Fun Guy

“Where did it all go wrong?” I asked myself glumly, and not for the first time either. “How did I ever end up like this?” After all, I considered (again, not for the first time), I had had so much going for me. I had had it all – my life had really been going somewhere. Everyone wanted to know me back then. I had thrown away so many chances. “What went wrong?” I asked myself again. “I had so much going for me…” Then I realized that this was in fact not true – the impression that I had had that I had formerly had so much going for me was in fact a delusional memory. It was a delusional memory through and through. There was absolutely nothing to substantiate it – it wouldn’t stand up in court. I used to have an interesting and meaningful life your honour. People wanted to know me. I was popular: I actually had friends who would talk to me, and listen to what I had to say. I heard it said that I was a real character. Charismatic on occasion, quirkily engaging on other occasions. People used to say that I had a great sense of humour, that I was a real fun guy to be around. I used to crease people up. I should have been a comedian, they said. Now look at me – completely socially-isolated, completely out of step with the times. When I post a comment on FB people are more like to defriend me out of embarrassment than anything else. Nobody likes anything I post. My only friends are spambots and web-crawlers. And even the spambots tend to shun me these days, that’s how low I’ve sunk in the hierarchy of things. Pretty low, huh? “What went wrong?” I ask again. Is there something I could have done differently? Maybe I could have taken more evening classes. I could perhaps have made the effort and learned to play a musical instrument. My entire history is made up of delusional memories as far as I can see – every time I reach out for one it dissolves into thin air leaving nothing behind but a bad taste in my mouth. Though come to think of it the bad taste was there all along. My personal narrative is stitched together with self-serving lies and its coming apart faster than I can stitch. I never was much good as stitching. Maybe I should have taken evening classes in how to stitch together a decent personal narrative. Then it wouldn’t have all gone so pear-shaped. ‘I used to be a real fun guy…’ I tell myself for the umpteenth time but it doesn’t hold water. It just doesn’t stick. Other people have personal narratives they can stick stuff to as and when required, why not me? How come I can’t get away with it? My personal narrative is that I don’t have a personal narrative but it just isn’t sticking. It doesn’t hold water. It’s a lonely old business trying to get stuff to stick when it won’t, I tell myself in an attempt at humour. You just keep on throwing it at the wall and it just keeps on falling off. Your arm gets tired and you get a critch in your shoulder. And then to cap it all you discover that there was never a wall in the first place…




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