here is distant

Clout

Being “bored to death” is confronting life

said the concluding paragraph of my undergraduate dissertation. It continued. In boredom we get taken away from the trivialities of the world and towards whatever is important to us. Declarations of boredom often inadvertently answer important questions:

what am I doing?

why am I doing it?

what meaningful activities do I want to engage in?

True, feeling bored can be unpleasant. It can force us to stare at the clock and wish our time away. But a declaration of boredom transcends the experience itself. When we are bored we are made acutely conscious of the passing of time and therefore of the fleeting nature of life. By enabling us to establish both where we are and where we want to be, boredom reminds us what it means to be alive.

#Clout

If something I say, do or create can enter the vicinity of others, I will often overthink or underplay it for fear of lacking the required clout. You could characterise this as insecurity or, at a stretch, as perfectionism. My internal speech filter can sometimes sound like an officer of the law:

But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.

I'm slow to text back because I fear judgement of imperfect opinions, which can hinder friendships or potential relationships.

I believe perfection in romance can't be achieved outside of hindsight, wine-sight and loveisblind-sight. Passion is controlled by blustering impulsive wind that doesn't keep direction or pace. The best thing to do is soar or battle towards functional loving relationships, but also understand that the effort to do so will never end. Although my love life will never reach perfection, as a romantic I will keep on striving towards it.

In business, perfection isn't the goal, so shiny things outdo clarity. I'm discovering that decisions are rarely made with rigour because of an abundance of pride and ego. It seems progression is easier to achieve by abusing context than by being diligent. Rhetoric is easier to understand than a process, so as long as deception is resonant, the substance doesn't matter. I'd rather spend longer than necessary working on a report, satisfying a creative need to the detriment of cut-throat capital.

Blogging is a creative outlet with more freedom. When writing I'm in control, as I can fail and improve until there's something I can be happy with. Like in life, I don't know where to go until I've been there. Unlike in life, if phraseology good is hidden in a mountain of crap, the crap has no reason to still exist. My process involves caressing up, addressing around and softly messing until the fruits of the moment become as fuzzy as the time between their conception and recreation.

#Clout

I call myself an agnostic, but religion has been a huge part of my life. This post shares my experiences and how they have shaped my opinion and attitudes towards religion.

My mother is a devout Catholic and my father is non-religious. Through my father's passivity and my mother's strong beliefs, a strict religious homelife was cultivated for my three siblings and I. We were brought up with the Vatican's versions of right and wrong, family prayer was daily and going to church was at least weekly.

When growing up, it felt as though faith and duty were bound together because beliefs themselves weren't questionable. With other siblings, I think this upbringing of certainty and rigidity strengthened their faith, but to me it had the opposite effect. Due to my passive but rebellious personality, religion felt like something to tolerate rather than to enrich. Church was a place not express my own thoughts, but to just be with them.

When living at home I had felt powerless in the weekly situation of being woken at 7am for church. The first Sunday I moved out to go to university, I didn't go to church. It was my first opportunity to make my own decision, and it was one of control, rather than of religiosity. In the teachings of Catholicism, not going to church on Sunday can lead to eternal punishment, but that didn't cross my mind during my new Sunday lie-ins. The biggest unease I felt was the extent I was disappointing one of my parents.

It's not as if I haven't had enough time in pews to give religion plenty of thought. The only conclusion that makes sense to me is agnosticism. Science cannot disprove deity, because God is not scientific. You can regard religious figures historically, but you can't make a scientific argument for or against their supernaturality. It comes down to faith, which simply some people have, and others don't.

I question why I should believe the one religion I was born into. My conundrum is between choice and dogma: I now cannot have the latter without exercising the former, and if accepting the latter, I must surrender the former. To submit myself to Catholicism, I'd have to surrender agency, the very same thing I should apparently be using to get into heaven.

But the reality of any personal relationship with a macro institution is vastly more complicated than can be reduced to a logical argument like the one above. What it really comes down to is personal experience and from where one draws meaning. Even within Catholicism's supposed dogma, I have seen people with a variety of beliefs and attitudes. Religion seems to be able to attract people for different, sometimes contradictory, reasons, just how people are deterred from it for different reasons. I don't think it's for me.

#Clout

Arguing online lacks tone, indifference and commenters who aren't sure about what's right and who's wrong. So I prefer doing it offline, where I've made a hobby of always advocating the hell out of the devil. Having no passionate opinions, I challenge any idea put forward, facetiously switching between viewpoints, at the whim of a desire to get under the skin of anyone exposing that they might care about something. I get no cruel pleasure from upset, only from frustration or blind indignity. Yet my lack of conversational wholesomeness remains unknown to many who know me only as uncomfortably shy. To find out what I actually think, they'll need internet connection to read how my humour is reactive, conversationally redactive and interactionally unattractive.

