Thursday, December 2, 2010

So I Can Eat It, Too.

This post will have to be given a title at the end, because I have no real concept of what I am writing about. The reason for this post is: boredom. Remember how in the blog post I wrote like five minutes ago I made allusions to my predicted discontent about living solo? The discontent has ARRIVED. It is HERE. I have laid down the futons and bought it a tooth brush.

I swear I USED to be good at entertaining myself. I'm pretty sure at age 7 I could have constructed an elaborate scenario in which my parents were cunning kidnappers who had stolen away with me, and it was up to me to find some way to communicate to the outside the world that this had happened, and I had to do so through telepathy because said evil kidnappers had performed amateur surgery and removed my voice-box. With their teeth. Or something. Anyway, the sum total of this self-entertainment would have been me sitting in the middle of my bed THINKING really hard, and would have distracted me for HOURS.

Right now, not even FaceBook is cutting it. Note to my 457 friends - you are not digitally active enough. It is like being sexually active, but instead of having sex you MOAN AND BITCH ONLINE IN A MANNER THAT IS HUMOUROUS TO ME. Get on to it.

Go out, you might say. Well, I say in return (in an irritable and punchy manner) I can't. Someone delivered me something, and I wasn't home to sign for the something, so the someone who delivered the something left a note informing me that the something could not be successfully delivered by the someone, and that it would be withheld by another someone, until the one for whom it was destined (me) rang the other someone and organized another time at which the something might delivered.

So: I did. And because I live in Japan, I know they will turn up at precisely between 7-9 this evening with said something, because they said they would, and therefore I am unable even to go for healthy stroll around the block in order to work out some of this snappy energy that is causing me to rage at Facey and my absent 7 year old self.


I don't even know what's being re-delivered for me. I have swamped my family with so much unnecessary communication that I think it very unlikely that they might have sent me a package; and if they have sent me something it probably contains a note bearing the legend "GO AWAY AND ANNOY PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY LIVE IN THE SAME COUNTRY AS YOU" and a notification of adoption and five jars of Marmite (which I HATE). Probably, it is a bill. Probably, I have racked up so much Japanese debt with my scalding showers and inability to turn off the heater at night, that an ordinary envelope did not suffice for the quantity of BILLAGE and so they had to send me a parcel to fit in all the 0's.

You know what living alone also means? It means losing all enthusiasm for cooking (and I was distinctly lacking in this particular zeal right from the get go. Aside: Get go? An interesting phrase. Get going? Get gone? Right before the go was gotten? Gah). Dinner so far has consisted of a large pile of boiled green beans and most of a tube of Salt and Vinegar Pringles, and I don't envisage the situation improving any time soon, unless the anticipated package contains a CAKE or a variety of cheese and chutneys. Which would be lovely.

I wanted to make toast, but then I realised that all of my cutlery was still on loan to a friendly American couples who had absconded with it on Thanksgiving (thanks for NOTHING). Rather than walk down two floors to retrieve a knife, I spread my peanut butter with a chopstick.

I vaguely considered boiling some water (as I have discovered a taste for mugs of hot water, a drink only marginally less lazy in execution than simply going out onto the balcony and licking the snow) but ran out of energy before I turned the tap on.

I was going to put pajamas on, but when I took off my jeans and remembered that I was wearing stockings underneath, I couldn't move myself to shuck that second skin, and I so I'm still entirely dressed, just notably lacking in PANTS.

I always feared that I had tendencies towards hermitage, and this, my first night alone in A LOT OF YEARS is proving my fears to be not only rational, but possibly vastly understated. I'm going to end up like that man who has had his hand raised in the air for *insert number of years here* (too lazy to Google) so that all of his fingers have melted into his palm like wax; but, instead, my tights are going to meld with my skin, so that I resemble a closely-shorn faun; and instead of having religion or faith as a disclaimer, I can only claim lack of motivation to BEND OVER.

NB: I think Sapporo itself has a problem with my indolence - I have been disrupted from fruitful blogging no less than TWICE in the last 30 minutes by earthquakes. When tectonic plates, which are themselves less than lively, start to cajole you into movement, that is when you might reconsider your nightly routine.

YOU might.

But I won't. I'm waiting for my cake.

1 comment:

  1. I feel your pain. I am currently wearing only a leotard - not pants, not tights, just the tard - because I am too lazy to get up and changed. Tard stays, flatmates are...suitably disgusted.