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A parable
"For fuck's sake, when are you going to grow up?" Leonard demanded. He was still wearing his work clothes, shirt untucked, tie loosened. His hands were on his hips as he stood over Gary, sprawled out on the sofa. Leonard did not care to know what his inadvertent housemate was wearing beneath the Indian throw.
"Leave me a fucking lone," Gary replied. He pulled the cushion from under his head and tried to smother himself with it. "You just want me to give up on my dreams, get a job in Starbucks and work myself to fucking death," he continued through the upholstery, this last at some volume.
"No, actually, that's not what I mean. Although at this point that couldn't hurt."
There was a pause. Leonard took the opportunity to grab an armful of used plates and cutlery and carry them into the kitchen. Looking at the sink - full - and dishwasher - also full - he abruptly lost the will to live and began a pile on the worktop. Returning to the lounge, he found Gary peeping out from under his pillow.
"What?" came the confused question.
"I don't want that," was Leonard's reply. He grabbed the pillow and perched on the arm of the nearest armchair. "I mean, yes, I want you to start bringing some money into the house, bla bla bla, but I'm not trying to ... look. What's the main difference between children and grown-ups?"
"Body hair," Gary suggested sulkily. He slumped down into the sofa, gathering the throw around him.
"Shut up," Leonard decided. "The main difference between children and adults is that children look at the world and say, 'When I grow up, I'm going to be a fireman,' or 'sing in a rock band' or 'be a writer'. And grownups -"
"Grownups get dead-end jobs in offices and wear ties. Death of the imagination," insisted Gary.
"- No, look, shut up, grownups go out and be a fireman, or start a rock band, or write a book. These are the days when you're supposed to be in charge of your own life."
"So you're saying..."
"Yes."
"You want to live vicariously through me?"
"Fuck off," Leonard commanded, and launched the cushion at Gary's face.
"Leave me a fucking lone," Gary replied. He pulled the cushion from under his head and tried to smother himself with it. "You just want me to give up on my dreams, get a job in Starbucks and work myself to fucking death," he continued through the upholstery, this last at some volume.
"No, actually, that's not what I mean. Although at this point that couldn't hurt."
There was a pause. Leonard took the opportunity to grab an armful of used plates and cutlery and carry them into the kitchen. Looking at the sink - full - and dishwasher - also full - he abruptly lost the will to live and began a pile on the worktop. Returning to the lounge, he found Gary peeping out from under his pillow.
"What?" came the confused question.
"I don't want that," was Leonard's reply. He grabbed the pillow and perched on the arm of the nearest armchair. "I mean, yes, I want you to start bringing some money into the house, bla bla bla, but I'm not trying to ... look. What's the main difference between children and grown-ups?"
"Body hair," Gary suggested sulkily. He slumped down into the sofa, gathering the throw around him.
"Shut up," Leonard decided. "The main difference between children and adults is that children look at the world and say, 'When I grow up, I'm going to be a fireman,' or 'sing in a rock band' or 'be a writer'. And grownups -"
"Grownups get dead-end jobs in offices and wear ties. Death of the imagination," insisted Gary.
"- No, look, shut up, grownups go out and be a fireman, or start a rock band, or write a book. These are the days when you're supposed to be in charge of your own life."
"So you're saying..."
"Yes."
"You want to live vicariously through me?"
"Fuck off," Leonard commanded, and launched the cushion at Gary's face.
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Sometime's I feel like Leonard
Sometime's I feel like The Cushion
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I think Leonard is a chartered accountant.
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Free time vanishes, laughing merrily as it legs it through the door.
I can't write on weekends - too many other options for my time, paralysis strikes. Weekday evenings, yes. Set deadlines for yourself and mean them. Otherwise you fall into the Chinese Hell of Doletime.
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Nice.
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It made me feel unpleasently ashamed and guilty, while at the same time marginally uplifted. Not a mean feat.
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Write some down, sell them on, live the dream. We all know you can.