Given that the word 'Binary' in a kids' sci-fi programme has the ability to make me cry like an overly hairy baby, I'm extremely surprised I haven't yet slumped to the floor of my increasingly empty bedroom and wailed about how I'm making the biggest mistake of my life.
It will happen.
I've felt on the verge of tears for the last month. Ever since I handed over a large amount of cash to the pretty Mr Spencer. Ever since it became real. Ever since I made the decision to walk away from everything I've known for the past twenty-five years. At some point, I will cry. This is too big for me not to cry.
So, I'm moving out.
I am renting myself a 'cosy' (estate agent talk for 'kennel-sized') one-bedroom flat nearer work, so that I no longer spend half my free time on a bus; falling asleep, waking up with cramp, murmering "pastry" as I dream my dreamy dreams... The worst was waking up on the bus one morning just in time to witness a large amount of dribble falling from my mouth onto my black t-shirt. The woman opposite looked at me with such revultion.
"And for my next trick, I'm going to shat myself..."
Yeah. She wasn't amused.
But no more embarrassing myself on public transport as a result of my slightly rubbish working hours. Now I get to skip back to my flat (a mere half-mile away) and unwind amongst £210 worth of M&S bedding. Oh yes.
There is a lot to worry about. I worry that I won't be able to pay the rent because I spend all my money on porn. I worry that I'll be lonely, which is hilariously ironic, given that the principle reason behind me getting a place of my own is to combat my current state of loneliness.
(I figure I'll worry less about being single if I have the constant threat of not being able to keep a roof above my head to occupy my mind instead).
I worry that no-one will want to come and visit me. I worry that I'll have another wet dream about being wanked off by a Cat Nun and, therefore, electrocute myself to death on my electric blanket.
I worry about all sorts of things. But chiefly, I'm excited.
This is a new chapter.
I'm not getting any younger, and constantly living in the past is doing me no favours. It's time to move on. And that is terrifying, upsetting and liberating - all in equal measure.
Last weekend, 3am in the morning, walking through the streets of Plumstead with my iPod playing a whole host of happy, little ditties - mainly Run - it hit me. "This is the last time I'm ever going to do this walk. Ever."
It's ridiculous. But that walk; that journey home in the cold, crisp dark of night... I must have done that walk a million times before. Staggering home, pissed as a bastard after a night of drinking games. Walking home with the biggest smile on my face because I'd just been with someone I loved. Walking home with tears streaming down my face because I'd just had my heart a little bit broken by someone I loved. That walk gave me time to reflect, either on the happiness or the heartbreak. Time to reflect on what was to come, or what had just gone.
That walk - for over a decade - was almost always either the beginning or the end to an amazing day/night/weekend. And who the pissing bollocking hell gets sentimental over a walk?!
The same sort of man that cries over the word 'Binary', I guess.
And everything I do, I think: "This is the last time..."
The last-ever walk from Plumstead to Belvedere. Check. The last time I'll spend my weekend cooking in the kitchen while The Parents get 110% under my feet. Check. The last time I'll soak in the bath with my vanilla candles, Enya playing on the iPod and a queue forming outside the door. Check.
Tonight will be the last time my Mum sees me off to work at the front door. Aged 25, and she still waves me off. I should be embarrassed. I'm not. I think I'm going to miss that.
Tomorrow will be my last day in the bedroom that has been my sanctuary for all these years. After I'm gone, Brother Bollock moves in and re-decorates. That room has seen everything. I have so many memories of so many good times, and they all seem to have happened in that room. And usually the sofa-bed was involved! It's breaking my heart leaving all that behind.
I'm not sure what will make me cry. Saying goodbye to the Mother? Probably. Seeing my room without anything of mine left in it? Maybe. Sitting in my new lounge and hearing nothing but silence? Almost certainly.
But everything has its time. And everything ends.
And once I'm done crying, I'll wipe my tears away, dust myself off, stick something uplifiting on the iPod - probably Run (it works for most occasions, happy or sad) - and I'll get started on this new life of mine. No more crying about the past. A new chapter.
