Women's Toilets = Paradise (Chapter Ten)

The toilet experience is important to me. It’s an experience to behold. My own personal home toilet has a brilliant feng shui about it - minimalistic and flush white. No pun intended. The rug I rest my feet on when seated on the laboratory is thick in richness, so that my feet are accommodated for whilst the process is taking place. There can be no better experience than releasing after you were dying to for 10-30 minutes. They are quite simply ‘experiences’. Pure and enjoyable.
    On a slightly more emotional note, my public toilet ‘experiences’ counter balances this.
        Public toilets, no matter where, are never ideal. Actually ideal is not the word. The word is hygienic. Firstly, I refuse to use the public urinals or bowls or whatever they are called. These are like an open competition of manhood - a competition I'd probably finish as a ‘competitor’ in, rather on the podium. Most guys chose to stand half a mile from the bowl in order to display their 'asset'. Coupled with seeing how straight they can piss from long distance - it’s like watching the British team Javelin in the Olympic. Hit or miss. Bronze medals all around. No Gold – but well played anyway. No pun intended. This game is not for me. My masculinity is normally set at semi-automatic (in gear 2). My testosterone levels are low. My doctor told me that my mother probably drank too much white wine when I was feasting on her internals. All of this means that I HAVE to use the cubicles. It’s like your own personal toilet space. Minus the comfort and hygiene. When using other people’s home toilets at social gatherings I turn on the tap to drown out the sound of my own waste being dispensed. This again is comfort.

In this instance, on my way to get this journal back from my agent in my new suit – much like the weird gentleman’s from a few days previous – I feel the sudden urge to...release. After much deliberation, I use the public toilet on the ground floor of my agents building. 1pm. Lunch break. Prime time for toilet usage. All cubicles are full. I push each door gently – maybe one is actually free...!?

They’re not.

2 bowls are free. 2 are not. One is occupied by what’s looks like the worlds fittest man...and the other by a dude so cocky his manhood must have been nominated for an Pulitzer prize. I squeeze in between them both desperate to let go off the pent up discharge...surrounded by these two self-appointed Adonis’ I feel pressured to perform – everything seems smaller. The bowl. The room. EVERYTHING. Everything apart from them.

1 minute later – I have still not released.

They don’t seem to move – I’ve been there 3mins. They been there before me and they won’t stop pissing. One guy, the fittest man in the world, is doing loops with his piss. Impressive, I think. I watch for a brief second. He gives me an acknowledging smile...and does more.  This guy is my hero.

I look slowly to the other guy to see what tricks he’s performing...none. But he does, however, take exception at my brief glance. He gives me the look of a man about to damage my outer shell. I zip up and leave in a hurry.

Still desperate for both the release and privacy I enter the women’s toilets....but slowly...looking to see if it’s empty. Which after an intensive inspection, I find it is.

    Women’s toilets are so refreshing. They smell good. Why don’t men get treated to automated air fresheners that dispense a dose of candy scented goodness every 60 seconds?

The sanitary towel bags in the cubicles made me yearn for a womb. I wished I could have periods just so that I could make use of these fancy sanitary towel bags.

Women’s toilets have condom machines. Men’s don’t. Doesn’t that make sense?
    Also the tap water is softer in women’s toilets. It’s like little plush raindrops of joy hitting your hands. I wish I had a womb.

On my way out of the toilet I bump into an attractive lady about to walk in. I think fast to avoid any embarrassment...
“Is this the women’s toilets?” I ask innocently.
“You see that sign on the door...?” She replies with a cheeky smile on her face.
I look up and point at the WC sign with the stick lady placed on it, “That one?”
“Yes, the one with the woman on it...” she replies, still smiling. Her smile gives me Goosebumps. It’s special like turning on the radio and hearing an old Al Green song.
“Is that a woman? I always thought it was a man dressed a woman. It’s hard to tell nowadays. Political correctness has gone crazy.”
She laughs. Seems like I’m charming her without trying.
    Note to self: awkward situations are wonderful for attracting the opposite sex.
“You’re the type of guy who wears frilly pink underwear and pees sitting down right?”
“That’s a scurrilous remark and I take offence.” I reply.
“Ah, the word scurrilous...I don’t hear that word anymore.”
“You don’t hear the word scurrilous anymore? What are you? 150 years old? No one uses that word anymore. I was merely being nostalgic”
She laughs, “Nostalgic?” and continues, “You’re full of divine words aren’t you? Like a walking thesaurus. When you masturbate do you say ‘oh deity, oh deity’ instead of ‘Oh god’?”
“Firstly, who said I masturbate...?” She laughs, I continue, “Secondly, if I was to masturbate I would do it in silence. The sound of my own voice would be a turn-off. I mean it is making love to someone you really love. But that’s taking it too far.”
“Why are we talking about masturbation?” She asks comically.
“You brought it up. You tell me.”
“This is proper ‘LOL’ moment isn’t it?”
“A ‘LOL moment’?” I laugh, “Let me ask you something do you write ‘LOL’ or ‘HA’?”
A cheeky smile hits her face, “I generally don’t take a tally on my wordplay when interacting via computers.”
“You’re very well spoken...you’re very scurrilous.”
“That does even make sense? Let me guess you’re a writer huh?”
“How’d you guess?”
“There’s a literary agency upstairs and you’re full of...”
“Myself?”
“That as well – I was going to say long words.”
“Oh. That’s disappointing.”
We laugh. She continues, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Boring old accountant, huh?”
“Boring old accountant.”
“Well ‘boring old accountant’ I happen to need someone to help count the money in my wallet when I buy you a meal – do you think maybe you could help out with that?”
“Original line...” she says whilst shaking her head in amusing disgust, “Not good, but original.” 
“I know I’m a writer – we plagiarise everything. All creative ideas are stolen from someplace. Nothing is original.”
“Did you plagiarise that line from a 14 year old boy?”
I laugh. She’s pretty swift.
She continues, “Listen I gotta go and use the loo before I flood this hallway. However I work in the office down the hall come in and get my number before you leave and I might do some ad-hoc accountancy for you.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you flood the hallway actually. I could write about it.”
She playfully pushes her way past me to the women’s toilet. I smile to myself thinking that I must use women’s toilets more often.

