gimp

I am finding myself struggling to write at present. I wonder if it’s because I probably talk more these days. I spend my days talking. I’m a paid talker. A salesman. Ha! I “sell” charity. I like that. I ‘sell’ a feeling of benevolence to strangers. And I make people feel good. I do wonder how long that feeling lasts, but I would say that the majority of people I sign up at least feel good about it for a bit. As I hand them their copy of the direct debit form and a badge, I always ask “how do you feel?” And yes, the majority of people will beam a smile at me and say “yeah, I feel a bit better.” They’re stopping, asking to be cheered up, and the act of entrusting a few important numbers to a slightly odd-looking man is what does that.

“I feel a bit better”. Shit, they don’t even feel good. They just feel marginally further removed from suicide.

“Well, I was just on my way to disembowel myself, but talking to that bib-clad teenager (how old was he anyway?) for five minutes about kids has really cheered me up. They are the future.”

The most satisfying of ‘customers’ is one who leaves saying something like “I can’t quite believe that just happened. I told myself I wouldn’t sign up to anything.” Hehe. The curls have powers lady. And so do those mystifying, innocent/wise eyes of mine. Ho ho ho.

Sorry, gone a bit weird.

Well, at least I am conquering my writer’s block. Or writer’s lazy arse. Unfortunately I’m achieving this at the expense of the sanity of my reader.

“Get on with it! Write something funny or something.”

No, kiss my ass.

“Please. Please.”

Piss off you goat.

“But you used to be funny, back in the day.“

Yeah, I was different then. I was troubled. I stored things up. I remained mute and wrote down all my wit and the rest of the world be damned! Only a select few would know the wisdom that everyone else would be missing out on.

A prophet girl I once knew said that I would grow up to say something important. And I believed her. But she let me touch her, so I would.

Oh, and an interesting historical point for me here. I recently discovered that my parents have had a keen eye on this blog for a few weeks now. I mean why the FUCK do you think I had a pseudonym like Rangy Manatee in the first place? It was precisely so I could write with the relative freedom of knowing that no relative of mine would be reading the profane ramblings of a confused and over-hyped monkey. Except my bro – but he already knows what a screaming idiot I am, I can’t let my parents know this too. Surely. I was an expensive investment - how disappointing.

But no, true to form, my Dad let it slip (hi Mum!) that they have indeed been reading the trivial whimsy on this site and that they thought it was actually quite good. The words “it’s better than most of the rubbish I read in the…” were heard, digested and, well, appreciated.

Somehow, the idea of receiving money for even the less self-conscious and self-referential posts would freak me out.

But no, this is all false modesty. I am the best writer since Burchill went acoustic.