A year. An entire year. One long stretch consisting of just a tiny increment over 12 months. That's how it has been since I graced this blog with my presence, and judging by the haughty way it has welcomed me back, with it's forever loading pages and spammy comments, I reckon that it may have quite enjoyed the rest and certainly doesn't want me disturbing its deep slumber.
I would like to say things have changed. They have to a certain extent. I have finally relieved myself of duties as my parents lodger, moving to a bland, overwhelmingly beige flat on the outskirts of the city. It's pleasant and at a reasonable price, and I have the bonus of not being woke up in the morning by a wavering groan and the booming flush of a toilet, which would haunt my dreams sleeping with my head next to the adjoining wall to the toilet in my parents house. I wish I could say that this has improved my tidying up skills; it hasn't. My clothes still make a beautiful floor-based mosaic of black, purple and blue, and my socks STILL SOMEHOW worm their way down the side of my bed and make nest against the wall. I may have moved, but I have brought some bad habits with me.
Apart from the heave ho to another suburb, very little has happened. It's like I've been on autopilot for the last two/three years, mooching and plodding around the city like a lobotomised turtle. Even my tits, usually such a reliable source of growth and movement, have been hanging, quite literally, in limbo.
I've moved, but only to the next patch of foggy indifference with extremely poor signage. I'm not really quite sure what I want to do at this moment in my life. My ambitions are either so ludicrous that I find myself laughing and pointing at my idiotic face in the mirror, its wobbly features hanging despondently, or they are as about as feasible as trying trying to cut wood with a rubber spoon.
Admittedly, money and time play a large part. If I am to progress or get further qualifications, I would have to leave my job and get another with more flexibility, but I have more of a chance finding gold in my shit than finding such a job in this climate. And if I were to get a different job it would have to cover the costs of living in the flat, and then I have to take into account that if I was going to do a possible part time course, I would have to also pay fees for that.
Would I have the money? Would I have the resources? Or would I have to go back to my parents (which I don't particularly want to do no matter how much I love my mam's lamp chops)? The job I would particularly love to do requires me to go back to college for one year, then back to University for another 3... which in today's money equates to about £120,000,000 or something like that.
Yes, I have savings, but that would get me about 15 bars of Diary Milk if the price of chocolate is anything to go by. And I'm already in a nice chunk of debt thanks to my wonderfully pointless first degree.
If I was to hazard a guess, I would say around 1/3 of the young people in my age group are in the same 'Wuthering Heights'-esque mess of situation, floundering upon a densely fogged hilltop, their coats flapping in the wind, their ipod headphone wafting across their shoulders, shouting and bellowing for help. "Jobs!", they cry. "Opportunity!", they weep. "Education!", they wail. "FUCKS SAKE!", they scream.
But I digress, because I am giving myself an ulcer.