I filed my 300-word (phew) book review a moment ago, and the relief is palpable. No, really, I could have weighed my anguish this time yesterday, such was its scale. I shouldn't get too comfy I suppose. There's still time for it to land back in my in tray with "not fit for broadcast" stamped across it. However, I think I've cut my journalistic teeth sufficiently now that I could churn out another review that comes to precisely the opposite conclusions to the first. I wouldn't lose any sleep over this mercenary about turn either. I've been a hack (unpaid) for less than 5 five hours and I've already turned into Pol Pot.
I've now been overcome with that physical slump that follows moments of crise like these. My ordinary duties look even more anodyne and pointless than they did previously. I feel like a character in an earnest but shit modernist novel.
I also feel hugely tempted to take my foot off the gas, but this is fatal for me. I can in a fug and get depressed. I need to apply myself. I know all this stuff, and yet will I buckle down? Almost certainly not. There's a masochistic streak at the heart of the Irish male. This explains the violent temper and drinking.
I also feel hugely tempted to take my foot off the gas, but this is fatal for me. I can in a fug and get depressed. I need to apply myself. I know all this stuff, and yet will I buckle down? Almost certainly not. There's a masochistic streak at the heart of the Irish male. This explains the violent temper and drinking.
You can run from that gene pool, but you cannot hide.
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