I looked at him: tall, wild hair emanating from his head in little curls, unshaven, oozing arrogance and low self-esteem in equal measure.
'I'm pretty sure I do want to that' I replied smiling sweetly.
'Nah, you should go round the world. See other cultures you've never seen before and stuff. It totally opens your mind. Europe's boring to me. I don't get it'.
These are the things I wished I said:
- You've only been away to resorts in far flung places. Not exactly emerged yourself for months at a time in the cultures of Amazonian tribes people. I don't think that lounging around somewhere for two weeks that advertises itself as 'all inclusive' counts as "seeing other cultures".
- Clearly all this amazing travelling you've done has not opened your mind one little bit if you feel comfortable telling me that "Europe is boring". Europe is a fairly big place and isn't exactly bereft of history or different cultures.
- It's my fucking decision what I do with my time and money. At some point "being honest" and "just sharing your opinion" becomes unbearably narcissistic. Unless it affects you directly just be fucking supportive, like I am when you tell me about the holiday you're going on to the place that advertises itself as 'all inclusive'. "Wow. That sounds awesome. I'm sure you'll have a brilliant time" is all anyone needs to hear in a situation like that. If I was arranging going away with you then getting your honest thoughts and feelings about it might be appropriate, but heaven forbid, as I would rather slit my wrists than spend any real quality time with you, you smug, socially incompetent asshole.
This is what I did say:
"Well, each to their own I guess! How is your new job going?"
I tune him out as he chatters away inanely about things he finds interesting and look around the pub. Empty. I feel empty. Everyone is just having conversations like this; nothing real, no honest connections. Just people drinking to drown out the sound of each other. At least that is what I am doing. I am also drinking as it's the only fun thing I know at the moment. My job is achingly terrible. Truly, astoundingly, awful. Each minute trails by agonisingly slowly as I sit there, attempting to look busy by writing epic emails about how miserable I am. My manager is a strange little wiry white haired man who thinks I am incredible. I often wonder what he would make of me if I actually put in even an ounce of effort. I think he likes me mostly because I laugh at his jokes and no one else does. I do hold genuine affection for the man, but also, I hate him. He is the reason I am employed here.
My whole body is rebels against being forced into the council building each day. I will sometimes miss my turning for the car park. Or I'll go through the doors and suddenly feel so nauseous I have to turn around and go and sit down on the benches outside till I regain my composure. Worst of all (perhaps) are the spots I keep getting. Huge, ugly bumps in very visible positions over my face. Above my left eyebrow, in the middle of my chin, right on my cheekbones. They mock me. Filled with pus and painful to touch. They throb enticingly, promising riches for the spot-picking connoisseur such as myself, and then produce nothing but horrible flaky scabs that call like a beacon to anyone I converse with. No one has looked in my eyes for months now. The dry, flaky, pus bumps draw the eyes of all those who gaze upon my face. As soon as one goes another develops. To be honest, there is actually something quite gratifying about them as they give me something to think about and tend to throughout the day. I am constantly having to go to the strip-lit ladies toilets to peel the scabs and apply spot cream and re-apply the cover up make up (which in fact just makes it look like I've got a tiny UV light shining on my face). But while I can think about my spot of the week, I'm not thinking about how utterly broken I am from the monotony of each day.
You may think all of this is an exaggeration. Surely nothing can be that bad? But it is, oh dear sweet lord it is. Steady yourselves:
I work. In the planning department. Of the local council.
Fucking hell, I know right? Can you imagine the horrors? Beige walls filled with beige people doing beige things. It's the singularly most mind-numbingly dull place that has ever existed in the entire history of the known universe. If alien races accidentally fell to earth and found themselves stuck inside the planning department of the local council they would zoom home as fast as possible.
It would be funny how boring it is, if it weren't so unendingly boring. Joy comes here to die.
My work hours, as a result, tend to go along the lines of something like this:
9.15 to 9.30am - Reluctantly enter the building and take my sweet time about sitting at my desk (go get a coffee, go the the loo, check my face, take my coat off, hang it up, go get it again to find my lipsalve, hang it back up again, etc etc)
9.30 to 10am - Get on with the work I am tasked to do that way.
10 to 12.30pm - Silently wish I was dead
12.30 to 1pm - Eat lunch, read my book, feel a crushing weight of horror descend knowing I only have 30 minutes reprieve from silently wishing I was dead
1 to 4pm - Maybe attend a couple of meetings. Say nothing throughout. See meetings as an opportunity to silently wish I was dead in different chairs and in different rooms.
4 to 5pm - Relentlessly look at the clock as the seconds hand mocks me by going ever slower the closer we get to the end of the day.
Also, don't forget the liberal sprinkling of spot checking/picking breaks and going to the water cooler breaks throughout the day. These (plus lunch) are the only sources of joy for me. When picking flaky skin off your face and carrying cold water to your desk count as high points" you can be pretty assured that your life is FUBAR.
Though, of course, there is always the aforementioned drinking. Drinking alcohol has always been a great source of joy for me. I love being drunk, and I am so much more fun/bearable when I am drunk. (I don't drink during the day so I'm pretty convinced everyone at work thinks I'm a totally miserable bitch who has never enjoyed anything in her entire life). Each day, as the black hands of the stupid, boring, white faced clock edge ever nearer to 5pm I feel my heart rate increasing as not only will I soon be free of the confines of the claustrophobic concrete monstrosity that is work but I will also be able to drink alcohol. Lots of it. And maybe take some drugs. And be this boozy, witty, tragic figure that everyone feels a bit sorry for but who doesn't care because everything will be blotted out for a few sweet hours, till I find myself in a dreamless sleep and have to get on the hamsters wheel and start it all over again.
So when this man looks me dead in the eyes (not at one of my weird spots for once) and suggests that going round Europe might be a bad thing for me in any way shape or form I know that, whatever happens, he is wrong.
There is no way anything could be worse for me. In fact, little am I to know right then, as existential angst grips me in a Weatherspoons on a Wednesday night (we've all had that I'm sure), that everything is about to get immeasurably better...
