I have spent the vask bulk of this week doing stupid things. This has not been on purpose, but seems to have happened anyway. I am beginning to get bored with doing stupid things, and it is therefore incumbent upon me to attempt to rid myself of this blight by doing one more stupid thing, to wit and viz, listing the stupid things I have done this week instead of getting something more sensible together for the pedant to moan about.
This was a simple example of the kind of thing I have spent this week doing. Why wait for a piece of malicious code to be introduced onto your computer by someone else, when you can simply type it straight in yourself. I completely forgot that a particular directory contained all the email I have receieved in the last while, and while attempting to clear out some of the unnecessary cruft that I have accumulated on this computer, I carefully typed 'rm -rf *' in a directory above that directory.
This was stupid. But it is not the most stupid thing I have done this week.
For many years now I have wondered how you can tell if you are having a nervous breakdown. Does spamming a large number of work colleagues with email containing threats to leave, accusations that no-one else cares about their work but me, and suicide constitute symptoms of this? I don't know.
Either way, it's *fucking* stupid, and I don't recommend it.
On a Wednesday.
I have developed the enormously bad habit of going to restaurants alone in the evening. On bad nights, I have a full bottle of wine instead of a half. This normally leads to the night becoming much worse very quickly. It is stupid.
Last Wednesday I emerged from wherever it was with the urgent need to do something to take the taste of that particular house red away, and found myself, as if by magic, in a bar that served the worst beer in the whole world and various spirit concoctions that take the taste of that beer away. It seemed to make logical sense to first drink some of that beer, and then to have various concoctions. This was stupid.
Later it seemed to make logical sense to ask the woman with the spike in her chin who had told me to 'fuck off' for absolutely no reason that I could discern whatsoever, exactly why she had done it. Had I in any way bothered her, attempted to talk to her, attempted to touch her or attempted to do something stupid with any of her friends, I would have understood. But I had not. I had merely sat in a chair. 'Fuck off,' she had said. Initially I fucked off. But a few minutes later, I was back, asking why. That was amazingly stupid.
So I left, and decided that what I needed was a drink. Ronnie Scott's, in London, is not too expensive during the week, if you are a member, but I had left my membership card at home. I went there anyway. Stupid stupid stupid.
The music was, as ever, sublime, but I had run out of cigarettes, and left to go and buy some. The next thing I remember, I was some distance away from Ronnie Scotts, standing in an open pagoda, with a tall guy in dreadlocks who was rolling a spliff. I don't remember meeting him, but there he was. He seemed a friendly enough guy, but so did the guy who beat me up last year, so I was definitely falling into the category of stupid again.
What happened next was that I was still in a pagoda some distance away from Ronnie Scotts, with a tall guy in dreadlocks who had stopped rolling a spliff, and two uniformed policemen who wanted to know who we were and what we were doing. We were lucky - they let us off with a caution - but we must have been pretty *damn* stupid to have attracted their attention in the first place.
How else could I top such an evening's stupidity except by going to an illegal late-night drinking den and having another drink? I have never done that before, so it seemed particularly urgent.
In the interests of full and frank disclosure of information, I must confess that it is not easy to describe late-night drinking dens, since in the vast majority of cases, all you can remember, on leaving, is that it was dark in there. As it happens, I can't even remember leaving.
I must have got home somehow but can't say how, only that puking on a bus stop came into it somewhere, and I woke up Thursday morning in some shock that I was not dead. Anyone who felt that bad should be. The hangover lasted until Friday. Pretty stupid, huh.
As I type, the evidence of my current stupid state is scattered all about me. However, I cannot see it properly, since the glow of the computer monitor doesn't actually cast that much light on the place. This would be deemed 'stupid' in many jurisdictions.
I could be stupid for England, you know.
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