And oh yeah, I need a womb.

The Virtue of "Ha" (Chapter Nine)

The way I see it is; the world is split into two conflicting camps...

The LOL camp and the HA camp. I prefer the latter. I like to think of myself as the pioneer of the use of HA. I use this term when I am amused by something in a literary format.

These occurrences normally happen in electronic mail (known to many by email) or during some good old online social networking. One my favourite pastimes.

People of the ‘LOL’ are my enemy. I am incompatible with them.

I awake each day to electronic mail and text messages on my phone littered with LOL’s. This upsets me. Makes me feel suicidal. You might even say rather nihilistic.

I don’t like to be bothered. Well, I do. By people I WANT to bother me. This happens infrequently. I am frequently bothered by people who want to bother me. For various UNACCEPTABLE reasons.
You see this is why I don’t bother people...I get so many people bothering me on a daily basis that I don’t wanna become one of THOSE people that I venomously dislike!

People BOTHER each other so as not to feel lonely. I am comfortable with feeling lonely. I don’t like the feeling of being in a zone where I am creative and not lonely. That makes me feel perfect. I don’t like being perfect...although sometimes I just can’t help it :)  (smiley face followed by LOL)

LOL
LMAO
CUM
WTF
BRB
OMG
TB

The most disheartening one is CUM – this is both confusing and misleading at the same time. Not to mention it’s hardly abbreviating a word if it’s only missing one original letter.

Is it me or is talking with other dysfunctional humanoids a lot easier nowadays?

My nephew, the other day, took a test in social networking abbreviations...he scored 80% is that good? I took the same test and scored 30% but my online IQ test was 128...I am now confused.

Does that mean I’m a pauper or a rich man, mentally speaking?

People who intimate their physical reactions electronically with stars are losers. That’s official.

e.g. *rolls my eyes*
e.g. *faints*
e.g. *laughs*
e.g. *fuck you all for inventing such inept social etiquette. Fuck you for destroying the beautiful language we write. I turn in the graves of Cromwell, Shakespeare and Welles in disgust. Fuck you all.*

(Chapter Eight) As Written By...My Agent

If you’re under the impression that reading this will close the book on some unanswered question, then do yourself a favour – don’t waste your time. After a couple of paragraphs, you won’t want to be here. What follows, reads more like a rant than a conclusive and accurate summary of Happiness.

What you’re getting here is a boring letter of complaint about a boring little man. A boring real life story about someone you’d never want to meet. Picture this annoying git being about six foot tall with a haircut that screams, “I’m a creative sort.” Picture the smarmy shit sat opposite me in my office, smiling at me from across my desk, whilst cradling a couple of supermarket carrier bags. Picture him wearing a tee-shirt that reads: “I’m a lover – not a writer.” Imagine, for a second, that you are an agent and this twerp is your most gifted client. Now, I think, you can begin to fathom where I’m coming from.

It wasn’t always like this. Oh no. I used to command respect in this industry – heck, I was the industry. If anybody wanted a book published, they would come see me. I had a beautiful wife and two perfect children; I ate at the most expensive restaurants in the capital, kept a brand new BMW M5 in my driveway, and every other weekend I would take a trip out of town so I could screw my wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor. And who could blame me? – she’s got this cute boyish kind of hairdo, and tits like watermelons. It was such a pleasure to wake up in the morning and realise that life had worked out just how I had always planned. I was happy, or so I thought.

Happiness – what is happiness? Well, it took me a long time to work it out, but now I think I know the answer. I found the answer to this question through the process of elimination. I finally figured out that happiness is not the other half and the two spoiled brats; happiness is not eating at a fancy restaurant, happiness is not a brand new Beamer; and happiness is most definitely not shagging your wife’s 19 year-old yoga instructor – no matter how dirty she might be.

