Pointless

- "Strip!" she said with relish, as I laid down a pair of threes on
the table.

Damn, I thought. And as I pulled the remaining flesh from my cheekbone,
I remembered how life was simpler before the aliens invaded. -

*

Seriously though, this is what it's like to be me. My name is Peter
Keenan and I'm 23 years old. I'm a pointless human answering machine. I
aspire to some idea of being a writer, though I haven't worked out
whether I want to be Michael Crichton or Kazuo Ishiguro. Basically I'd
like to be one of them, but I never will be because I find myself
constantly doing nothing for days? months on end. The thing above is
all I've written in SIX YEARS. And what is it, some sort of elaborate
cracker joke? It's pathetic; up until recently I always thought there
was something great within me, but that's so stupid when I think about
it. Where is this greatness? Is it just lying dormant as I lie on my
sofa after work, doing nothing but channel hop between MTV and Men and
Motors? Yeah, I think, some amount of greatness, a greatness that stays
up until four in the morning watching bikini contests on television.
All the greats do that. I spend my evenings doing nothing but watch
this stuff while this voice in my head just screams at me 'Do
something, do something'. But I can't make myself get up off the sofa
other than to go and get a ready meal from the freezer and shove it in
the microwave. I must be the world's greatest procrastinator. And the
joke is that I want to do something where I can't afford to use this
procrastination skill I've built up: I want to be a writer, tremendous
self discipline is needed they tell me. I just haven't got it.
Greatness, within me? Where the hell is it, my kidneys, my liver?

The thing is, I'm sure I wasn't always like this. Once, as a lonely
teenager, I would reel off tons of work, not great stuff, but not bad.
And it seemed to be getting better. And then I went to University and I
stopped. I told everyone there, yeah I'm going to be a writer. And they
all smiled and said 'yeah, but Pete, you don't actually write anything
do you?' And so to prove it I'd show them this stuff I did when I was
doing my A levels. And I told them I'd just written it. And some of
them liked it and they believed me, believed I could do it. They really
encouraged me. But I still wrote nothing. I don't know why. I've tried
to do it sometimes , but I just end up writing a sentence or two and
then deleting it, not knowing where I'm going. I just haven't got
anything to say. Nothing. What kind of a writer has nothing to say?
Lately I've been thinking about giving up. Just accepting my crapness
and realising I'm not cut out for this. A few months ago I tried to
revitalise myself and I went to this internet caf? and searched for
'forums for writers' or something. And I found this website where you
can basically put anything up you want. Wow, I thought. This is what I
needed. It made my palms sweat. And so I tried to write again. Do you
know what I wrote? That cracker joke above! That's all I could manage.
So, in order to save embarrassment I went back to the site and put up
all the stuff I did at sixth form. And someone emailed me and told me
they thought one of them was good! Not the cracker joke, but one of my
old ones, that I'd reel it off in no time at all. I mean it was nice
and everything, but it really made me think that I'd lost it once and
for all. But I can't give up either because I literally have NO SKILLS.
The only thing I can do is write and some sort of stubborn block on my
imagination won't let me do that.

Let me tell you for a second about my job. When I said I was a human
answering machine I was entirely serious. I work for this big insurance
firm and all I do is where a pair of headphones and when calls come
through I take the customer's policy number and say that I'm sorry, but
all our customer service staff are engaged helping other callers at the
moment and could someone call them back as soon as possible. That's all
I do. Mondays and Tuesdays are the busiest, but for the rest of the
week I just sit there with people working all around me in this open
plan office and I DO NOTHING. For a few weeks after starting I used to
read a book, but I can't bring myself to do it anymore. I honestly
can't concentrate enough to read a whole book anymore. It's got that
bad. I just read the same line again and again and again and then give
up. So now I just sit there. When I first got the job, I though that
this was fate, here someone was paying me ?5 and hour to do nothing. I
could write my novel at last. I was out of excuses, finished University
and it was time to stop talking about it and get on with it. But I
didn't . Instead I read three novels in the first two weeks and since
then I've stared into space. I've tried to let my imagination take me
away, to daydream, but do you know what I end up fantasising about?
Being at home, on my sofa, watching the late night bikini contests on
Men and Motors. Satellite television has removed my soul, I'm sure of
that. I used to think I was watching that channel ironically, not quite
able to believe that there really was a channel that catered entirely
to the idea of a pathetic brain-soft sexist lad. And then I realised
that I'd been watching it avidly for six months. I was their target
audience, I really make myself sick. Sometimes in a last ditch effort I
turn off the TV and actually throw the remote control across the room.
Then somehow, and I don't ever remember doing it, I find myself a few
minutes later, lying on the sofa again, the remote in my hand, my thumb
moving fast on its buttons.

So this is me, lying on the sofa, telling myself to do something DO
SOMETHING and not doing it. I am a sponge. I absorb this stream from
the TV and I can't do anything else. You only live once, they say, so
make the most of it. Well, if you're like me, you'll be grateful that
you do because the idea of having to endure this invincible lethargy
again is? tiring.

I am Peter Keenan, 23 year old answering machine.

I feel like I want to cry.

I have nothing to say.

Pointless.