And You're Back In The Room...

Look at me, I'm running full pelt down a hill.
I'm running like a mad man, shirtless and shoeless. Like a Tarzan, fluid, feral, and primal. My blood is pounding, my legs are burning, and it feels so good. It feels so free. Running, running, running. I can feel the sun all over me, blazing down through a perfect blue sky. And the grass is soft, cool with dew, bugs leaping out of the way at each foot fall. I'm euphoric, on a natural high, and I'm not getting tired. I can't stop, I won't stop, I just keep going. I feel like any moment I could take off and soar into the sky. Look at me fly...
"Sebastian, what do you think?"
"Well... Uh...." I say, blinking back into reality, looking around the room. "I think we need to clarify what the client's decision process is and identify the next steps..."
Look at me play with my tie.

Our Mission Statement Is To... Er... Um...

The Art Of War

I was tired. The day had been long.
I wasn't in the mood for a fight. I felt like Indiana Jones when the swordsman turns up and Indy just shoots him. I felt like that.
I looked him in the eye. He didn't blink. His earring glinted in the light.
Then I thought of Sun Tzu: 'The key to victory is not in defeating the enemy, but in defeating the enemy's strategy, therein lies their vulnerability.' I had to out-think him, it was my only chance.
"So just why won't you give me a refund?" I asked him again, holding up the shirt.

Date

This one I thought was a slam dunk, a sure thing, a dead cert.
I mean, she stayed for the whole evening. She smiled at my conversation, she laughed at my jokes, she played with her hair for Chrissakes.
This one didn't yawn.
We talked about literature and ideas and life. She was smart, had a great smile, looked a little bookish but in a sexy way.
She played with her hair. It was a sign, wasn't it? I've read those articles on body language, it was a sign of interest. She twirled a mesh in her hand, twirled and twirled. Christ, she was practically pregnant with my child.
But turns out that she didn't want to see me again.
I get that a lot. There is a growing number of women out there who don't want to see me again.
If it becomes a majority then I'll be nervous. If it becomes a unanimity then I'll be somewhat miffed.

My Self-Pity Isn't As Good As Yours

So I had an attack of self-pity the other night.
It happens sometimes when I have too much time on my hands and there's nothing to watch on television.
I was hit hard by an existential angst and looked out of the window thinking What's the point? What's the bloody point? Darkness and futility washed over me, interrupted but for a fleeting moment by a cute blonde in hot pants walking by.
I stood there, immobile, sapped of energy, broken, staring at my reflection. And, from that angle, my nose also looked unusually big. Everything seemed to be going wrong: health, work, love... Things just weren't panning out the way I thought they would... If, as a child, your plan is to grow up to be Flash Gordon then it's hardly surprising that things might not work out.
I looked outside and watched life go by, I couldn't figure it out, the sound and the fury of it all... Then, after a while, I got bored. It was still early and I can only feel meaninglessness for so long, especially on an empty stomach. So I went to Sainsbury's and bought some beers and a Be Good To Yourself Ham & Pineapple Pizza. I was going to buy some garlic bread but then I thought You have enough stodge already, what's the point?

Because You're Worth It

... and then you're sitting at some table talking to some girl and you can't remember how you got there and you can't focus because it's late and your head is a mess and she says something and laughs and you laugh too because it seems you should and you notice that she's wearing a lot of big rings and you think 'Jesus, that's a lot of metal' and it scares you and you're about to say this when she asks you where you are from and you say 'Spain' because you're bored and you take another gulp of your drink and then your friend turns up with another pint even though you've had enough and you tell him this and he shrugs and starts chatting up the girl with the scary rings and you look around the room at the people talking and laughing and flirting and you try to think about things but you can't which is good and tomorrow you'll wake up and go on as usual and rinse and repeat but for now you can keep it at bay and just sit here and drink beer and pretend to be Spanish and worry about the big rings and how the girl can even lift her hands because if you had that many rings you would have arms like Schwarzenegger and you think you should tell her this so you lean across and...

A Better Most Sad Moment

She was perfect.
We were on a date and she was perfect.
She was smart and attractive and made me want to do backflips across the room.
When she played with her hair I felt pain in my stomach.
She didn't want to see me again but, for an evening at least, I had that peek above the clouds, you know, up where it's so bright and warm and sometimes hard to breath.
It makes me sad but at the same time it's not really sad, it's not like anyone died, so it's a better sad.
The cow.