And so this brings me back to my current situation – I take a deep breath and try to keep my cool, but this guy is too much.
“Why have you got shopping bags?” I ask.
“I went shopping” he replies.
“I can see that, but I asked you to attend a critical business meeting and you turn up an hour late with milk, bread, cheddar cheese and sanitary towels.”
“Yeah?” he shrugs.
I pull back to look at him and say, “Maybe, instead of shopping, you should concentrate on finishing that book you keep promising me…”
And he says, “What’s that supposed to mean? So I’ve got to starve myself for my art now? Who am I – a hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?”
I’m pissed off, but I smile. And it’s at that precise moment I realise what happiness must truly be – happiness is, for once on God’s green earth, having a client that does at least one damn thing that I ask of them.



Chapter written by Shaun Davis.

Always Put "Alledgedly" After a Dubious Sentence (Chapter Seven)

My agent laughs wildly. Food sprawling out of his big mouth onto his turquoise tie. I sit opposite him, giggling at my own misfortune. The laughter lasts a while longer than I had hoped, making it rather awkward.
“It’s not that funny.” I say.
“It’s hilarious. Honestly. I can’t stop laughing – you ass.” His laughter becomes almost a roar. What is his laughing about? Well I told him my story about the gentleman with the nice suit.

Not long after I had accepted his offer of a hot drink, we sat in a corporate coffee shop. Me, with hot chocolate. Him, with a bottle of water. His suit looked even better whilst he perched on his stool.
“Nice suit.” I say looking it up and down, “Where can I get one...?”
“Thanks. I think you’ve said that about 10 times now.” He chuckles. I await an answer, it doesn’t come.
“No seriously...where can I get it?”
He chuckles again. It annoys me. I get set to ask again before he interrupts, “That Jewish joke was funny. I loved it!”
“Jewish joke?” I enquire.
“Yeah, back at the station...you knew she was Jewish right? Genius joke.”
“I didn’t do a Jewish joke. I didn’t even say the word Jew. I was talking about...”
“It was great. Seriously.” He says, interrupting again.
“Okay, well, it wasn’t actually...” I mumble, trying to set the record straight.
“So you’re a writer huh?”
“Yeah.” I reply, taking a sip of my drink, trying my hardest not to get annoyed.
“Anything I would know?”
“A book called Sexy Utopia.”
“What’s it about?”
“A guy looking for love...and he...”
“Awesome...what else have you written?”
“Well I’m in the process my journals on Happiness and also writing my second book – a poetry novel...”
“Poetry?” He laughs. “Sounds boring. You want to consider writing something else.”
“Well the way it’s written is unique; I’m trying to create a new genre with it so...”
“I want to write a book.” He says sharply. “Can you help me?”
I hear this question every time I tell someone I’m a writer. Most of the time I tell people that ‘I’m involved in media’ to avoid that very same question. I begin to speak, “Well...”
Again, he interrupts, “Can you?” He looks at me with ‘wanting’ eyes. I hate people who want things from me. They talk to you for a few minutes and then ask a question wanting a response that benefits them.
“Well, as I was about to say, I don’t really do that.”
“Do what? Help people?”
“Well that too...but I meant do ghost writing.”
“My story is really interesting...”
“Everyone says that, but I mean, really is it?”
He sits back, his face turns to stone. “What do you mean ‘is it’?” He asks, offended.
“Everyone has ‘an interesting story’, allegedly. The line ‘my story is interesting’ should come with a compulsory ‘allegedly’ after it.”
He looks me in the eye with contempt.
“You know I’m starting to think that Jewish lady was right about you. You might just be an idiot.”
“Yeah well did you know you have an annoying habit of interrupting people?”
“Interrupting people?” He says, in an animated manner.
“Yes. Interrupting. You’ve done it about...”
He interrupts, “I do not have a habit of ‘interrupting’ people.”
“You did it again!”
“Screw you.” He shouts out – drawing the attention of everyone in the nicely mapped out shop.
He sits back and sulks. I finish my hot chocolate with a smile. Ready to leave, I try and offer a few words as a token of appreciation for him purchasing the drink. But all I can come up with is, “So where DID you get that suit? I wanna get one just like it...”
He gives me an evil stare.
“I have to go now.” I say, “I got work to do. As I’m sure you do. You seem like a high roller. You probably have numbers to manipulate or a boiler room to frequent.”
“Actually I don’t.” He says bitterly.
“You don’t what?”
“Have anywheree to go.”
“Okay...maybe you can go and work from home then?”
“Work on what?”
“Whatever it is you work on...”
“I don’t have a job.”
“Oh.” I say, confused. “But what about the suit?”
“I found it.” He replies, his eyes looking down. His brain almost switched off.
“You found it? How do you find a suit?”
“I just found it alright?” He shouts out.
“I’m just saying, how do you find a suit? Do you like walk down the road and fall over a new suit on the ground and go, ’hey I found a suit!’”?
He gives me another evil look followed by the word “Bye.” – intimating that I should leave. I do so.

