Well. That’s it then.
Fallible at last.

I’ve yet again sustained a minor injury through playing football. This time it came post-op.
Fully 2 years since my operation I have potentially suffered a re-occurrence of the dreaded meniscus tear. The same that got Fernando Torres. It could just be a slight hamstring pull, we’re keeping an eye on it.

That, and I’ve had a strange dull ache in my side.
Diagnosis – bad.

So there you have it. A deep dive into mortality.

Could be my desk chair, come to think of it.

From my last post you’ll know that mortality is weighing heavily on my mind. Understandable given that the man who I rolled around with on Ketamine is now a father. It’s funny how the world works sometimes.

I’ve got a job interview tomorrow and clearly I’ve abandoned all preparations, there is only so much Chinese I can eat in one sitting. Not sure this will help much either however it’s good to be busy.
With my gamy leg back and the phantom pain I’ve regressed 5-8 years. Except of course that I have an interview tomorrow. Plans for my career are greatly exaggerated. My ‘career’ was a stopgap while Hibs came to their senses. Introspective thoughts recently provided by Blindboy have allowed me to realise that I may have chosen a “career” where I can “help” the most “people”. I pursued this sense of virtue because I needed “love”. Apparently. Perhaps I’m mixing up my podcasts. A dangerous feat of the modern man. I may have chosen a virtuous profession to be “good”. And it pays the bills better than this.

Saying that. I would like to do this. And not that. As we know. So, best to apply for a promotion with more demands. More responsibilities and less time. I believe that is an example of Freudian death drive. Except I wouldn’t know as I no longer have any time to listen to podcasts. Soon I’ll not be able to go outside. Assuming I’m successful. Which I likely will be, like an idiot. All my hard tangible work “helping” will be replaced by helping others to help others. The knot in my side will get worse.

Or maybe everything will be well and I’ll go part-time. And life will begin again. Like before the Covid brain fog, before the neurotoxicity from weekends of drugs, before the continued hits on the head with wet footballs. It’ll all be ok. Keepie Uppies in the garden and a cheeky ice lolly. It’ll all be ok.

For someone else, perhaps. There’s that mortality. In the meantime, life keeps coming and that Chinese won’t finish itself.