Fuck.
It will happen.
I've felt on the verge of tears for the last month. Ever since I handed over a large amount of cash to the pretty Mr Spencer. Ever since it became real. Ever since I made the decision to walk away from everything I've known for the past twenty-five years. At some point, I will cry. This is too big for me not to cry.
So, I'm moving out.
I am renting myself a 'cosy' (estate agent talk for 'kennel-sized') one-bedroom flat nearer work, so that I no longer spend half my free time on a bus; falling asleep, waking up with cramp, murmering "pastry" as I dream my dreamy dreams... The worst was waking up on the bus one morning just in time to witness a large amount of dribble falling from my mouth onto my black t-shirt. The woman opposite looked at me with such revultion.
"And for my next trick, I'm going to shat myself..."
Yeah. She wasn't amused.
But no more embarrassing myself on public transport as a result of my slightly rubbish working hours. Now I get to skip back to my flat (a mere half-mile away) and unwind amongst £210 worth of M&S bedding. Oh yes.
There is a lot to worry about. I worry that I won't be able to pay the rent because I spend all my money on porn. I worry that I'll be lonely, which is hilariously ironic, given that the principle reason behind me getting a place of my own is to combat my current state of loneliness.
(I figure I'll worry less about being single if I have the constant threat of not being able to keep a roof above my head to occupy my mind instead).
I worry that no-one will want to come and visit me. I worry that I'll have another wet dream about being wanked off by a Cat Nun and, therefore, electrocute myself to death on my electric blanket.
I worry about all sorts of things. But chiefly, I'm excited.
This is a new chapter.
I'm not getting any younger, and constantly living in the past is doing me no favours. It's time to move on. And that is terrifying, upsetting and liberating - all in equal measure.
Last weekend, 3am in the morning, walking through the streets of Plumstead with my iPod playing a whole host of happy, little ditties - mainly Run - it hit me. "This is the last time I'm ever going to do this walk. Ever."
It's ridiculous. But that walk; that journey home in the cold, crisp dark of night... I must have done that walk a million times before. Staggering home, pissed as a bastard after a night of drinking games. Walking home with the biggest smile on my face because I'd just been with someone I loved. Walking home with tears streaming down my face because I'd just had my heart a little bit broken by someone I loved. That walk gave me time to reflect, either on the happiness or the heartbreak. Time to reflect on what was to come, or what had just gone.
That walk - for over a decade - was almost always either the beginning or the end to an amazing day/night/weekend. And who the pissing bollocking hell gets sentimental over a walk?!
The same sort of man that cries over the word 'Binary', I guess.
And everything I do, I think: "This is the last time..."
The last-ever walk from Plumstead to Belvedere. Check. The last time I'll spend my weekend cooking in the kitchen while The Parents get 110% under my feet. Check. The last time I'll soak in the bath with my vanilla candles, Enya playing on the iPod and a queue forming outside the door. Check.
Tonight will be the last time my Mum sees me off to work at the front door. Aged 25, and she still waves me off. I should be embarrassed. I'm not. I think I'm going to miss that.
Tomorrow will be my last day in the bedroom that has been my sanctuary for all these years. After I'm gone, Brother Bollock moves in and re-decorates. That room has seen everything. I have so many memories of so many good times, and they all seem to have happened in that room. And usually the sofa-bed was involved! It's breaking my heart leaving all that behind.
I'm not sure what will make me cry. Saying goodbye to the Mother? Probably. Seeing my room without anything of mine left in it? Maybe. Sitting in my new lounge and hearing nothing but silence? Almost certainly.
But everything has its time. And everything ends.
And once I'm done crying, I'll wipe my tears away, dust myself off, stick something uplifiting on the iPod - probably Run (it works for most occasions, happy or sad) - and I'll get started on this new life of mine. No more crying about the past. A new chapter.
Fuck.
-