This is the story that sent my agent into fits of laughter. When he finally calms down he looks at me – he wants something too.
“Where’s the book? You came here a couple of weeks back and told me you’d ‘email me’. I’m still waiting for the email.”
“Oh come on, you know that was a throwaway sentence.”
“Throwaway phrase?”
“Yeah, ‘I’ll email you’ – it doesn’t mean I’ll email you. I means I won’t email you. It’s like me saying ‘I’ll call you’. I’m not going to call you, am I?”
“Why not?”
“It’s the unwritten rule of etiquette.”
“It’s an unwritten rule of etiquette to tell someone that you’re going to do something but then not do it?”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta tell you that’s bullshit.”
“Okay.” I say in disagreement, whilst smiling.
“You’re a freak sometimes. Seriously.”
I laugh, he chuckles.
“Well?” He asks.
“Well?” I ask him.
“The book? What are you doing here? Is the book finished?”
“Oh that.”
“Yeah ‘that’.”
“Nah, that’s not done. I came here because I have writers block – not ideal, I know. Especially now. But I’ve been writing a journal about happiness. I think it’s causing my block. I want to give it to you to hold onto for a couple of days. It might unleash my creativity again. Maybe even input your own thoughts about happiness in there too.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No, I’m serious.” I push the journal against his turquoise tie. He takes it and holds it like a newborn baby. “I’ll come back here in two days and take it back. I just need a break.”
He watches me leave with the look of a man who has surplus responsibility. Maybe he'll learn something from chapter six.

Avoiding Responsibilty (Chapter Six)

At train stations I purposely avoid old people and mothers with prams. I don’t want to help either up flights of stairs. This is too much responsibility. Responsibility comes with stress.

I like taking subways - its travelling in comfort. The only comfort being the fact that I don't need to do anything but enter and then exit. That sells it for me. It’s the only mode of comfort I need. As a kid I used to watch my folks driving whilst trying to keep me and little brother from causing mischief on the back seat as well as concentrating on finding the best music station for their personal needs. It all looked like way too much responsibility for me. Aliening myself to the subway was logical.

Today I am presented with options -- on the platform there are a couple of ruffians with hoods, a gentleman with a suitcase looking all executive like in a nice suit(a look I might go for sometime - I like it), a lady with a baby with a pram...avoid her at all costs. I don't want to be the smuck who's left to assist her carrying the pram up the stairs at my stop (if she even gets off there). With things like this fate always seems to call my name. So when the train comes I make sure I move away from her to get on another carriage. I do this with subtlety so that she doesn't notice.

My journey is spent opposite a juvenile who is hell bent on playing 'music' via his iPhone for everyone. You know, because he's so cool and thoughtful and considerate and all that. Rather than take pleasure in his ingenious discovery, that his quasi-mobile device can play very bad music with no baseline, he chooses to look directly at me - minus blinking. An ability I rather envy but can’t say appreciate.
     I ride on the train to be inspired and get new ideas. It’s a bit like travelling across the world to 'find myself'. But half-heartedly. Like I do with most things I don't truly believe in. Speaking of finding myself, I hadn't heard from her in a few days. We'd normally contact each other every day. She's just as stubborn as me -- neither of us want to back down....maybe she's found somebody else to lavish her attention on. Maybe she thinks that's I've found someone else to lavish MY attention on -- this thought makes me smile to myself, forgetting the juvenile across from me who is playing a unreciprocated staring game with me. He blinks, finally, in a dismissive way. Most likely his way of showing annoyance at my smile that was misdirected.
     I hate HUMANS on public transport they become pariahs. Like Zombies. No emotion, no communication. Once they get off any mode of public transport they're back to normal! What is this phenomenon? For a while I think about writing a movie with this as a premise – I ponder if it's a little too close to a film already made? Hmmmmm. And for my next thought...I again ponder (I like that word), passionately (and that word), and worry about the mother and the pram -- I hope that she doesn't get off at my stop.

She does. Great.

Head down, I head directly for the stairs, not making eye contact with her. Trying to hide between the scores of people around me.
"Hey!" She says.
To me?
"Hey!" She says louder.
I walk.
Almost on the stairs..."Excuse me!" she belts out.
Yup, she's talking to me. Why? Out of everyone. Why me? I am forced to stop my escape.
"Hello?" I enquire innocently.
"Did you hear me? I called you three times." She says, annoyed almost.
"Sorry...I have a hearing issue."
"Hearing issue?"
"Yeah...an issue with my hearing?' I reply, unconvincingly.
"Okay, sure. Listen can you help me? It’s the stairs and the pram thing..."
I look around at the people around me, it’s like they stopped just to watch me carry a pram up the stairs. I try and get out of the uncomfortable situation.
"I can't, it’s my back."
"Your back?"
"My back..." I say nodding sympathetically to her plight.
"You...seem okay." she replies, again unconvinced. By now, everyone is standing around – inhaling the conversation. Piercing eyes all around me -- waiting to judge me if I don't help. I am left with no choice.
"Okay...I mean it’s not that many stairs, I can probably help."
"Gee thanks. How nice of you." she says flatly.

