The WALL

scn_0009

I am a lazy fucker. I want to score well on assignments, bang beautiful women, be one of those people who constantly smile, eat well, go to work even if I’m hungover, exercise, get really mad at writing… But I can’t be fucked. Has my life just been too damn easy up until this point? Am I suffering from a sense of entitlement? Maybe, but I know people who have had things handed to them on even shinier platters than me, yet they’re hard working people. All the things I want just seem like too much hard work. To score well on assignments I’d probably have to double the amount of work I do. To screw hot girls I’d have to talk to them. Going to work hungover? I’d rather eat noodles for the following week than stand in a corporate box, serve a few beers from the fridge, politely smile when a client asks for something and watch about a quarter of a game of football with a mild headache. Thanks. I either don’t want those other things badly enough or I’m scared of failure.

I don’t know which of those it is, but I sure as hell don’t want to be that sad old balding man in an ill-fitting suit driving around in a 1996 Daewoo Lanos smoking half the filter of his Bond Street Red cigarette saying, “If I’d just worked hard when I was young, my life would be so much better,” then turning around to look at the back of a high school girl’s skirt when she walks by. Then again, being a workaholic would be just as bad, maybe even worse. Where’s the fun in devoting a large amount of your life to a noble but ultimately pointless pursuit at the expense of Tuesday nights on the piss, Thursday nights on the piss, bizarre spur of the moment tangential antics that deepen friendships (because you can’t explain what you just did to anyone who wasn’t there), reading books, daydreaming and coming up with reasons to justify why you haven’t done anything productive yet.

I’m in a library. One of my best friends Eli is next to me. He would be equal top but he didn’t pick me up from the airport at 4:00pm on Saturday because he wanted to be drunk by that time. He’s working away studiously, never looks at his phone, clears his throat, flicks through what he’s done so far and gets back on with the job. Appears to be just a lot of highlighting. The library’s old and run down, smells like lint and the surfaces are covered in a thin wax, most likely 100 years worth of dust and sweat and flu coughs. We come here because it’s always empty compared to the fancy new libraries. Not that it helps. I’m supposed to be writing a story on an expanding abalone farm due on Monday but all I’ve done is write this stupid thing. At least I look productive. Sometimes on the plane I write fake emails so people will think, “Ooooh look at that dishevelled, busy young man. He must be one of them proactive Gen Y types.” Probably not though, I bet they see right through it, “Ha! There’s no internet up here, he’s not fooling anyone!”

I probably should try to call the owner of the abalone farm. He didn’t pick up earlier. I left a message; surely he’ll call me back when he’s not busy. It was five hours ago though. If he’s eating dinner and I call him he’ll be pissed. Finally gotten home from working hard on his ingenious multi-million dollar venture to enjoy a crayfish, prawn, artichoke, truffle and mandarin oil pizza his bitching wife cooked for him and some lazy journalism student bum calls him and interrupts. I wouldn’t want that if I were him. I’ll call him tomorrow