Personal Blogs

My mum and dad gave me a bag of chantrelles and a grand cru St. Emilion. Dad also lent me his Steve Jobs biography, so that I can talk with him about it. Perhaps as a shunt.

What am I for? I always ask this of myself on my birthday. I have a nagging sense my of uselessness. My failure to achieve what I should. I piddle around at nonsense, every time I seem to be making a difference it gets taken from me.

Nobody ever troubled to tell me the rules. Still, I fear that I'm not doing enough. I've been given this most marvelous thing—life, and I'm pissing it up against the wall.

I resolve to change but I can't help but notice that all those who do manage to change seem to have the life sucked out of them. What made them special, what made me love them, what made them fun. Was gone.

However dead I might be tomorrow, I need to be alive today.