Something I wrote the other night

spintendo

Just thought I should write something as its been a while. Below is the weirdness that came out.

I lead a charmed life. I have two legs and two arms and have never known the pang of true hunger. Money is no concern of mine and I sleep every night with a roof over my head. I have endured no personal tragedy. I have enjoyed the privilege of education and will enjoy the privilege of employment.

Vocalising these assertions makes me feel foolish and fraudulent. I feel at odds with those who revel in this practice, a daily ritual of ingratiating gratitude, entreating favour from a perceived higher power or possibly (and more pathetically still) just one-upping one's neighbour in the humility stakes. Alas, my bitterness makes me exaggerate, for I am a bitter man indeed!

One cruel lesson I am still learning is the horrible realisticness of reality. Programmed since youth by Disney films to rest assured of a happy ending, I still have one ear half cocked for the announcement of my long awaited call-up to the Republic of Ireland football squad, and I would only be mildly surprised if somebody told me tomorrow that the CIA require my skills to save the world from some impending disaster.

In my life I yearn for the status and the salary, but the accompanying necessary toil and stress faced by the modern doctor do not recommend themselves to me. My destiny is, however, sealed in this regard, for my University studies lie in this line of work. I want to eat the cake and I want therecognition for making it, but I will toil over no pastry. My status shall be my pocket ace to be produced when necessary or convenient, for sadly no man is my equal in vanity and I like to think myself better than the next. Hence I require the two-lettered prefix that recognises my achievement and so establishes my status. A thick wallet and a happy, steadily growing bank balance are a must also, for mine will be a life of travel, luxury, fine things and general opulence. No less important, and I regret to say no less expensive, is the keeping of a trophy wife. The latter goes hand in hand with my status; possibly she is even more glad of my standing than myself as it affords her a sense of social achievement.

In contrast to the above, I am not averse to paroxysmal urges to take myself to some untrodden paradise in the woods and to hermit there. Amidst verbose passages on nature and solitude I find myself drawn to such a life, and entirely convinced of its merits. An earthy wooden abode, a cultivated patch, a friendly stream ,an avian choir and a cleansing wind would serve to disippate my worries into the forest like so many fallen leaves. I am soon unfortunately disconnected and the harsh truths of life rear their unwelcome heads once again. What standing could I hope to enjoy, living in such a man-made shack, and how could men know themselves as my inferior? To say nothing of the the opinion of many a prospective trophy wife. Such a life is regretfully not realistic, and so Shakespeare's Lady MacBeth would correctly reckon that the hope was drunk, wherein I dressed myself.

pickarooney

I'm not sure what to make of this. It's quite well-written but the narrator seems like a bit of a dick and I don't really want to read any more of it based on the above. Sorry if it's autobiographical!

If it's part of something longer, it needs some kind of hook. I'll gladly read the ravings of a bollocks if they're interesting ravings but I wouldn't bother with a dullard's musings.

Kinski

I'm afraid I'd have to echo pick's comments. I've read a few too many amateur creative writing pieces recently which start off with a first-person narrator waffling on about him/herself. I think you'd be better off opening with some type of action.