After that seems like 1000 steps up, I place her pram and baby at the top.
"There you go."
She pulls a blank expression, "Well thanks, after I had to practically force you."
"Hey, well I helped." I reply loudly.
"Yeah after a mini debate..."
"MINI DEBATE? That was NOT a mini debate. A mini debate would be me saying to you that Hitler's regime was good moment in history and then you arguing against that....that's a debate."
Her face and skin flushes out to a pale white, "Hitler?" She shouts out almost in a state of shock, "I'm Jewish."
A silence falls. Those people who just about got over the fact that I didn't help her instantly originally now almost physically penetrate me with their eyes. The silence lasts a while longer.
"I will not stand here and take these anti-Semitic remarks."
I back peddle, "They were not anti-Semitic remarks....I was just saying..."
"Do you know how many years of persecution the Jews suffered?"
"No." I say with a degree of purity.
"No? No?? What do you mean no?"
"No, I meant I don't really know how many years....I mean, I know it was bad, but I don't know..."
"You're an idiot!"
A spectator, probably someone from a dinner party that I've pissed off previously, adds their intelligent view: "Complete idiot!"
"What do you do for a living, idiot?" The mother asks, patronisingly.
"I'm a...I'm a writer." I mumble.
"A writer? I'm contacting your publishers. I’m going to complain about you."
"You know what that's a good idea, here's my agents business card." I give her my agent’s shiny card with pleasure, "Call him on his mobile."
"I'm so offended by this whole ordeal...I want you to apologise to me immediately."
"Ordeal? Ordeal? This is not an ordeal...an ordeal is...."
She interrupts, "What's an ordeal? Being in a gas chamber?"
"NO! I didn't say that!"
The same spectator again interjects, "That's really disgusting. I can't believe you said that."
"Apologise right now." The mother demands...
Out of the blue, I am defended by the gentleman with the nice suit, "Excuse me can I just say, this man, he helped you up the stairs nobly. Everything else that was said after that has NOT been as bad as being portrayed here."
"I want him to apologise." She argues.
"Lady, he's not apologising to anyone." He puts his arm around me and walks me away slowly, to a chorus of abuse from spectators and the mother.
Who is this suited angel? His suit, so clean, his teeth so white. Hair so perfect. He reminds me of a classic Hollywood star of yester-year.
"Don't worry about them." He says with an assured voice, "They are political correctness gone wrong."
I agree with him with a smile and shrug of the shoulder. He continues, "That whole situation was like a witch hunt."
"Definitely."
"Hey you wanna grab a coffee?" He asks all too enthusiastically.
I pause for a second...who is this guy? Whoever he is, he's my hero...a coffee with my hero can't be bad....although I hate coffee. It'll have to be a hot chocolate. My hero, he saved me from having to accept responsibility. I love him.

Who is he?

The Hybrid of Communication & Idleness (Chapter Five)

The advent of the internet has changed most old, supposedly, great arts - reading books, buying old frail vinyl albums, love letters and my personal favourite - physical social contact. I also no longer have to go shopping in my nearest food superstore to get my favourite dietary items.

My previous experiences in these pyramids of peer pressure have been all too awkward. The whole process of finding your favourite goods is fun. Strolling from aisle to aisle, leisurely, is ecstasy. It’s what capitalism was born on. Screw all those debates about how communism eventually becomes a dictatorship. All they need to do is draw up photos of these beautiful aisles stacked with foods and drinks from across the globe – this would be enough to make the middling Cuban citizen yearn for a bit of Capitalist order in their lives.
     My carefree stroll down all the aisles, leaves my basket full of foods for ‘one’ - I am more than satisfied.

The next step of the process is the Greek tragedy...my downfall...the purchasing of my glorious items. First of all you have to find an aisle out of the 30-50 on show that is actually open. Then one that's actually customer-lite. Both necessities are painstaking. Once you get to the front of the queue – behind you is the other 100 people who have joined your queue. You are now faced with the unwanted pressure of having to pack your own items. Not something to be sniffed at. The overly smiley cashier never opens the bags for you - thus I spend the first 40-120 seconds of this adventure trying to open the eco-friendly carrier bag. One bag open. 3 items in...time to open the 2nd bag...another 40-120 seconds wasted...the items roll along the conveyor belt and begin to pile up - customers behind me stand on impatiently. Arms folded, pent up anger on their faces, annoyance in their tapping fingertips. I am Private Ryan, they are Tom Hanks and his crew of soldiers having to get shot to pieces to ‘Save’ me. There should be courses on how to pack shopping efficiently. I often mix the hard items with the soft items. Frozen with non-frozen. This, allegedly, is not etiquette. 5 minutes later when I am nearly done packing, what was once my glorious items but now just anvils around my ankles, I am presented with 57 personal questions about my shopping habits (how intrusive!) by the scary cashier - do I have a loyalty card? Would I like one? How would I like to pay? Did I buy petrol? Do I shower with a shower cap on???
No, no, cash, no, no, no. Receipt. Bye.

