no one really cares.

I feel low.

I’m going through one of those recurrent quarter-life crises. Almost 26 years old, single, no life partner on the horizon, stuck in a full time job, getting paid chicken poop, living in the back of beyond, a victim of public transport, no social life, no time for hobbies, no time.

Weekends are longed for and when they begin, you cram them so full of things to do, that you end up being tired the rest of the week. Weekdays can’t be messed with because your new job demands you not to make plans and leave early enough to do something fun, before you head back to the village.

All men suck. The ones who don’t have girlfriends or wives or are gay or are pretending not to suck, until you fall into their trap and they divulge how hideously sucky they really are.

Money is being made everywhere you look. Smart individuals with zero talent are raking in the cash. Why? Because they have foresight and are bold enough to make the money that is there, waiting to be made. There is so much money in this city and none of it is in my bank account.

There are so many things I want to learn – pottery, salsa and capoeira. None of which I can do – don’t ask me why. And don’t tell me I could if I “really” wanted to.

Did I mention how much men suck? Especially the ones I happen to be so lucky to encounter. It’s almost as if this secret manual, a code on how to piss me off, is passed amongst them. Like a little all-mail underground cult with an evil agenda, dedicated to making me feel crappy. Maybe I’m giving myself way too much importance.

What am I doing? Am I happy with the direction my life is going? Where will I be in five years? Those are the deep questions that plague my mind now. You’ve got to admit they are deeper than - when will he call me? Who is he with? Why do I want to kill that stick-figured chick?

This makes me a tad pleased.

I’m older, and deeper, and wiser.

Ok maybe just the first two... Hey, two outta three ain’t bad.