Just now I felt a tickling on my neck. I reached back, and pinched the spot. Sure enough, there’d been a small beetle crawling around, and I’d just broken two of its legs. I threw it on the table, and lifted a tissue from my pocket to give it a mercy-killing. I enveloped it in white, and squeezed.

Then I realised, I’d done something. I’d really done something. I’d made an impact on the world, on something’s world: by killing that bug. Earlier today I went looking for a currency exchange & a doctor; had to visit five different places and be constantly re-directed to another building for the latter (because it’s fucking France), and in the end my doctor visit proved unnecessary. I cycled all the way back to my usual library with only an hour before it would close. I thought the day was wasted, I was going to taff about on the internet for an hour. But just now, I killed that bug. Today has been a productive day.

In London, I spent all my time ‘wage-slaving’. My greatest source of happiness was eating junk-ish food. It’s all that mattered to me, really, since I didn’t have time to do anything else after getting home from work, and cooking. My old apartment had no kitchen table, so I ate in my room, and while eating – well – I was bored, so I turned on my computer and made habit of playing Hearthstone. I’d finish the meal, play a few more games, and go to bed. Keep in mind, I need 9 – 10 hours of sleep (and a fuck-tonne of coffee) to feel in any way decent. I made some major achievements on Hearthstone, you know. It gave me goals. But I got bored.

In Dublin, I worked, and was a student in what I eventually found out was a wasteful course. I used my spare hours making short-films. I wrote / directed / produced, I think, 5 short films, the longest of which was 30 minutes long. I never did anything with any of them. You have to pay to put your film through a film festival or competition, which is where one can garner an on-paper credibility. Paying for something like that, and especially for a competition, was too … What to call it? … filthy Capitalist swine for me. Damn, studying media, making films, objecting to capitalism on a blog? I annoy myself with how hipster I am at times. This is honestly a large part of the reason I left this lifestyle behind. I felt too cliché. But, to get to my point, I was actually a little productive during this time-frame. Partially, I think, I shared a room with 3 others in a stupidly cheap apartment, and therefore always had to be out of the house, in a library or café. I wrote a book during this time, and I did try to do something with it..! I sent it to a dozen literary agents in London, all politely declined. I gave it to a few people I knew who said they’d read it, but no-one got past the opening few chapters, so I took that as I sign that it’s a bad book for any reader. To this day I’m re-drafting it.

feel like I’ve had a ‘productive’ life, except for my time in London. Okay, so one book and a couple of films. Now also one quarter of a language learned. Also, one time, I reached LEVEL 49 in Nazi Zombies on Call of Duty.

But you know, nobody’s seen my films, because I haven’t shown them to anyone. No one’s read my book, because its opening is shit. I played with one other person on the Nazi Zombie run, but … The goal was LVL 50 (I still cry).

So now I write a blogYeaaahhh.

Fuck you, planet Earth, I’m writing a blog. Blogs are things that people read~! (Right?)

Also I’m writing another book and re-drafting the first one.


I’m told to be happy, I must be productive. I must have a passion. Isabel is unhappy, she once told me, because she has no passion.

Does this mean my self-aware-self-deception of making stories and movies no one will ever see will run out?


I think ‘probably’ was more natural to write just now.

But fuck it, I know all answers.

I remember reading Flashforward, a book I regarded as being quite bad. One character is a writer, and a vision of the future shows him he’ll be working at a restaurant. He, therefore, kills himself – knowing that his passion will be… Inconcluded.

I’m sure the writer character was one of those cliché moments of writers putting themselves into books (cough cough, Stephen King writes another book about a small time writer).

Flashforward was written by Robert J. Sawyer. It was adapted into a TV show, but the story was changed so much the book and show are barely the same. The book itself, apart from the writer-becomes-a-waiter moment, is kind of trashy and isn’t really about anything other than some random sci-fi intrigue. It tries at some question about ‘free will’; it lazily asks if it’s real or a scientific illusion, but the best answer the books gives is that the truth is… Either ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

But I have read it. So there’s that.

Isabel is an artist. A good one.

But what ‘art’ scene is there today?

Maybe if she takes to living my hobo lifestyle, she can sell street art.

Actually, wait, I’m sure I could print my book on A4 sheets and set up a ‘pay-what-you-want’ poster. Sell them on the street. Only, it’s in English, and I’m in France…


Maybe I should tell her.

She should start a blog.


; Having finished this post, I checked my phone, then lifted the tissue I’d left on the table.

The beetle twitched. I looked closer. Maybe I just moved the body while moving the tissue?

It moved again.

Its front two legs were the only ones not broken. It was dragging itself off the tissue.


This time, it felt too cruel an act to kill it. After all. It might just make it off the tissue.