"Why have you got shopping bags for?" My agent asks, confused, an hour later at his office.
"I went shopping."
"Yeah I know you went shopping but I asked you to come to a serious, you could even say critical, meeting and you turn up with shopping bags???" My agent is your typical agent. Suited. Short-fused. Taste of money on his tongue.
"Yeah?" I shrug.
"Maybe instead of shopping you should concentrate on that book you keep promising me?!"
"What do you mean ‘instead of shopping’? So I gotta starve myself for my art? What am I? A hybrid of Gandhi and Andy Warhol?"
He lets go of a chuckle, amongst his confused and angry demeanour.
"Whatever, how's that book of yours...? The poetry thing..."
"’Poetry thing’? You're my agent and you're describing it as 'thing'? Reassuring."
“What is it again?”
“A book of poetry. All written by me. Fused with a tale of a guy who’s having...”
"Whatever.” He interrupts, “Get it finished. I told you that a poetry thing would be difficult. But oh no, you gotta be Mr. clever...and..."
As he babbles on, my mind wanders off into thoughts of me winning the Nobel for being the hybrid of Gandhi and Warhol. Gently, I smile to myself. The beauty of the internet and mobile phones with caller display means I can choose who I want to talk to. A key to Happiness - choose who you communicate with very wisely.
      I get up with my plenty some shopping bags, him in mid sentence - "Where you going?" He enquires.
"I'll email ya." I say with a wry smile. He and I, both know I probably won't. But if I browse the World Wide Web at any point I might do some on-line food shopping. Food delivered to my door. That’s what Sir Thomas Moore really meant when he first penned the word Utopia.

Utopia
U⋅to⋅pi⋅a
Show Spelled Pronunciation [yoo-toh-pee-uh]
–noun
1.     Not listening to people you don’t want to.
2.     Over tipping waiters with other people’s money (preferably people you don’t like).
3.     On-line food shopping.

Doubt:Never (Chapter Four)

I have spells of creative droughts. As of recently they have been depressive states. I doubt my own ability to be great.

"Oh come on you've achieved so much. You're the most creative person I know." She says sincerely...I think.
How many creative people do you know? I ask - but only in my head. What I really say is, "thanks."
"You're kind of like an inspiration."
"Thanks again. It’s just I wanna be like you; travel the world, affect a change. See new things. You know, something other than writing and managing things."
"Things?"
"My companies."
"Oh yeah." she smiles and continues, "Well you don't really do much managing."
"I do."
"Okayyyyyyyy, of course you do." her sarcastic reply is followed by her smile.
"Anyway, back to the crux of the episode."
"Episode?" She laughs. "Such drama. You're so fierce. There's a tranny in there isn't there? I always knew you flirted with sexual experimentation."
"Yes, I'm having an episode. No, I do not cross dress."
She laughs. I try not to. But give in. The 3pm coffee shop crowd, full of student-types, all look at us and observe our loud colloquoy.
"Can we get back the main issue here? I wanna travel. Like you. You're a demi-God - travelling from continent to continent like the passport of an immigrant." I say trying to restore order to the conversation.
"Do immigrants have passports?" she says laughing. I smile beyond my seriousness. She always has that ability.
"I assume they do. Anyway, you and you're travelling..."
"Okay, so yes, I have been around the world a bit..."
"A bit? That's an understatement. That's like being in a relationship, sleeping with another person only to announce the revelation with 'I cheated a bit'."
"You always take things to extremes."
We share a laugh.
"Seriously you've been all around the world. You're like swine flu."
She laughs and responds, "You’re the starter of swine flu. How was it sleeping with pig anyway?"
Such legendary banter. Banter like this always makes me feel creative.
"You know what it is, maybe you just need a break. A couple of days away. Paris, Vienna, somewhere."
"To find myself?" I ask cheekily.
"Huh?"
"Well you know, you're always 'finding yourself' in different countries."
"When have I ever said I'm 'finding myself’?"
"Loads of times.
"I've said those exact words to you? ‘I'm finding myself’" She says, serious prose filling her face.
"Somewhere along the line."
"I don't think so. I don't travel to find myself...as you put it."
"Oh no?"
"No."
"Why do you travel then?"
"It’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s a damn sight better than staying here and complaining 24/7, like you seem to do so splendidly. You're like a trapped animal. Your mind is the zoo. Your repetitive monotonous voice is the captured monkey." She retorts viciously.
I am again, socially inept. A silence.
She makes me feel small again.
More silence.
Suddenly I grab the floating urge to counter her insult.
With a subtle degree of arrogance I say, "I guess you're the paying customer?"  
Touche.
She gives me a look that could be best described as a ‘nuclear winter’. Milliseconds later she turns her head away.
More silence.
"Can we get the bill? I'm busy. I've gotta go." Her voice utters in disgust after cutting her eyes sharply in my direction.
Still upset, but arrogance growing, I continue my thinly veiled onslaught, "You're paying right? Being the ‘paying customer’ and all that?"
Touche part two.
Another look from her. Another cut of the eye and then a violent reach into her wallet - next slamming down money...too much. Finished off by..."I'm going home. Bye." - further finished by her leaving.
I smile to myself. I finally got to her. Suddenly I feel more confident. I feel cocky. My chest puffs out; my shoulders rise a few thousand inches. I am a creative god. Again.
     The waiter turns up. Still in the zone, I give him the money - all 'too much' of it.
"Keep the change."
Touche part three.
     I leave. Boisterous slow walk. I'm in no doubt about my talent now. Never doubt your talent. Never doubt anything positive.

