Thursday, 8 January 2009

Realising I'm pretending to be a journalist, aka. Fibbing

Being back home in the town where I was born is not as fun-packed as I'd imagined. Working hard on placement means not going out at night mid-week, and having only my elderly laptop and mobile phone for company most of the time, I have become faintly obsessed with several things in order to keep my brain occupied.

Said elderly laptop refuses to allow me to play any games involving any kind of graphics. Sometimes websites are linked into the "game" category, and my screen errupts in red cross chickenpox, meaning I have to guess where I'm supposed to click to read my bank balance or check my facebook messages. The thing here is that this is crippling to my Fallout 3 practice. I can't play anything that was created post-Halflife, and if I try, I get ten thousand warnings informing me that my memory status is "dangerously low". Dangerously low? How dangerous can having no memory be? It's not like its ever had any memory anyway, my laptop's capability to remember things is about the equivalent of a pensioner jotting down the bus times on the back of a Tesco receipt. Watch out! There's too much information there! I might have to uninstall paint or something!! And that would REALLY SHIT YOU UP!

So, in light of a severe lack of V.A.T.S rampages on supermutants, my brain has been occupying me in other more creative ways. For example, I now only ever crave ham sandwiches when I'm hungry. Explain that one. I also appear to have lost my grip on reality almost completely, and have begun ringing national newspapers to ask for column space for the company I'm on placement for, all the while realising that I am only pretending to be a professional journalist. At any point, I expect a features official to burst into my office brandishing lists of my recorded phonecalls, demanding to know why somebody let me loose in a provisional media role. They're going to find out soon, I know they are. "Hey! Wait a minute! You're meant to be flogging stuff in House of Fraser! FRAUD!!!!" they'll yell, as they chase me down the road with pitchforks made of staplers and broken tea mugs. All the while I know this however, I still have the deluded fantasy in the back of my head where I send someone at, say, "Recycle Now!" my arse-kissing feature on the company I work for, and they ring me back to beg me to work for them. This begins my crawl to the top, where in 3 years time I have a column in the Guardian, and am best mates with Chris Morris and David Mitchell, therefore rendering it unnecessary for me to speak ever again because they'll say loads and loads of funny and clever things, and I can just listen to it all and never make a tit out of myself by opening my mouth ever again. Of course this is a damaging pretend world, in reality I don't have the willpower to write a column every week, and even if I did, nobody would read or print it, because it would be absolute rubbish about ham sandwiches.

Also in the pursuit of keeping myself busy, I've unfortunately and completely accidentally developed a creepy girl crush on everybody's favourite misanthrope, Charlie Brooker. I've mentioned him before, and I'd like to add that everything I've ever said about him previously was out of either respect or jealousy. What I say now is never to be listened to or repeated, until this weird 'stage' has passed. Which I hope it will. I'm not sure how this has come about, but the very fact that it began when I was subjected to a life without simulated violence and alcohol worries me greatly. Maybe I should start smoking again to give myself something else to concentrate on.

In my defence, it is partly his fault for being such a clever, funny, smartarsed git, and also for compiling all his columns and stuff together in "Dawn of the Dumb" so I can read them one after the other on the bus to work and agree with everything he says.

Now if you don't mind, I'm off to research furniture recycling (exciting) and pretend that I've saved money today by not buying a hypothetical bottle of gin. I love that my brain somehow thinks pretending that I was going to buy something, and then not buying it, constitutes as saving money. Yesterday, by using this same tactic, I saved £10 by not playing Foxy bingo (why would you anyway?) and had a free meal (they gave me my travel expenses at work...probably means my meal wasn't free).

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