Torn To Pieces In Tullamore

I was set upon by wild animals and I couldn’t get away. I had nowhere to turn. That was the inspiration for my best-selling novel ‘Torn to Pieces in Tullamore’. It was an outrageous success and people just couldn’t stop talking about it. That was just one event in an otherwise lacklustre life however. Some people have adventures in life, others have to make do with the more mundane sort of life, envious of those who cut a bit of a dash, and yet at the same time terrified beyond measure that one day something unexpected or unusual might happen! Such is the dilemma of life. Some people like fig rolls, other people digestives. Who am I to judge? It was at about that time that I developed a rather neat little trick for gaining kudos without actually having to accomplish anything. It’s one of those things that they call a ‘life hack,’ I believe. People think that I’m not intelligent but I am. My trick was to write at length about a book that I had written without ever having actually written the book in question thus doing away with the need to go to all the trouble of writing a novel, which is a lot harder than you might think. This was a start of a long and illustrious career. Before very long however my habitual laziness reared its ugly head and I began to find the effort of writing pieces about novels, plays and philosophical treatises that I had in fact never bothered to write (although I probably could have done, in all fairness to me) too arduous and too demanding and so I adopted the fallback strategy of writing pieces about pieces that I hadn’t bothered writing about major works that I also hadn’t written and to my surprise this worked rather well. Attractive women wanted to talk to me. Complete strangers bought me drinks in pubs. Dogs ran up to me in the street, their tails wagging wildly. It wasn’t to last forever however – my moment of glory was short-lived, as moments of glory often are. I no longer told jokes – instead, I cleverly referenced jokes that I had (supposedly) made earlier and no one seemed to notice the sleight of hand involved. People laughed just the same and I laughed too. Unbeknownst to myself, I was sinking deeper and deeper into the world of hyperreality. People naturally began to suspect that there was something not quite right about me, something somehow shady. I fell into bad company, hanging out with accountants and third rate lawyers. Drugs began to play a large role in my life – before very long I was spending an ungodly amount of money on Sudafed and Nurofen Plus. I immersed myself in the drug subculture and duly changed my appearance, my way of speaking, the type of music I listened to, the type of scene I frequented, my up-tight straight attitude, everything. I became hip, I became cool. For a few brief months I was the happiest and most relaxed that I had ever been in my entire life – I realised that the conventional world was full of lies and hypocrisy anyway and that there wasn’t any point in killing myself to fit in, as I always had done up to this point. It was as if a light bulb had gone up in my head. For the first time ever I was accepted for who I was. It wasn’t to last however – the word got out that I was a narc, a police informer, and I was now persona non grata on the street. I had been found out. I had been caught out for being a cheat, which is pretty much the story of my life when it comes down to it. Following this expose I truly did become an outsider – even society’s rejects had rejected me. I had no brethren, no community, no companions… I still don’t – I walk the streets alone, always alone. You might have noticed me perhaps, although you probably wouldn’t have paid much attention. I’m not looking for sympathy though – I wouldn’t want you to think that. I’ve made my bed and I must lie in it…

 

 

 

 

 

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