The Legend of Routine (Chapter Three)

In my day-to-day world I don't do much. My life is filled with routine, so it becomes easy. My companies make me money. Neither interests me. I write to have passion in my life. My only book, to date, a cult classic, got a small group of followers. I think they want to kill me. One probably will. Much like how John Lennon was killed. Of this, I am not sure. 
    Occasionally I play with the concept of writing my next masterpiece. Technically speaking, I don't do much.

I've build a world for myself that relies on comfort. My own personal comfort. 5 hours sleep. Up at 9am. Hot chocolate everyday apart from weekends. 3 scoops of granulated chocolate in my 'hot chocolate mug'. Fill with three quarters of whole milk. 1 minute and 20 seconds in the microwave. Keep the spoon in the tin of granulated chocolate. Ready to stir the heated beverage. This is efficient. It means you can use the same spoon without putting it on the unclean work surface. Whilst the hot chocolate is heating in the microwave I can place just two croissants on a microwaveable plate ready to be warmed for just 30 seconds. Finished by the usage of two serviettes to cleanse the crusts that will be left on my fingertips from the heated croissants.

This, amongst, my other daily routines is almost biblical. My day has routines so that I remain content and in control.

I have no time for folks without routine. Their lives are a mess. They live life on the peripheral of mayhem. My 'friends' seem to be all like this. They call, I don't answer. I don't want to waste minutes or, worse, hours on the phone talking about them. And I sure as hell don't want to talk about me. My life is simple. Simple and boring. I like it that way. No stories to tell. They do have stories, in abundance, and I don't want to hear them. They're mainly in the creative field, these ‘friends’. They think personal chaos is creativity. To a degree, I guess they're right.

Back to her again. She is the forbearer of this - the dastardly evil genius of chaos. She has no logic or order. One week she's in Paris, the next in Cuba. She attempting to find herself. You know that's one thing I've never understood...why people feel the need to travel hundreds and thousands of miles to 'find themselves' - this defeats all logic. Not only is it not cost effective, it’s also very contrived. She doesn't have to worry about that. She is from a wealthy background. She can find herself over and over again in different continents. Like some schizophrenic circumnavigator. When space becomes a destination of personal travel, she’ll go and 'find herself' there as well.

She annoys me. She has no routine. Only intellect. When I meet her she is often sitting - very content - in her own space reading the Economist or some Dan Brown crap. She 'gets' it. Me, I don't like to read. I get bored. Just like I don't like to sleep. She loves sleep. 8-14 hours. When I meet her and she puts down her book of choice, I am always greeted by that same explosion of smile. Her smile illuminates my dark undertones - it makes me feel homely. Femme fatales don't exist anymore. Women are allowed to work nowadays. Meaning they don’t need to dress nicely and lure men into their web of intrigue for money and fame. If they did exist, she'd have a perfect day job and night job to supplement that. I hate her for that. She's my Ingrid Bergman.

Her brilliance confuses me. The heartache she gives me inspires me. It makes me want to write poetry and textual genius.
      She is also my muse. Breaking my routine with her lack of it. Emailing me at 11am to tell me to meet her for coffee at 3pm. That was never on my schedule for today. It is now. Her lack of routine confuses my routine but also becomes routine.

How I love routine. It makes me happy. Provides me with happiness.

Release of Frustration (Chapter Two)

"So?" She says, effortlessly.

I hate the way she says "So?" it makes me question my obsessive behaviour towards the pursuit of her. She cuts my words with what seems like oblivious arrogance. I hate arrogance. It makes me feel socially inept. Like when you're in a nightclub and everyone in your 'friend' group is dancing but you're not. Because you can't. Or think you can't. Better to stand against the wall with a glass of watered down Coke or Pepsi, for the sake of Balance.

At dinner parties I choose to argue against the well educated professionals in order to restore my own sense of arrogance. I’m not good at dancing. I am good at arguing. I initiate conversations of taboo to dictate the flow of the mood. In my perfect scenario the dinner party breaks out into a ruckus of violence; a war of class. Me, being the middle-class soldier, but fighting the cause of the working class also. I become the Che Guevara of the nicely planned out dinner party with annoying guests and canapés placed strategically in the back of the room. Designed by some social leech with the intention of forcing you to satisfy your hunger by walking past humans and making random small talk with them before your hunger is quelled by the food bites that even a hobbit wouldn’t be content with.