#Clout

Experience 24

Angle Male

Context United Kingdom

Type Romantic

Occupation Poise

Dreams Grass

Fears Conservatories

Blog referred to as Post-teen crap

Navigate Click my hashtags #Clout #Narration #Drivel #Journal

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It's the reason I get out of bed in the morning and why I've one to get out from. But it's not high enough. I don't mean it's too low to afford life's essentials like ice cream or 2gb monthly mobile data. I mean it doesn't match the cash value of my mind, body and curriculum vitae. My boss has promised a raise, but there's a policy whereby promotions have to be approved by Santa who as we all know, is notoriously slippery. I've been waiting months now.

I don't live extravagantly, nor do I greatly enjoy spending money, so I shouldn't care what I earn. Yet I find myself thinking greedily, whilst also desperately hoping I don't accidently put everything aside, to end up buying fucking add-on glass in 30 years. It'd be depressing to get all angsty over waiting for a raise only to fund another layer of glazing for the state-of-the-art conservatory-coffin I'll eventually die slowly in.

I don't know if should Dress for the job I want, when I'm getting Less for the job I don't even know I want. I'm being asked if I can project manage this, and put my neck on the line for that. Honestly though, I'm enjoying that my growing responsibilities are undermined by the word Trainee in my job title. I yell into colleagues' faces daily, quipping that I'm just a trainee. I tell them my cash value like I'm a vendor selling milk. I milk the benefits of being underpaid for my disillusionary superiority complex. If only I were capable of challenging myself, then I could legitimately stand on my desk to announce:

All you thirty-and forty-something wankers have hit your ceiling. Sorry for using your heads as stepping stones on my way to becoming a corporate God, or whatever the fuck you never managed to achieve.

#Clout

Alarm clocks don't work for me, so I season a duck and throw it in the oven before I go to bed. At 7am, the smell of the fucker burning his quack off awakens me like clockwork. I hop in the shower. A few years ago I stopped using shampoo as it damages the tips of delicate hair fibre strands. I use only olive oil now, which makes my hair glow throughout the day and enriches the scalp roots. People are defensive or proud over their routines, but in my opinion, they are the epitome of comfort-zone; easy to fall into, but hard to crawl out of. Even though they can be productive and healthy, I often find them tedious.

#Clout

In this post, I've spooned together a themed life-narrative to diagnose the causes of my inadequacies. This is a blog post about a graduate who still wants to be a footballer.

Like most boys in the country, my relationship with football started early. There was enough space in our garden for my brother and I to stage premier league games, and our neighbours were patient enough to throw our wayward shots back over the fence. At school, inaccurate shots were usually just underneath an imaginary crossbar and every lunchtime my school-shoe skills would earn me serious social currency.

I'd play for a team at weekends, although I didn't look forward to it as much as playground football. Real football could be cold, muddy and the midlife-crisis dads cared too much if we lost. Football training was fitness training, where we'd mostly warm up or put down cones. Sundays consisted of car shares to villages and attempts to win headers against post-puberty teens twice my tiny size. Regardless, I'd still proudly tell people who I played for and regularly daydreamed about the goals I'd scored.

I could do things with a football. I could bring the ball from in tow to on toe before weaving at speed to leave a defender rooted to the spot. Football could make me move without thinking, and it made other people like me. I'd win high-fives or get vocal confirmation I'd done something good. On the pitch I was worth something. My love for football didn't come from team spirit or winning matches. It came from being creatively absorbed in the ball at my feet and the egoistic affirmation I could earn.

At 16, I started meeting people who didn't know I was good at football. This shouldn't have been a problem, but my on pitch persona had become an important part of who I was off it. Football had made me notoriously cheeky and dangerously cocky, which are not qualities that go well with someone who's also painfully shy. I didn't feel comfortable absorbing the bravado of sport into my identity, which seemingly becomes a necessity in post-childhood football.

I took a disinterest in following football. As a child I'd been a keen supporter heavily invested in the results. In adulthood, the emotional investment needed to support a team seemed absurd, and amateur punditry became boring. I still liked watching good football, but couldn't care which team won. I felt distanced from those who cared about the beautiful game, despite the fact that football was what made me happy.

I spent thousands of hours playing in the garden; at school; at weekends and round the house I still move from room to room with a ball at my feet. As a child, football was how I socialised, made friends and had any self-esteem. It was my social crutch that was taken away in adulthood. Every time I meet someone new, they don't know I'm good at football and it makes me feel inadequate.

#Clout