BETAMAXNOMATES

Mangos! I like 'em. A lot. Hence the picture. (And let's just get that 'ooh, what a lovely pair!' gag out of the way now, shall we? I know you were thinking it. You sicken even me.) Now where was I? Oh yes, mangos. They're great! Can't get enough of them. You can't keep me away from them. Just try! You could say I'm obsessed. You might even say I love mangos. That I'm in love with mangos. That I mash them up into a lumpen gloop and spread them on my genitals for kicks! No, wait: scratch that last one. In the past week or so though I have been eating mango nearly every day. At every sitting. Because they go with anything! Mango and chips. Mango sandwiches. Mango with pasta. Versatile! (Though not waffly so). Why scarf crisps and chocolate when you can just as easily snack on a slice of delicious mango? After a run, what better way to cool down than by cracking a mango over your head and letting the sweet, sweet juice run down your sweaty brow, staining your shirt a satisfying shade of orange. On an unrelated note, I can never go back to the gym. But then who needs exercise? Mangos count as one of your five daily recommended servings of fruit and veg! That's why I ate five mangos today - and nothing else. I've never felt better!

Once the mango-fuelled sugar rush wears off though - and I'm coming down hard in the corner - I'll probably come to see that, on reflection, it's been a fairly shitty couple of days. Among other things, our search to find a new housemate took a disappointing turn today. It really seemed like everything was sorted: we'd found someone to move in - an impossibly glamorous, irrepressibly exuberant, yoga-loving American vegan named Wendy - who was all set to sign the lease when - seemingly out of nowhere - her on-again-off-again-on-again Irish builder boyfriend decided that they should move in together. I was quite taken aback at how upset I was: I'd known the girl for all of twenty minutes and now I'm walking around the house in a daze, pausing to look wistfully at the ironing folded on the counter top and sighing, 'That's not how Wendy would have done it'. And I had really warmed to the idea of welcoming someone from another culture into my (metaphoric) bosom. I'd even taken down my seasoned 'No Blood For Oil' banner. So it was sad to watch her go, all too tempting to clutch at her elbow just as she walked out to plead, 'Don't go, Wendy, stay with us! We're your family now! Don't move in with that knob jockey. He's all wrong for you!' And he was. To be fair, I only met him for, like, all of three seconds. But it was enough to know that I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him (admittedly that wouldn't be very far, since he was a big guy and I've only been eating mangos so give me a break). Still, you ever meet someone you just knew was thick? Not because their trousers were on backwards or because they'd just bought a timeshare - just by looking at their face. Whatever physiognomy or countenance that somehow, some way, just seemed to say, 'I haven't a fucking clue'. That was what this guys face said to me. I AM A FOOL. And fool he was. None foolier that he. A colossal fool. A towering monument to fooliness, an indomitable affront to common sense, dwarfing gumption and all sound judgement for miles around. If he were a temperature, he'd be moderate-to-fool. If he were a rapper, he'd be Foolio. If he were a movie, he'd be Fool Hand Luke (or, alternately, Fool Runnings). In short, fool. Say it with me: fool. Feels good, doesn't it? And all this I gleaned just from looking at him. I imagine if I were to actually study human psychology my insights would be so incisive as to possibly rupture the morphogenetic fabric of civilisation as we know it.

Oh wait, I did study psychology. Forgot about that. My life now, as it stands, is - for another year anyway - without direction. What's worrying is that this isn't especially worrying to me. I seem, for the most part, happy to drift, wander, amble, mosey, saunter, sashay... er, let's go back to 'drift'. I had half-planned to spend the next two years training to be an actor though it now looks like this will 99% definitely not be happening - give or take a percent. The reasons? This and that. 'Financial concerns'-this; 'inability to convincingly portray human emotion'-that. I'm not disappointed though. As I discovered - somewhat embarrassingly - during the application interview, I really hadn't got a clue what the course was actually about and ended up enthusiastically agreeing with the interviewer when he suggested that maybe this wasn't the avenue for me - 'ho ho, spot on there, mate, saved me a right lot of bother you did, I'll show myself out'. Still, this does mean another year of enduring the dreaded 'So, what are you doing with yourself?' question from acquaintances, relatives, and general well-wishers. Let's see, what do I usually say? 'Well, I'm working now at the moment but what I plan to do is...' - at this point my brain pretty much shuts down and the resultant conversation consists mostly of soundbytes from academic pamphlets and maybe some vague-sounding self-empowerment slogans I might have heard on Dr. Phil - '... so there's that. And I play keyboards, y'know...' - I might drift into some creative delusional bullshit here about being an 'artist at heart', maybe throw in some nonsense about how the internet has revolutionised the ways and means of artistic expression or something - '... yeah, I'll make you a CD. But, y'know, I'm only [insert age here], I'm in no hurry...' - honestly, if it were possible my brain would actually be self-digesting, THIS CONVERSATION IS KILLING ME etc. etc. Stop gap, stop dead, dead-end. DEAD.
And on that note, I think I'll leave you: this entry has rambled on quite enough. Lots of capitals. And pictures of ugly people - apologies for that. And for the title: it sucks. But then - sorry nerds - so does the movie.
Yours, 'effectuating creative suicide'.