"Nelson Mandela was a terrorist." is one of my favourite lines to blurt out with a degree of venom. This is ALWAYS greeted with disagreement by the PC brigade.
     In this instance, the ‘oh so-liberal’ 30-something professional with his ‘oh so-fashionable' dress sense - Gap khakis, v-neck jumper and black rimmed spectacles interjects...probably a doctor.
"You can't say that, he is the greatest living human"
"Greatest living terrorist, yes" I correct him.
Another from his sort, probably a feminist novelist, mid-forties offers her unwanted opinion from underneath her glasses.
"By definition he is a free fighter..."
"Who blew things up" I retort.
"He fought for freedom. Comparative to Che, another freedom fighter. Although, he, far more commercial, they are both the same. It could be argued Mandela has achieved more. "
"Indeed - but technically he just blew stuff up in order to make a point. He's kinda like a child who doesn't get their own way so they stamp really loud, storm upstairs and slams the door really loud. I put him on that kinda level. A spoilt brat.”
“You cannot say that.” She replies, as if her words are set in stone.
“I probably can.” I say, child-like.

Conversations of modern-day politics and self-assessment tax forms don't entertain me. Neither do they touch my richter scale of knowledge. It’s easier to make outrageous and taboo controversial statements and then back them up with concise arguments using facts as metaphors. It’s a form of communication. It’s a method of mingling.

All of which leads me to my point, in main. Social ineptness. I hate that feeling of not fitting in. Even now in my later years it’s something that erks me. Neurotic some may say. I prefer to call it an indifference to indifference. Yes, it makes me arrogant which is why when arrogance is garnished on me and I'm socially inept and unable to deal with it. I feel so small.

I choose to vent my frustration on others, others who exude arrogance but don’t know how to use it properly. This is part of Happiness. Venting your frustration. Releasing it, if you will.

You didn't call me back, is what I said - hoping to have an impact on her that would rock the foundations of her world and lead her to think that she has done wrong in this particular case. Hey, it might have even made her fall for me on a deeper level. Upon reflection, it was akin to whining.
      Her reply: "so?"...so concise, so arrogant, blew my whining out the water - what may have started as anger, on my part, ended as the whimpering of a weak soul. Besotted by her very being.
       Each second in a day my sole aim, beneath all the thoughts of disease, despair, embarrassment, self-indulgence and the occasional slip into sexual appeasement, is me trying to make her feel socially inept. Make her feel the need to say to me..."Why don't you call ME anymore?"...so, in return, I can offer this rhetorical question to her..."So?"

Never mind, there are plenty more dinner parties and social situations for me to release the frustration.    
     Cinema with 'friends' tonight. Even if I do like the film I’ll say I don't...if they like it. And if they don't like, well hell it’ll be “my favourite film of all time.”

Balance (Chapter One)

The notion of Happiness is a product of our inflated sense of perfection. It comes at a price.

Don’t be alarmed. This is merely part of the balance. Today you shall be wisely informed of this thing we call balance.

Balance, that beautiful word, that when discussed is often used in metric instances. The logic here is simple; if you are happy someone needs to be unhappy. If you are really happy then two people are unhappy. If you are content, then someone is merely depressed. Depression, not to be gawked at, is that feeling we get just before unhappiness. Medically speaking, it’s incurable. Literally speaking, our depression is dictated by our expectations. If, par example, I expect to be rich, three blondes on one arm, and a brunette on the right (for intellectual 'balance')but alas, I only have the same tried and tested woman that I've had for the past 3 years then I may well be 'depressed'. I may choose to quell this via the method of sexual release with another woman or merely by sinking into a spat of complaining and yearning. Either way both are likely to, ultimately, result in depression. 

Balance is formed when one person is a positive and another a negative.

Take, I, for example. I've doted on this particular lady for a while now. Often taking moments out of my busy schedule (educating my expansive mind on this very subject of Happiness) to entertain her. You know, the occasional text message, internet based chat or message. However her intentions seem unclear. She seems content without me as her spouse. This makes me depressed. Thus I am only ailed when she takes time out of her busy schedule, roaming the earth in pursuit of her "place", to contact me. Hence I am left with a dilemma. A catch 22, if you will. She is content without me as her Romeo. I am depressed without her. This dilemma could well become an unhappy never-ending soap opera. I’m pretty intelligent therefore aware of this. So, logically speaking, the logical move would be to cut myself loose. Continually my ‘logical’ decision to do so is continually thwarted by her unintentional olive branch of hope - "Wanna catch a movie?", “Just imagine we were married”, "I'll cook for you...one day." The last line is always followed by an evil cackle. This will never happen. I know this, but still hope it will. She KNOWS this will never happen, but hopes for something more appeasing to herself. Like new shoes or something.

This, in essence, is balance. 

Prelude

These are the journals of being happy...

Actually not being happy, strike that...being content.

These are the journals of being CONTENT.

Warning - this involves compromising your own blinkered state of reality. Occasionally you may even have to insult a fellow companion of the human race and commit other various morally debunk crimes of similar ilk.